The Angels of Bangkok
Smashwords edition
Text by David Parsley
eISBN 978-616-245-016-7
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Text Copyright© David Parsley
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You are reading this … So-
may be this is your LUCKY MOMENT!
Both scientists and spiritualists say that
“a happy person is more likely
to be lucky than anyone else.’
This book will make you happy – it will therefore help you to experience
GOOD LUCK in your personal life!
The Angels of Bangkok
by David Parsley
Warning: This book should not be read
while in charge of any machinery, a motorbike or car, or
when engaged in communications of intimacy,
as it can cause drowsiness
Any resemblance to a known person or place is purely coincidental and not intentional.
This book contains imaginative impressions and is therefore not to be construed as factual information about any country, city or building mentioned.
Notes
Farang – A white or European foreigner
Tom Yam – A popular Thai dish
Isan – The agricultural North East
On Nut – An outer suburb of Bangkok
Ramkhamhaeng – An industrial suburb of Bangkok which has
a university
Bang Na – A Bangkok residential area
Wai – A formal greeting, thanks or sign of respect made by
placing hands together, as for prayer.
The Angels’ Song
How sad this world, to give no chance
to those who seek a true romance
Yet in a bar or go-go den
where search the fated wandering men
They each find maidens, ever true -
as if pure love were something new!
They build their lives, each happy pair
and take to high life, free from care
with days that pass beneath the sun
a joyful life thereby is won
With kindly friends life’s bells are rung
like sweetest incantation sung
INTROSION
To walk Bangkok’s streets as the evening gathers momentum is to anticipate three wishes, five pleasures and seven heavens. I start my evening tour shuffling by a dimly lit café bar. It is possible to sip beer or talk girl round the clock. Glancing within, I notice that it has already attracted two or three cuddly papas and sugar daddies. I enter, wondering which I might be myself. Though being of bodily proportions less than “cuddly’ and by nature economical with “sweets for my sweet love’, I am perhaps a little odd to those whose eyes and arms bid me enter. But I have the advantage of being transitory.
Girl is for ever fascinated, almost painfully, by the thought of what might have been. Had I not been on such a short visit, I might have turned out to be the delight of which she had always dreamed. It is a tantalizing thought, plagued with uncertainty. There is thus the anguished question of when or whether I might return. And so I am an instant fascination. All negative qualities, the lackluster of both coiffeur and verbal overture and the unattractive personal gesture common to age, are accorded a temporary irrelevance. It is a joy to bask in her adulation. She, in turn, seems happy in her half-life as a temporary man’s woman.
At this moment she becomes my woman. We are very good at walking together but our exercised limbs generate the two headed monster of hunger. We decide to placate it with our mouths for food. A hunger for self worth and love is not so easy to satisfy. But as philosophers say, some pleasure is better than none at all, even if you have to lick your fingers.
To translate these profound thoughts, I suggest eating and she shows me a place she knows. It is a corner shop with busy tables. I have walked past it many times and never thought of it as my kind of place but at least I’ll have more than my food to look at. We find a place to feed ourselves looking at each other. The bowls come. We take the rice. But it is mostly “interfacing’ which occupies our attention. Unlike me, she deals with prawns as a secondary activity, like women who knit. Luckily, I am able to divert enough of my attention from the large pinkies to catch her name. I also learn that she will go home soon to her family in Si Saket. It is only automatic for notebooks to be unearthed and e-mails exchanged. She says her name is Lilly and as we say good-bye, I promise I will keep in touch with her.
Unfortunately, this is not the whole story. I have a problem. Put plainly, there is something about “love’. It gets to you and stays there. It has nothing to do with politeness or conventionality and much to do with ridiculousness. For her to be totally mine and me totally hers is to fly in the face of the rules - like someone renting a car and wanting to keep it. An arrangement can, of course, be made, to accommodate the truly eager. Not content to have kissed the lips of a thousand kisses and felt the body of a thousand pawings, the lover claims exclusive rights. To be in love is to be driven by an irrational and ruthless passion and anybody, even the most sensible, staid and respectable, can make an utter fool of himself. The lore of Pop Culture says, “Love is cool.’ Nothing could be further from the truth. Not only is love not cool, but it is also about the most uncool feature of all human life. It gets into the blood and hormones. It is hot and flustered, warm and sticky or sizzling and frantic, but never cool! It is a state of uncouth, bereft of ease and peace of mind, a craving for the mate - to body and soul. Perhaps this is why rock music is so wild and aggressive. Just looking into the eyes is to see how much is irrelevant. Can we exist independently or will we expire in our relentless quest for each other? Will the everyday occurrence of hunger and exposure to the elements take their final toll? Or will St. Christopher, Aphrodite or whoever is cast as guardian angel, stand over us to offset mishap? Who cares what risk when love is at stake?
WHAT’S WRONG
Booze, Girls and Music, (or Wine, Women and Song), the 3 biggest things in the life of a man’s man, are offered in abundance. But the sensitive throttles of today’s testosterone-driven purveyors of the pokey piece seek a match to their 21st Century technique. So that’s why the girls look so cool!
“Advice for talking to girls (I was given by a man in a pub who said he knew the editor of Boy’s Own – but that’s another story) - above all, be sensible. Never say anything silly, because they might laugh at you. Stand up straight. Don’t look at the ground, look her straight in the eye and say’–
“I’m in love. Can you help me?”
