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They climbed into Fan's rickshaw, the engine started-up with an angry growl, and they set off once again. It was a long way to the part of the city where Suavarose lived. It gave Smith the opportunity to get a sense of the place: the new housing estates on the outskirts, all boxes and straight lines and white sun-bleached concrete; the huge ostentatious shopping-malls and vast, prestigious office-blocks of the center; the chaotic canal-side life of the old city; the dazzling street-markets of the Chinese quarter, still thronged with people even as dusk fell; the dingy corrugated-iron shacks of the shanty-towns rising up into the surrounding hills, where the poor scratched a living, who-knows-how; finally the broad, airy tree-lined boulevards of the very rich, discreetly positioned behind a rise in the landscape that hid the rest of the city from view.
The house where Suavarose lived was positively breath-taking. It was a virtual palace. The building itself, its outline softened by tall, elegant trees, silhouetted against the glow of the distant city lights, was at the end of a long private driveway that ran off a broad tree-lined avenue. The grounds were surrounded by high stone walls, with security-cameras nestling discreetly in slots within the coping-stones. Stone heraldic dragons perched atop the two towering gate-posts, between which a spidery wrought-iron gate, constructed to a pattern of the finest intricacy, barred the way of any unwanted callers.
Smith couldn't help whistling in amazement as Fan drew up to the gate and pressed the button on the entry-phone that was mounted on one of the gate-posts.
"It's out of a fairy-tale, isn't it?" Smith said in a hushed undertone.
"Rich people," Fan returned dismissively, "rich people." He exchanged a few words with a voice from the box, then turned to Smith."
"He say what you want, Mr. Smith? Why you here?"
Smith climbed out and went over to where he hoped the microphone in the box could hear him. "I met Suavarose today at the airport," he said in a clear level tone, "it was because of me that she was delayed at the Customs."
There was no reply, but a few seconds later the gates began to open.
"I think that means we go in, Mr. Smith." Fan commented approvingly.
It was a substantial drive down the private road, past a number of smaller buildings that presumably housed staff of some kind, to the house itself, which was built in the classical style with pillars and arches, and would have done credit to a South American dictator. There was somebody standing just outside the main entrance, waiting to greet them. He was fairly tall for an Asian, probably about the right age to be Suavarose's father, and immaculately well turned-out in a tastefully-tailored dark business-suit and
color-coordinated blue silk shirt and tie. He greeted Smith with a firm and friendly hand-shake, but his expression was serious. He said that he trusted Mr. Smith had had an agreeable journey. He spoke with the polished grace of an Oxford professor.
"Should I wait, Mr. Smith?" Fan asked from the rickshaw.
"Is it all right if he does?" Smith asked.
"Of course," the man agreed, "Whatever you wish." Smith gestured for Fan to wait and followed his host into the vast entry-hall.
The hall was basically square, with a beautifully hand-carved curved hardwood staircase rising from one side to a balcony, from which a number of rooms opened off. There were four obviously original classical-style statues on plinths, and the walls were hung with the heavily-framed portraits of members of Suavarose's family and prominent local politicians. It resembled the entrance hall to a museum or a public building more than to a private house. Smith could hardly conceal his amazement.
"This way, Mr. Smith," said his host, leading him underneath the balcony, through a heavy carved wooden door, to a room that appeared to be a study or a library. Two of the walls were lined with generously-proportioned book-cases containing very expensive-looking leather-bound volumes, another was given over to more portraits and an internal door, while the fourth wall, straight ahead of them, was completely taken-up by an enormous set of French windows opening out into a beautifully-appointed private courtyard with fountains and elegant raised flower-beds and wrought-iron garden furniture. It was to one of these ornate wrought-iron benches that Smith was conducted and asked to sit down. "What would you like to drink, Mr. Smith?" his host entreated, summoning a servant with the merest twitch of his right hand.
"Oh, that's very kind of you," said Smith, "something cold. Lemonade or something."
The servant disappeared.
"My name is Ranashin Cran," his host introduced himself, "Suavarose is my daughter. I understand you came here to talk about her."
It had come to the crunch. Smith hesitated. "It isn't easy for me to tell you this, Mr. Cran." he began awkwardly, "but I think you should know that your daughter is involved in something... illegal. Everybody that I have spoken to has told me.. of the high regard in which they hold this family. That was why I thought that I should come here and talk to you... rather than talk to anybody else."
"I see. Please go on, Mr. Smith."
He told Cran, in great detail, what had happened at the airport. It was burned into his memory and he recalled everything with a chilling accuracy. Cran heard him out without speaking or asking any questions. He paused in his account only once, for the arrival of his lemonade. When he had finished, he sat back, and waited for his host to say something. He felt drained, but also a little relieved. At least he had gotten it over with. And he had told the complete truth.
