Private Dancer (32 page)

they’re not. I’ve never yet met a sex tourist who I’ve found the least bit entertaining or interesting. Generally they’re working class in a dead-end job from a minor provincial city. If they’re British they’re wearing sandals and socks and have probably got a shaved head and a couple of tattoos. If they’re Americans they’re from some mid-West town you’ve never heard of wearing a Harley t-shirt stretched over a massive beer gut and a goatee beard disguising a weak chin. These are not attractive people in the main, but even the good-looking ones fall down in the IQ department. You do not find New York bankers or London company directors hanging around the bars of Nana Plaza and Pat Pong. Sex tourists in the main are taxi drivers, butchers,

plasterers, plumbers, low-grade office workers. Men who would find it difficult to get a halfdecent girl back in their home towns.

You think that just because you’ve sat in the economy section of a long-haul flight for a day that you’ve suddenly become a fascinating person? Think again. Bargirls are not hanging on your every word because you are the life and soul of the party, but because she is a sex worker and you are a sex tourist and you are getting what you are paying for. Nothing more, nothing less. Long term expats know this and would no more dream of getting into a relationship with a bargirl in Bangkok then they would with a hooker in New York. They meet decent, ‘real’ girls and go through a proper courtship process before proposing and settling down.

So, do relationships between long-term expats and Thai girls from good families work? An unequivocal ‘yes’ to this one. They do work, with probably a better success rate than marriages generally in the States or Europe. That’s because more effort is made on both sides to choose the right partner. And because the girl’s family will also play a crucial role, both in whether or not they give their permission (and without it no decent Thai girl would get married) and the support they give after the marriage. Never forget, when you marry a Thai girl, you marry her family, for better or worse!

So, to sum up, here are the rules that I would suggest a farang follows if he is determined to marry a Thai:

1) If you want a Thai wife, don’t become a sex tourist. Find a Thai girl in your own country, or join a respectable agency which can provide you with checkable references. And if you do find the girl of your dreams through an agency, get her checked out by a trustworthy private detective. It’s the only way you will ever be sure that there isn’t a Thai boyfriend or husband around.

2) If you decide to come to Thailand to look for a wife, do not go into a go-go bar or other places of prostitution. You wouldn’t go looking for a hooker to marry in your own country so don’t do it here.

3) Do not, under any circumstances, marry a bargirl. Marriages to bargirls do not work out.

Anyone who has married a bargirl and thinks that he has a successful marriage just hasn’t discovered the truth yet.

4) If you do marry a bargirl, don’t complain when it goes wrong.

5) If you are a sex tourist, you will never have a successful long-term relationship, with any girl. Accept that and continue being a sex tourist.

6) Treat any Thai girl you meet on the Internet with suspicion. Ask yourself why a good Thai girl would go looking for a Western boyfriend on the Internet. The answer is simple – a good Thai girl wouldn’t. 7) Marry a girl as close as possible to your own social, financial and educational standing. And the closer you are in ages, the better.

8) If you do marry a Thai girl, only stay in Thailand if you can earn more here than in your home country. Or if her family is a positive asset. Outwith those two provisos, your marriage will have more chance of working outside Thailand.

9) If you do stay in Thailand, learn the language. Learn about the country’s history and culture.

Watch local TV and local movies. Listen to Thai music. The only way you are going to have even a chance of understanding how a Thai thinks and feels is to understand their culture.

Those are my nine golden rules. Follow them and you stand a reasonable chance of having a happy marriage. But if you do decide to enter into a relationship with a bargirl and want me to check her out for you, my number is in the phone book.

BIG RON Pete's going from bad to worse. He spends hours sitting in the bar, drinking himself stupid. I've tried to talk to him but he won't listen. And when he's not here he's with Joy, sitting in some crappy room in Soi 71 watching Thai game shows on a portable TV. He keeps telling me that he's not sure if Joy's being honest with him, and asks me if I think she could still be lying to him.

I want to grab him by the throat and shake him. Of course she's lying to him. Why would he expect anything else? Everybody lies, right? It's just that bargirls have it down to a fine art.

