Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller полностью

“Everything,” Arthit says. “Okay. Here’s the dummy’s guide to the coup. Point One: Thaksin Shinawatra, a rich guy but not really a member of the traditional power elite, gets himself elected prime minister by purchasing the votes of a group of people who have never really turned out for an election before. The poor of the northeast.”

“Rose’s people,” Rafferty says. “The ones she says are supposed to go where they’re told and stay where they’re put.”

“The least powerful people in Thailand. And so what if Thaksin paid for some of their votes? What mattered was that we had the first prime minister in the history of the country who was voted in by the poor.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, that development didn’t sit well with the people who have been in charge forever. They wanted to get rid of Shinawatra, and luckily for them he got caught apparently cheating the country, ducking millions in income tax, and they saw their chance. Bang, a military coup; the army overthrew him and set up a new government.”

“And it was the Marx Brothers.”

“Yes. But it represented the old guard, so the folks who are traditionally in charge were comfortable with it.” Arthit clanks the inverted cup against the saucer a couple of times to get the attention of the ethereal, almost transparent youth behind the counter, who is devoting his entire being to getting his bangs to fall across his forehead at a forty-five-degree angle. The boy locates the noise, registers the police uniform, and gets up. “So you’ve got a government of generals, and they can barely figure out which shoe to put on first.”

The boy with the bangs says, “Yes, sir?”

“Some sort of pastry with chocolate in it. And fill this.” The boy takes the cup and fades. “And the generals hold an election, and guess what-the peasants vote Thaksin’s friends back in.”

Rafferty says, “What a surprise.”

“It was to the power elite. The second prime minister in a row, voted in by poor people. The old guard is flabbergasted. They feel like they went to a party and while they were out, the furniture took a vote to change the locks. Suddenly they see themselves standing on the doorstep, trying to get their keys to work.”

A chocolate eclair appears in front of Arthit, followed by a napkin, a fork and a knife, a full cup, and a discreet retreat.

“And okay, the new prime minister, the one the poor elected, breaks some obscure rule and appears on a cooking show because he likes to cook, and the powers behind the scenes are shocked, do you hear, shocked that he’d accept a couple thousand dollars U.S. to make an omelet on TV. So they kick him out. Only in Thailand could a prime minister be overthrown for the way he handles a spatula. But of course that’s not what it’s about, is it?”

“No,” Rafferty says. “It’s about poor people having political power.”

“That’s it exactly. Something fundamental has changed. Poor people have learned that their votes count. This is new in Thai politics, and it terrifies some very powerful people, all of them pale-skinned, most of them Thai-Chinese. Some of the old-power families have been in charge for generations, since Bangkok was built more than two hundred years ago. And they’ve gotten amazingly rich. Billions of dollars, Poke. Year after year, billions of dollars. They dip their scoops everywhere: the national budget, the banks, the corporations, the army, the police-you name it. All of it based on the assumption that they’ll hold power forever, which always looked like a good bet. But now the foundation is suddenly shaky. The ground they built on could be turning to water.”

“And this has what to do with me?”

Arthit empties the cream container into his coffee. “To bring you up-to-date, since you don’t read the papers. The elected party put up yet another prime minister, and the elite went on a rampage. Formed a group with Democracy in the name, which is kind of amusing since they want a mostly appointed government. So they demonstrated, took over the airports, and finally got some people in the Assembly to change sides so they could put one of their own in.”

“I actually do remember that.”

“So nothing is resolved. Nobody thinks the current situation is stable. Here’s the point, Poke. Shinawatra mobilized the poor, but he was never one of them. He was never Isaan. He’s Thai-Chinese. But Pan was poor. Pan is Isaan. Look at the way he’s lived, Poke. He never stops reminding people where he came from. He gives constantly. He’s dark-skinned. The poor liked the former prime minister, but-what did Rose say about Pan?”

“She worships him.”

“Then let me ask you a question. Given everything that’s happened in the past few years, if Pan suddenly decided he wanted political power, how much do you think he could get?”

“If he lived through the election,” Rafferty says, “as much as he wants.”

“And how much power would be lined up against him?”