Skytrain to Murder

Chapter 8

Two hours later, I hailed a taxi outside Washington Square and headed for Thitagan’s training camp on the Thonburi side of the Chao Phraya River. As the tiny, elderly, bespectacled, taxi driver gripped the top of the wheel, thumbs touching, his wrinkled brown hands fluttered and flapped in spasms like the wings of a dying butterfly. He looked out at the confusing swirl of traffic before him by sitting up very straight and peering between two large Buddha statues affixed to his dashboard, and squinting beneath Buddhist amulets and a fresh garland hanging from his rearview mirror. His straight white hair was long in back but when, at the first red light, he turned to ask in broken English if this was my first trip to Thailand, I could see he was losing the battle of male pattern baldness.

I had learned long ago that in Thailand even simple things could be complicated, so I considered my response carefully. If I said yes, and pretended to be a visitor who spoke almost no Thai, he might pester me to hire him to see some tourist destinations or to try an overpriced massage parlor, or to shop at a gems store; most likely the type of store notorious for poor quality gems at high prices. If, on the other hand, he learned that I was an expatriate who spoke fluent Thai, rather than relaxing, I would spend my time responding to the usual questions about my origins, work, marital status and, of course, whether I had (or would be interested in having) a Thai girlfriend. He had already seen me hail his taxi, Thai-style, by holding my hand out, palm down, and slowly lowering it, a dead giveaway to a Thai that I wasn’t a new boy in town.

The ploy I used was to inform him in a hoarse voice while gripping my throat that I had visited Thailand a few times before and loved the country but had some throat problems and it hurt to talk. This was always accepted with good grace, as it was now, and I customarily made up for my lack of conversational skills due to sudden and mysterious illness by tipping well.

The weekday traffic wasn’t as horrendous as I had thought it would be and I managed to reach my destination in just under half an hour. I paid the driver, wished him good luck, and began walking.

The way to the camp was through a maze of alleyways and narrow lanes which at times resembled the Thai countryside more than an area within a crowded city. On dirt paths, chickens clucked excitedly at having to flutter out of my way, badly scarred soi dogs eyed me warily, and vegetable gardens stretched out to the horizon. Then the dirt path ended abruptly and I walked on a paved path lined with modern lampposts past recently constructed lower-middle class town houses.

In a yard partly hidden by bottle palms, a thicket of tall, slender yellow bamboo swayed in the breeze, repeatedly concealing and exposing a black, concave, satellite dish pointed toward heaven. The sun illuminated pink and purple sashes tied to the post of a spirit house and coruscated along beer-bottle colored shards of glass cemented into the top of a wall. A small boy pushed a still smaller boy on a swing while a teenage maid in a Thai-style sarong swept a wooden porch with a short Thai-style whiskbroom. The hiss of the pliant twigs and bamboo bristles along the teakwood floor merged with the creaking of the swing, the laughter of the children and the chatter of small birds.

As I rounded a bend and the roof of the two-story wooden house of the training camp came into view, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Muay Thai: gloves whapping with force and determination against practice pads, the hissing of boxers as they practiced their kicking, the slapping sounds of sparring partners and the whaps of jump ropes hitting the wooden floor of an outside training area.

The boxing camp might not even have been recognized as such in the West. The tin-and-wood roof over the outdoor ring looked as if it might be blown away during a serious storm, and the equipment –- from gloves to heavy bags to ring ropes –- had seen better days. Except for a small sign with the name of the camp, and the usual spirit shrines, the wooden house itself might have been a slum dwelling awaiting razing by the government. But the reputation of those who taught there, and the dedication of those who learned muay Thai there, was as respected as in any training camp in Thailand. Those who trained here regarded this camp (Daochalatfa – “Never-extinguished Star”) as being very different from camps that accepted Western students. Here there was no music, and no one was left to practice alone. No one would ever be matched too early against a more experienced opponent simply for a promoter’s financial gain. Here it was understood the path of a champion was not only through boxing skills but through pain. The ability to absorb pain and continue on to victory was regarded as no less important than khaeng raeng (strength) and jai su (fighting spirit).

The fronds of banana trees reached over a low green hedge flecked with orange clusters of Ixora flowers. Behind the hedge a shoulder-high bamboo fence ran the length of the lane fronting the house. I pushed open the wooden gate and waiied the boxers. Dao’s elder brother, Narong (“battle”), was training one of the professional boxers, and I stopped to congratulate the boxer for handily winning his last fight at Lumpini Stadium and apologized for missing it. The boxer grinned and waiied me with gloved hands. Sweat from his forehead and chin dripped onto his gloves.

