Vikorn’s victory at the polls tomorrow seems assured. Tonight, though, Chanya and I have quite a different matter in which to invest our shock and awe. We received an elaborately embossed invitation to the opening party of a new bar on Soi Cowboy, just a hundred yards or so from my mother’s. The name of the bar is Dorothy’s, and the embossed invitation pictures her in a low-cut evening gown, sticking out her butt and baring enormous new mammary glands almost to the nipples. The invitations are signed “Dorothy and Jimmy.”
The famous soi is exceptionally crowded. This is the first time a farang woman has opened a bar on the street, and everyone is curious, particularly the police and the mafia. When we have flashed our invitation cards at the first line of goons, a red velvet curtain is thrust back, and we find our two hosts on either side of the entrance. Jimmy is dazzling in a white tuxedo with plum cummerbund and bow tie-the knot genuine, the moustache immaculate, the smile Cary Grant. Chanya and I are fascinated to check out Dorothy’s new tits: did she really have enhancements, or were they the device of the artist who produced the invitation cards?
She really had enhancements. I wait while Chanya embraces her; to do so, she has to lean over them. When it’s my turn, I hug her close so I can tell if they’re cheap silicone or upmarket saline pouches. They are saline pouches (about a gallon each would be my guess), skillfully sculpted to the contours of her body with plenty of wobble (but not too much). Dorothy smiles proudly and invites us to test them. I’m prepared to swear an oath that I wouldn’t know the difference.
Jimmy Clipp smiles benevolently upon us. “Did you know they’ll soon be able to do transplants?” Chanya and I share a paranoid glance.
Dorothy looks at Clipp in a fond but disdainful way, as a former slave might look at a master whom she has overthrown and bent to her use. “I’ve come out,” she says. “This is the first day of the rest of my life.” Clipp leads us to our seats.
The format is much like any go-go bar, with a central oblong stage and seats on either side. A switched-on young Thai man with dreadlocks, shades, and tats sits imperiously behind glass in the deejay’s seat, right of the stage. On an elevated platform another switched-on young Thai works the spotlights. We are in the front row, and I watch while a great mass of farang men, mostly over fifty, slowly fill the bar. I have to wonder if Dorothy did not overinvite in her enthusiasm, for by the time they close the door, all the seats are full, and about fifty men have to stand in the spaces between the rows.
The lights dim. Dorothy appears on stage in a spotlight, which envelops and follows her. When I see she is holding a microphone, I whisper to Chanya that I hope she’s not going to sing. Chanya nods in horrified agreement. Now Dorothy begins to sing.
“Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas…” It’s a sweet, low voice with perfect pitch. Krung Thep is not especially endowed with good cabaret, and she finishes to thunderous applause. We all stand up for an ovation. Dorothy bows humbly, then, when we’ve settled down, gives her speech.
“Thailand is the best and most mysterious thing that ever happened to me. I came here to teach, but I’ve not stopped learning since I arrived. Some of the lessons have been hard, some very hard. But this is a country that generously rewards those who put in the time and effort. When I first visited the red-light districts, I was horrified and disgusted. I started to change my attitude when I discovered that my brightest student was a former prostitute and proud of it. I want especially to thank Chanya and her partner, Sonchai, for being such an important part of my learning curve. I’ve grown and grown since then, and I will forever hold my brightest student as an example of female courage and resilience I cannot hope to emulate. I understand the empowerment of women in a different way, a subtler way, an Asian way, and I see that Thai women knew how to get what they wanted all along. They didn’t need me. I needed them though-”
Dorothy stops, overwhelmed. Chanya stands up, all alone in the spotlight, gives Dorothy the highest of high wais, and bursts into tears in solidarity. I jump to my feet and find myself waiing Dorothy without thinking about it. Now every Thai in the room has felt the jolt and stood up in homage. The girls in bikinis, who have been watching from the dressing room, troop on stage, also waiing. Led by Jimmy Clipp, all the farang stand and make fumbled wais. Tonight everyone loves Dorothy, and Dorothy is very happy.
In the cab on the way home Chanya and I sit close without touching. We’re hoping for something to trigger an emotional event while waiting for the lights to change. When the cab pulls away to make a right, it happens: Chanya claps one hand over mine, squeezes in a way that declares the channels of communication are now officially open, then removes her hand to indicate that no further intimacy shall occur until we’ve talked.
Many beats pass. “Look, let’s get this out of the way once and for all. We’ll tell each other the truth, then if either or both of us can’t take it, we’ll call it a day and separate. Okay?”
“Okay. You first.”
“We’ll toss a coin.”
She takes out a ten-baht piece and spins it in the air, then lets it fall into the palm of her hand, then flips it onto the back of the other. Naturally, I lose the toss.
My turn to sigh. “I already told you, I didn’t have sex with anyone in Phuket.”
“Okay, you didn’t have intercourse. She gave you a blow job?”
“Nope.”
“Something sent you to the moon and back. You were in an incredible state when you got back one time.”
“What was I doing?”
“You would sing that old Isaan song you used to like.”
“Okay, a tiny thing happened. It’s so tiny it’s embarrassing.”
“What?”
“I licked her nipples.”
“How did her nipples get naked?”
I come clean and tell her the story of Om. She sits, stunned for a long moment, then says, “Maybe she was nuts.”
“That too. Now: the cop?”
“He invited me to lunch. We had lunch.”
“And?”
Chanya’s speech has suddenly accelerated: “And then he invited me to a short-term hotel, butwedidn’tdoanything. ”
“You went to a short-term hotel with a good-looking cop six years younger than you, and you didn’t do anything?”
She is blushing and staring hard at the rearview mirror at the same time. “Okay, you really want to know? We were undressing each other, he started caressing me, and I realized the only reason I was doing it was because I was sure you were cheating on me and that you didn’t love me anymore. So I apologized and said I would pay for the room but I couldn’t go through with it. I decided I was past all that, I didn’t need the karma of starting a whole complicated chain of negative events. I was bigger than that now. I decided to go be a nun instead. Or maybe just shoot you with your gun while you were asleep and claim you tried to rape me.”
I’m staring hard at some people on the street, but I’m not seeing them. Waves of jealousy come and go. The same is happening to her. I’m surprised at how easy it is to forgive, however. I reach out to hold her hand. “So did he let you pay for the room?”
“Yes.”
“What a cad.”
“I can’t get over it, the little shit.”
She leans against me in a relaxed way and doesn’t say anything more. After a while, just before we turn into our soi, I feel a tongue start to examine my inner ear. By the time the cab stops, I can hardly pull my wallet out of my Zegna pocket. As soon as we enter the house, however, we are possessed by a higher need. We each gather a bunch of incense sticks, light them, summon samartit, and bow three times to the gaudy shrine. A more thorough exorcism of the evil that so recently passed will have to await a visit to temple in the morning. Time for love.
DFR, I am yours in dharma, Sonchai Jitpleecheep.