You can then receive sound womanly advice on how to entice your heart-throb from where ever she lurks, to your immediate presence in attendance to every whim, fancy and concern for your satisfaction.
You can and anyone else can. But I can’t. It’s as if those in love are blighted. It’s the eyes and the face that haunt and stimulate with a sensation of exquisite intimacy. Whenever they are absent an unrest ensues in which great effort is made to bring them to mind again, driven by the fear that detail may be forgotten. “Is that how she remembers me?’ I wonder and wait. It’s her. She’s the one. She is what life is about. It makes the world go round and is the only thing that life is really worth living for. So she must not die. She must not go away. She must not find someone else more interesting, or why am I living like this? There is a right way for everything to go and it usually does, but not with the regularity I would like. Why must there be so much risk? Isn’t it criminal that perhaps the most precious of all experiences of human life should be subject to such precariousness, whim and chance? At least it is infuriating when it is not devastating. I admit to being infected with this most vital of the humours. It’s in the blood and adrenaline. You can’t just pull yourself together, shape up and go bourgeoisie. It is the long lonely walk - the solo attendance at the concert of remembered sound. All the objects of her personal world shout her absence. I don’t think I can live with it. Anyone who does must be a Philistine. Letters are the only food, some quite delicious others unpalatable. Why doesn’t she e-mail me? What is she thinking? I’m sure she wants to but some problem is preventing her. Or has she just decided that it’s too much trouble and not worth doing? It won’t succeed anyway. Her mother doesn’t like farangs and my mother is xenophobic. Who is kidding who? No, I’m sorry, it is not “Sabai dee,” If you want that, just have a friend and forget about love.
“Can’t you be easy?” she asks. I don’t know where to start. It’s a wild trip, camping in the forest of the mind, where it’s difficult to see round one tree to the next and snakes slither in the undergrowth. No problem for a girl who cut her teeth on treks into the jungle, overseen and instructed by a wiry backwoodsman. What chance a ham-fisted farang who hails from the land of the comfy chair and marsh mallow music? What compatibility there is, lies in the bubbles and froth of a ubiquitous alcoholic drink. It reaches the parts that some girls dare not mention and tells me what I want to be told. So here’s to our future of perpetually sozzled consciousness! This far is reached, but ideally there is a superiority in being able to walk without staggering and talk coherently without belching. May be you can do it. But I don’t care. I know you’re in love with me so give us a kishsh! I have to hurry now. She’s waiting for me in the hotel. No, you don’t know her. I promise I’ll see you tomorrow. Could I ever fail to locate the bar? How tragic that in this environment of so much rich experience of delight and profundity, it is so often reduced to alcoholic haze and splutter. This is my excuse for failure. Alone in my hotel room I resolve to act responsibly and take account of my nature. I owe it to myself to strike out, first thing tomorrow and make plain my intentions towards her. “There is a Thai in the affairs of men…,” is what Shakespeare meant. I cannot sleep. Practice conversations keep running through my head. I make a mistake and envisage the replies, the embarrassment and disaster. I reword my opener and follow it through again. There are smiles and sweet words in reply. Will I get it right tomorrow? I agonize over this imponderable and try to persuade myself that it will go well. I live through the hell of the disaster over and over again to warn myself of the price to be paid for failure. Then I run once more through it making sure to get it right and again tell myself I will succeed. It is beginning to get light. I take a shower and dress then hit the street. I pick up some breakfast. Inspired by my enjoyment of fresh coffee I make yet another decision with the most commendable firmness of resolution. I will take a day, so infinitesimal in the universal scheme of things - off, yet it will allow me adequate forearming, preparation and Dutch courage, before setting forth upon this venture into uncharted regions of the hinterland. Somewhere in a recess of my mind is the idea of futility. I am attempting the intrinsically impossible, it says. Yorkshire pudding and somtam do not go together. I am an old hot dog who fancies a cool cat, but really, would rather not fight. It’s ridiculous anyway.
GETTING STUCK IN
A determined inebriation is thus justified. The green bottle is again within my grasp and a skimpily-clad nymph immediately comes to my assistance. I decide to tell all and ask her advice. Seeing that she can bare so much of her body, I am encouraged to bare something of my soul. There is obviously an intended openness between us. Seeking her advice I tell her about the girl I love and how I feel about visiting her uninvited. She looks into my eyes and placing my hand on her thigh, tells me I am a very nice man.
“And you have very nice legs.”
“Ohh”
“But what do you think I should do?”
“Take me with you to your hotel.”
“No, I mean about visiting her family. Do you think I should just go there and arrive unexpectedly?”
“Up to you.”
