Thai Girl Read online

  ‘She demands an expensive hotel room and doesn’t show up, then heaps shit on me!’ he raged silently in the calm of the cyber café. ‘Maybe she’s still in Chiang Mai getting screwed senseless and not in Bangkok at all.’

  Then he began to get a grip on himself and to think more rationally. Perhaps she had got the wrong day or time, or even the wrong hotel, though none of these things rang true. Then an idea suddenly struck him. He closed his email and ran back to the Regal. Streaming with sweat, he went to the reception desk. On being given the answers he expected, he counted to ten, stayed calm and went up to his room. He took off his tee shirt and dried himself with a towel, the air conditioning a glorious relief. Picking up his Lonely Planet guide, he opened it at the section headed, ‘Bangkok - Places to Stay - Budget - Sukhumvit’. After making a note of the first hotel listed, he ran downstairs, plunged out into the heat again and legged it back to the cyber café on Khao San Road. He felt thoroughly vindicated as he hit the ‘Compose’ button, but hot and very far from composed.

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Told You So

  Emma you prat, it’s your fault. I was at the Regal all the time. I’ve just asked them if they had a Mr Farnsworth staying in the hotel and they said no. Is that who you asked for? Then I asked if they had a Mr Ben. ‘Yes, Mr Ben come yesterday, stay room 127.’ Bloody brilliant. Couldn’t you have sussed that one out? Was the torrent of abuse really necessary?

  So first of all, tell me where you are. It’s nearly time for me to check out of the Regal and I’m not footing the bill for another night on the off chance you’ll turn up. But I’d still like to see you, so I’m moving to the Georgia off Sukhumvit Road on Soi Seven. Phone 02-373-8763. Budget place, old-style, and handy for the Eastern Bus Terminus. I’ve chosen it because you hate Khao San and I’m hoping you’ll come and see me there. I’ll wait for you at the Georgia for at least two nights.

  Please contact me asap. Go to Cambodia if you have to, but just get this. Waiting for you not to show up last night was horrible. And I wouldn’t be running around in the heat and sitting in this cyber café in a pool of sweat asking to see you if I didn’t think a lot of you.

  Love, Ben.

  PS Anyway Angkor’s only a heap of old rocks.

  He re-read the message and sent it off and walked slowly back to the Regal. Checkout was at twelve so he decided to make the most of his last hour of luxury. He changed out of his clothes, stuffing the sodden tee shirt into the air conditioning vent to dry. After showering, he slowly began to pack, using the nasal test to decide which clothes were dirty and which very dirty. This time his tube of toothpaste had burst open and half the contents were smeared around the inside of his spongebag, mingling with the medicines and plasters. He longed to stay in the comfort of the Regal and to get himself properly cleaned up, but no, he was committed to a cheaper place where he would wait for Emma.

  Closing the door and with his rucksack feeling exceptionally heavy, he took the lift down to the reception desk.

  ‘Bill for room 127, please.’

  The girl printed off the bill.

  ‘Here we are, Mr Ben,’ she said.

  He glanced at the total and again regretted raiding the mini-bar. Somewhat poorer he shouldered his pack, descended the marble steps of the Regal and was back on the road again.

  Maca had told him that a cool way to cross town was by boat on a klong, one of the old canals that were the main thoroughfares before most of them were filled in and Bangkok became overwhelmed by the motor vehicle. And so, city map in hand, he headed for the canal near Wat Saket. He had seen photos of this golden temple and recognised it sitting high on its artificial hill as he approached from the Democracy Monument. Following the walls of an old fort, he found his way down to the klong. The water in the canal was dark and murky. A boat about the dimensions of a large bus was moored alongside and was filling up with passengers. He climbed aboard, scrambling through the narrow gap between the awning and the gunwale and sat down on one of the highly-polished wooden seats.

  Soon the boat was packed with people, ordinary workers on their daily treadmill. The big diesel roared into life and the boat moved off at speed along the canal. Despite the blue and white striped side-screens, flecks of spray found their way through the gaps and onto his face and lips. Peering out, he could see the wooden houses on either side, tightly packed together, a reminder of old Bangkok. Many of them were rickety and roofed in corrugated iron, their verandas packed with pot plants and washing and all the clutter of a crowded life. Several times they passed shiny brown children swimming in the filthy water.

