| Preface
I was in Asia
when I first read a Christopher Moore book. The novel
was called A Killing Smile and once I started reading
it, I could not stop. With subsequent Moore books, including
The Big Weird, it has been exactly the same. The plots
and characters force you to turn the pages until you
finish.
Moore’s writings
are addictive for a variety of reasons. The first is
that his novels continue that tradition of American
private detective stories so cleverly exemplified by
Raymond Chandler. Like Chandler, Moore allows you almost
to smell the streets and to visualise the frail but
very human characters that occupy his literary landscape.
But where Moore differs from Chandler is that he exports
the private eye genre to Asia, a region with quite different
smells and scenes from the more familiar surrounds of
North America. Indeed, there is a razor-sharp edge to
the settings that act as a background to his books -
and also a real sense that the reader is part of this
background, a fly-on-the-wall almost, soaking up the
action that comes from the bars, homes or offices of
the principal characters.
Vinnie Calvino,
for example, Moore’s crusty but perceptive private detective
in The Big Weird, is someone the reader appears to have
known for years. Calvino may not be your best friend
but you can at least understand where he comes from
and some of the reasons why he has given up his Big
Apple heritage for the fleshpots of Bangkok. And the
fleshpots of Bangkok feature prominently in all of Moore’s
books including The Big Weird. The bars and brothels
buzz with the erotic tension of foreigners and hookers
playing mind-games with each other in pre-sexual rituals
that are a far cry from the romantic couplings found
in a Mills and Boon novel.
What Moore
does so cleverly is to give us a real sense of "the
sickness" that a rootless class of foreigners suffer
from when they wash up onto the soils of Thailand. This
rootless class of foreigners some veterans from the
Vietnam war and some more recent refugees from western
cities have an obsession with the rich tapestry of sex
so readily available in their new home. This sickness
is addictive, psychologically troubling and sometimes
deadly.
Though Moore’s
books have a decidedly sexual tone about them he is
not concerned with just gratuitous sex alone. Rather,
the erotic elements in The Big Weird have to be seen
in the context of a wider sub-text that explores the
cultural and psychic undertones that characterise Thai
society.
For Moore
is one of the few westerners writing stories about an
Asian country who understands the way in which the world
is perceived by both foreigners and Thai alike - and
the huge gap between the misperceptions that both parties
harbour. For foreigners, Thai women are often vehicles
for the unlimited expression of their wildest and most
deviant sexual and romantic fantasies. The dark and
slim bodies of the bargirls embody that unique mixture
of loving subservience and fleshy exuberance that stand
in sharp contrast to what foreigners perceive as the
controlling and sexually inhibited mind-set and bodies
of western women.
But Moore’s
books are not just disguised cultural dissertations
of Asian society and life. There are pounding, adrenalin-charging
episodes that throb through the pages as Thai and western
men and women struggle to survive in a society where
life is often brutal and short. The Big Weird exemplifies
a writer who is in control of his material. This book
like his others demonstrates that at last we have an
author who understands the abyss between the dreams
and aspirations of westerners hoping for a new life
in an Asian land and the often-harsh reality that they
find.
As I said
at the beginning, Christopher Moore is a compelling
writer. Much like Thailand itself his stories become
part of our own psyches, forcing us to return to that
uncomfortable space in our souls where the erotic and
the violent live side by side. In that sense his books
explore universal questions about the meaning of love,
life and sometimes death. These are therefore stories
that transcend all cultures.
20th January
2000
PROFESSOR
PAUL WILSON
CRIMINOLOGIST AND DEAN, HUMANITIES AND SOCIAL SCIENCES
BOND UNIVERSITY, GOLD COAST, QUEENSLAND
AUSTRALIA
Chapter
3
After a couple
of hours sleep, the cold nose of joy nudged his arm.
Calvino climbed out of bed, took a cold shower, dressed,
listened to the pile drivers as he shaved. He fed Joy
two cans of tuna mixed in cold white rice. Outside his
apartment, he saw a pack of soi dogs tear into the bamboo
garbage baskets which were lined up along the driveway.
They were hungry. The entire city had this non-stop
hunger. He walked past the dogs which many years ago
had stopped noticing him. He was part of the neighborhood.
Then he took a taxi back to the Police Hospital opposite
Erawan Shrine. Howard Luce was there waiting, his Leica
hanging around his neck and he carried a bag over one
shoulder.