Realising that I can expect little more than this response from the field of campaign, I offer her a drink which she readily accepts. We chat for a while. I pay up and move on. The girls change. The drink stays the same. I continue my bar crawling, gradually feeling more and more like a fish out of water. If I am true to myself, I know I must go. I will take the consequences, what ever they are. I must do it. I’ll speak my mind and it’s up to her. I’ll take the train tomorrow. But tomorrow comes and “procrastination rules okay’ is affirmatively the order of the day. I simply lack the necessary courage to take the buffalo by the horns and go. Something, perhaps common cowardice, causes me to seek the diversion of synthetic stimulantion yet again. I start indulgently with a full English breakfast and drift around bookshops, from time to time scouting out the foyers of certain hotels. The sight of so many posh dudes lounging around these venues gives me the urge to seek a trendier garb for myself. To this end, I enter the shopaholic’s paradise. A gleaming department store, stocked with the finest of everything. I locate “men’s clothing’ but en-route am obliged to run the gauntlet of ladies’ departments. As I am doing this, my eye is drawn to a couple several counters distant from me. The girl I recognise immediately. So that is what she is doing. And I nearly went to “visit’ her! The man with her is Italian or Spanish looking, with swept back wavy hair. He is well-built and looks middle aged but quite athletic. So that’s what she prefers! I walk towards them wearing my friendliest of false smiles, intending to say a cheery “hello!” but as soon as she catches sight of me, she takes him off briskly to another part of the shop. I almost burst out laughing or is it crying? I don’t know. I have been such a fool and I suppose I am very lucky. I continue with my intended errand and take pleasure in acquiring some quite snazzy items. All that time I wasted mooning about her and thinking that she was similarly inclined towards me. What a waste! What a stupid mistake! These thoughts keep returning to me despite the diversion of my new purchases. I return to the hotel to get ready for my next sortie.
The hour to go a-roving comes and I give myself to it with abandon. Dressing up in my newly acquired togs I cruise out for an aperitif and evening meal before the serious business of debauchery. My mood is “devil may care’ and my determination is to serve primarily my own satisfaction. I don’t care who loses, who suffers, who gets injured, who takes offence, who loses face, tonight I will win! I will prove that I am a man and that I am what I am, by being the only thing I can be when I am truly myself. There are no condemnatory or accusative glances. There is no shock reaction from anyone who thinks they know me to be someone or something else. They will just see me as “another freak’ busting his nut and giving his geriatric limb-support such a workout that it is in danger of coming unhinged or unscrewed at the joints. I don’t care what they think, I will do what I want to do and enjoy it. With such a determination I deliberate on my choice of first bar. I am in fast cruise and survey mode. A girl wipes my face and starts a patter. I have my bottle. Were she not so young, and I so old, it would be maternal. Perhaps she thinks it so! So I’m a “nice man?’
“Not tonight, darling. You don’t want to know me. I promise you.’ I don’t say it out loud. I don’t hate them. They can’t help being the way they are. They have no evil intent. Say, what’s this? Getting soft again? No way! I check myself and strike forth. The bars get warmer, the girls keener, or is it only my perception?
***
I guide myself toward an arena of flashing word-lights. They are all the kind that as a teenage schoolboy I talked seriously about in my spare time with friends. These subjects of my lifetime’s study are now allegedly on view. At last, we can just look and see the lot! Gone for ever are those furtive fumblings in shop doorways. Never again, those snappy views of knickers as we plod up the stairs of the London bus. It is all totally and utterly explicit and available here. This is just the right medicine for my present mood. There are jiggling girls, stark naked on a revolving platform, but arrayed in the darkness around them is an area of serious drinkers. They seem equally bored. They chat as in a pub, seeming to pay no attention whatsoever to their surroundings. And the girls jig it out in their own brightly lit world in which mental alertness and keeping moving are both a challenge. There is a Doric Games look about them. They are like the daughters of Aphrodite, about to go for a dip in the sea from a lonely beach, or girls in the process of changing for a game of tennis or hockey. Quite ludicrously they are obliged to hold this pole and move about with some consideration for the music. I decide to proceed following the old English principle that “a bird in the hand is worth two on the platform.’ I give the full benefit of my consideration to those girls who during their break, have the initiative and enterprise to take stock of the clientele. One of them renews my beer and placing the new chit in the box, sits close beside me. She exudes comfort and delight at being able to present herself to a man, with at least some clothes on. No longer naked on public display, the feeling that her personal privacy is being intruded upon can now be dispelled. She chats warmly, having spent hours upon the podium in silent thought. It is a theory of mine that the procedures followed in this little dive serve to ripen the girls with keenness towards those who will give attention to them personally rather than to the areas of their flesh they are obliged to display. For me it is a pleasure to become familiar with the real girl that goes with the body parts and that is exactly what she wants to be noticed. I suddenly realise that my resolution to be self-assertive has vanished. As the bubbly liquid takes effect, it occurs to me with growing clarity that the music is incredibly catchy and bouncy, its vitality far in excess of anything suggested by the bevy of girls engaged in their marathon bopping. I become progressively more entranced and seeking the assistance and accompaniment of my companion I escort her to the walkway area that in a slightly different establishment would have been the orchestra pit. The snapping jingling music takes us over and becomes our master. Like any good dancer, we do not follow the music, but dance with it. At, least, my awareness suggests so. She is responsive to me and anxious to combine and share in all that I do with enthusiasm. We dance to a few numbers and then, as the record changes we engage urgently in an acquainting routine. My immediate question is,
“Do you have an e-mail address?” Fortunately, the reply is affirmative. I provide my details and small pieces of paper are written on and exchanged. She has “Michael’ – I have “Doy.’ She goes back on stage and I am tended by other willing recipients of my appreciation and endearments. The girl whose only duty is to serve beers and watch the door is particularly grateful for my attention. This poor creature is mostly ignored owing to her being always fully clothed. Just not the fashion here! My further drinks are thus accompanied by the pleasure of her and other eager darlings, as we share attentions enthusiastically. She then returns to her group of girls who have out-aged their unclad sisters. In their eyes is the fear of unemployment and an eternity of a future in unloved isolation. What unfairness to misjudge that empty blank gaze!
