Private Dancer (29 page)

The scribes play an important role in the maintenance of the long-distance relationships.

The farang often seeks reassurance that his 'girlfriend' is 'being good', especially if he is sending her money on a regular basis. He also needs to feel that the girl loves him, that she is conforming to his Western ideal of a girlfriend. In many cases the scribe will know the girl, and if he, or she, is aware that the girl is still working as a prostitute, will join in the deception of the farang, often suggesting phrases and sentiments to be included in the letter to allay the farang's suspicions. In some cases, the girl will leave the entire contents of the letter up to the scribe.

VERNON The thing that Pete just doesn't get is that Sunan is different. She's not the same as Joy and she's not the same as the rest of the girls who work in the bars. Sunan hates being a bargirl; all she wants is the opportunity to leave that life behind. I know that if I give her the chance, she'll be a good wife. She's told me that so many times. “Vernon,” she'll say, looking at me with her heartmelting eyes, “I love you, only you. I be good wife for you. I take care of you, I love you for ever.” Pete just doesn't get that. He's been in Thailand too long, he's become too hardened by it all. I can see why he's so upset at the way Joy's treated him, if what he says is true. And I have my doubts about that, to be frank.

He seemed so intense on the phone, and I began to realise that it wasn't so much that he was trying to rescue me from the clutches of Sunan, but more that he wanted to punish the family. He kept telling me that I was stupid to keep sending money to Sunan, but hell, from the sound of it he's given Joy way more than I've given Sunan.

I wish there was some way I could fly over and talk to Sunan myself, but it's just not possible.

I only get three weeks vacation a year, and I used that up when I went over to marry Sunan. I'm sure that if I could sit down and talk to her face to face, I'd know if she was lying or not. Could she be lying? Could she be as hard-hearted and calculating as Pete says? I find it almost impossible to believe that a human being could be so unfeeling and callous. And yet Pete was right about it being strange that so many members of Sunan's family didn't attend the wedding.

And the business of the wallet and the watch still worries me.

I decided to get in touch with the private detective that Pete had recommended. I figured it couldn't hurt. At least I'd know the truth, and if Sunan was lying to me, then I'd walk away.

Guaranteed.

PHIRAPHAN Pete had already sent me an e-mail that an American guy called Vernon might get in touch, so I wasn't surprised to get the call from San Diego. Don't these farangs ever learn? This guy, he flies over to a country he's never been to before, proposes to a bargirl he's never met, pays a $4,000 dowry to marry her, and then flies back to America. Then he asks me to check whether or not she's being faithful. I could have told him the answer to his question without even meeting the girl, but the farang obviously has more money than sense so I said I'd take his case. We agreed on a fee of $1,200. For that he wants to know if she's working and if she's already married. Easy money. He also wanted to know who else was sending money to Sunan. That's a harder job because it means getting access to her bank account but I know people in the Bangkok Bank and the Thai Farmers Bank so it won't be too much of a problem. I asked him why he wants to know and he said he wants to warn the other farangs. He's wasting his time, of course. The world is full of stupid farangs more than willing to send money to bargirls. But who am I to argue? Twelve hundred dollars is twelve hundred dollars, after all.

PETE Nigel rang up to say that he'd quit and was having a leaving do at Fatso's Bar. “Leaving your job?” I asked.

“The job, Thailand, everything,” he said. “I'm heading back to the UK, for a few months anyway.”

Bruce was asleep on the sofa so I gave him a shake and brought him up to speed.

“I'm not surprised,” said Bruce, scratching his chin. “He wasn't getting anywhere, was he?”

I didn't know. I'd rarely discussed Nigel's work with him. He sold advertising for an internet company, Web pages and stuff like that. I know he was paid by commission and that he was always short of money, but he'd always sounded fairly upbeat. He was always planning some business venture or other - setting up a bar, launching a magazine for expats, guided tours of the red light areas, mostly pie in the sky stuff because he didn't have any capital. Like Bruce, I reckoned he spent too much time in the bars to get any serious work done.

Bruce showered and by the time we got a cab to Fatso's Bar, Nigel was already well pissed.

