A tall thin man in a pirated Abibas T-shirt was walking along the racks of videos like a person of knowledge at a gallery. He read the details on the spines and nodded recognition. At that pace, assuming he didn’t take time out for meals or toilet breaks, it would’ve taken him four and a half days to read to the very last title. Ali couldn’t wait that long.

“Can I help you?” Ali said.

The man looked up, surprised. “Ah. Yes. I’m looking for something, you know . . . happy.”

“Um. Happy,” said Ali. “Now there’s a concept. Happiness, you do realize, is relative.”

“Eh?”

Allah was, without question, living inside Ali. He could feel His presence, and he was delighted to have Him. But He wasn’t alone in there. There was a devil in Ali too, and that beast took over the reins more often than Ali would have liked. It wasn’t clear whether Allah stepped out from time to time and the devil took advantage, or that this was the normal process of Islamic Enlightenment, the constant juxtaposition of internal goods and evils. On this particular evening, with a monsoon rain beating against the shop window, Allah was not at home.

“Well,” said Ali, “I mean, for example, what makes Saddam Hussein happy could be something dark, something sinister, like Tarantino.”

“Taran . . . ?”

“He may see humor in John Travolta accidentally blowing a man’s head off. Blood splattering the interior of the car.”

“I—”

“Teacher Pratheep, our very own senator with a social conscience, on the other hand, may find happiness in something lighter. Perhaps the softer but no less biting wit of Woody Allen or Jacques Tati. Just how happy are you planning to get?”

It was apparent from the pause-button expression on the thin man’s face that he had no idea what Ali was talking about. Ali was used to that.

“In fact, I was looking for something by the Mom Jokmok comedy troupe from Channel Seven,” said the man. “The ones with the bald midget. You know them?”

“And that would make you happy?” Ali asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“Right, then. Over there on your left, you’ll find the complete gallery of their greatest works. They produce a new tape every eleven minutes. Take your pick.”

The man couldn’t have been more excited if he’d discovered the gold left behind by the Japanese invaders in the Second World War. He started to study the spines Ali had pointed out.

“There are so many,” the man said. “Which one would you recommend?”

“Recommend?” Ali put his finger on his cheek and considered the choices like a gourmet going down a menu. “I think number nine. That’s probably your style. It has a very nice selection of fart jokes.”

Going with Ali’s suggestion, the tall, thin man brought his choice to the counter, paid his fifty-baht rental fee, and was allowed to take advantage of the week’s special: a copy of Seven Samurai to take home and watch absolutely free of charge. There wasn’t much hope, but Ali never gave up on his life’s mission to elevate the tastes of his regular clientele. Every now and then one would emerge from the darkness and be dazzled by the brilliance. Most, however, would come back and tell him why they hadn’t found a fondness for the “foreign muck” he’d given them. He really understood how the Mormon fellows must feel; they ding-dong their way from house to house, enjoying only abuse and failure in the hope that one day they might stumble upon a convert. Ali was the Mormon of motion pictures.

The tall thin man left . . . happy. Happiness was what he’d come for, and happiness was what he got. One more satisfied customer for Ali’s Video Rental. As the door shut, the bell tinkled. It was a real bell, not like the electric burp at the 7-Eleven. It was genuine brass caressed gently by a tongue of rubber every time the door opened and closed, making a tinkle like ice in real cut glass. Its infrequent sound rankled the nerves of Ali. Twenty-five customers from nine to nine was a good day.

Ali had bought the place knowing he would never make money out of it. He’d sat his stunned mother down at the kitchen table one day and told her, “Ma. Money shouldn’t be a reason for doing things.”

That message had come as a surprise to his ma because she’d spent a lot of money sending him to do the MBA at Bangkok University. It wasn’t the most prestigious MBA of the ninety or so on offer around the country. Nor was it the cheapest. But it was good enough to give him the acumen he needed to make his family wealthy.

He’d learned everything the university expected of him and one thing it hadn’t. He learned that he didn’t like making money. He learned that gratuitous wealth was un-Islamic and unnecessary. The national MBA philosophy was, “Amass lots of money and use it to amass lots more.” When you made too much you had to change your lifestyle, so it didn’t look like excess. It was like having a suit that was too big for you and putting on weight to fit into it.

He lied about his doubts when the faculty gurus asked him; he feigned avarice and passed second in his class. He’d had offers from greedy companies with logos and retirement plans, and he’d turned them all down. When the family asked him what he’d decided to do, he took them all to the high street and pointed to the spot where his share of grandpa’s inheritance money had gone.

They called the imam to the house that same evening. He was a dry-skinned elder with penetrating eyes that peered out through a curtain of unruly brow hair, an Asian Gandalf. Islamic holy men don’t perform exorcisms as such, but it was obvious, even to him, that the boy was possessed. This was Thailand before the economic tiger was cruelly spayed. It was unimaginable a smart young Thai with an MBA wouldn’t want to climb up on its back and ride on into glorious capitalism.

It was a month before the family gave up on him completely. It was as if he’d gone into an asylum. They would talk about him in the past tense, even though he was still living at home with his ma. They’d talk about how successful he could have been, if only . . .

Ali was as content as an aardvark in an ant farm. He had everything he needed: his own shop with a small viewing area where he and his best friend, Supot, could spend endless hours watching films; a girlfriend called Kwang, whom he’d been dating since primary school and would one day marry. Probably. He had a steady if not spectacular income, a good face with a structurally sound jaw, and his faith and health. Nothing about his lifestyle was likely to give him a heart attack. All he had to do was wait for his “big something.”