"Hey,
it's Vincent Calvino, looking like a robber's dog."
Howard was hamming it up in front of his client. They
had only seen each other a few hours ago and Howard
was acting as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
Calvino smiled.
I still haven't seen the photos of your Bangkok dog
autopsies."
"Wait
for the book," said Howard.
They had worked
together a couple of times for insurance companies including
the time the farang was pulled out of the Chao Phraya
River after being submerged for five days. And it was
Calvino who had been at the police station with Howard's
motorcycle helmet under his arm as he was led out of
jail.
"How's
it going, Howard."
Then Luce
arched one eyebrow as he looked at the creature who
stood on his right, "Khun Vinee is my mate,"
he said. "You know mate is the Aussie word for
puen." The Thai word for friend registered and
she nodded, grinned.
"I hear
you are working for Quentin Stuart. In the movie business.
Moving ahead, are we? Not just another drop-kick yank,
but you've moved up the scale to become a Hollywood
hanger-on."
Howard's friend
moved alongside Calvino. From the flaming red backless
cocktail dress, the Adam's apple, and breasts that were
too good to be real, the extra large highheels, it was
as close as one could get to a dead certainty that the
friend was a katoey. A man who had become a woman with
a little help from a doctor's scalpel.
"This
is Porntip," said Howard. "We've come to see
the boyfriend."
Porntip fluttered
her long, fake eye-lashes. "Howard told me that
we have a common friend."
"Who
might that be?" asked Calvino.
"Her
street name is Ice."
Why doesn't
that surprise me, thought Calvino. Ice seemed to have
her nails into just about every counter-culture group
in the Big Weird.
"Quentin's
friend, Luk Pla, took two bullets last night in front
of the Plaza," said Calvino.
Howard lit
a cigarette and sucked in long and hard as if he was
going to inhale the entire cigarette on the first hit.
His eyes were ringed with black like someone who never
slept, or like a raccoon, someone who only went out
at night. In Howard's case, both were true.
"Porntip's
farang boyfriend had an unfortunate accident in prison.
First the drongo gets his ass busted for heroin. Turns
out that he was a diabetic. He needed his kit to inject
himself. The guards thought he was just another junkie
wanting a fix so they wouldn’t give it to him.
"He said,
'Hey, man, I'm sick. I am gonna die without my insulin."
"Fuck
that. Die you bastard, they said. After a few days,
true to his word, he went into shock and corked it.
Porntip wants some pictures so she can make a case against
the cops. Maybe she can get the family to hire you.
The guy's family has some money."
Porntip's
garlic breath was close to Calvino's face as she whispered,
"His family is very rich."
"How
well do you know Ice?" Calvino asked her. He had
heard most of Howard's version earlier in the Thermae,
but he had left out the part of how Porntip had a plan
of her own to try and get money out of the police. That
was a nice twist, thought Calvino.
"Why
you want to talk about her?" asked Porthip.
"Because
women around Ice seem to be getting themselves shot.
Especially her close friends. Not that I am saying you
are a close friend of Ice."
This wiped
the smile from the katoey's face.
"Many
guns in Thailand. Can be dangerous sometimes."
"Maybe
she talked about her friends getting shot." He
looked over at Howard who winked.
"She
told me how this mem shot herself."
"Farang
have a hell've time staying outta jail and staying alive,"
said Howard.
"Howard,
your observations are most useful."
"I reckon
you're right. Why don't you come along. I'll do my job,
and you can do your's, " said Howard.
The three
of them walked down the hallway, the katoey wedged between
Howard and Calvino. She was the center of attention,
smiling, holding her head high, chin pointed up. They
walked straight into the morgue. Howard lit a handrolled
cigarette, rolled another one and handed it to an attendant
who was eating a bowl of noodles.
"You
got a farang in here?" Howard asked, he half-turned
and winked at Calvino.
The attendant
nodded, spooning in a mouthful of noodles. "Great,
we'd like to have a look if that's okay. Don't want
to disturb your lunch or anything."
Howard lit
the attendant's cigarette and then they followed him
through a set of doors into a room with heavy metal
fridge doors on the walls. He pulled out one of the
drawers and loaded the corpse onto a stainless steel
table and wheeled the table to the center of the room.
