What else to do? agonized the Chief’s wife, I can’t confront him directly! She had no evidence, and he would only twist her words again, giving them a meaning never intended, making her look unreasonable, foolish. She couldn’t bear another scene. But he hasn’t been home in five weeks and three days now, she fretted, and hasn’t bothered to phone once in all that time! Phoning the station made her feel sick: heart clenched, blood thumping in her head, fingers trembling over the buttons, she always pictured him sitting at his desk, the hard line of that handsome jaw, smoke curling up from a cigarette in one hand, leaning forwards to pick up the receiver languidly with the other. She shivered and closed her eyes. It’s never his voice at the end of the line, anyway, oh no, that idiot sergeant always answers instead, asking me how I am – as if my well-being was any concern of his! Then she would be informed the Chief was out of the station or in an important meeting, not to be disturbed… She had left more than a dozen messages.
For the past ten days she had locked herself up in the big suburban house, cancelling all appointments: the hairstylist, the dressmaker, a grand charity luncheon. She had even forsaken her usual trip to the temple to make merit on Buddha day, sending the maid with a basket of offerings instead. Won’t the merit, she reasoned, trickle down somehow? She had stopped answering the door, instructing the maid to tell visitors she was in Bangkok. She was worried that he might call at any time, so she shouldn’t leave the phone – he might even turn up in person, unannounced. He did that once before, she remembered, just after we were married. He’d wangled a few hours off duty, surprising her with a gold bracelet: she still had it wrapped up in red tissue paper in her jewellery box upstairs. She hadn’t thought about where the money must have come from to buy it, not in those early days. He must have loved me, surely, back then?
The first time it happened she tried to deny it, making up her own wild excuses for the late nights, the smell on his clothes, the woman who kept phoning, and his endless, careless lies. But it all added up, of course. Still young then, slim and smooth-skinned, she had caught the train back to Bangkok, running home to her mother; “Why,” she had asked, “am I not enough for him?”
“A married couple,” her mother had explained, gazing into the distance, “is like an elephant. Men are the front legs, women the back. Where the front legs lead, the back follow, offering support. Men are different, they have different needs; it’s only natural they should want a change sometimes. Just like food – do you think they want to eat the same dish day-in, day-out?”
She had sobbed then and asked to return home, but her mother was imperturbable.
“Don’t be weak,” she admonished, “don’t ruin your future. If you want to win him back, give him a son. He’s sure to look after you then, no matter how many other women he picks up along the way. Being born a woman is the result of bad karma, and giving birth is the best way to correct it. A son can ordain as a monk, a son is a woman’s ultimate source of merit, a son will never turn his back on his mother!”
But sons – and daughters – were not forthcoming. Oh, she’d tried. Tried for fifteen years, swallowed remedies, followed strict diets, made persistent merit, visited countless temples, shrines and fortune tellers, but still she didn’t conceive. She went for tests, biting her lip and staring at the ceiling as old men in white coats poked and prodded inside her, shrugging their shoulders, finding nothing wrong. She was normal, they said, a little nervous perhaps, but healthy.
Maybe, she had dared to suggest to her husband one day, maybe you should go for tests? He had laughed in her face at that, clutching her arm too tightly as he pulled her towards him, whispering in her ear: it was her, not him, she was frigid, barren, all dried up – he said he wished he’d never married her, and had avoided her side of the bed ever since.
The lack of children became a chasm of longing. She turned to good causes to fill it – refugees, orphans, fallen women – growing plump on charity luncheons as she subsided into middle age. She took a measure of comfort in the money – there was no shortage of that, it seemed – spending it on heavy teakwood furniture, silk clothes, a liveried chauffeur, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Then came the scandal that had shamed them: dark accusations, closed doors, muffled voices, half-truths and sleepless nights, her father’s intervention and her husband’s transfer up to the little village. He had only just managed to retain his rank. Now he was away from her all the time, and she could only imagine what he did.
