Of course, the impulse, the instinct, is to hold on, to wrap his arms around her and anchor her. To do whatever it takes to keep her beside him. But to do that would be to keep her in her pain, the smoldering in her nervous system that will simply get worse until she bursts into flame like a paper doll. Fire no one can put out. Won’t it be better if she simply goes to sleep?
Of course it would. Of course it wouldn’t.
That morning, as he drank his coffee, trying to act the way he acted every morning-as though this were just the beginning of another day in an infinite progression of days-Noi pulled her chair around from the side of the table where she usually sits and put it beside his. She wound her arms around his neck and leaned against him. He sat there cup in hand, inhaling the smell of her shampoo, feeling the heat from her skin, listening to the flow of her breath and watching the room ripple through the tears in his eyes, while his heart slammed against his ribs like a fist. They sat there until the coffee was cold. Neither of them spoke a word.
His phone rings.
He looks at it as he might look at a scorpion on his desk. It continues to ring. Finally he drops the scrap of paper in his left hand and reaches for the receiver, seeing the glint of his wedding ring. Picks up the receiver and says his name.
“This is Thanom,” says the voice on the other end, a voice with some snap to it. “We need to talk. Now. Come up here.”
Arthit hangs up the phone, thinking, Poke.
“I’VE JUST HAD an interesting chat,” Thanom says as Arthit comes through the door. Today Thanom is in his usual uniform, not the ceremonial outfit Poke had described him wearing at Pan’s fund-raiser. He has a short, flattened nose and an upper lip that’s longer than the nose above it. Those features, plus round black eyes as expressive as bullet holes, have always made him look to Arthit like a monkey. But he’s not a monkey one should underestimate. Thanom has a perpetually wet index finger raised to detect the slightest shift in the political winds.
“Really,” Arthit says. “A chat with whom?” He has not been invited to sit.
Thanom gives a tug at the left point of his collar. “A friend of yours. The
“Rafferty,” Arthit says. “More an acquaintance than a friend.”
“Is that so,” Thanom says, not making it a question. “I’d heard otherwise.”
“Obviously I have no way of knowing what you’ve heard.”
Arthit’s tone sharpens the interest in Thanom’s face, but he puts it aside for the moment to pursue his topic. “I’m apparently on some sort of list of people he’s supposed to talk to about Pan, although I can’t imagine why.”
Arthit says, “Who gave him the list?”
Thanom leans back in his chair and regards Arthit speculatively. “That’s an excellent question. I should have asked it.”
“You’ve been behind a desk for a while,” Arthit says, pleased to see the spots of red appear on Thanom’s cheeks. “Focused on more important things than nuts and bolts. First-year-patrolman stuff.”
“No, no,” Thanom says between lips that are stretched tight enough to snap. “A really good policeman never forgets the basics.”
Arthit says, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
Arthit can practically see Thanom make an imaginary mark:
“I don’t know him as well as you think I do.”
“It’s been a while since we talked, hasn’t it?” Thanom says. “It’s a shame my responsibilities don’t give me more time with my men. One thing about your friend interested me. He kept asking to see the files on Pan. When I said it wasn’t possible, he asked whether they were even accessible. As though we might have misplaced them somehow.”
“That
Thanom lifts his tie and glances at it, as though he expects to find a stain. “Any idea where he might have gotten the idea?”
“None. Is it true?”
Thanom’s eyes come up. “Of course not. We don’t misplace files.”
“That’s a relief,” Arthit says. “Since we’re the institutional memory of law and order in Bangkok and all that.”
“You don’t know where he could have picked up such a notion? Your friend, I mean.”
“Acquaintance. No, of course not. But if he’s got whole lists of people to talk to, maybe one of them suggested something of the sort.”
“Yes, yes,” Thanom says, holding up a hand. “And you personally,” he says. He squeezes some feeling into his voice, as persuasive as food coloring. “How are you bearing up?”
Arthit has no idea how Thanom knows anything is wrong with Noi. “Beating against the tide,” he says, “as we all do.”
“Do we?” Thanom says, standing to signal the end of the conversation. “I don’t think so. I think some of us learn to ride it.”
