The Thai Amulet (11 page)

At the head of a huge army, the king moved aggressively northward, planning to take Chiang Mai. That city, however, was not to fall, and our king, while he had inflicted heavy losses on our enemy, was forced to retreat back to Ayutthaya.

Other problems plagued our kingdom, the worst being a terrible fire that swept through the city. It took many days to extinguish the flames, and in the end, over a hundred thousand buildings were destroyed.

Even then, the news had only grown worse. Setthathirat, king of Lan Na, whose ambitions for power and land could only be at the expense of Ayutthaya, was mustering his forces with hostile intent, and reinforcements from Lan Sang were moving to join him.

King Chairacha, still exhausted, and perhaps demoralized by his inability to take Chiang Mai, although he certainly gave no such indication to Yot Fa, who I am sure would have told me, once again led an army north. At first the news was good. Our army took Lamphun and then advanced again on Chiang Mai.

In the royal palace, life went on much as before. Lady Si Sudachan continued to live her selfish life as a royal favorite, and Yot Fa and I entertained ourselves while we waited for what we were certain would be news of a great victory.

It was then, I am told, a terrible event occurred. When our armies came to Chiang Mai, blood was seen to fall on the doors of all the buildings, even the monasteries, in the city and the villages beyond. It was the most evil of omens, and the king left Chiang Mai immediately to begin the long march back to Ayutthaya.

As unfortunate as this outcome was, when we heard the news that the king and the army were retreating, we thought that the king would simply make another, surely successful, attempt when the weather permitted. This was, the young prince and I decided, a temporary setback. We were wrong.

Now that I had what I suppose one could call a lead in the search for Will Beauchamp, no matter how bizarre, I found my home base of Ayutthaya rather restricting. It meant at least three hours in the car every day traveling between there and Bangkok, and it didn’t allow me any time in the evening to hang out at Will’s apartment building waiting for the elusive Mrs. Praneet “live beside.”

Still, as much as I felt I would rather stay in Bangkok, I couldn’t think of a polite reason for moving, other than the pressure of work, which was, in a way, true. I wasn’t going to find Will Beauchamp lolling about in the lap of luxury in Ayutthaya.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about excuses. At dinner that evening, Wongvipa took me aside for a moment or two. “I’ve checked into William Beauchamp,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “The only information in the file is his home address, which I have written down here, and the name of his bank. Perhaps they could help in some way. I’m sorry there isn’t anything more.”

“It’s very good of you to do this,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I simply asked Yutai to look into it. And now I have some other news. Unfortunately, there is a rather persistent problem with my husband’s business, and we are all going to Chiang Mai tomorrow so that he can deal with it. We would be delighted if you would accompany us. We have a summer home there, and there is room for both you and Jennifer. I have already spoken to Jennifer—I hope you don’t mind—and she said she would like to come. I hope you will, too. My husband will be working, of course, but Chat and I could show you around Chiang Mai.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said. “I will decline your lovely invitation. I have work to do in Bangkok, for the shop, and I think I really must get to it.”

“You can stay here, then,” she said. Once again, I said no. “Then you must allow us to make arrangements for you in Bangkok. You are our guest, and I must insist.”

The next morning, after a quick good-bye to Jennifer, who seemed most unhappy about my decamping and leaving her alone with the family, and during which she exacted a promise that I would call her every day, the Chaiwongs’ chauffeur whisked me and my luggage into Bangkok. I regretted leaving them more than I thought I would, not just because I would miss Jennifer, but because I had come to see there was much to admire in Wongvipa, and I had begun to feel more at home in Ayutthaya.

The family had rather generously booked me into the Regent Hotel—the same one I’d found so simpatico the day before—and at their expense, too. I was not entirely comfortable with this, but given I had made no other arrangements, I checked in. The hotel was the public equivalent of the Chaiwong family home. My room was smaller, of course, but tastefully appointed, with a nice view over a beautiful swimming pool.