She had heard of wives who sought revenge, drugging their faithless husbands, killing them or cutting off their sexual organs while they slept. In fact, she mused, wasn’t there a case like that in the village last month? Panit, the maid, had told her about it. The wife, if she remembered correctly, was given a long prison sentence. She shuddered. Such measures, she told herself, are all very well for poor country folk, but imagine the scandal if I did something like that! Anyway, I don’t want to kill him; I don’t even want to hurt him. She wanted him to love her again.
It was a last resort. She would never have thought of it herself: it had been Panit’s suggestion. The very idea frightened her – it seemed so coarse and unnatural. And dangerous too, she thought, what if it goes wrong and he falls sick? What if he finds out? But Panit said if we are careful, really careful, then all will be well. The maid swore she had heard of faithless men who became besotted with their wives afterwards, so jealous at other men’s attentions that they wouldn’t let their wives out of their sight – imagine that! She indulged the sudden fantasy: her husband’s adoring gaze at finding her waiting on the sofa as he entered the room. She got to her feet and walked over to the mirror, in thrall to her own reflection, simpering, mouthing silent words of affectionate greeting to an imaginary husband, who smiled back gently, embracing her in his strong, protective arms. What if it were possible? She picked up the little bell and rang for her maid.
* * *
The Fortune Teller crouched at the cave’s mouth, watching Sergeant Yud pick his way back down the hill in big, black boots, clumsy over rocks and stones. The second time already this month, he thought, how many more times will there be? He shook his head, turning back inside the cave. What had the Chief called it, according to Yud? Rent! Reaching into his shirt pocket for an old briar pipe and tobacco, he looked round the cave, the old sleeping mat in one corner, a small bundle of clothes and books, and the shrine near the front. Rent? For a cave? He laughed bitterly and sat down on the bamboo mat in front of the shrine, staring at the space where the silver statue of Shiva had been. Shiva, the Hindu god, six-armed, who danced on the head of ignorance. A businessman had presented it to him the year before as part-payment for calculating an auspicious day for the opening of a new business. The man had come all the way from the city to consult him. The Fortune Teller clicked his tongue. Now the statue was gone, tucked under the sergeant’s arm. The Chief was a keen collector, Yud had explained, red-faced, as he left the cave.
The old man turned the briar pipe over in his hands. He ran his finger over the small fracture along the bowl, across his own rough engraving scratched into the wood with a knife: “1948”. It was such a long time ago, that time of great hope, that time of dreams which almost came true. Independence for Burma, independence for the Shan State. His position had pushed him to the vanguard of change: born into a princely family, his father was a sawpha – a chieftain, a local leader. But after a few years of inept government, the Burmese military prevailed, crushing any hopes for an independent Shan State. His father had died in prison; his own choice had been exile. From a bright palace high in the mountains of Lashio to this dark cave in Thailand. He stuffed tobacco into the pipe and lit it, watching the thin smoke curl upwards.
No one had ever asked him for papers before the arrival of the Chief. He’d been here for more than thirty years: had walked all the way from Lashio, barefoot, a bag slung across his chest with nothing in it but his astrological books and the old briar pipe. He had begged for food along the way, exchanging amateur predictions for the odd bowl of rice and curry. On the ninetyninth day of walking he’d found the cave: an auspicious number. The villagers were friendly and the cave’s outer chamber was warm and dry. No sign of bears. The people didn’t ask much about him; once they found out his profession the questions mostly concerned themselves. What number should I buy to win the lottery, on which day should I marry, when will I have a son, does my husband love me, how can I catch a younger woman? He spent the years studying books, consulting other masters. He learnt how to draw birth charts, read the tarot, sacralize amulets in special ceremonies, and apply beneficial tattoos. Most of the local men wore his indelible marks on their forearms to protect them from mishap: a row of letters from the sacred alphabet, the garuda fighting the snake, the lizard with two tails.
