didn’t know we’d come to a firm decision.”
“All this nonsense this morning has, as the British say, stiffened my resolve. I am stiffly resolved not to do it.”
Miaow nudges Rafferty’s arm. He glances up to see her finger pointed at his photo in the Sun . He nods, and Miaow tugs down the corners of her mouth and lifts her eyebrows, looking grudgingly impressed. At least, Rafferty thinks, it’s a reaction.
“Well, when you tell her you’re not going to write it,” Arthit says, “give her a reason, or she’s going to think you’ve been scared off.”
“But if Pan has given me permission to write it, why would he scare me off?”
“There are other people,” Arthit says, “ lots of other people, who would much prefer that a book, especially a sympathetic book, not be written.”
“Who?”
“People who are worried about his personal power base. He’s extremely popular among the poor, especially in the northeast.”
“Why?”
“Ask someone who’s poor,” Arthit says. “Or used to be.”
Miaow is reading the story that accompanies the photograph. She gives a low whistle, which comes as a surprise. Rafferty hadn’t known she could whistle.
Watching Miaow run her finger along the lines of type, Rafferty says, “What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“I’d take a careful look around, assess the total situation, add up the pros and cons, and then scream.”
“Thanks. How’s Noi?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Arthit says, and hangs up.
“What is this?” Miaow asks. She is rubbing the surface of the photo with her index finger as though she expects it to come off the page.
“It’s a picture of me.”
“You look really ugly,” Miaow says, and the door to the bedroom opens and Rose comes out, wrapped in a towel and a frown, just as the phone begins to ring.
“Why is it so noisy? ” she asks.
“Poke’s in the paper,” Miaow says, rotating the Sun to face Rose. Then, without another word, she turns her back on both of them and heads for the kitchen.
“What?” Rafferty says into the phone.
“Listen to me,” says a man’s voice.
“I have the phone at my ear and everything,” Rafferty says. “Just poised to listen.”
Rose says, “This is a terrible picture.”
“You will not write this book,” the man says. “If you write it, you, your wife, and your daughter will die.”
“Who is this?” Rafferty says, and the tone of his voice brings Rose’s eyes up.
“Did you hear me?” the man asks.
“I asked who you were.”
“All three of you will die,” the man says. He hangs up.
Both Rose and Miaow, who stopped at the kitchen counter, are staring at Rafferty now. He brings up the corners of his mouth, hoping it looks like a smile, and says, “I don’t think the picture’s that bad.”
10
Or What?
H e’s a great man,” Rose says. She blows on her cup of Nescafé.
“Are we talking about the same guy?” Rafferty’s on his third cup of coffee, waiting for Miaow to finish getting ready for school, since he’s decided not to let her go alone today. She has grudgingly agreed to allow him to accompany her.
He eyes Rose’s cup of instant with resignation. He’s abandoned his two-year campaign to get her to give up Nescafé, the coffee she grew up on. He’s spent a fortune on exotic beans, coffeemakers, gold filter cones, and bottled water to convert her, and her dream cup of coffee still involves hot water run from the tap onto a heaping clot of brown powder.
“We’re talking about Pan,” she says. “The gold car and the girls.”
“He’s a thug. And a drunk.”
“So what? The way he acts, he knows what he’s doing. He’s like a bone in their throats.”
“Whose throats?”
“The good people,” she says, and he is taken aback at the bitterness in her voice. “The big people, the people who have everything and wantmore. The people who take, take, take, own, own, own. The people who go to fancy parties with blood on
“All this nonsense this morning has, as the British say, stiffened my resolve. I am stiffly resolved not to do it.”
Miaow nudges Rafferty’s arm. He glances up to see her finger pointed at his photo in the Sun . He nods, and Miaow tugs down the corners of her mouth and lifts her eyebrows, looking grudgingly impressed. At least, Rafferty thinks, it’s a reaction.
“Well, when you tell her you’re not going to write it,” Arthit says, “give her a reason, or she’s going to think you’ve been scared off.”
“But if Pan has given me permission to write it, why would he scare me off?”
“There are other people,” Arthit says, “ lots of other people, who would much prefer that a book, especially a sympathetic book, not be written.”
“Who?”
“People who are worried about his personal power base. He’s extremely popular among the poor, especially in the northeast.”
“Why?”
“Ask someone who’s poor,” Arthit says. “Or used to be.”
Miaow is reading the story that accompanies the photograph. She gives a low whistle, which comes as a surprise. Rafferty hadn’t known she could whistle.
Watching Miaow run her finger along the lines of type, Rafferty says, “What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“I’d take a careful look around, assess the total situation, add up the pros and cons, and then scream.”
“Thanks. How’s Noi?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Arthit says, and hangs up.
“What is this?” Miaow asks. She is rubbing the surface of the photo with her index finger as though she expects it to come off the page.
“It’s a picture of me.”
“You look really ugly,” Miaow says, and the door to the bedroom opens and Rose comes out, wrapped in a towel and a frown, just as the phone begins to ring.
“Why is it so noisy? ” she asks.
“Poke’s in the paper,” Miaow says, rotating the Sun to face Rose. Then, without another word, she turns her back on both of them and heads for the kitchen.
“What?” Rafferty says into the phone.
“Listen to me,” says a man’s voice.
“I have the phone at my ear and everything,” Rafferty says. “Just poised to listen.”
Rose says, “This is a terrible picture.”
“You will not write this book,” the man says. “If you write it, you, your wife, and your daughter will die.”
“Who is this?” Rafferty says, and the tone of his voice brings Rose’s eyes up.
“Did you hear me?” the man asks.
“I asked who you were.”
“All three of you will die,” the man says. He hangs up.
Both Rose and Miaow, who stopped at the kitchen counter, are staring at Rafferty now. He brings up the corners of his mouth, hoping it looks like a smile, and says, “I don’t think the picture’s that bad.”
10
Or What?
H e’s a great man,” Rose says. She blows on her cup of Nescafé.
“Are we talking about the same guy?” Rafferty’s on his third cup of coffee, waiting for Miaow to finish getting ready for school, since he’s decided not to let her go alone today. She has grudgingly agreed to allow him to accompany her.
He eyes Rose’s cup of instant with resignation. He’s abandoned his two-year campaign to get her to give up Nescafé, the coffee she grew up on. He’s spent a fortune on exotic beans, coffeemakers, gold filter cones, and bottled water to convert her, and her dream cup of coffee still involves hot water run from the tap onto a heaping clot of brown powder.
“We’re talking about Pan,” she says. “The gold car and the girls.”
“He’s a thug. And a drunk.”
“So what? The way he acts, he knows what he’s doing. He’s like a bone in their throats.”
“Whose throats?”
“The good people,” she says, and he is taken aback at the bitterness in her voice. “The big people, the people who have everything and wantmore. The people who take, take, take, own, own, own. The people who go to fancy parties with blood on
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