Bangkok Noir

Chai suddenly sags, struck with the gravity of it all. Cars and motorcycles, tuk-tuks and trucks roar and whine and growl, a snarling confusion of sound, a weight of color and movement and want and hate, killing in this heat. Chai hasn’t eaten yet today. It’s too hot. The heat weighs down, threatens to suffocate him. The cityscape shimmers for a moment and then holds still again, intense and hard-edged.

A brown Mercedes-Benz is approaching… It isn’t the one. The man told him to watch for a butterscotch Benz, the same color as the foreign khanom, the candy he gave Chai to taste. Expensive candy. What the foreigners eat, but it doesn’t taste so good. Chai likes Thai food. And with that thought he feels pangs of hunger. He feels faint, dizzy. A dull throb has started in his temples. The butterscotch Benz is a big one, he has been told. An SE class. Chai repeats the license plate number he was given, repeats it over and over like a mantra. He steps to the other side of the bridge, the beggar’s side, and looks towards the intersection to see the changes.

The gigantic mall they burned last year has been rebuilt; it seems bigger than it was before, and more beautiful. Chai has been inside only once. It’s like a temple, but far grander than any temple he has ever seen. Behind the mall and there, on the other corner, they are building more things—who knows what? Chai gazes all around the city horizon and shakes his head to clear the dizziness. The sky burns inside his head. A silent scream, the insect battle cries of building cranes draw together in one long plangent shriek across the hot blue sky, a shrill of anxiety only he can hear. From wherever you stand these days, alien stick-figure monsters loom on the skyline, a tangle of mindless, implacable builders. Destroyers. Sometimes—now—Chai hates this great suppurating city, swollen with people and cars swarming like maggots on a week-old corpse, multiplying like bacteria in a wound till the pressure of pus threatens to burst the tissues.

They kept Chai and his brother awake for ten months, erecting the high-rise condominium where the noodle shop, the best in the neighborhood, and the adjoining ice-house used to stand. They worked twelve-hour shifts around the clock, seven days a week. Nobody could sleep, but it wouldn’t have done any good to complain to the police. They had been paid. Now things are quiet once more, but Chai will never be able to see the sun from the roof of their building again. And now the lane is always choked with cars and delivery trucks. But mai pen rai—it doesn’t matter; soon they will have to move anyway. Another condo is going up and the whole row of old houses, the grocery and the barbershop have to go. Rents are so high these days, though; it’s hard to say where they will move to.

Before they tore down the old wooden icehouse, Sombat the legless boy used to clatter around the neighborhood on his cart delivering baskets of crushed ice. After the ice-house went, the rattle and squeak grew less frequent, slower, somehow less cheerful. For months before he died, Sombat gradually faded away, sometimes sitting for hours on the street doing nothing, just looking, smiling a bit if you said hello.

Black-smoked windshields throw reflections of Chai back up at himself, phantom witnesses to his presence, watching and waiting there this day. And now the moment is moving surely towards him. It approaches with the stuttering river of cars, with the slow storm of color and sparkle in the hot, still air. Reds flare fierce as blood in the sun, blare lust and power. Blues dazzle and pine. Dark greens, cool greens; hot yellows and pinks. Glossy black class—power. The whole of it a hectic crawl, a babble of color, a confusion of grays, whites, maroons, browns, silver and gold, a vast hubbub of sorrow and anger and want and hate. And here it is—a big, long Sclass. The butterscotch Benz is approaching, slick and sweet enough to eat. The inside lane, as well. That’s good. And it isn’t going to make the green light.

Chai clatters down the steps and swings onto the bike behind Dit even before the Benz has stopped, stuck behind a truck and two cars at the intersection. Dit moves the motorcycle out to draw alongside, Chai riding pillion. Jai yen yen. Cool, cool; be cool, now. Chai reaches inside the saddlebag.

They’ll wait till the light turns yellow.