He had delved deep into powerful mysteries to learn his trade. He knew the secret words that could turn a tiger’s tooth into a powerful talisman for wearing around a man’s waist to increase his strength. He spent days covering tiny scrolls of sa paper with magical drawings folded into homemade bamboo pendants that had protective powers. He could cure a person whose life-soul has fled their body in fright, exposing them to sickness and ill-fortune. The villagers paid him what they could for his services: a kilo or two of rice, tobacco, a new shirt, sesame oil, sardines. His advice was sought during floods, droughts, epidemics, cases of spirit possession and plagues of widow ghosts: people turned to the old Fortune Teller in times of trouble, for only he could invoke the heavenly divinities to appease malevolent spirits. He was their Brahmin priest; what need then did he have for papers?
But the new Chief had rooted him out quickly, sending Sergeant Yud to summon him to the station. So many questions during that first interview: where had he learnt his trade, how much money did he earn, how long had he been living up in the cave? The Chief had tried to flatter him, said he was interested in buying some amulets, in learning something of the business of magic – but the old man was cagey. He knew the Chief’s type.
“Do you think you are above the law?” the Chief had asked in the end, angry with the old man’s silence.
“I am a poor old man, I have nothing: what could a man of your position want from me?”
“How about your papers?”
The old man had stared back at him blankly. “What papers?”
“Your ID, old man – are you a Thai citizen?”
“I have no ID; I am Shan, not Thai, I come from Lashio, I walked over here more than thirty years ago, I have no papers.”
The Chief had walked out from behind his desk, right over to the chair on which the old man sat, and had leant over him, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. The old man could smell the garlic on his breath. “So you’re an illegal then, a Dai Nok, a migrant, aren’t you, old man? I could put you in prison, have you deported, turn you over to the Burmese authorities – how would you like that?”
Remembering the threat, the Fortune Teller stood up and stretched, going over to the cave’s mouth to knock the burnt tobacco from his pipe. What will the Chief take next, he wondered, as rent, or tax, or whatever he chose to call it? First it had been smaller pieces: a few penis amulets, the gold coin medallion with the picture of King Chulalongkorn; then a wooden Buddha statue presented to him last year by Sia Heng; and now the silver Shiva. Valuable pieces: the Chief would sell them, he knew, just like he had sold the ancient relic found by Gop at the old shrine. The Fortune Teller shook his fist at the village down below. That Police Chief, he fumed, is nothing more than a good-for-nothing thief!
* * *
“I swear to you madam, it’s what I heard – he’s very skilled!” The maid opened her pretty eyes wider.
“But what if my husband finds out… what if someone tells him we’ve been up there… at the cave… what then?”
“Easy madam! You can say you were after your horoscope: nothing unusual in that, is there?”
The Chief’s wife gazed into the mirror, thinking. “I suppose…” She spun round to face her maid. “But it means seeing him in the village, he was so angry when I went up last time, you’ve no idea Panit…”
Panit nodded, laying her hand gently on her mistress’s arm. “I know madam but if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s the perfect chance – you can use whatever the Fortune Teller gives you there and then – no need to wait for the Chief to come home to the city!”
“Tell me again, Panit, what did you hear?” The Chief’s wife sank down weakly on to the sofa.
“It was Mother Pensri, madam – you know, the woman who sells lottery tickets up in the village. She told me. I’ve known her a while: her daughter Kwan is my friend – she works in that big fruit-processing factory here in the city. Last winter Mother Pensri came to work in the factory for a few weeks: we got talking one day when I was visiting Kwan on my day off.” Panit paused for breath, shifting her weight from one side to the next where she had knelt on the floor by the sofa.
“Go on, go on.”
“Well, Mother Pensri was just telling me how she had to go back home because her husband wasn’t well, something about a ghost, I can’t quite remember – anyway, we were all laughing about it, about men, husbands, you know… and she said what women needed to get their husbands back on track was some… em…” Panit’s voice dropped to an excited whisper. “Some magic!”
The Chief’s wife drew in her breath sharply, leaning forwards. “And then?”
“I thought she was joking! But then she started to tell me all about this oil, this namman phraaj – it comes from corpses – and how it’s just the strongest love potion in the whole world… and I thought, aow, these country folk! They still do all that! But I pretended I wasn’t shocked, of course, then I asked her, straight out – where would you get such a thing these days?”