I nodded to her father, Amnart (“power”), who was correcting a beginning boxer on his kicking method. Each time the boy kicked, Amnart would slightly move his leg, torso and hands to their proper position. The boy paid strict attention. In Thailand, teachers were still highly respected, and the relationship between a muay Thai trainer and his students was that of a father and children. The boy’s faulty hip movement showed he apparently wasn’t getting the hang of it and I heard Amnart tell the boy to pay attention to what he was saying because he wasn’t going to waste his time playing his flute for a water buffalo. The boy’s head hung forward, his thin shoulders drooped and he gave his teacher an up-from-under look replete with remorse and contrition.

I spotted Dao beyond the training area near the house, dressed in white T-shirt, blue shorts and cheap sneakers, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail with a red barrette. A tire had been placed flat on the ground and she was exercising by standing on top of it, legs apart, and rapidly jumping up and switching both feet in the air, first in one direction and then jumping up and placing them in another. It was an exercise she enjoyed after her regular workout and just before taking her shower. Her breathing was heavy, her forehead glistened with sweat and her attention was internally focused on her training. As I approached, I allowed my gaze to linger: The bouncing pony tail, the determination clearly evident in the beautiful face and the smooth muscled curvature of her powerful brown legs.

I knew she couldn’t talk until she had finished her exercise so I went into the house and joined two teenaged boxers on a cheap sofa watching a live bout of muay Thai on a television which had seen better days. Her father ran a very strict camp and I knew that these two would not be watching television unless their training session was finished. There was an ancient phone with a lock on it which in any case was to be used only by trainers. Cellphones were reluctantly allowed in the camp for those few who could afford them but they were never to be used during training. On the wall above a shelf full of trophies a sign in Thai read “What do you have?”

Dao had explained that it was asking the boxers what they had in reserve during a fight. When they felt the pain unbearable, when they couldn’t catch their breath, when they were blinded by their own sweat and could taste and smell their own blood, when they knew their powerful opponent was trying to finish them off – what did each boxer of this camp have left inside? Her father had spoken to me once at length as to how essential it was to find out what a boxer has in reserve and how it was his job to find the best way of working with what he found there.

I had visited the house several times and I knew the sleeping rooms were even more spartan than the living room. There were no beds, only bedrolls, no photographs, only pictures cut from magazines or a calendar with the king’s picture. A few of the rooms did have pictures of modern Thai muay Thai champions as well as grainy black-and-white photographs of Thai boxers from an earlier era; before gloves were used. The boxers hands were wrapped with rope, hemp or cotton soaked in glue. It was said some fought with bits of glass glued into the bandages. On the wall above Dao’s bed was a picture of a very young man, her father, hardening his instep and shin by a method long gone -- kicking against the trunk of a banana tree.

There was no air-conditioning, only fans, there was little privacy as even Dao had nothing to herself but a portion of a room curtained off. Each boxer washed his own clothes and, under a trainer’s supervision, took turns preparing dinner for the rest.

In an outside area behind the house, traditional water-filled klong jars with scoops served as baths. And of course the toilet was not of the sit-down, flush variety. Amnart only recently installed a refrigerator but I noticed it had a lock on it. Dao had described the camp as “like an orphanage or a monastery.”

It was also just a bit like a prison. Lights were out early and everyone was supposed to be in their room. There was officially no opportunity for sex while one lived at the camp. Early morning runs at Sanam Luang, daily exercising, contact sparring, intense training and preparations for bouts, pushed such thoughts from their minds. Most Thai boxers went “home” after a fight, back to their village or town where, as might be expected, they would quickly find some outlet for their sexual drives.

Nevertheless, well after sunset, twice a week, usually Tuesday and Thursday, Dao made her escape by pushing through her window, circling around to the front of the house and climbing the bamboo fence or locked wooden gate. She would then walk to the main road and take a taxi to my apartment over the Boots and Saddle. But the barking soi dogs were a dead giveaway that someone was outside the house in the yard and Dao had no illusions that her father and the other boxers knew nothing about her nocturnal activities. This was the only exception he allowed to his rules; and it was never acknowledged. If it had been, she would have been barred from training. The truth was professional trainers who worked daily with the same students could instinctively tell from the energy level if a boxer had been neglecting his or her rest; and Dao was experienced enough to know this.

She was almost always back by 5 a.m. in time for the Sanam Luang run. Twice she had been late but had had the presence of mind to buy some fruit and vegetables to create the fiction that she was returning from early morning shopping.

She appeared in the doorway of the living room with her hair down and wearing a white blouse, khaki slacks and casual shoes. She spoke in Thai. “All set. Shall we eat something?”

“Sure. But I need to speak with your brother and father. It might be best if we all go, all right?”