What are the three big lies? Someone told me ages ago. Something like: the cheque's in the post, I won't come in your mouth, and of course I'll respect you in the morning. Heard that years ago and it's so fucking true. Everybody lies. Period. Sometimes they're small lies, white lies if you like, and sometimes they're big lies, but only children expect to hear the truth. And what do we tell kids? We tell kids that on Christmas Eve a fat man in a red suit is going to climb down the chimney and leave presents for them. And we tell them that the fat man won't come if they've been naughty. Fucking stupid.

I tell you, if I had kids I'd put them straight about Father Christmas, and God, too. I mean, we tell them about Father Christmas, then as soon as they're old enough to understand, we tell them that in fact we were lying, there is no fat man in a red suit and reindeers can't really fly. “What about God?” they say. You said God watches over us and protects us and that if we're good we'll go to live with him. Is God like Father Christmas? That's when parents get all evasive and say that no, they were lying about Father Christmas but everything they said about God was true. Bollocks. Kids should be told the truth from day one. There is no Father Christmas. There is no God. And Thai bargirls don't fall in love with farangs.

I don't know why Pete keeps testing her. He sends her to Surin and finds she's got a husband.

He pays for her to work as a waitress and she still screws customers. What more does he want?

Why can't he just accept that she's a lying hooker and leave it at that?

PETE Alistair sent me a memo by e-mail threatening me with the sack if I didn't get the copy for the Cambodian book to him within seven days. The memo was already three days old when I got it because I'd been staying with Joy and I couldn't plug my laptop computer into her phone socket to pick up my messages. I didn't know what to do. I'd be hard pushed to finish it in four weeks,

never mind four days. He'd been pestering me for weeks, but I'd been so caught up with Joy that I was way behind schedule. I sent him a short reply, just saying that it was on its way.

ALISTAIR I gave Pete every opportunity to get back on the straight and narrow, but he just wouldn't get his act together. There was nothing I could do: if I didn't cut my losses then I'd get dragged down with him. I had to show head office that I was in control, and there was only one way I could do that. I had to let him go. I tried to get him on the phone but he was never in. I spoke to his flatmate, but he said Pete was probably with Joy and he didn't have her number.

In the end I had to do it by letter. I couriered it to him so that he wouldn't be able to deny receiving it. In the letter I asked him to hand over his notes and computer discs to his replacement, a guy who'd been working for us in Taiwan, an American Mandarin-speaker called Chuck. I'm going to have to do the travel-cookery book myself. I told him I'd give him the editing credit because he had done a fair amount of work, but he hadn't sent any pages for the Cambodian guide so the new guy would have the credit for that one.

I don't know what it is about Thailand, but it seems to destroy people. Sucks the life out of them. I don't know if it's the climate or the bars, but there's something that seems to magnify the faults of the people who go there. It happened with Lawrence and it happened again with Pete.

I'm not going to take the risk with Chuck. He's going to stay in Taiwan and edit the Thai books from there. I've learned my lesson. I just wish I could say the same about Pete.

PETE I didn't like having to check up on Joy, but let's face it, her track record didn't exactly inspire trust. I left it a week, and then one evening, after we'd had dinner at a restaurant in Soi 71, I told her I had to go to Fatso's Bar to see Bruce. That much was true, I'd arranged to see him, but just after midnight I picked up a motorcycle taxi in Soi 4 and went back. The light was on in her room and I used the keycard and stood outside her door for a while. I could hear the television,

but that was all. I felt suddenly guilty for suspecting her. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked again. Silence. This didn't make sense. She wouldn't have gone out and left the light and television on. I took out my key and tried the lock. It turned, but the bolt was on so she was obviously inside. I rattled the door. “Joy. It's me.”

There were whispers but I couldn't hear what was said. I couldn't even be sure if it was Joy or not. I pushed the door harder. “Come on, Joy. Open the door. It's me.”

“Wait, wait,” she said.

Maybe she wasn't dressed, I thought. Maybe she had a girlfriend with her, maybe the room was untidy and she wanted to clear up before letting me in. I was trying to persuade myself that everything was all right but in my heart of hearts I knew it wasn't. I knocked on the door. “Joy, I want to come in now,” I said.