  The boat came to a landing stage and the boatboy flicked a rope over a bollard before passengers leaped out and the boat pulled away again. Climbing precariously along the gunwale, he collected the fare from Ben; it was all of seven baht. Avoiding the roads, the boat trip had taken less than half the time by taxi and traffic jam.

  Out in the street he hailed a motorcycle taxi and asked for the Georgia Hotel on Soi Seven. Riding pillion with a heavy rucksack was not going to be easy and he began to think he had made a fatal mistake. The bike took off at speed, weaving in and out of the traffic, then cut through the central road divider, apparently to do a U-turn. But to his horror it accelerated the wrong way down the opposite side of the dual carriageway; they were now closing at speed head-on with a large beige Mercedes bus. Like a gunsight aimed at his heart, the Mercedes star became indelibly etched into the part of his brain that stores recurrent nightmares. Then, at the last possible moment, when he could see the whites of the bus driver’s eyes, the bike swerved sharp right, shooting across the path of the bus into the safety of a side street.

  Ben let out a shriek of terror and exhilaration. Almost, but not quite, dying is life-enhancing, the ultimate adrenaline rush. Sky diving, bungee jumping, the wildest of extreme sports surely have nothing on this, ‘The Bangkok Motorbike Taxi Experience’.

  They had just succeeded in turning right without doing a U-turn, cheating almost certain death and saving at least five minutes in a traffic jam. The motorbike maniac would live to ride again and earn another forty baht, while Ben had been delivered alive but trembling to the door of the Georgia Hotel.

  The facade of the Georgia was unprepossessing, but on stepping down into the foyer, it had a pleasant old-world atmosphere of faded elegance. The hotel had once been top-notch and modern but was now slipping into genteel middle age. Ben checked into a budget room with fan on the fourth floor and was hugely relieved; he really liked the place. The balcony in his room looked down onto a leafy garden with coconut trees and to the swimming pool beyond. The low roar of the nearby expressway was constant, but so was the sound of birdsong. It would be no hardship to wait here for Emma for a couple of days.

  Now the middle of the afternoon, he was starving hungry as he had not eaten since his gargantuan breakfast. He went down to the restaurant and found it open, but seeing email terminals for the use of guests, decided first to check whether there was anything from Emma and found a brief message from her sent only a few hours earlier.

  ‘Sorry Ben,’ it read. ‘I’m not going to answer you by email but owe you a phone call. I’ll try the number at the Georgia later this afternoon when you’ve had a chance to settle in.’ The message ended, ‘Love, Emma.’ This was all very enigmatic.

  He made for the restaurant; waiting for a woman yet again was not going to spoil his appetite. Ordering a Thai green curry, he felt calmer as he sat and read the Bangkok Post, which was neatly clipped to a mahogany rod in the style of a London club. The green curry was a revelation, a myriad of flavours that exploded in his mouth and of obscure and exotic vegetables, herbs and spices. The menu told him that it contained galangal, kaffir lime peel, coriander seed and root, roast cumin seed, fresh lemongrass, pea eggplant and sweet basil leaves. Surely this was culinary heaven and for less than the British price of a McDonald’s globalburger.

  As he went up to his room, Ben began to th
ink about Emma again. He had come back to Bangkok solely to sort things out with her, but their night at the Regal had fallen foul of Murphy’s law. The following few hours could be crucial, but as he waited for her call, the combined effects of his alcoholic blow-out, of running to and from the cyber café in the heat that morning, plus a belly-full of green curry were beginning to tell. He lay heavily on the bed and dozed off.

  The next thing he knew was the jarring ring of the telephone in his ear and the sweaty sensation of his tee shirt adhering to his armpits. He grabbed the phone and said hello in a sleepy voice.

  ‘Christ, Ben, you’re not pissed again are you? Mid-afternoon!’

  ‘Where are you, Emm?’ said Ben not bothering to answer her question.