The Chief’s wife raised her eyebrows. “Where?”
“She said it was easy enough if you knew the right person to go to and I asked did she know such a person and she said, yes, she did!”
The Chief’s wife stood up and wandered around the room, picking up objects then laying them down. “Oh, I don’t know, Panit. It sounds dangerous! What if something were to happen to my husband – what if he were to fall sick? I couldn’t bear it! Especially knowing it was all my fault!”
Panit stared up at her employer with beseeching eyes. “But madam – we’ve tried everything else!”
The Chief’s wife shuddered, remembering what they’d tried. A few months ago, at Panit’s anxious prompting, she had prepared a special meal for her husband, his favourite fish curry, and had mixed some of her own female secretions into the dish. He was raising the first spoonful to his mouth when the phone rang. Grabbing his car keys he’d gone straight out, leaving her sitting at the table with the uneaten food. He didn’t come home until the next morning: the curry turned sour and had to be thrown away. The next time Panit had pulled some moss from the temple wall to mix into a spicy soup, but he had turned his nose up, hadn’t even tasted it – said he’d gone off the dish! It was almost as if he knew. He fancied an omelette instead, wandering off into the kitchen to teach Panit, he had said, a lesson about cooking. She hadn’t dared follow him; she hated to see him angry, those veins on his neck standing out, his dark eyebrows knitted together. Panit was frightened of him too.
“I just want you to be happy madam. All this staying indoors isn’t good for you, you look pale and thin madam.”
“Do you really think I’ve lost weight Panit?” asked the Chief’s wife, walking back over to the mirror.
“Definitely madam! It’ll be the first thing the Chief notices when he sees you, I’m sure of it! Now,” she said, gently insistent, “shall we get ready and call the chauffeur, madam?”
“Yes, Panit, yes – let’s go ahead and do it!” cried her boss, peering at her face in the mirror, sucking in her cheeks, turning her head to the side to check the effect. “I’ll go and get changed right now!”
* * *
City accents, thought the old man, getting up from where he had been sleeping on the mat; who’s come to visit me now? He rubbed his face, reached automatically for his pipe, peering at the two women who stood just outside the cave. They looked out of breath, clearly not used to climbing. The Fortune Teller yawned. The women were no doubt after horoscopes or a tarot reading. The young, attractive one, dressed simply in jeans and a blouse, came forwards, putting her palms together in front of her chest and bowing.
“Good day, Wise Grandfather! Do you have time to speak with a good lady who has travelled all the way from the city to consult you?” She turned round to indicate the middle-aged woman standing behind her, in dark sunglasses, a straw hat and a well-cut trouser suit of black silk.
The Fortune Teller grunted, nodding towards the bamboo mat. He walked over stiffly to sit down first. The two women crept over to the edge of the mat. The young one slipped off her rubber sandals, kneeling at the back of the mat to bow three times to the statues on the shrine. The other woman bent down to remove a pair of tight, expensive-looking leather shoes, glancing nervously round the cave before sitting down. The old man cleared his throat.
“Well?” he asked, folding his arms.
The two women exchanged glances, and the maid nodded at her employer, eyebrows raised. The city woman pulled off her sunglasses and hat and took a deep breath, fixing her eyes at a spot on the floor as she spoke.
“My husband,” she began in a trembling voice, “is...” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s alright madam – you can tell him!” hissed the maid.
“My husband is... unfaithful, has... has a minor wife... at least, I think so. No, I’m sure he has.”
The old man sighed wearily, reaching for his pencil and paper. “What day were you born on?”
The woman leant forwards, raising one hand. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t want my horoscope. I need... I need something... to bring him back to me. I heard that you do that, help people, I mean...”
The old man put down his pencil, looking up. The woman’s face was pale under heavy make-up, her plump fingers twisting around the face towel she held in her lap. Behind her the maid nodded anxiously. The old man shook his head firmly. “I don’t do that kind of thing.”
“But Wise Man,” cried out the maid, a note of desperation in her voice, “we have heard that your magical powers are most potent, most effective, in bringing a married couple back together!”