THE CINDERELLA EFFECT
At the hour of 2 a.m. or 2.15, the horses change into mice, the stagecoach changes into a pumpkin and the naked girls appear clothed. The great machine of night has been switched off. The silver boards with chromium poles stand motionless in moonlight. The once mute are able to speak. In place of music there is only the quiet conversation of girls in dark back-rooms as they get changed to go. The whole factory is on close-down and outside is awash with a sea of people. Bar-workers are on their way home and the street is buzzing with life and soul. It has a warmth of subdued ebullience as the moment of liberation is celebrated. The mood of the crowd with potent effect becomes my mood. I am so glad that I stayed this late. There are hundreds suddenly fresh to the street and open sky, like children finding their presents at Christmas time or people celebrating the end of the war. This great throng of entertainment workers can at last let their hair down and be themselves. Street vendors do a roaring trade in fresh hot food. They take a bite to eat, a moment of closeness and society with each other, then make their way homeward, glad that the day has come to an end. It is my cue too. We walk with our relaxed chatter, sharing the hot fresh street-bite like a holiday couple. Then at the corner bid our farewells and head each homeward. It is a comfort to be going home tired with such a good feeling - the knowledge of having shared life and experience by the giving and receiving of happiness and not having made a goof of myself. There is nothing I would have rather done and nothing I could have done in better style. This satisfaction is the perfect overture to a sweet-dream sleep, which I put to proof as soon as I get to my room.
PICKING A FILLY
I awake with the sun seeping through the curtains. It is a morning without the complication of company. My thoughts return to the scene in the department store yesterday. I am unsure whether I still have some attachment to that girl, which I suppose means that I do, or the question would not arise. But I tell myself she is gone for good. Clearly, her interest is elsewhere and I have no choice but to accept it. Hey, what the hell? I have an e-mail address from last night! Life is getting better and here I am wasting time when I could be enjoying a good breakfast. This morning, I fancy something French - I mean, to eat - fresh coffee, quiche lorraine and a newspaper. It’s just how I like to start the day. Only one task beckons.
That is to send an e-mail to the delicious maiden of the mysterious dark eyes who turned them on me last night. Perhaps I am bewitched! I can’t get her out of my head. When breakfast is over, I locate a reasonably priced cyber café and send as follows:
Dear Doy,
How are you? This is Michael. It was great to meet you last night. You are a fantastic dancer! I hope you get some free time so we can meet somewhere. Please phone my hotel: 087 254 6431 and ask for room 317. I hope to hear from you soon. Take care and I look forward to seeing you again. X Michael
I wonder when she will see it.
Well, I’ll try to explain what happened next. Imagine two absent-minded people. It can sometimes happen that one walks in through the doorway just as the other is coming and they go slap into each other. This is exactly what happened as I entered the bookshop. I found myself in close contact, in fact pressed against a familiar female body. It was her again! My intial effort was to hide from her my automatic sexual attraction as a result of parts of her and parts of me being pressed together. May be I could think of her as a bag of fruit and vegetables that pressed against me. At least, I would treat her as a stranger and say as little as possible.
“Oh!”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“Please excuse me. Michael, I so happy to see you. Please, I want talk with you. Can we go some place, perhaps have coffee?”
“Sorry, but I am far too busy. I knocked into you because I am in such a great hurry,” I explain, surprising myself with such feeble logic.
“But I must talk to you Michael. Please, I have big problem, can I phone to you?”
“Okay, it’s 087 254 6431 extension 317” I reply to shut her up as quickly as possible. She writes it on a scrap of paper and puts
it in her bag. I walk away wondering whether I was right to give her the number. But I had to do something. It is simply not my way to be blunt. I could not say, “No, you can’t talk to me because I haven’t got time and I’m not going to make time because I have nothing to say to you.”
But this is what I have to say eventually anyway. For cowards like me, it is easier to say on the phone. I spend a while browsing in the shop, then decide to go back to the hotel and watch a video. To be truthful, I am placing myself by the phone in the hope that Doy rings, and the hope that the other one doesn’t. Probably they will both ring.
The video is about a train. A girl, who is naked except for a pair of sandals, is being chased along the corridor from one carriage to the next. She darts into one of the toilets and slams the door shut, locking it. She then opens the window and climbs out, managing to pull herself on to the roof of the speeding train. It starts to decelerate and suddenly the branch of a tree just misses her head. She notices they are approaching another tree and this time she grabs the branch and hoists herself up, clinging on for dear life. The train continues on into the distance carrying her pursuer and she is left to climb down the tree slowly and carefully. She finds herself, to her horror, not in a jungle or forest, but in a beautifully landscaped garden. She is petrified that someone will detect her intrusion and then stare at her nakedness. Suddenly a whistle is blown and dogs start barking. She hears voices and several times hears the words “Catch the intruder’ She searches frantically for somewhere to hide herself.
The phone rings and I turn to pick it up.