  ‘Khao San Road.’

  ‘But you hate Khao San. Why there for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because I’m with my mates. They wanted to stay here.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Yes, they.’

  It was not a good start and Ben knew it.

  ‘Look Ben, I’m going to have to be quick. It’s a thousand degrees in this phone box and I can hardly hear because of the traffic.’

  ‘So when am I going to see you?’

  ‘Don’t know … not immediately. I’ve got things to do before going to Cambodia.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘I told you in my email.’

  There was a jingle as she put more coins into the box.

  ‘For definite?’

  ‘Look Ben, I really want to see Angkor and I’ve had so much fun with these guys. Sorry I dragged you back to Bangkok … thought it’d be different after being apart for a bit. Just don’t hold your breath, that’s all.’

  ‘Emm, I don’t get you.’ He tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

  ‘Ben, you’re being a bit slow.’

  ‘But this hotel’s really great …’ he said uselessly as Emma abruptly cut in.

  ‘Damn, I’m running out of money. It’s just eating the stuff.’

  ‘Emm, for pity’s sake tell me your guesthouse.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, the phone number at least …’ he begged, but Emma did not reply. The line had gone dead.

  Ben put the handset down and lay back, looking out of the balcony door at the Bangkok skyline. He felt physically sick and very alone.

  18

  Lying on his bed in the middle of the afternoon at the Georgia Hotel, the ceiling fan slowly stirring the humid air, Ben tried to take in what had just happened. In their brief and bitter exchange on the phone, Emma had not even begun to admit that failing to find him at the Regal had been her mistake, let alone apologise. She had flatly refused to meet up with him, she had conceded nothing and given nothing away. He felt desperately let down, comprehensively dumped thousands of miles from home in a hellish city, alone in a cheap hotel room with nothing but an expanding overdraft to worry about and too much time on his hands. The precious trip to Thailand that he had so much looked forward to had turned into the ultimate nightmare.

  Black thoughts succeeded each other at random. Emma had told him she was staying in Khao San Road, but this could have been a lie. Perhaps her money in the phone box ran out so quickly because really she was still in Chiang Mai. Then again if she was in Bangkok with a new boyfriend, how could she possibly get to see him, even if she wanted to.

  He lay and seethed, staring out at the phallic towers of the Sukhumvit skyline. But as his anger turned to depression, his thoughts drifted back to Fon. Then the doubts really began to gnaw at his guts. Koh Samet seemed ages ago and somehow he could not even remember clearly what Fon looked like; he longed for a decent photo to rekindle the dream.

  As he turned it all over in his mind, he had to admit he hardly knew Fon at all; they could not be more different in their backgrounds and experience. Her English was basic and it would take him years to learn Thai. Nor could he afford to bring her to England. What would she do there anyway, an exotic flower uprooted from her own culture, wilting in the freezing cold. And there was her unshakeable devotion to Joy and her family; she would never leave them behind and she could certainly not bring them with her. It all seemed hopeless and even irresponsible to chase after her. But then he thought of their romantic meal together and the clinch in the moonlight afterwards, and his feelings for her revived in all their fury. He wanted her dreadfully.

  It struck him that it was now futile to stay on at the Georgia waiting for Emma; the only thing to do was to pack up and go straight back to Koh Samet; he could phone Fon on Gaeo’s number and tell her he was getting the bus the next morning. But then he began to have second thoughts. Fon would probably not be around to take the call and he might get Gaeo’s husband who did not speak English. So he quickly abandoned the idea.

  Resolving to stick with his original plan of giving Emma two days to change her mind and get in touch, he went downstairs to the computer terminals and sent her a short email. He told her he regretted the brevity of her phone call but that he still hoped she’d contact him at the Georgia.

  For want of anything better to do, he sat in the lobby watching the comings and goings of the hotel guests for a while, then decided to see what Sukhumvit Road had to offer at that time of the afternoon. He wondered whether he would see anything of the general election which was now in full swing. The coverage in the Bangkok Post had told him it was a major event in Thailand’s political history and that there were great hopes for the future.