The old man raised his eyebrows at the maid, turning back to the other woman. “If you were a man,” he began, “I could help you: I could give you a tattoo, a talisman, to win a woman’s heart. But the only recourse open to a woman who wishes to win the attention of a man does not require my blessing.” He lowered his voice. “Take some of your fluids and mix it with his food. That should do it.” The old man turned his head away, staring out at the cloudless afternoon sky.
The woman let out a sob. “It didn’t work... oh, you don’t understand: my husband is too powerful! He wears many amulets, carries dozens of talismans to protect him: I’ve tried it and it didn’t work! I need something... something stronger!”
“What is your husband? A tiger? Some great soldier?”
“No,” whispered the woman, barely audible, “he’s a Chief of Police.”
“He’s the Chief here in the village!” blurted the maid, unable to resist.
The old man’s face was impassive. “I see,” he said slowly. “The Chief. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your husband already. Several times.” He relit his pipe, puffing slowly. “Your husband is very... charming.”
“Too charming! And handsome: he seems to always look young and now I am too old, too ugly!” The Chief’s wife fumbled in her handbag. “Look, I can pay you, however much you want!” She brought out a bundle of five hundred baht notes from her purse.
“It’s not a question of money, daughter. It’s a question of whether it’s... appropriate... for a woman to use such measures to win the love of a man.”
“Do you mean to say you have... the substance that I’m looking for?”
“Perhaps.” The old man rubbed his chin, thinking. He had never used it, never even given it to a man to use on a woman before, let alone allowed a woman to use it on a man! Normally women only had recourse to their own secretions, or to the moss that grows on temple walls. A man out to ensnare a woman, on the other hand, had many options: he could wear amulets to increase his charm, draw special diagrams whilst thinking intensely of the woman he desired, or sit close to her whilst smoking a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, reciting a silent spell, then enveloping her in exhaled smoke. If that didn’t work he could always scoop up some earth with his toe and rub it on the top of his head, invoking the goddess of the earth, Mother Thoranee, to help him win his bride. But namman phraaj? No one had asked for it before today, and certainly not a woman! The old man cracked his knuckles one by one, staring at the empty space on the shrine where his Shiva had been.
“Just name your price!” said the woman, spreading the pink bank notes in front of her into a fan.
“Five thousand,” said the old man, thinking how he could use the money to buy another statue. “Wait here.”
Fumbling for the matches in his pocket, he got up from the mat to light an oil lamp. The two women clutched hands, staring as he started towards the back of the cave. He squeezed through the narrow opening from the first chamber into the second and disappeared from their sight. The smell inside the second chamber was stale and acrid; bats twitched and squeaked overhead.
He held the lamp high, ducking past the looming stalagmites and stalactites: awkward, bestial shapes that flickered and came to life for a moment before melting back into darkness. Where did I hide it? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. It was so many years ago. Yes, he remembered, that’s it: the turtle’s head! He cast his eyes around the chamber. There it is! He picked his way over to the big rock, fashioned by millennia of dripping water into the vague form of a turtle. Bending down, he reached his hand under the head, pulling out a small bamboo container. Taking off the lid, he looked at the tiny glass phial inside: the oil still perfectly intact. He’d been young and inexperienced at the time, and had thought he couldn’t afford to miss exploiting such a rare chance. She was called Mali Foi Thong – a woman who had died the most inauspicious death of all, in childbirth. Such deaths produced the most potent namman phraaj in the world. He’d watched over the coffin for days, waiting until the villagers were distracted by gambling, by preparations for the funeral feast, taking his quick, precious chance to approach the corpse, grasp it firmly in his arms, hold a flickering candle under the chin to extract the dangerous liquid from the skull. He had heard the screams of the baby Gop from outside as he struggled with the cadaver of the mother: it was almost as though the newborn child could sense the act being committed... He shivered, putting the bamboo lid back on. What’s the worst, he wondered, that could happen? The Chief might fall sick and die?
