"Bangkok Tattoo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burdett John)

25

T hus have I heard: the faithful Ananda one day asked the Finest of Men: Lord, how is it that in the animals we see all the gods represented-the ferocity of Kali in the tiger, the strength and endurance of Ganesh in the elephant, the cunning and strategy of Hanuman in the monkey-but nowhere do we see an animal that reflects the Buddha? With a nod the Tathagata gazed over the world with an omniscient eye, then described to Ananda an animal living on another continent that was the size of a monkey, owned only three toes on each foot, and was capable of hanging upside down from the treetops for weeks on end; that ate only the leaves rejected by other mammals; that had a metabolism so slow, it took a week to digest each meal; that put up with pain and indignity without complaint; and that was constitutionally incapable of haste.

Tell me, farang, can there be greater proof of enlightenment than that the man with the universe at his feet chose the three-toed sloth as role model? If he so completely extinguished ego, why cannot I?

In other words, all of a sudden I find myself quite cured of the defilement of ambition. I worked on it over the weekend, meditated my way into tranquillity, swam for as long as I could in the ocean without a shore-and smoked a couple of joints. It was a struggle, but I got there. No, I don't want promotion anymore, I don't want the hundred thousand dollars, let her have it (the bitch). If she wants to defile her soul by serving Vikorn's sordid (and largely irrational) vengeance, so be it, but let her watch out for karma. Next time around Lieutenant Manhatsirikit will be my pet goldfish. (It still hurts that she's closer to him-and smarter-than me: what could the Plan C consist of?)

Back at the club, with nothing better to do, I make that call to Fatima.

She drawls into the phone: "Darling, it's been so long."

"I'm sorry."

"I was beginning to think you were ashamed of me."

"Never. You're way out of my league these days. I'm intimidated."

"Don't lie, darling. Nothing intimidates you. But you must want something, no?"

I explain to her what I have in mind for Lek. I'm quite pleased with her momentary hesitation. "An Elder Sister? Me? You know, I've never done that for anyone. I've never wanted to. It's a tough path." A giggle: "I'll do it if you beg me to. I want you on your knees in drag."

"I can't beg. I don't know if it's the right thing or not."

"Darling, don't start talking like a farang. There's no right or wrong-either young Lek is a natural or he's not. If he is, and he certainly sounds like it, then a whole army could not stop him. Bring him to me. I'll know what to do the minute I set eyes on him."

"When?"

"Now."

"But it's past midnight."

"Can there be a better time?"

I call Lek, who gasps with awe, excitement, and fear. We take a cab to Soi 39, where Fatima owns a three-story penthouse apartment in one of the city's most prestigious developments. On the way I'm seeing Lek the way Fatima will see him; he's just too damn beautiful for his own good.

Bastard son of a Karen bar girl and a black American GI she's never met, Fatima is tall and chocolate brown. Of course she is ravishing in her favorite kimono (crimson with a great white sash), her long tragic face, scrubbing-board stomach, long finely manicured hands, exaggerated mascara, and eyes that have seen the very depths of desolation. She stands at the door holding Lek at arm's length. I'm already an irrelevant spectator. How to explain to the spiritually sightless the extraordinary event that takes place when Lek's guardian spirit recognizes this ancient soul? Fatima leans against her doorjamb; behind her: a vista of rare art objects, mostly priceless jade items on pedestals, leading to a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window filled with city lights and a yellow moon.

"Oh Buddha," she says, still holding Lek's hand. I cough. "You can leave us now," she whispers hoarsely, without taking her eyes off Lek.

When I get back to my hovel, I can't sleep. I have lived and worked in the heterosexual division of the sex trade all my life, I have seen all the things that men and women do to each other-and none of it approaches the intensity of katoeys. I don't want to worry about Lek anymore, or what Fatima might do to him. He'll have to follow the complex rules of his new world. By contrast, the assassination of Mitch Turner seems a more penetrable mystery-almost mundane, but no less compelling for that. I take out the fat wad of A4 paper I collected in Songai Kolok and start to read Chanya's diary all over again.