  He walked slowly up the soi past elegant residences standing in large gardens and came to Sukhumvit Road with its crowded pavements, the traffic nose to tail, filling the canyon of tall buildings with fumes. Wandering aimlessly, he spent some time in the cool oasis of Asia Books in The Landmark Hotel and bought himself a novel and a Thai language tape. To build bridges with Fon, he could at least attempt to learn some of her language.

  As he walked, a sign on the pavement advertising a massage parlour caught his eye. ‘Thai massage can relief sickness,’ it said, ‘stimulate evacuation system, cause lively emotion and help to release seriousness.’ This was exactly what Ben needed; to have his seriousness released. He could at least check it out.

  A little nervously, he opened the glass door of the massage parlour. Inside were some nondescript Thai women lounging on sofas reading magazines and beyond them the massage beds screened off behind curtains. It was all very clinical.

  ‘What massage you want?’ asked the unsmiling receptionist from behind her desk.

  ‘Not sure. Maybe come back later.’

  ‘You have massage before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind you have?’

  Ben was beginning to regret this.

  ‘Thai massage.’

  ‘Thai massage can. Oil massage and “special” also can.’

  He suddenly felt disloyal to Fon; to be massaged by someone else was a bit like being unfaithful.

  ‘So what’s oil massage?’ he asked disingenuously.

  ‘Lady have Johnson baby oil. Rub it on man … same baby.’ She laughed a hysterical laugh.

  ‘What about the “special”?’ he asked.

  ‘Lady take off everything, rub oil on body, then rub body on man. Not same baby!’ There was more hysteria.

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a massage, but how much are they?’

  More than an hour later he gave the masseuse a tip, got dressed and went out into Sukhumvit Road.

  By the time he was back at the Georgia, it was evening and the sun was falling. There had been a phone call for him from Emma, though she had not left a number. Trying not to think too much about her, he went into the restaurant and ordered an iced tea. With nothing else to distract him, he found himself looking at a middle-aged man reading a newspaper at the next table. When the man suddenly put the paper down and glanced up, he caught Ben’s eye.

  ‘I’ve finished with the Post if you want it,’ he said.

  ‘No thanks, I’ve read it,’ Ben replied.<
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  ‘It’ll be interesting to see how the election goes, don’t you think,’ said the man chattily. ‘Looks like Leekpai’s on the way out. Thaksin’s the one … done wonders in telecoms, so now they’ll want him to work his magic on Thailand too.’

  ‘Don’t know anything about Thai politics,’ said Ben.

  ‘Been following it since I first came out here ten years ago. Fascinating place.’

  ‘So what are you doing in Thailand?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I’m on holiday. You too?’

  ‘Yes … well, travelling.’

  ‘Travelling alone?’

  Ben hesitated a moment before replying.

  ‘Well, no. Well, I wasn’t … alone I mean, not until a few days ago. Came to Thailand with my girlfriend.’ He had not meant to say so much; it just slipped out.

  ‘Sounds like there’s a story there somewhere,’ said the man, though to Ben’s relief he began talking at some length about himself. He was a company director, was divorced and always took a long holiday in Thailand every winter. ‘Sex tourist,’ thought Ben. He introduced himself as John Russell, Jack to his friends, and was in his mid-forties and from Huddersfield in the north of England. Short, dumpy and almost bald, he was not very prepossessing to look at, but Ben immediately liked his pleasant, open personality. Within minutes the two of them were firm friends and had decided to meet up in the restaurant at eight and then, perhaps, to hit the town together that night and cruise the sois and byways of Sukhumvit Road.

  So it was, that later that evening they sat down for dinner at a quiet table in the restaurant of the Georgia. Jack ordered the green curry on Ben’s recommendation while Ben, who had already eaten well that day, chose something lighter.

  ‘So you’re a company director. Your own company?’ Ben asked him.

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m in residential care homes.’

  ‘You run a home for old people?’

  ‘Two in fact, for my sins.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Used to be good, lots of DSS money. But now there’s problems with the local authority contracts and hellish regulation … mindless care standards and so on.’