The two women had remained exactly where he had left them, bug-eyed, gawping at him as he squeezed back through. A gecko cleared its throat before letting out its distinctive call. The Chief’s wife started in fright, the maid tittered nervously. Looking at them crossly, the Fortune Teller laid the bamboo container down on the mat and pushed it towards the Chief’s wife.
“There’s more than enough in the phial. A few drops in his food. Preferably on a Saturday or a Tuesday. And it has to be you who puts it in.” He fumbled in his bag for an old jotter, leafing through the pages, tearing one of them out. “And recite this prayer over the food before you serve it to him.”
The woman leant forwards to pick up the sheet of paper with one hand, pointing at the container with the other. “Is it... is this really?...”
The old man sighed, nodding impatiently, wishing the women would go, take the oil with them and leave him alone. He shuddered, clutching the small penis amulet around his neck.
“Do you want it or not?”
“I’ll take it,” said the woman, snatching up the bamboo container. The maid clapped excitedly behind her. The Chief’s wife counted out five thousand baht, holding the notes between her palms as she bowed to the floor in front of the Fortune Teller three times. He pushed forwards a silver bowl to receive the money.
“Thank you, Wise Grandfather.” The Chief’s wife dabbed her cloth to her cheeks and forehead, moving backwards on all fours to the edge of the mat. She stood up, fumbling at the clasp on her shoes, grabbing the maid’s arm to steady herself. The two women scurried out of the cave.
“And remember,” he cried after them, “Saturday or Tuesday!”
It was Tuesday.
* * *
The chauffeur stopped at the gate to the compound, waiting for the uniformed guard to come forwards and offer his brisk salute to the Chief’s wife in the back of the car, then reach into his sentry box to raise the barrier. The suburban development – “Green Hill Estates” – was very secure. They had reserved one of the houses whilst the estate was in its planning stages – the Chief knew the investor well and was owed some favours, so he had received an extraordinary discount. The house, he reminded his wife when she dared to complain about the quietness, the loneliness, was worth a fortune now. The Chief’s wife gazed out the back window of the Mercedes at the outlines of the huge concrete houses set back from the road, embedded in well-tended gardens. Fairy lights lit up trees, sprinklers watered perfect lawns. The houses looked like enormous birthday cakes in the evening light, frilled with big balconies, elaborate porches, painted a uniform, sickly pink and white.
The car swung into her drive. Her own garden was dark, no lights had been switched on and the pale house loomed behind the shadows of a row of young palm trees. Why, she wondered, are the lights not on? What is Panit thinking? Off gossiping with the neighbour’s maid again, no doubt! Then she saw his car, parked at the end of the drive. He’s come home, she thought eagerly, unannounced! A surprise visit then, at long last! She reached a hand up to her hair, hoping it would do, reasoning that it had been washed and set only the previous day. Her suit was a little crumpled, but surely he wouldn’t notice and she could always run upstairs and change. She took a deep breath and exhaled, letting out a soft moan of excitement. She coughed to cover it up. “Park the cars away in the garage before you bring in the shopping bags,” she told the chauffeur, getting out of the Mercedes, “and find Panit, tell her to switch on the lights!”
The front door was unlocked, the air-conditioning inside cool. As she kicked off her low heels she saw his shoes in the entrance hall: black leather. The faint smell of polish made her stomach flutter. Fumbling for the hall light, she went into the darkened lounge, peering at his favourite armchair. There was no sign of him there. Maybe, she thought, he’s upstairs. He might be showering, tired after the long, twisting drive down the mountains. He always drove himself, not trusting anyone else and preferring to be in control. She loved watching him drive, his strong right hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on top of the gear stick, which he rubbed over gently with his palm. She padded up the staircase in her stockinged feet, listening for the sound of running water, the click of his cigarette lighter. She pushed open the bedroom door softly. The quilt cover was still smooth, the en suite bathroom was empty, and no clothes had been thrown on the floor or over the chair. Where, she wondered, can he be? She crossed over to the window, sliding open the glass door to stand on the balcony. The lights were on in the garden now, and the water in the swimming pool was perfectly still and inky black. In the distance came the faint sound of the neighbour’s children playing in the next house. She peered down at the garden. When they first moved in he would often stand there in the evening, smoking one last, endless cigarette before coming to bed. She would lie waiting for him, switching out her bedside light when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Lying back, she would arrange her hair, her nightdress, bring one leg up, throw one arm back casually as though asleep already. Eyes tight shut, she would listen to him brushing his teeth before sinking down on to the bed beside her. Before long he would start to snore and she would turn over on to her side to lie wide awake, worrying, wondering why he didn’t touch her anymore.