Jimmy had Big-Glassed him with Singha beer and the boys were egging Nigel on as he drank it. Half of it seemed to have spilled down his chest but at least he'd given it a go. I got BigGlassed at least once a month with gin and tonic and always drank it in one. Bruce always avoided it. He'd tip the wink to the girls and they'd whisk it away while no one was looking. Chicken, huh? Pretends he can hold his drink but I've never seen him knock back more than half a dozen beers without getting rat-arsed.

It wasn't that a great an evening, to be honest. Nigel was obviously unhappy about having to go back to England. He'd submitted a business plan to his bosses in Bangkok and they'd turned it down flat. I got the feeling there was more to it than that but I didn't want to pry. He didn't have a job to go to and he'd rented out his flat in the UK so he was going back to stay with his mother.

That seemed like a hell of a come-down to me. I mean, he didn't have that great a lifestyle in Bangkok, he lived in one room in a run-down block in a shitty area close to Silom Road, but he had enough money to bar fine a girl once or twice a week and I couldn't imagine he'd have much luck with women back in the UK, what with his missing eye and all.

We piled out of Fatso's Bar at midnight, me, Nigel, Bruce, Jimmy and Rick, and went along to Nana Plaza. Bruce persuaded us to go to Zombie, but I think he only did it to wind me up.

Half a dozen of Joy's friends came over, asking where she was. I said I didn't know.

“Why Joy not live with you?” asked Wan.

“Because she's got a husband,” I said. Wan started to deny that Joy was married but I wasn't listening to her. I looked across at the DJ's booth. Park wasn't there. I didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. I didn't want to be anywhere near him, but at the same time I couldn't help wondering where he was. Maybe he was with Joy. Maybe she'd run away with him. The thought made me sick to the stomach. How could she love him? How could she love a man who allowed her to dance naked, to sleep with men for money? What sort of love was that?

Rick and Jimmy were talking to a long-haired katoey, patting her on the backside and nodding at Nigel. Nigel was staring glassy-eyed at the stage nearest our table. I could see what Rick and Jimmy were planning. Nigel was vehement in his dislike of katoeys, but in his present state he probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference. I shook my head at Jimmy but Bruce put a hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, let the boys have their fun,” he said.

“You wouldn't like it if they set you up,” I said.

“I wouldn't get as pissed as that,” he said. “Besides, look at the state of him, he's not going to be able to get it up anyway. He'll probably just get a blow job and that'll be it. It'll be his swansong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, you know as well as I do that he won't be coming back. No one will give him a job, he's got no money. I've been lending him cash hand over fist for months and he's never paid me back. He's a sad fuck, all right.”

I bought Wan a drink and she clinked glasses with me. “You get my letter, Pete?” she asked.

“Letter?”

“Last month, Joy asked me to write a letter to you.”

I couldn't understand what she was talking about, then I remembered the letter Joy had given me, the one that hadn't been in her handwriting. I nodded.

“What you think?” she asked. “Is my English okay?”

She was like a schoolgirl seeking approval from her teacher, and I felt I should be awarding her marks out of ten. “It was really good,” I said. “Did Joy tell you what to write?” Wan shook her head fiercely. "No, she just told me to make it sweet. She said you like sweet.

Was it sweet, Pete?"

I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach. Joy had made such a big thing about the sentiments being hers, that she'd told her friend what to write, and here was Wan telling me that it was all her own work. Why had Joy done that? She'd written to me on numerous occasions and she was more than capable of expressing her thoughts in English. There was no need for her to have asked Wan to write the letter. Laziness, maybe? I felt as if I'd been used. Manipulated. Make it sweet, she'd said. Pete likes it sweet. Was I that easy to predict? Did Joy know how to press my buttons so efficiently that she figured she could even do it by remote control? I felt used, but I just smiled at Wan and complimented her on her English.

“It was a good letter, Wan,” I said. She beamed. I paid my share of the bill and headed home.

I don't think the lads noticed; they were too busy persuading the katoey to sit on Nigel's lap.

On the way out of the Plaza I met Dit. She gave me a big smile and asked me if I'd seen Joy. I said I hadn't and that I didn't know where she was. Dit was wearing a white T-shirt with Snoopy on it and blue flared jeans. She looked so like Joy it was scary. I asked her if she was going to work and she shook her head. She said the police were in the Plaza, and because she was only seventeen, she wasn't supposed to be in the bar. She'd always claimed to be eighteen before. Was everything I heard in the bars a lie?

