scientifically, though.”
The FBI is finding it hard to believe what is happening. Only seconds ago it was a normal sort of day in the life of a cop. I’m watching Kimberley intently while the images start to play. Supatra has done this to me before, so I have a good idea of what the FBI is seeing, even though the screen is not in my line of sight. Kimberley turns pale, puts one hand to her face, stares at me for a moment, turns back to the laptop, shakes her head, then winces. She puts her hand to her mouth as if she is about to vomit. Supatra leans over her to turn off the video clip.
The FBI stands up, anger distorting her features. “I’m sorry,” she says, red-faced. “I’m a guest in this country, and I’m afraid I don’t think that’s very funny.”
Supatra shares a glance with me and raises her hands a little. I say in Thai, “It’s okay, Kimberley is doing exactly what I did the first time I saw it. She has to find a way to convince herself that it’s not real, things like that don’t happen, it must be a trick.”
Supatra: “What should I do? She’s very annoyed. I don’t think this was a good idea, Sonchai. Is it easier if I pretend it’s a trick?”
I shrug. “Whatever is easiest.”
“I’m very sorry,” Supatra says to Kimberley in English. “It’s Thai humor. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Mollified, the FBI manages a smile. “It’s okay. I guess it’s a cultural thing. Sure, I guess I would have found it funny in a different context. I’m not a killjoy—I just wasn’t expecting a practical joke.”
“So sorry.” Supatra wais to indicate sincere regret.
Now Kimberley is anxious to show she’s a good sport. “It’s very clever,” she offers. “I don’t know how you did that. Is it part of Thai culture to believe that ghosts fornicate with each other and do those— those, uh, ugly things to each other? I’ve never heard of that. Amazing the way you got those kinds of effects. You must be a serious amateur filmmaker.”
“Right,” Supatra says. “It’s all camera magic. For the antics of ghosts, though, you have to remember that when the brain dies, many urges are left. Generally quite ugly to look at, I agree.”
“Those other creatures, the nonhuman ones—how did you do that?”
“Oh, I use a special kind of animation program,” Supatra says, at the same time making a little wai to the Buddha sitting in a little shrine halfway up the wall, asking for absolution for telling a white lie.
“It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It seems more advanced that anything coming out of Hollywood.”
Supatra accepts the compliment and takes us back upstairs. I can tell she’s angry with me for encouraging her to share her hobby with a farang by the way she doesn’t look me in the eye when she says goodbye.
Out on the street I don’t want to talk about Damrong, but I’m trapped. I have to take Kimberley back to her hotel in a taxi, and her silence presses on my consciousness like an ever-increasing weight. She doesn’t even need to look at me. She stares out of her side window pretending to be diplomatic, while all the time she’s adding tick by tick to the great black burden of silence.
“Of course Chanya knows,” I say after a long pause. “It was before she and I met. The reason she talked to you about the case is she’s scared of the effect it’s having on me. She thought you were the one person who could help on a psychological level. She feels helpless herself.”
Kimberley doesn’t say anything for a while. Then she leans forward to tell the driver to take us to The Dome on the top of State Tower, instead of her hotel. It’s a smart choice. A few hundred feet above the city, sitting in an open-air restaurant and cocktail lounge, naked to the stars, an exotic coconut-based cocktail in Kimberley’s hand and a Kloster beer in mine, one may feel as if the ceiling of one’s skull has been raised to be contiguous with the
The FBI is finding it hard to believe what is happening. Only seconds ago it was a normal sort of day in the life of a cop. I’m watching Kimberley intently while the images start to play. Supatra has done this to me before, so I have a good idea of what the FBI is seeing, even though the screen is not in my line of sight. Kimberley turns pale, puts one hand to her face, stares at me for a moment, turns back to the laptop, shakes her head, then winces. She puts her hand to her mouth as if she is about to vomit. Supatra leans over her to turn off the video clip.
The FBI stands up, anger distorting her features. “I’m sorry,” she says, red-faced. “I’m a guest in this country, and I’m afraid I don’t think that’s very funny.”
Supatra shares a glance with me and raises her hands a little. I say in Thai, “It’s okay, Kimberley is doing exactly what I did the first time I saw it. She has to find a way to convince herself that it’s not real, things like that don’t happen, it must be a trick.”
Supatra: “What should I do? She’s very annoyed. I don’t think this was a good idea, Sonchai. Is it easier if I pretend it’s a trick?”
I shrug. “Whatever is easiest.”
“I’m very sorry,” Supatra says to Kimberley in English. “It’s Thai humor. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Mollified, the FBI manages a smile. “It’s okay. I guess it’s a cultural thing. Sure, I guess I would have found it funny in a different context. I’m not a killjoy—I just wasn’t expecting a practical joke.”
“So sorry.” Supatra wais to indicate sincere regret.
Now Kimberley is anxious to show she’s a good sport. “It’s very clever,” she offers. “I don’t know how you did that. Is it part of Thai culture to believe that ghosts fornicate with each other and do those— those, uh, ugly things to each other? I’ve never heard of that. Amazing the way you got those kinds of effects. You must be a serious amateur filmmaker.”
“Right,” Supatra says. “It’s all camera magic. For the antics of ghosts, though, you have to remember that when the brain dies, many urges are left. Generally quite ugly to look at, I agree.”
“Those other creatures, the nonhuman ones—how did you do that?”
“Oh, I use a special kind of animation program,” Supatra says, at the same time making a little wai to the Buddha sitting in a little shrine halfway up the wall, asking for absolution for telling a white lie.
“It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It seems more advanced that anything coming out of Hollywood.”
Supatra accepts the compliment and takes us back upstairs. I can tell she’s angry with me for encouraging her to share her hobby with a farang by the way she doesn’t look me in the eye when she says goodbye.
Out on the street I don’t want to talk about Damrong, but I’m trapped. I have to take Kimberley back to her hotel in a taxi, and her silence presses on my consciousness like an ever-increasing weight. She doesn’t even need to look at me. She stares out of her side window pretending to be diplomatic, while all the time she’s adding tick by tick to the great black burden of silence.
“Of course Chanya knows,” I say after a long pause. “It was before she and I met. The reason she talked to you about the case is she’s scared of the effect it’s having on me. She thought you were the one person who could help on a psychological level. She feels helpless herself.”
Kimberley doesn’t say anything for a while. Then she leans forward to tell the driver to take us to The Dome on the top of State Tower, instead of her hotel. It’s a smart choice. A few hundred feet above the city, sitting in an open-air restaurant and cocktail lounge, naked to the stars, an exotic coconut-based cocktail in Kimberley’s hand and a Kloster beer in mine, one may feel as if the ceiling of one’s skull has been raised to be contiguous with the
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