She seemed a bit surprised at this but nodded. She spoke to them and they agreed to join us in a few minutes. The two of us headed out into the lane and walked in silence, the sounds of muay Thai gradually fading behind us. The sky above was still a canopy of light blue punctuated by fluffy wisps of white clouds. Partly in deference to Thai customs and partly due to simple common sense, Dao reserved demonstrations of affection for my apartment.

We reached the lane’s popular open-air restaurant and sat down on plastic stools as purplish red as the crimson bracts of nearby ginger bushes. The rickety table was just large enough to serve four, if the four didn’t mind one another’s elbows. We were partly shielded from the mid-day sun by a traveler’s palm whose dried-up, fan-shaped leaves had seen better days. Crates of soft drinks were piled behind the restaurant separating it from a long stretch of green lawn leading to rickety one- and two-story wooden houses nestled cheek-by-jowl.

The restaurant’s Buddhist shrine was crowded with offerings of oranges, joss-sticks and tattered peacock feathers rising out of rusty Ovaltine cans. The tables were almost all occupied and the owner and her children bustled about serving customers.

A dark-complexioned girl about twelve expertly employed a cleaver to cut bite-size pieces of duck on a Tamarind wood chopping board. When she noticed Dao, she smiled and quickly took our orders for four. She gave the order to a slightly older girl who began grinding peppercorn, garlic and coriander roots with mortar and pestle. A few feet from our table a small boy with a frowning face employed a celery stick as a spatula to place pork inside square-shaped soup patties. As he wrapped each piece his hands turned white from flour. Flies used my own hands as jumping off points to buzz about kaleidoscopic bits of red and green Thai chilies in a small pink dish.

Food constantly simmered in a wok placed on the flanges of an earthenware pot filled with charcoal. Family members carried trays filled with round balls of chicken and beef-on-sticks, crisp noodles and fresh vegetables. Two overfed tabby cats stealthily prowled after them like sharks following garbage scows.

For several moments, I stared at Dao in silence. She was every inch the daughter of a respected trainer of muay Thai in Korat. She had been brought up with her brothers and the other boxers as if she was one of the boys. And although she had been expected to feed chickens and clean and cook and sew, she made it her business to learn Thai boxing well. Despite her obvious beauty, she was as tough as the men.

Her face could not be described as delicately sculptured or light-complexioned, hence, in the eyes of many Thais, she would not be thought beautiful. But to a discerning observer, there was a keen intelligence in her dark brown eyes, and a special loveliness in her long, naturally curving eyelashes, her full, generous lips, and small but almost Caucasian nose. Even the tiny boxing scar above the eyebrow accentuated rather than spoiled the symmetrical beauty of her face. But, when annoyed, her face also clearly revealed strength of character, and I had more than once been on the receiving end of a smoldering defiance which was delivered with a direct stare and firmed-up line of her strong jaw. But when in a playful mood, her Thai smile could light up a room while the sound of her laughter could make anyone who heard it laugh with her. A lady of many moods who could take heavy punishment in a ring, endure it, and come back to win. I often thought that I admired her as much as I loved her.

She seemed more than a bit on edge and I knew why. Although men from abroad learning muay Thai did only fairly well against native boxers, women from abroad did very well against Thai women boxers. Many of these women were taller and more muscular than their Thai opponents and often snared victory. Dao had lost only once in her several fights, to a thick-bodied American woman from Pennsylvania who had learned Thai boxing. In three days she would have a rematch with the same woman, a woman who had knocked her out in the second round with a kick she hadn’t even seen coming. A kick that had given her a tiny scar over her right eyebrow.

The sanctioning body for the fight was the International Women’s Muay Thai Association. At 108 pounds, Dao was in the Junior Flyweight division. After her defeat, she had dropped from second to fourth place. She had been knocked out and scarred as well. In her mind, she had been humiliated and had let her father and her camp down. I knew by now that she was always moody before her matches, but she was especially moody before this one.

Her English wasn’t fluent but she could usually hold her end of a conversation. But I decided to speak to her in Thai and I addressed her by her fighting name, Sangdao (light of the star). “You look very beautiful today.”

“You must want something, yes?”

“You mustn’t be so suspicious.”

“I need a place for a child in trouble to stay. For a while. A safe place.”

The woman placed a small bowl in front of Dao. Slices of light green mango were partly immersed in a murky dark brown fish sauce with bits of chili and onion. There were so many tiny pink specks of sun-dried shrimp on the mango it looked as if each slice had broken out in a rash.

She looked up at me, placed her hand on my chin and slightly turned my head. “Does the eye hurt?”

I wondered when she would get around to mentioning that. “Not much.”

“It has to do with the girl in danger?”