No reply. I put my shoulder to the door and pushed, hard. It was a cheap bolt on the door and it only took a couple of shoves to break it. Joy was standing in the middle of the room. She smiled, but she looked scared. She was wearing the same clothes she'd had on when I'd left her, a small tank top and tight jeans. Sexy. “Sawasdee ka,” she said, her forehead creased into a frown.

I pushed the door open. There was somebody else in the room, standing next to the television.

It was a Thai man. In his twenties, slicked back hair and a muscular chest over which was stretched a black net T-shirt so that he could show off his body. He smiled at me. “Sawasdee krap,” he said.

I glared at Joy. There was a game show on television and the audience was clapping and laughing. She said nothing. There was nothing she could say.

I turned around and walked away. I went outside, but as I did the anger flared inside me. It was my room, I'd paid for it. The sheets on the bed, the pillows. The television. It was all mine,

and she'd taken a man back there. She was probably even making love to him on the bed when I knocked on the door.

I went back. She was standing in the hallway, staring at me through the plate glass door, a look of dismay on her face. I slotted in the key card but the lock wouldn't open. I kicked the door. The Thai man came over to the door as if he wanted to help open it. I swore at him, told him to get the fuck away. I kicked the door, pushed it with my shoulder. Joy backed away. She wasn't crying, she just looked shocked. I would have preferred tears, some sign of remorse, some indication that she was sorry. I tried the key card again. The lock buzzed and I threw the glass door open.

“Pete, kao mai ben fan. Ben puen.” Pete, he's not my boyfriend. He's a friend.

I punched her on the chin. Not too hard, but hard enough. She staggered back, a look of disbelief on her face. There was no blood, I'd hit her on her left cheek, away from her lips.

Crazy. I wanted to hit her, but I didn't want to hurt her.

I turned to look at the Thai guy. He stood there, smiling. The fucking inscrutable Thai smile.

It didn't mean he was happy or that he was having a nice day, it was a smile that said he wasn't a threat, that he didn't want any trouble. He was smaller than me, most Thais are, and I was looking for any excuse to hit him, too. Any sign of aggression, anything, and I'd have laid into him. He looked down, still smiling. I felt nothing but contempt.

I grabbed Joy by the hair and pushed her into the room. I kicked the door closed. “Why?” I asked her. “Why did you do it?”

“Mai ben fan. Ben puen.”

I slapped her, open handed. She didn't cry out. She just kept staring at me, a look of dismay on her face. I looked around the room. There was more inane laughter from the television. Joy had betrayed me again, she'd brought a man into my room, into the room I'd paid for. I picked up the television and dropped it on to the tiled floor. It didn't break. I couldn't believe it. The laughter continued. I kicked the screen, hard, but all I did was hurt my foot.

“Pete, no!” Joy shouted.

I ignored her. I bent down, picked up the TV, and threw it down, harder this time. It crashed on to the floor, but still it didn't smash.

I heard the door open and shut behind me. Joy had gone, but I didn't care. I was mad, I was mad as hell, and all I wanted to do was to smash the room, to break and destroy everything I'd given her. I picked up the TV and carried it to the bathroom, pulling the plug out of the wall. The laughter ended abruptly. I lifted the TV above my head and dropped it, screen down, on to the bathroom floor. I expected an explosion, but the screen didn't break. It isn't like it is on the movies. God knows what they make the screens from, but take it from me, they're practically indestructible. I knocked everything off her bathroom shelf. There was a glass of some red liquid, a soda maybe, on the bedside table. I threw it over the sheets. I pulled the clothes from her wardrobe and threw them on the floor. I screwed up the books she was writing and shoved them down the toilet. The Mickey Mouse watch I'd brought for her went into the toilet, too, along with her laser keyring. I overturned her table, kicking and stamping on anything breakable. I pulled out the cupboards from the wardrobe and tossed them on to the floor. Her wallet was there. She kept her wallet in the top drawer, and all the time she'd been in the room she'd never taken it out, not even when she went shopping. I'd come to realise that the wallet was something she only had with her when she was in the bar. It was part of the costume that went with the tight T-shirts and the eye-shadow. The fact that she had my photograph in her wallet didn't actually mean anything.