Two years went by. And then one night, as if those years had suddenly flattened into a few minutes, I arrived back in Bangkok as if I had never left. I took a car from the airport to Sukhumvit Soi 51 near Thong Lor, where I had rented a small cottage for the year, and I realized that yet again it was Christmas, and I always seemed to be here at Christmas. The house lay within a larger property owned by a member of the Thai aristocracy connected to the royal family, and by the metal gates a groundsman stood with a flashlight, waiting for me, in the light-cappuccino uniform of a South American traffic cop. The staff came out to see me, maids, gardeners, children. He opened the door for me, and at once a dozen dogs behind the gates began barking. Kitty, the mistress of the house, he explained in a hushed voice, collected them off the streets as a charitable hobby.
We stepped into a garden with jungle trees, and up to a wire fence where the diseased hounds came limping and snarling. We went past them down a lawn from which tiny frogs burst out around our feet like heated popcorn. The cottage at the garden's end was made almost entirely of glass, its main room sitting like a three-sided showroom among the trees. The family estate contained old warehouses which screened the cottage's back garden, where an imposing mango tree grew. Even at night, one of the gardeners was pruning it. He came over with a machete, doffing his straw hat, and helped with the bags.
"Is Miss Kitty still up?"
"Yes, sir. She is making drinks."
The main windows of the house were lit, and through them appeared rooms of antique furniture, ceramic lamps, and beveled mirrors. At the other end of the garden, a spirit house came to life, the candles lit by the staff. The rain stopped.
I noticed now that the entire household staff were standing around the pool, their hands crossed before them. Priscilla, the head maid, turned on the toadstool lamps behind the ponds and an Angkorian statue emerged out of the dark. The house had sweeping traditional eaves, bringers of shade by day and shadow by night. Candles were lit along the paths, and the gardener said to me, "Sawasdee krap," taking off his hat again. Cicadas rasped in the mango trees, competing with the Phyloglossus frogs, and frangipani petals rained down onto the pool.
Soon I saw Kitty dancing with a man in the main windows. To my surprise, she was young and chic and her laughter carried through plate glass. But as I slept that night, something happened to shatter the comfortable mood that had immediately taken hold of me. I was woken by a sore throat, and soon there was a fever, the throat gradually worsening and saliva pouring out of my mouth. Lying on my side, I watched the stars above the walls and found myself counting for no reason, like a child who counts to a hundred to see if his toothache will end. But within an hour my windpipe began to close and I could no longer breathe. I ran down Soi 51 to the main road in shorts, unable to breathe, flagging down a cab with a terrible finger. The last word I spoke for a week was roong-pa-yaa-baan—hospital.
•
Most foreigners go to Bumrungrad, the largest private hospital in Asia, on Sukhumvit Soi 1. Half resort, half luxury hospital, Bumrungrad has earned fame in a number of medical areas, notably plastic surgery and heart operations. It is the largest sex-change facility in the world. Westerners flock there, not only to change their sex but also to have babies, to undergo dermal procedures and hair transplants. Soon they'll be going there to die as well, because it's far cheaper.
It was a Saturday morning and the emergency rooms were empty. I was taken to Ear, Nose, and Throat, where a young Thai doctor took my blood pressure and examined the inflamed throat. Looking at the thermometer, his brow contracted with that expression of controlled consternation of which doctors are the masters.
"It's not a sore throat," he said gently. "It's worse. It may have something to do with the supraglottal structures."
It was an infection possibly carried by particles of dust, Dr. Somnath theorized, particles coated with pathogens to which my immune system had no resistance. To get a clear picture, a fiber-optic camera would have to be passed via the nose and into the throat itself. The nurse prepared a gurney. As this was done, a calmant was administered to me, and, feeling happier than I usually do, I recalled the words that Krishna addresses to Arjuna on the battlefield of Kuru in the Bhaghavad Gita (I keep it always by my side, though not during this particular ordeal): Pleasure and pain, he says, are transient. They come and go. "A particle of dust inhaled on the street," the doctor went on, "something eaten at a market, a gulp of swimming pool water, a mango even—all these are possible culprits in the inflaming of the epiglottis.
"I am afraid that you will not be able to leave the hospital for at least ten days. We will have to get you on to an antihistamine drip within an hour: if the inflammation doesn't subside, we shall have to puncture your throat to get the air in and out, and perhaps even your lungs. Did you know that the father of your nation, George Washington, died of it?"
•
Old age and death are constantly on our minds. What will they be like? Will Arjuna's advice be of any use? There is nothing about drooling in the Bhavagad Gita. I arrived at the Reservations Desk, which was like that of a hotel, and was given a menu of rooms. The medical consumer is presented with a menu of room options in a bound folder, with the prices and amenities laid out with the utmost simplicity. The De Luxe Suites seemed the best option for 4,000 baht a night, since one gets a desk, a private lounge area, sofas, and entertainment options, along with sunnier views from high up in the "residential" tower. Unfortunately, they were all booked. Next down the ladder, however, were the smaller two-room De Luxe Suites. At 3,000 baht there were also the Luxury Single Rooms. And then there were the Double Units, shared with another patient, with a shared bathroom.
We moved through corridors filled with invalids, many Arabs in keffiyeh, Iranian women with canes, Chinese millionaires with families in tow, all of them with the look of people who are simultaneously stricken and pampered. An international city of the wounded. Strapped to the gurney, there were only moments to count before I was on the seventh floor, being undressed by the nurses. The seventh floor was populated by Thais and by the occasional wealthy farang, expats who obviously came here on a regular basis. The hospital as cheap diversion, a vacation within a vacation. There was a large lounge area with children's toys, international business magazines, and televisions. Potted plants made it look more like an upscale clinic.
After I had been dressed in minuscule pajamas with an elephant motif, three intravenous drips were connected to my wrist, the little plastic gauges and taps tightened, the drips adjusted. The nurses washed my hands, and they are nurses unlike any others: slender and in stiff bonnets decorated with a single navy line. They alone are able to puncture a vein flirtatiously; and they do so flawlessly, drawing off a little blood in the buffer and then adjusting the three separate tubes inside an adhesive bandage.
Through the window on the far side of the curtain came a truncated snapshot of a neighborhood such as one could see anywhere in this metropolis: wilted palms pecked by birds, roof gardens laid out at surprising angles, AC units stacked along back walls, a maid arranging a room of French furniture. A city like many others near the equator, neither more nor less peeling or blistered or shamed.