But, she determined, it will all be different now. The namman phraaj will work. And the fact he has come home like this, unannounced, can only be a good sign! All my effort, all my waiting, rewarded at last. It had been so awkward that day, a few weeks ago now, accidentally on purpose meeting her husband in the village after coming back from the Fortune Teller’s cave. “What on earth are you doing here,” he had barked at her, “snooping on me? Don’t you know how busy I am?” She had tried to reason with him – it was only to visit the Fortune Teller, she claimed, to have her astrological chart mapped, her cards read, she had heard he was good. “Why don’t you come with me next time,” she had gabbled, “get your own cards read?” He had laughed then – “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve met the Fortune Teller already, he and I are the best of friends.” That had worried her: what did he mean, the best of friends? And all the while the bamboo container had been burning a hole in her handbag. She’d so nearly done it. He’d gone out of the office to talk to Sergeant Yud, leaving a bowl of half-eaten noodles on his desk. “Go on madam!” Panit had urged, nodding at the soup bowl, “what’re you waiting for?” She had fumbled in her bag for it, and was just about to take the stopper out of the glass phial when he came back inside to tell her crossly that the chauffeur was waiting outside the station, so they should leave now to get the worst of the journey over before nightfall. She could still see him sitting behind his desk, the spoon and chopsticks lifted to his mouth as she turned to go. So close! She had been angry with herself for missing the chance – not realizing then that she would get another opportunity so soon.
But where is he hiding? She stepped back inside, sliding the door shut behind her. She checked all the other bedrooms, just in case. Is he playing a game? she wondered. Maybe he’s going to jump out at me, fold me in his arms, kiss me passionately on the lips, running his hands up and down my body? She smiled, thinking that maybe he would do just that after she had given him some namman phraaj! Going back downstairs, she stood in the hall, listening. A light shone from under the door of the kitchen. Panit was in after all. I should go and speak to her, thought the Chief’s wife, tell her to fetch some beer for him, some whisky and ice. Yes, everything should be perfect. Then he can have his dinner! I can ask Panit to cook something spicy – a tom yam soup – the chilli will cover any taste the oil might have.
She moved quickly down the length of the hall. As she reached out for the door handle, she heard a muffled cry from the other side. She opened the door a few inches, the overhead strip light making her blink. Warm, sultry air wafted out, carrying the smell of deep-fried garlic. She could see one end of the long wooden table. It was his black pistol she noticed first, laid down on the end of the table, next to the chopping board with a half-sliced onion on it. The thick stone pestle was lying next to the empty mortar. She opened the door another inch. The familiar brown jacket of his uniform was slung over one of the chairs. Another cry came, louder this time. She pushed the door wide open. It looked like her husband... the white cotton vest, his broad back. He was half standing, half lying across the other end of the table. Panit was underneath him, her blouse pushed up, his hands on her bra, her breasts. His mouth was over hers, muffling her strangled sobs.
The Chief’s wife did not scream. She crept towards the table, the heat from the room already sticky on her back. She kept her eyes on him, fumbling blindly with her hands at the table’s edge. Panit struggled under his weight, one arm flailing out weakly. Her hand hovered briefly over the pistol. He always slept with it under his pillow, just in case, he said. She had thought he was joking, in the beginning. Her hand moved away from the gun, choosing the heavy pestle instead. She was behind him now. “Come on,” he was urging, “come on Panit, why won’t you let me taste your new recipe?” She held the pestle high in both hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and brought it down with unexpected force on the back of his head.