time of the women?’ he echoes, stupidly.
‘The time of the economic power of the women. I watch, I learn. When fifteen years old, I win beauty contest. I very pretty child. The children in our village not so very pretty, but my family very pretty. My auntie very pretty when she young.’
This calm self-appraisal is clearly part of her lesson in the economic development of north-eastern rural Thailand, but nevertheless Stephen feels it requires some acknowledgement. He gallantly remarks that she must indeed have been a very pretty child, as she is now a very beautiful woman. A fleet little sequence of expressions dimples rapidly over her face in response: pleasure, coquetry, a bridling modesty, an irritated dismissal of a diversionary tactic, and a renewed pleasure and amusement.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Very pretty. An asset, prettiness. My capital. At this time, the girls begin migration. To the big cities. To Bangkok. In 1974, Americans leave. My auntie, she go to Bangkok. The girls work in coffee shops, in massage parlours. Big business tourism begins now. These girls send big money home. The villagers buy bullock, they build new houses. The men labour like bullock. The women labour like women. There are stories of great riches. Fairy stories, like this fairy story I tell you this night. Eat, eat, you do not eat.’
‘I am too enraptured by your story,’ he says, but at her persuasion heaps more little titbits into his porcelain bowl. She continues to pick, lightly, with her imported lacquered Chinese chopsticks, as she speaks.
‘My auntie very clever woman,’ she says. ‘She give me good advice. She teach me accounts.’
‘Excuse me,’ Stephen again interrupts. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Please.’ She smiles graciously, but manages to imply it would be better if the question were pertinent.
‘I just wanted to know how many years’ schooling you had,’ said Stephen, humbly. The question is acceptable.
‘Four years elementary,’ she says. ‘Education good investment, but slow return. No time to wait. So only four years elementary. Then I learn from Uncle Mort and Auntie.’
‘Did they teach you about Ricardo?’
‘Of course not, Mr Stephen Cox, of course not. They peasant people. Uncle Mort also peasant person. And not very intelligent. Auntie very intelligent, but peasant person.’
Suddenly she giggles, relents, changes demeanour, strokes his hand.
‘You storyteller, you say. You know how to tell stories. Not to hurry. But you want me hurry. You want me tell story quickly. All right, I tell you. You want to know how I know Ricardo? You want to miss five years’ story? Okay, I tell you. I meet Ricardo with American economist. He writing book on Thai economy. He interview me. I get to know him very well.’
A look of nervous distrust must have entered Stephen’s transfixed gaze, for she adds quickly, ‘But he gone now, gone long long ago, gone back to University of Princeton. He finished. He very nice man, very useful man, but he finished now.’ She pauses, reflects. ‘Very useful man,’ she repeats, ‘but not rich. Not like business clients. He count change, he bargain. He – what you say – he make deal.’ She laughs, a clear, delighted laugh. ‘He economist,’ she repeats, inviting Stephen to share her enjoyment of this eccentricity.
‘I get it,’ says Stephen.
‘You spoil story,’ she says. ‘I try to tell with much suspense. My days in coffee shop with auntie, my days in massage parlour, my days in own parlour. My beauty queen titles. Miss Banta, Miss Udon Thani, Miss Thailand, Miss Asia, Miss World, Miss Universe. My empire. My business investments. I make much money now, Stephen. I wear diamonds and rubies and sapphires.’
‘You mean those are real?’
‘Oh yes, they real.’ She flashes them at him. ‘I like real. I like real things. I not like pretend.’
‘And how long did this economic miracle take you?’ he wants to know.
She tells him he wants to know everything too quickly. She recommends a little more of the prawn. She decides, generously, that it is his turn to speak, and asks him about his own career. Has he too won prizes?
‘Oh yes,’ says Stephen. ‘I too won a prize. The beauty prize of novelists.’
‘And are you rich?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘by my standards, by British standards, let us put it this way, Princeton economists earn good salaries.’
His response is too oblique for her. She ignores it.
‘Britain is poor country,’ she informs him. ‘Post-industrial country. You import from Japan, from Korea, from Thailand. You no more manufacturing. You cooling, we heating. You protectionist now. You senile now.
‘So, you are poor man, Mr Stephen Cox. You Trocadero man, not Oriental man.’
Stephen protests, mildly, for his own honour rather than that of his nation.
‘No, I am not poor,’ he says. ‘I have enough money for what I like. I like to be here, so I am here. I am a free man. I can choose. Freedom is riches.’
She looks at him as though he has missed some basic point of logic.
‘What your income?’ she asks. He evades, elaborates.
‘I have no family, no wife, no children, no dependants. I own no house, I spend little money. I am a success.’
She looks unconvinced.
‘I am a celebrity,’ he continues. ‘Of a sort.’
She raises, very slightly, both plucked and arched eyebrows. He sits before her, a man in a white suit, from an old, old country, far away.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I am not as much of a celebrity as Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, Barbara Cartland and Pett Petrie, but I am a celebrity nevertheless.’
‘Explain these people, please,’ she says. So he explains the celebrity ratings of the Authors’ Lounge. She has never heard of Pett Petrie and Barbara Cartland, but Conrad and Maugham have, like David Ricardo, entered her personal Hall of Fame. She expresses indignation at Stephen’s omission from the Drinks of the Month, and says she will have a word with the manager. She proceeds to suggest ingredients for a suitable cocktail. Juice of toad, essence of opium. As they converse, another little flotilla of tiny porcelain vessels sails gaily on to the table. Stephen had thought the meal was over, but finds he is still hungry, so continues to pick and toy. The delicate morsels melt away without trace. The evening lasts for weeks, for months. Little medicinal bitter liqueurs arrive in golden thimbles. The lights bloom softly on the oiled canal.
He wonders if he will be able to pay the bill, but there is no bill. It is all arranged, the little waitresses murmur. Perhaps this restaurant is one of Miss Porntip’s many establishments? Now she is suggesting they move on to sample the delights of others. He wonders if he will be able to stand up. His legs have stiffened and will not uncrumple. He is not as young as the supple, the super-flexible, the supremely adaptable Miss Porntip. He has pins and needles as he stands, stretching. Carved dragons and many-armed warriors surround him. Three-legged, three-toed birdmen form a guard of honour as they move towards the door. The whole building is