"Thank you for coming here to see me," said Cran quietly after a while. "I love my daughter very much. She has never done anything to bring dishonor on this family. Nothing that I was ever aware of. But I think that I am a good judge of a person's honesty, Mr. Smith, and I believe that you have told me the truth. If you have been unjustly accused of a crime as a result of something that Suavarose has done, then that injustice shall be put right. Of that you need have no doubt. I think that now I need to speak to my daughter. Perhaps you can leave me a contact address where I might get in touch with you again if it should be necessary?"
"Of course," he hunted around in his pockets for the card that Fan had given him with the address and phone number of his mother's guest-house, "here we are. You can keep this." Smith stood up to go.
"Mr. Smith," said his host, "it is not a pleasant thing for anybody to be the bearer of bad tidings. I appreciate the respect that you have shown me in coming here to tell me these things face-to-face. I want to tell you that I too am a man of integrity. If my daughter has done wrong then she shall receive justice. This family, Mr. Smith, is not above the law."
Smith shook hands with Cran once again and they walked together back to Fan's rickshaw. As they set off again down the avenue Smith apologized for having kept him waiting for so long. It was almost sunset.
Fan laughed. "You not need to say sorry for keeping taxi waiting," he explained with a twinkle in his voice, "when taxi wait, taxi charge money. Charge money but use no petrol! Very good for taxi-driver!"
Smith laughed as well. The tension seemed to have been broken, somehow. Smith had done everything that a conscientious citizen could have done. He had nothing to reproach himself for. And now it was out of his hands. He felt certain that Cran was a good man, an honest man, and that he wouldn't be cruel to his daughter. It was not Smith's job to sort out the troubles of the world. He had done the right thing, the moral thing. That was as much as anyone could do.
O
It was a long drive back to the guest-house. It gave Smith the chance to see another mood of the city, the garish neon lights of the red-light district with its crowded gaudily-painted cabaret-bars, the scantily-clad girls clustered around all the street-corners, looking for customers, laughing and joking among themselves, handing out little cards bearing the addresses of girlie-bars and such enticements as: "Your Second Drink is Free", "Live Sex Show Every Hour", and: "12.00 Midnight: Show with Girl and Snake, Both very Dangerous". From there they passed through China Town once more: Smith could hardly believe it but the market was still as bustling as ever, except that now it was a mass of colored lanterns strung from stall to stall with little light-bulbs inside them, giving the whole district the appearance of a giant over-decorated horizontal Christmas-tree. Just before they rejoined the road towards the airport Smith asked Fan to stop at a food-stall and treated them both to a skewer of barbecued chicken-pieces (whose smell he had been unable to resist), a little plate of fried-rice, and a paper cup of Coca Cola and ice. Fan pointed out that they were being disloyal to his mother and should be eating her barbecue-chicken and rice, but they agreed to keep the incident to themselves and enjoyed their meal immensely.
It was almost midnight by the time they arrived back at Smith's lodgings. There were even more people at the tables now, and the coming of nightfall had given the place the aspect of a small intimate club, where residents sat and talked over leisurely glasses of beer. In one corner a television set droned-out the sound of a gameshow in the local language, but nobody was paying it any attention. Smith paid Fan for his day's services and tipped him generously. He assumed that he would stay and have a drink with him, but Fan said that there was too much good trade to be had down in the land of the girlie-bars, and he would probably see Smith in the morning.
As Fan left and Smith made his way up to the bar to order a nightcap, Fan's mother, who was serving behind it, shouted over to him. "You have message, Mr. Smith," she told him, "from airport."
"Oh, thank you." He took the scribbled sheet of paper that she handed to him. Her written English was labored but adequate. "Please pick-up your passport when convenient," it said, "Please accept apologies for any inconvenience."
So that was it! The whole unhappy business was over and done with! Cran had certainly been as good as his word. And remarkably swift! Maybe this wasn't such a backward country after all.
He ordered a large glass of the local beer, which he had been told was good, and settled-back to enjoy it. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, he might even go down and have a look at those girlie-bars. He couldn't really go back to England without at least having seen them. He sipped his beer. It was good. He loved the way the air stayed warm, even at night, even when there was a breeze. He was getting to like this country. He determined not to let his unfortunate introduction to the place color his impressions.
O
The following morning, despite having been at work for most of the night, Fan was up and about before Smith and drove him back to the airport, where he duly collected his passport and tried to get the officials to tell him exactly what had happened to establish his innocence. As he expected, they were unwilling to go into details. He spent the rest of the day with the Orion Air people, delivering his report and receiving some further in-service training. By late afternoon he was finished for the day.