I still had the sword with me, something I wasn’t too happy about, even if I didn’t believe for a moment the tale Tatiana had told me. It was difficult to carry, I certainly wasn’t going to be allowed to take it onto any aircraft, and frankly, it gave me the creeps. I was certain, from her description of the party, that Will had told Tatiana about the sword as part of an attempted seduction. He’d been drinking quite a bit, according to Tatiana, and Ferguson had said he liked to party. Having heard she was a would-be film producer, the temptation to tell her about his book must have proved too much, even if he had refused to tell casual friends like David Ferguson. A few more drinks, an embellishment or two on the story, and he probably figured she was his.

Still, the Helen Ford angle was an interesting one, if he really was writing a book about it. I suppose people have been killed to stop publication of books, although legal injunctions against publication are so much more civilized than murder. It was worth an hour or two of my time, I decided. I left a message for David Ferguson about my change of address, and another, a voice mail, for Tatiana Tucker at the travel agency, telling her where I could be reached and reminding her that I would be very interested in reading the first chapter of Will’s book—in order to convince my customer to lend the sword to the production, of course. I also, as promised, told her that my companion at the auction was single and interested in meeting her. Then I was off on the trail of Will Beauchamp, and if that helped, and I wasn’t sure it would, Helen Ford.

Will Beauchamp’s agent worked out of a small office near Siam Square shopping plaza. Bent Rowland, Talent Scout, Investment Advisor, and Literary Agent, the sign on the door said. A man of many talents was our Mr. Rowland. Finding him had not been as difficult as I feared, and once I’d mentioned Will’s name, I had no trouble getting an appointment; which is to say, I lied and said Will had suggested I give him a call.

“Yes, I represent William Beauchamp,” Rowland said, patting his hair. He was one of those men who try to cover up baldness by growing their hair long on one side and combing it over the bare patch. “I’m shopping his book around right now, as a matter of fact.” He had stuffed a half-eaten hamburger into his desk when I walked in, and the room smelled of French fries.

“Have you been in regular contact with Will?” I said.

“Of course,” he said, making a feeble attempt to straighten up the chaos that was his desk. “I check from time to time to see how the manuscript is coming along.”

“So have you seen him lately?” I said. “I’ve tried to reach him a couple of times without success. I was hoping to see him while I’m here.”

“I believe the last time we were in direct contact was a party at his place on July fourth. The book was almost finished then, and I had hoped to hear from him by now, but the muse works in strange and wonderful ways. But of course,” he added. “You know that.”

“I do?” I said.

“That is why you are here, is it not? Please, don’t be shy. You don’t have to be embarrassed. Your baby is safe with me.”

“My baby?” I said. There it was, that stepmother business again. But how could he know?

“Your book,” he said, taking out a large handkerchief and mopping his brow. A window air conditioner was chugging away valiantly but was clearly not up to the task. The air in the room was warm and stale. “I am very busy. So many authors, so little time. But I do promise to give it my undivided attention. There is a fee. I’m sure Will told you.”

“I’ve forgotten how much,” I said.

“Thirty thousand baht, or, if you prefer to pay in U.S. dollars, $500 will do it, a discount for fellow countrymen. A bit steep, I know, but for that you get an expert opinion on the viability of your manuscript. I have to tell you I have a knack for this, just born with it. Nothing I can claim credit for, really, but I have made it my business to have my fingers on the pulse of the publishing industry both here in Thailand and abroad. Will’s book, for example, I will be taking to Singapore, given the subject matter. Publishers here won’t want to touch it. Their fingers might get burned. Positively incendiary! Of course I can’t tell you what it’s about.”

“Helen Ford,” I said. “Will told me all about it.”

“I told him not to talk about this to anyone,” he said, frowning. “It’s the kind of book that will arouse a fair amount of resentment in certain circles. However, what’s done is done. To get back to your book and my fees: If I accept the manuscript, I will move aggressively to find a publisher. I get thirty percent of all earnings.”

“Isn’t that a bit higher than average?” I said.

“It is,” he agreed. “But my services are worth more than average.”