“Hello”
“Hello, name you Michael?” Oh damn, it’s Lilly. All I want to do is get rid of her.
“Yes” I reply, as briefly as possible.
“Michael darling,” she begins as I squirm. “I very sorry. I crazy to go with farang you see me. You see me with him but very big mistake. He not love me like you do.”
“Just a minute, Lilly - Who says I love you? You better understand that I don’t love you.”
“But, Michael, I love you! I always love you,” she whines, starting with tears. “Michael, I very sorry. I very bad mistake. Marcel not love me. He go back to his wife and children in France now. I love you, Michael. Please forgive me mistake and I will do anything for you. I promise.”
“What’s your number?” I ask in matter-of-fact manner.
“0863 608 271,” comes the reply.
“Ok, I’ll phone you. Bye!” I say, putting the phone down. I make a note of Lilly’s number.
The girl now wears a loose dress. They are sitting in the garden shed drinking champagne and chatting happily to each other. Second glasses are poured. He then persuades her to have yet another.
“Then we’ll go,” he says. She accepts this offer, realising it is her only reasonable chance of escape. Then leaving the bottle and glasses, they exit the shed and walk to the back of the garden. There is a gate which he opens with a key. They go through into a wild wooded area.
“By the way,” he begins, “You do realise, don’t you, that I have saved your life? They were going to shoot you dead on sight!”
“Yes, I am very grateful to you,” she says, “but I…..”
The phone rings again and I answer it. I put the TV on mute and continue watching. They are talking and she looks worried.
“Hello Michael?”
“Yes, this is Michael, is that you Doy?”
The girl in the video is whispering something to him.
“Oh Michael, I am so happy to talk to you,” Doy begins.
The man says something to her that I don’t catch. The girl stares at him and her face reddens.
“I have one week for holiday from tomorrow, Saturday.”
“That’s marvelous! Let’s go to the beach somewhere.”
He has pulled the girl into some bushes.
“Yes, but I must go home to see my family for a few days. You don’t mind do you, Michael?”
“No, that’s ok. You go there first and let me know as soon as you get back”
“Yes, Michael, my love, I will do that for you. Please take care of yourself.”
“Ok Doy, You too and please call me soon. And have a good trip to your family. By the way, do you have my mobile number?”
“No, can you give it to me please?”
The video has now finished and there is an interlude with advertising. I am not sure if it will continue. I recite the number of my newly acquired gizmo and close the conversation. The advertising is still on. Having completed my useful business, I switch it off and go for lunch.
OLD DAYS
I manage to find the Englishest of food I have had in many a long month - toad in the hole with roast parsnips, potatoes and gravy. It makes me start to dream of the England I knew 40 years ago. Nostalgically, I recall an earlier period of my life, as I begin to taste this food. It brings to mind the world of home where I lived with mum and dad, free of present day cares. But the Thai surroundings remind me that this is the 21st Century. How innocently they invoke the spirit of a world that has passed away and exists only in the memory of those farangs who frequent this establishment. How strange we must look to our Thai hosts as we indulge ourselves with so much passion in this weird looking food. I am extremely grateful for the memory that this experience has provoked, as well as my enjoyment of the food itself.
No 1 FAN
I return to my hotel and start to think about the evening. The hotel bar seems to be as good a place as any to start. Having nothing better to do, I decide to call Lilly, “Hello”
“Hello, Michael. I so happy to hear you. How are you?”
“I’m ok thanks.”
I invite her to eat with me and she jumps at the chance. I arrange to meet her in about half an hour in the lobby. I don’t exactly say so, but my aura of meaning is “if you are late, I’ll go without you.’ She promises faithfully to be there on time. Sitting on a barstool, I notice a girl sitting alone at the back. Seeing that she occupies my attention, she comes to join me. She is older than most bar girls and wears black. I offer her a drink and she orders it with my beer. The inescapable feeling of “in loco parentis’ has evaporated. She is very much “a woman with a man.’ I tell her I am not a punter, just a sight-seer. She gives me a look and changes her order from coke to whisky. There is a quiet worldly wisdom about this woman. Life’s harsh lessons have given her a sad hardness and analytical observation. Everything about her says she would thrive on both humour and love but they are as rare as gold nuggets in her current life. As we are engaged in our conversation of selectively worded exchanges, I notice Lilly enter. Observing me, she sits down alone in the foyer. I satisfy my partner’s question with the required brief response then excuse myself and go with my beer to join my visitor. I offer her a drink and she asks for a Spry. This is indeed a different kettle of fish. Here is a girl gasping for a little smoothness and sophistication as a swimmer in difficulties gasps for air. Unlike the cool collected gaze of my previous companion, she snatches a glance at me, desperately hoping to find softness and forgiveness in my expression, but finding only my cold aloofness and blankness, which is the best I can do as an attempt at an icy stare.
“Well, you wanted to speak to me,” I begin, with all the warmth of a mid-winter blizzard. And from this point, our conversation grinds into motion.
The outcome is that we head for Ekkamai Bus Station on the way to Pattaya.
She seems subservient to my every whim. The prospect of my total control over and domination of her lends an excitement to our relationship. We each go home to pack and arrange to meet at the bus station at 3pm. I pack my gear for a long weekend. As usual Ekkamai is a bustle of activity and very crowded. Lilly said she would stand near the booth, so I start checking the people by each one. I check something like 25 booths and she is not at any of them. I begin to think that may be she hasn’t arrived yet. I continue checking.