He took an ordinary airport bus into the city center, and strolled around the shopping malls and one of the large central parks, eating off the street food-stalls and getting to know the place a little bit better, until the sun had begun to set and it was time for the bars in the red-light district to get fired-up for the evening. He knew roughly where that part of the city was by then so he went on foot and enjoyed the sights and sounds of China Town once again, before turning-in to the first of the four or five streets that made up the tacky tourist girlie-bar district. Almost immediately a local girl in her mid teens wearing a bikini-top and an almost non-existent imitation grass skirt ran up to him offering a business card of some kind.
"Hello," she began her well-rehearsed spiel, "where you come from?"
For an instant he seemed to see Suavarose's face superimposed on hers. They were only a little different. Only the difference that a few generations of private education and total pampering and indulgence makes to the human face.
"England. London," he replied pleasantly.
"English men very nice. I like English men very much."
"I'm pleased to hear it."
"You like buy me a little drink? I work in bar, Pink Pussycat. You buy one drink, get one free."
Buy one get one free. That sounded somewhat familiar.
"Okay. I'll buy you a little drink. What's your name?"
"My name Ouy. Ouy mean 'sweet' in my language. What your name?"
The conversation continued at this elevated level as they walked up to the door of the Pink Pussycat. Outside the establishment was a billboard which displayed a large group-photograph of all the bar-girls (euphemistically referred-to as "dancers") who worked there, including Ouy. As they pushed the door to go in a very young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, with a tray of flowers held on a strap around her neck, came rushing over. "You buy flower for girlfriend?" she urged, begging him with her big intense brown eyes.
"I don't think my girlfriend needs a flower," he countered after due consideration, "I don't think she has anywhere to pin it."
"Buy for Spirit House then," the girl parried without a moment's hesitation.
"Spirit House?"
"Spirit House is for Buddha," Ouy explained, "you buy flower for Spirit House, you bring good luck to everybody in bar."
"That sounds a pretty good bargain," Smith agreed, and resignedly parted with a coin to the little girl. He had now hesitated for at least ten seconds by the door of the bar. This gave enough time for a paper-boy to spot him, and rush over with a cloth bag full of papers.
"Evening Post, Mister!" he announced, rather loudly considering that he was only about a foot away from Smith, "evening paper in American Language! Just come out!"
"Actually, it's called the English language," Smith corrected with a kindly smile.
"Paper just come out, Sir," the boy went on, not unduly troubled by details like that, "all today news. Just come out."
The easiest way to get rid of him, Smith decided would be to buy the thing, so he did. Then, with some relief, he followed the girl into the dimly lit room, where two of her companions were swaying lazily on a little raised platform to the music of Michael Jackson. There were two other men drinking at the bar, each with a young local girl by his side, but it was still early and things obviously hadn't really got going yet. Ouy went behind the bar and performed a rather charming little ceremony, presenting Smith's flower to the shrine, resembling a dolls'-house size Buddhist temple, that hung from the wall high up in the center of the bar area. When she had made a prayerful gesture with her hands and bowed low, she returned to sit beside Smith.
"Now we both have very good luck for rest of evening," she assured him with a blatantly seductive smile. He put his newspaper down on the counter-top, returned her smile, and ordered the drinks.
"What hotel you stay in, Mr. Smith?" she asked sweetly. He told her the name of Fan's mother's establishment, but she merely looked puzzled. Clearly it was not one in which she had conducted business in the past. Realizing that this was of no value to her as a way of determining Mr. Smith's annual income, she moved on to more direct questions regarding what job he did, and how long he had been doing it. Smith answered good-naturedly, but his attention began to wander to the newspaper lying on the counter in front of him. The main headline concerned the performance of one of the country's athletes at the ASEAN Games, which were taking place in another South East Asian country nearby. Further down the page there was a smaller item. When he scanned the headline to that one it stopped him cold. It was like being hit by a hammer. The world around him, the chattering of the young girl by his side and the wailing of the music system, all seemed to stop abruptly. He was hanging in a silent void, just him and the newspaper headline. It read: Suicide of Opposition Leader's Daughter.
He stood up in a trance, gently detached Ouy's hand from his arm, and placed a banknote on the counter for the drinks which had not yet arrived.
"You all right, Mr. Smith?" the girl asked with genuine concern, "I say something, make you upset?"
"No. Ouy. You didn't say anything wrong." As he stood up he felt a little light-headed. "I have to leave, now," he said gently. He walked unsteadily towards the door and looked back at Ouy before he left. "I have to tell you though," he said quietly, "that flower didn't work."
AN END
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