Bangkok Noir

The Toyota Crown moves on. Cars snarl and wheeze at the intersection, stop and start, an intermittent river of shiny waxed reds and yellows and blues. All the colors in the world. Splendid hues multiplied and complicated in chrome and glass. A big air-conditioned bus rolls by, painted up like a new-model iPhone, its giant screen a window on some world of happy people.

Last year this part of town was a sea of red. Red shirts, red headbands, red banners, red pickup trucks and, finally, red blood on the streets. Even Chai came out in his brother’s red Singha beer T-shirt and his reddish motorcycle taxi driver’s vest. He got money every day he showed up. Not a lot, but they were going to bring the government down, he was told. Then there would be much more money for everyone. The old prime minister would return, bringing back “democrazy” with him. Nai Yai—the Big Boss—was the richest man in Thailand, maybe in the world. So everything would be okay again, everyone said. Chai believed them and tries to now, tries to remember the days when everything was okay.

Air-con bus fares have gone up again. Everything is going up. How can a person live in this city, the way things are going? You sit on an ordinary bus, no air, and the bus gets stuck in traffic, not even a breeze. It’s torture. Clouds of exhaust choking you. You haven’t got to work yet and you’re all screwed up, your clothes soaked with sweat. Chai got off the bus three stops early, not wanting to be seen, and he walked the rest of the way to the overpass to meet Dit. You need a car in this city. A motorcycle is faster, but then you’re right down there in the worst of it. Coughing all the time. Chest tight. Eyes sore. Motorcycles aren’t the same as cars. Chai knows he’ll be nobody until he can sit in his own car with his air-conditioner blowing and some music on his stereo. A nice girl beside him. Then it won’t matter how bad the traffic is.

The Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs and Honda Accords roll by. Lots of Mitsubishis and Toyotas and Peugeots and Isuzus. Volvos. One Jaguar. But no butterscotch Benz. Not yet. It’s amazing, with what they cost, the number of Mercedes-Benzes on the streets. When Chai gets his car, he wants smokedglass windows all around; it looks good. And it keeps the sun out. But then how will people be able to see the nice girl beside him? It will be better if people can see her. He stares hard at the side windows of a passing Volvo, seeing only shadowy presences that could be anybody. No, not anybody. Someone rich. “Mobile Class Members Club,” proclaims a sticker on the back window of one car. Chai has heard how much a single beer, a small beer, costs in a club like that one. The job his brother Vajira has, he doesn’t earn that much in a day. Vajira’s wife, Daeng, she doesn’t make that much in three days, renting out woven mats in the park so people can sit on the grass. At a place like the Mobile Class Members Club the girls are all beautiful and, somebody told Chai, their drinks cost even more than the beer. And you know how much you have to pay to take one of these chickens home for the night? It’s unbelievable.

But they say the Red Shirts are coming out again. And this time there’ll be no stopping them. No more double standards. Everybody will have money. Nice cars. Good whiskey. Dit says all these things will come true. It’s democrazy that does it. And then he laughs, maybe because this makes him happy.

The light is turning, so Chai goes back up the steel stairway to his post.

This job today will buy him a few beers. Beautiful women, too, though not in the Mobile Class. A motorcycle, bigger than his brother’s. And this is only the start. If he does good work this time, there will be more in the future. This is a big chance for him. He’ll be able to buy a car. A Toyota. He’ll drive his brother and his wife to Nonthaburi, to that restaurant by the river. And they will eat big grilled tiger prawns with sweet solid white meat. And cold, cold beer. Even a bottle of Black Label whiskey. Put it on a trolley with a bucket of ice and bottles of cola. The waiters will keep pouring it out, nobody’s glass allowed to go dry; then he’ll call for more Coke and ice. And when the first bottle of Black Label is gone, he’ll send a waiter for another. He’ll buy a Blu-ray DVD player, and the neighbors will come to sit downstairs, on the road outside the house, and watch the Muay Thai boxing. A big color set with a fortytwo-inch screen. HD. He’ll buy everybody Mekong whiskey and beer and fried duck and prawns. No. He should buy them Black Label too.

A young woman stops to drop some coins into the legless beggar’s cup. A nice-looking woman in a nice dress. She’s wearing a chunky gold-chain necklace, and Chai sees the look in the beggar’s face as he thanks her. Had the beggar legs to stand on, he would stand to snatch the gold and run like the wind. The woman walks down the steps to the street and towards the intersection. Chai likes the way she moves.