Suddenly I catch sight of her, standing with a large bulging blue tartan bag. She is at the next booth, no.36. As I join her she shows me the two tickets. We board the bus and begin our journey.
TIME OUT FOR THE EASTERN SEA
When we arrive at Pattaya Bus Station, a pickup is waiting. We pile in with other travelers and are soon on our way to Jomtien. We are dropped at our hotel and go through the arrival procedure. In our room, we unpack, take showers and get ready to go out. Food is the main thing on our minds. Fortunately, as I am with Lilly, we are able to find a street place serving fresh local fish. I appreciate the wisdom of her choice. The food is fresh good tasting and cheap. A little rain serves only to freshen and clean the air and doesn’t spoil our enjoyment in the least. How blinkered are those who dare not venture beyond the boundaries of their 5-Star hotel environment! We are now relaxed and decide for better or worse to place ourselves at each other’s disposal. This leads us to walking along the beach. The sky is a blaze of exquisite colours, principally, shades of orange, violet and magenta. Much of the light now left in the sky is concentrated vividly in these glowing smudges and smears. Gradually, the sun makes its farewell and simultaneously, with sedate calm, the mood of the evening arrives. We are lucky to have witnessed this wonderful process of nature.
Leaving the beach, we enter a palace of brick and glass, one of the local 5, or is it 6-star? Hotels. We flop down in the lobby bar and a saried girl immediately kneels by me to await my command. I ask Lilly and she goes for a John Collins. I decide to be trendy and order a vodka-martini. We have only about 4 days. There is no time for the commonplace of routine booze. Perhaps she is of like mind. The lounge is comfortable and cool. There is quiet calypso music in the background and one or two farangs are in evidence, dressed in suits and ties, as if anticipating profit. They must certainly make some if they can afford to drink here regularly!
Lilly tells me about her family in Si Saket. She wants to go back and see them, but not to go there empty-handed. She explains that she still has 500 Baht that Marcel gave her. I am unmoved. We have another drink and I tell her about casinos in Las Vegas. After all, gambling may not be the wisest way to make money, but it is certainly, according to the law of human nature, the most popular way to try. I playfully ask her whether she would risk her 500 Baht. She declines, but is clearly intrigued. She agrees that if she had 1000, she would be prepared to put 500 at risk. I begin to suspect, that despite appearances, she is quite a shrewd businesswoman. At last, I am beginning to warm towards her. I pay the bill and we leave. It is now dark. I lead her back to our hotel room, take two towels and some swimming gear in a bag. I open the door and start to leave.
“I not ready yet,” she bleats.
“Come on, I don’t want to hang about,” I reply
“Are we going swimming?”
“Yep.”
“Can you put this in the bag then?” she asks, stuffing her swimsuit into the open pocket.
I say nothing. I remind myself of the lessons I have learned throughout my trial-and-error of life’s experiences. For example, assuming we are not both 16 or both 60 etc it is often asked whether the older woman or younger girl is better for a man. In which ever case, if his intention is to be her lover, then he is called upon to utilize all his resources. I also recall that:
‘In his estimation of her, he must be sensitive. In his appreciation of her, he must be thorough, and in his conquest of her, he must be ever-attentive to her.’ (I am not sure where that came from but it seems to be stuck in my mind ready for replay at any time.)
Feeling the satisfaction that I conform with these high ideals, we take a boat to Ko Larn and ask the boatman to come back in 2 to 3 hours.
As he makes off in the moonlight, we walk around and find a lonely cove. It is a quiet moonlit night. We undress and I give her a mask and snorkel to put on. I then fix mine and we walk cautiously towards the shoreline. The sea is warm and inviting. Our two naked bodies slide into it – nature into nature. As she squats in the shallow water I submerge and look at her through my mask. Coming to the surface, I pull her towards me, raise my mask and ask her how she feels. She gives me a playful look. We swim out, watching the fishes and each other. There is a small boat in the bay. Nobody is about, so we pull ourselves aboard. It is not particularly clean, considering we have only our pure skins to place upon it. I suggest she sits on my lap. We start to kiss and her breasts become firm, almost hard, as the nipples protrude and I “massage’ , we kiss again. There is only the sound of the warm water lapping rhythmically upon the sides of our boat. We find ourselves turning as the current moves our tethered vessel round. Here we can rest and concentrate totally on each other. But, there being no clear room to manoeuvre, we fall again into the water and start to wade shorewards. Just as we have taken two paces, I grab her towards me, starting to kiss and fondle. The sea, being up to her shoulders, helps to support us, though I have to be careful she doesn’t go under. We then come close together. Feeling body against body, we start our attempt to make the sea boil. As I enter her she is frantic and madly appreciative. I wonder if she is just putting on a show to impress me. But she continues to go wilder and lose all self-control. It is all I can do, to hold her head up to save her from drowning. When our heaving and thrashing finally subsides, leaving us both exhausted, I plod out of the water with her hanging round my neck and fall on to the beach. We stay like that, in each other’s arms, for what seems like an hour.