There was the color of the Big Weird sky all over the
body. The aftermath of an autopsy had left a long, crude
gash in the main cavity and thick, rough stitches zigzagged
along the edges of the skin. From the perforated body,
fluids, with the viscosity of thin maple syrup, leaked
onto the table and dripped onto the floor. No one said
anything as Howard opened his bag and changed the lens
on his camera. Calvino watched as the attendant held
up a hand.
"Wait,"
the attendant said in Thai.
"Wait
for what?" asked Howard lowering the camera. "Jesus,
I want to get this job over with."
Porntip had
gone pale, tears smeared her make-up, making her look
more like a man by the minute.
The attendant
walked over to a set of stainless steel drawers and
removed along length of plastic hose. He walked back
to the table, dropped his cigarette on the floor drain,
then he stuck one end of the hose into the body of the
dead man and began sucking on the other end as if he
were siphoning petrol. At the last moment, he pulled
the hose out of his mouth, the yellowish liquid spilled
down the drain.
"Fucking,
gross," said Howard. "You see that Calvino."
Porthip was
vomiting her guts out down the same drain, holding her
head between her legs. She gasped for air. No question
about it, Porntip was a mess. Howard snapped several
shots of her bent over retching down the same drain
that the hose was carrying the run-off from her dead
boyfriend. The attendant pulled the hose out of the
body, lit another cigarette and sat down on a folding
chair to one side. Porntip was wobbly as she rose back
to her feet. Howard had his shots of the emotionally
worked-up katoey and, after that, he took no notice
of her as he circled the table, the flash showering
the room with a brilliant, incandescent light. Calvino
helped Porntip move away from the table and the body.
"These
shots ought to look good in the family album,"
said Howard, changing lenses. "Here's a picture
of our son on holiday in Bangkok. Looking a bit drained."
Like many photo-journalists, he talked to himself as
he worked a job. He never stopped talking; he could
have talked under wet cement. It was a way of keeping
himself assured that he was still alive, something he
did as he waited out long stretches during the night,
standing a lone vigil for next act of Big Weird violence
to leave a subject for him to photograph.
"What
did Ice tell you about the night that the mem killed
herself?" Calvino asked.
At first Porntip
either did not hear or she did not understand what Calvino
had said.
"Ice?"
"Your
best friend."
"Oh,
Ice."
"She
told you the story about the mem?"
"She
saw mem kill herself," Porntip said, covering her
mouth with both hands, showing her long, red nails.
"I promised not to tell anyone. Please don't tell
her that I told you. Pleassse." The shock of the
body and all that vomiting had softened up Porthip.
"Ice
saw the mem pop herself?" asked Calvino.
Once again
Porntip nodded. She had the look of someone telling
the truth, but, then, she had the look of a woman when
she had been born a nun.
"Was
there anyone else in the room that night?
"Loads
of people," said Porntip.
Howard had
stopped shooting and was packing away his equipment.
He rolled himself another cigarette and watched the
attendant finishing his bowl of noodles.
"The
guy didn't even gargle before he tucked back into his
noodles. It makes you wonder what would put him off
his lunch," said Howard.
"Did
Ice mention any names of the people who were there the
night Sam died?"
"Hey,
Calvino, the next thing you'll be sticking a hose down
my client's throat for information."
Calvino ignored
him. "Well, did she?"
Porntip gave
a sly smile, fluttered her eyelids, "Now that really
would be breaking my promise."
Calvino removed
a blue thousand baht note from his wallet and held it
out.
"Corruption
is a contagious disease, Calvino," said Howard,
his eyes buried in dark, sunken eyeholes flashing as
the money came out.
Porntip took
the money and handed it to Howard.
"Your
fee," she said.
"Howard,
you surprise me, I thought you had been vaccinated for
all communicable disease."
Howard handed
her three rolls of films. "I'm keeping the blue
as evidence so when you come to trial, they can nail
your ass," he said.
After they
were back on the street, Howard disappeared on his motorcycle
leaving behind a haze of blue smoke. Calvino, took Porntip
into the hospital canteen and ordered coffee. What he
got in return was two more names at the scene of Samantha
McNeal's death. The names of two people close at hand:
Quentin Stuart and Luk Pla.
First edition
(1996) / Current edition (2000) Heaven Lake Press, 272
pp.
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