On a whim I asked Dit if she'd come back to the apartment with me. She looked hesitant, so I said I'd give her a thousand baht. All I wanted to do was to talk, I said. I meant it, too. I wanted to ask her about Park, and if Joy was still seeing him.

We got a taxi back to Soi 23 and we sat on the sofa for almost an hour. I told her about the private detective and I explained how betrayed I felt. “Do you think she loved me?” I asked.

Dit nodded seriously. “Sure. She love you too much.”

“So why did she have a Thai husband?” I asked.

Dit shrugged. “I don't know.”

I asked Dit if she had a boyfriend and she nodded earnestly. “He very good looking,” she said.

She opened her wallet and showed me a photograph of a young Thai man, bare chested and smiling at the camera. I wondered if Joy still had my photograph in her wallet, or if it had been replaced.

“Doesn't he mind that you work in Zombie?” I asked.

“He not care. He know I only work. I not love farang.”

It was something I would never be able to understand, the way Thai men could allow their wives or girlfriends to dance naked in a bar and sleep with strangers for money. Didn't they have any self-respect? Was money the only thing they cared about?

I felt suddenly tired, physically and mentally. I gave Dit a thousand baht like I'd promised and I stood up.

“Two thousand?” asked Dit, holding up her hand.

I shook my head. “Come on, Dit. I said one thousand.”

Dit smiled and looked across at the door to my bedroom. She looked back at me and raised an eyebrow.

At first I didn't understand what she meant. When I did realise, I thought she was joking, but she kept on smiling at me. She meant it. Or was she testing me? “How much?” I asked.

“Two thousand,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

As she walked to the bedroom, I kept on thinking that at any moment she'd burst into giggles and tell me that she couldn't. But she didn't. She went into the bedroom and undressed. Even as I took off my clothes I still didn't think she'd go through with it. She was Joy's step-sister; if she thought that I meant anything to Joy, there was no way she could sleep with me. Even if she wasn't afraid of hurting Joy's feelings, surely she'd be worried about what Joy would do if she found out.

I got into bed with her and she put her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips. She felt and smelled just like Joy.

Did the fact that she was prepared to sleep with me mean that she knew that Joy no longer cared about me? That Joy had never cared about me, that I was just a farang customer to be handed from girl to girl?

She spent an hour in my bed, and there wasn't a second when I didn't think about Joy.

Everything Dit did reminded me of Joy. She even made love like her, the same facial expressions, the same noises. She even covered herself up when she dressed, the same as Joy.

And when she went, after I'd given her the money, she kissed me on the cheek and whispered that she loved me.

DIT I knew Pete always liked me. I could tell from the way he used to look at me when I was dancing. Pete's like most farangs. He likes young girls with long hair and big breasts. My breasts are bigger than Joy's and my hair's longer, so maybe he likes me more than Joy.

All the time in his apartment he kept talking about Joy, but I knew he wanted to screw me. I didn't think he'd pay me so much, though. Three thousand baht. That's the most I've ever been paid.

He cried afterwards. He turned away so I couldn't see him but I know he was crying.

Was I worried about what Joy would say? Of course not. She'd know that I only let him screw me for the money. Think about the money, that's what Joy always says, and that's all I was doing,

thinking about the money.

Afterwards I went to see my husband. He works as a tout outside the Rainbow Bar. I took him for dinner. Great food. We ate so much we could barely walk. For dessert we had Golden Threads, my favourite.

From COOKING ACROSS SOUTH-EAST ASIA Edited by PETE RAYMOND GOLDEN THREADS 6 egg yolks 1 teaspoon egg white 2 cups caster sugar 1 cup water Place the sugar and water in a saucepan and gently heat, stirring until the sugar has dissolved, then bring to the boil until it thickens into a syrup.

Strain the egg yolks through a piece of muslin into a small bowl. Beat lightly with the egg white, then spoon the mixture into an icing bag with a fine nozzle, or a cone of greaseproof paper with a very small hole in the pointed end.