We are overcome by the peace and tranquility of this island night. But something indefinable disturbs it. Then it acquires definition. It’s a noise. Not an animal – a machine. It’s getting louder. An outboard motor! The boat is coming back for us and we are both stark naked! We rush into the sea to wash off sand then back to our clothes to pull them on. The noise is even greater now. Looking out to sea, there is a speck in the distance. Our boat will be another 10 or 15 minutes! Our panic was unnecessary. There are some beach chairs that we make use of. Feeling peckish, I start to ask her what she thinks of popcorn and candy floss, but I soon begin to realise that we would prefer something more substantial. We plan mentally where we are going to go as soon as we get back to the mainland. To pass the time, Lilly asks me questions about England and my family. I answer as best I can without going into detail.
The boat arrives. We put our stuff into the bag and scramble in. The boatman sets off with us into the night. The moon has disappeared behind a cloud, but he seems to know which way to go. The fresh sea breeze serves only to increase our appetites. The lights of Pattaya appear in the distance ahead. And as they loom ever nearer, our comfort, assurance and anticipation grow. The boat draws up on the beach. As we climb out, I pay our helmsman with an extra tip.
BALANCING LILLY
We ply our way towards a well-known Indian Restaurant. Apparently, something Lilly has in common with me is a penchant for Indian curries. We have spent some time anticipating this moment. As we enter, there is quiet sitar music in the background and we are directed to a candle-lit table. We order a number of dishes to share. Lilly has a sherry and I have a dry martini. The dishes come and our happy task of serving each other begins. Spoonfuls of various dishes are added to our rice. There is a rich variety of flavours, including the kind whose hotness is not fully realised until after it has been swallowed and the process of digestion begins. This enables the pleasure of eating to be more prolonged than usual. The hunger we brought to this establishment enables us to have even greater enjoyment and we are amply satisfied. As we leave and return to our hotel, we are aware of our tiredness, but it is a comfortable and happy feeling. We empty the bag and leave the contents in the bathroom. It is shower and bed time for both of us. When we are both clean and dry, we ease our warm bodies between the freshly starched sheets and in very little time, we are asleep.
When I awake, the part of my bed to my right shows that someone has got up and left. I am mystified as to why she is not there. A moonlight flit, perhaps? Then I hear the toilet flush. Problem solved! She re-enters the bedroom bleary-eyed but with a strange alertness.
“My period start now,” she announces.
“Well, what’s the point of being here then?’ I calmly “shout’ to myself, with no more than a muttering. It is doom for our holiday. Each moment now wears a gag which will soak up any pleasure or fun that might seep, drip or ooze into our life. It is not surprising that such a formidable word as “menstruation’ should have a morbid significance. I remain silent.
“You okay,” she enquires diplomatically.
“Fine”
“What are we going to do today?” she asks.
“Dunno, sit on the beach, I suppose, and think of 12 things to do with a handful of ice-cream.”
“What?” she asks, as a smile of amusement comes over her face.
“Let’s get breakfast.” We shower and prepare ourselves to face the world and whatever it is our hotel calls “breakfast.’
At this stage I should start to appreciate the finer points of this woman - something less obvious than her nipples. I observe her. For me, this is a fatal mistake with almost any woman, since the result is, that I then realise she is incredibly beautiful and begin to fall in love with her. I detect this coming upon me and deliberately strive to avoid it. I made this mistake about a woman once before and I do not intend to repeat it. As I dip my “soldiers’ into my boiled egg, she listens intently; intrigued with my explanation and copies my action. But I am careful to concentrate on the subject matter, yellow and white, rather than on her eager amusement and general flashing of eyes in my direction, damn her!
Fortunately, the song and dance I make about toast and marmalade puts a useful damper on proceedings. Understandably, to her, it seems absurd, since the toast is soggy and tasteless and the marmalade simply a tangy liquid. But I disregard this totally. I enthuse about them, waxing lyrical on this wonderful British tradition, the stately home in which I was nurtured and the nanny who tended me and schooled me in the ritual of breakfast, among others. Better, I think, if she believes I am completely daft.
“You must be very rich,” she says enthusiastically.
“No,because my family lost everything in the revolution.” I explain this political term briefly and describe graphically, the loss my family suffered at the hands of marauding robbers and looters. How their home was ransacked. How rape and pillage swept through the country. I then go on to tell her how they live today, meekly struggling for survival. I describe my bed-sitter where I live alone (without a wife!) and my office job, emphasizing how long it takes to save the money for a holiday to Thailand. Her face falls. I am making progress! To be daft, I must also be poor, or I would come dangerously close to running an ATM dry, before moving on to the next. This is not only progress, but also the avoidance of disaster. The other advantage is that she might start to feel sorry for me. I told myself before all this started that I would take her for whatever she’s got so I don’t care how ruthless I am.
This sitting being well over, we start to return roomwards, picking up a newspaper and a few other items from the shop in the foyer, on our way. I am on a knife-edge between my calculating, hard self and the abyss of abandonment to her whiles. I prostrate myself on the bed and calmly consider our forthcoming activities, while she bustles about getting ready.
“Are you okay? I’m ready,” she suddenly says, moving towards me and starting to……
“Shivering Snakes – she’s massaging me!” I leap up immediately. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Don’t you want massage? Massage very good. Help you relax.”
“No thank you, let’s go.”