“No. This was just from a bit of horsing around in a bar.” When she said nothing, I continued: “A girl didn’t hit me and the fight wasn’t about a girl. A drunk got lucky when I tried to calm him down. All right?”

She picked up her spoon and fork. “All right. Please don’t act like I am such a jealous type. I just care about your health.”

“I know you are not the jealous type,” I lied. “I just wanted it to be clear.” She stared back at me as she began eating. I gave her a smile. “Anyway, you really do look beautiful today.”

“In my dream last night, I was bitten by a snake.” She pointed to her waist. “Here.”

I waited. Over the years I had learned that every dream a Thai woman had could somehow be interpreted to mean that her husband or boyfriend was being unfaithful.

“That means I will marry someone of my own class. Too bad the snake hadn’t bit my head. Then I would marry rich.”

“What if he had bit your foot?”

“Oh, no. Then my husband would be very poor.”

“What if you dream of a boyfriend getting a black eye?”

“Then he probably deserved it.”

Dao’s father and brother appeared and returned greetings from several customers. Her father was tall, slim and ramrod straight. He had hair short enough to pass as a Marine guard and he carried himself with something close to military bearing. Beneath thick eyebrows his dark eyes seemed to be constantly assessing anyone speaking to him. He was quiet and observant and everything about him said that this was not a man who tolerated bullshit. His own career as a boxer had been spectacular. He had been known for his lightning speed and for ending a fight with a barely visible blow from one of his elbows.

Narong’s face and body were wider than his father’s and in the ring he was slower moving. But what he lacked in speed he made up for in power. And stamina. I had seen his handsome face, strong jaw and thick neck absorb enormous punishment and yet he never flinched or revealed in any way that he felt pain. His career had been very respectable but it had never approached that of his father’s success and fame. He was now in his late twenties and his retirement from the ring would not be far off.

After a brief discussion of fights coming up at Lumpini and Ratchadamnern stadiums, and the strengths and weaknesses of the fighters involved, I raised the subject of the slums. I told them about Father Mike’s request and the girl’s situation. I said I could think of no other place that might be as safe as a respected muay Thai training camp. I also mentioned that it was possible news of her whereabouts would leak out and there could be danger.

While I was speaking, the girl placed a tray of brown duck eggs in a sauce of spices in front of them. The dish resembled barren islands isolated from one another in the midst of volcanic liquid fire. I glanced at the food on the other tables. What was being eaten varied in texture, shape, color and degree of exotica, but with most dishes, green and red chilies were ever-present: embedded in curries, floating in soups, mixed with salt, sprinkled on fried fish and poured onto any dish deemed lacking in spice.

Amnart picked up his spoon. “Which slum is the girl in?”

I told him while accepting his offer of a duck egg.

He spoke quickly to Narong in Korat accent. Narong replied in the same accent. The discussion continued for a few exchanges before Narong turned to me. “We will take the girl. She is welcome to live at our camp until there is no danger.”

“Thank you.”

He ate one of the duck eggs with the enthusiastic enjoyment of one who loves good food. “On one condition.”

I waited.

“We will go with you to pick her up.”

“I thank you for your offer but that’s my responsibility.”

Narong finished chewing another duck egg. Amnart cleared his throat. “You know my son, Buen.”

“I do.”

“He was a monk for two years. But before he found the proper path, he had fallen in with bad people. He did things we are not proud of. But he has spent time in slums. He knows Bangkok’s slums well. He will help. Go see him and tell him I said to help you.”

What worried me was that Amnart’s insistence that “they” would help would include Dao. To include her placed her in danger; to leave her out insulted her ability and courage.

I chose my words carefully. “I will see Buen and I know he will help. But there is no need for you to accompany me to rescue the girl. This is a situation with some danger.”

Amnart glanced at Dao and back to me as if reading my mind. “No, this is an opportunity to make merit. For all of us.”

Amnart and Narong finished eating and returned to the camp, allowing Dao and me a few minutes alone. I reached into my wallet to pull out a five hundred baht bill and a slip of paper fell to the ground and fluttered toward Dao. She reached down, picked it up and stared at it. “What’s this?”

“That is…the name of a woman who asked for my help. As a detective.”

She continued to stare at the paper. “And did you go to see this ‘Lisa’?”

“Yes, I did.” I held out my hand. “Now would you mind giving it back to me?”

“She is a client?”

“Look, I told you about my adopted brother in New York, remember?”

“Chinaman?”

“Yes! He had her get in touch with me. She seems to need help.”

She took one last look at the scrap of paper and handed it back to me. I knew her English was good enough and her mind sharp enough that she had it memorized.

“Is she pretty and young?”

“Dao, remember-“

“Perhaps I could help her. Maybe I should pay her a visit.”

“Thitagan!”

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from the novel Skytrain to Murder