“So how would this work?” I said. “I mean what did Will give you? Did he send you chapters as he went along, or—?

“Before we get to that, tell me about your book. Fiction? Nonfiction?”

Inwardly I sighed. I just wanted to get out of there, it was all so depressing. There was the odor of failure in the room, or worse, deceit, and I could not figure out why Will had signed up with this man, nor why he would ever invite him to a party. “It’s fiction, but based on a true story,” I said. “It’s about an antique dealer who comes to Bangkok and loses his moral compass, enticed by the exotic lifestyle here. He abandons his wife and disabled child, lives the good life for awhile, and then disappears,” I said, trying to watch closely for any reaction from Rowland.

“Hmmm,” he said, swiveling in his seat to look out the window. It had a rather dreary view of an alley, but he seemed transfixed by it. His face was hidden from my view. “I like it. I really do. But let’s work with your concept for a minute. I have one word for you: Fantasy. It’s hot right now. You’ll have to trust me on this. Could you set it in a more, I don’t know, mythical spot—that’s the word I’m looking for—an island, perhaps, that doesn’t appear on any map. It has to be fantasy but relevant in the broader context, if you see what I mean. Just a minute,” he said, tapping his head. “An idea is coming to me. Your man is shipwrecked on this island nobody knows about—you’d have to create this whole world, you know. He falls under the spell of the gorgeous women who inhabit the place, blah blah blah, forgets his wife and child. I don’t like the idea of the disabled child, by the way. Too sad. It distracts from the plot, unless…” He tapped his head again. “I’ve got it! The child has some special ability, a sixth sense of some kind, about where his father is, and then… I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Love it,” I said. I could see his face now only in profile, and could not tell if the man was merely an idiot or if he was lying through his teeth, as I was. I felt as if my usual instincts for such things had been dulled by the heat, that I was a stranger in a strange land without the usual moral reference points to guide me. At last he turned and smiled. “I’ll get working on it right away,” I said. “But what will you need to decide? I can’t quite recall what Will said he had to give you.”

“A few chapters and an outline will be all I require to make my decision,” he said. “That’s what I got from Will. He’d been to a few other agents, of course, but only I could see the potential. Given you haven’t been published before— you haven’t been published before, have you?”

“No.”

“Then give me whatever you have, along with a check for my fee, and I’ll have a look at it. In the meantime, think about that fantasy idea of mine.”

“I don’t suppose you could give me an idea of what an outline might look like,” I said. “Will’s maybe. I intended to ask him for a copy of it, but unfortunately, I can’t seem to reach him.”

“That would not be appropriate,” Rowland said. For a second I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes, suspicion surely, but also perhaps guile.

“Would you happen to know any of Will’s friends?” I asked. “I really would like to get in touch with him.”

“I can’t say as I do,” he said. “Now, your manuscript?

Perhaps you would let me have a quick peek at it?“

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t bring it. Too embarrassed, I’m afraid.”

“That is something you will have to overcome, with my help,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him and attempting to look sincere. He had the expression of someone trying to sell salvation on television. “I know how it is for authors, working away in solitude on their manuscripts with no one to confide in, but—”

“Speaking of solitude,” I said. “I’m finding it really hard to find the space I need to write. There are always interruptions. Will told me he had a place he went to for peace and quiet so he could write. I don’t suppose you know where that is. I could really use a little solitude.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe he mentioned it.” Well, it had been worth a try. “Now to get back to your work—”

“You’ve given me a great idea about that island and everything,” I said, interrupting him. “I’ll get right back to work and send it in to you. Could I have your mailing address?”

He handed me a greasy card and smiled at me in the most unpleasant way.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ll be hearing from me as soon as I get a few chapters done.”

I hurled myself down the stairs and out into the street as fast as I could. Even gas fumes and heat like a furnace were an improvement over the office and person of Bent Rowland. The worst of it was that I’d suffered needlessly. I now knew nothing more than I did when I went in, other than, of course, that fantasy was really hot.