UNFAIR
We make for the downstairs area and come upon a funfair. There is a kind of roundabout with seats that swing round and round and up and down at great speed. Of even the most sedentary and sloth-like, whose inertia is legendary, it makes mincemeat, so to speak, by shifting and whirring them with such velocity and vigour, spinning up and down, until all food becomes soup and all liquid, froth, so what hope is there for the human body? No surprise the screams and shouts from those who have overshot the limits of their physical tolerance.
Despite my misgivings, as it comes to a halt, with a sort of mutual devilry, we decide to have a go. I sit in one of the seat pods with her. Our money is paid. He closes the gate so that we can’t fall out and our pod swings round and up, to allow the next one to be boarded. This is it! There is no turning back. We are on this confounded thing and it’s about to start. The last people have got on and we start slowly, but as seconds tick by our speed increases. We spin round and go up and down as we circulate. It gathers speed, going faster and faster and FASTER! We hang on to each other with one hand and the rail at the side of the pod with the other. Lilly screams like mad and seems to be enjoying herself. It seems to be the thing to do, but I am mortified and struggle to sweat it out as we hurtle this way and that. I concentrate on trying to catch the moment when it starts to slow down, but it goes on and on whizzing this way and that at a hectic pace. At least I have not died and I won’t if I can just hold on. Then I notice that Lilly is quieter now. Suddenly she shouts,
“Oh, Michael!” leans over the side and throws up. I notice we have started to slow down but there is still some mileage to go. I fumble in my pocket to find a tissue for Lilly. She now sits beside me in some discomfort and alarm. We now both wait for the moment to be motionless again. How wonderful it will be to stand again on firm ground and look about seeing nothing move! Seeing everything absolutely rock-steady and still! How secure, re-assuring and comfortable. Patiently we wait as the machine slows even more and gradually comes to a standstill People start to disembark. It comes to our turn and I help Lilly out, taking her hand as she leaves the pod.
Planting our feet firmly on unmoving ground, we head for our hotel and go to our room to freshen up. In our room, I realise that Lilly is not too well. She has taken it worse than I thought. She has a wash, then lies on the bed. I get her some water at room temperature and she sips it.
“Oh, I’m sorry Michael. That was crazy thing to do. Now I feel bad.”
“Maybe a sleep will do you good,” I suggest. She shifts and wriggles out of her outer clothes, then slides herself into the bed. I close the curtains and notice she has already closed her eyes. I take the key, put a “Do Not Disturb’ notice on the door and slip out of the room.
STRING
At last! A free man again! I can go where I like and help myself. Of course! I cruise into the downtown area passing by the garish funfair banging out some over-amplified pop music, en route to the first bar. A girl hands me a moist towelette on a tray. I wipe my face, neck and hands then replace it on the tray. She asks me what I want to drink. Instantly she returns with my beer and sits next to me on a stool. Well, there is nothing wrong with her. There is nothing wrong with the beer. In fact, I’m enjoying it. It’s just that I am beginning to worry about Lilly waking up alone in that hotel room. Why should I care about her? I don’t know. There is no answer. Except that I do care. I want to be there when she wakes up and to know that she feels better. I want to make her happy and see her smile. Yes, okay, I’m getting that way about her. I didn’t intend to, but I just can’t stop myself.
“You man too much thinking,” the girl next to me offers as advice, hoping I will snap out of it and start talking to her nicely. I look at her and she stares back at me.
“You man in love,” she says, laughing at her observation.
She makes me laugh to, but it is the tense product of wry humour, rather than free and open, like her laugh. She catches it.
“What problem?” she asks.
I struggle to put my dilemma into simple terms that she can readily understand.
“I like her too much. But girl no good.”
“But you in love,” she says, “I know.” Don’t tell me, I have quite by chance, following my nose for beery holes, lighted upon the only clairvoyant bargirl in Pattaya! I wonder what further perception she will come up with, seeing that I don’t dissolve into rueful smiles and sighs of longing, consistent with the behaviour considered conventional for a man in love.
“Why she no good?” she suddenly bursts out. “May be you no good!” she adds provocatively.
“You go to her and love her – she good! Girl no man, may be girl bad. Girl with man, girl good – always – because man make her good. When she happy she good,” she adds, completing her analysis of the female nature. Trite though it may sound, sometimes a childlike simplicity is wisdom itself. I am loath to take up any argument with her and merely offer my thanks and farewells.
Instead of negotiating the next bar, I start back to the hotel. On arriving, I quickly check the foyer, then take the lift to my room. I go in very quietly incase she is still asleep. The room is in darkness, but I can see from the bed that it is unoccupied. My next thought is to check the bathroom. I immediately notice the door is wide open. She has got up and gone! The question is - Did she walk out? i.e. Did she go in order to escape – so, fully intending not to come back? Or – Did she just pop out to get something, with every intention of returning as soon as possible? Instead of not caring, or being glad that she was gone again, I find myself quite worried, questioning myself furiously and seriously hoping that she will burst in at any moment. But, despite my waiting and staring at the door, she does not burst in. I decide, I should, perhaps wait a little longer. I notice that her personal things have gone, but her bag is still here. The fact that she must surely come back for it, provides me with a ray of hope. Then inspiration comes to me. I go down to the reception desk to ask if there is any message for me.