hoping to make it big in legit films and willing – she whispered to me after a half bottle of Krug – willing to do anything to get there.
My touch sent her into a paroxysm of hysterical laughter, wave after wave of unforced hilarity, so that it was impossible to undress her and ease her into bed. Frightened by my effect on her, she managed to escape before she laughed herself to death.
And then Lilly, who bled when I caressed her; and Liz, who cried; and... well there were others, many others, before word got round and my friends shunned me, assuming that I was physically hurting, with intent, the women I dated.
Disconsolate and increasingly lonely, I took to drinking by myself at my local public house, hardly daring to look women in the eye lest my mere gaze provoke some ghastly reaction. Life became hell over the course of the next year. I, who had been accustomed to the attention of countless beautiful and eager women, now found myself with no one. I knew true loneliness: I was a pariah in the city where once I had thought myself a prince.
Then one night, ten pints to the good and staggering homeward, I spied a slim child’s figure watching me from across the street, its shoulders moving in such a way as to suggest that she was crying.
I hurried across the street, and all at once realised two things: one, the girl was not crying, but laughing, and two: it was Li.
Then she stepped back into the shadow of the building, and, when I moved forward, she was gone.
The following day I booked a flight back to Thailand.
~
I took a taxi north as far as the bend in the river, and when the big villa came into sight, a hundred meters away, paid the driver and climbed out. The night rasped with a chorus of crickets. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of some over-sweet nightbloom.
I moved towards the villa, hesitant, perhaps even a little fearful, now that the time had come to confront my tormentor.
Perhaps villa was too grand a word to describe the house where Li now lived: it was a long, low weatherboard construct, painted white. Wind-chimes tinkled in the faint breeze. I heard the melancholy song of caged birds.
I climbed the steps to the fly-screen door; the main door was open, and within I made out the amber glow of a paraffin lamp.
I hesitated, hand raised to knock, but called out instead, “Li?”
There was no reply. I pulled open the fly-screen door and, after a second, stepped inside.
In the low lighting of the big front room I made out a sofa, rugs and tapestries. I called her name again, and moved around the room. Incense burned, filling the villa with its sickening sweetness. I felt as if I were intruding, that at any second Li might emerge in rage and shout at me to leave.
Then I saw the photograph. It stood on a small bamboo table by the window. Beside it was a joss-stick, curling smoke. It could only have been lighted very recently. Had Li known I was on my way?
I picked up the photograph. It showed Li, beautiful in a tight red dress, standing next to a tall Westerner. The man was me.
I had taken the photograph on our very last night together, setting my camera on delay and leaving it on a boulder in the jungle, then rushing back to Li’s side.
I picked up the photograph and stared at the fool I had been.
~
My work on the screenplay was over, and I had no reason to prolong my stay in Khon Khai. The last scene was shot, and the cast and crew were packing up to leave.
On my last day in Thailand, I returned to the hotel in the afternoon to find Li still in bed. We made love, with a passion that surpassed all our previous encounters – she must have known, of course, of my intention to leave.
Then, wordlessly, she dressed, indicated that I should do the same, and led me from the room. On the way she picked up my camera. We left the hotel, took the path beside the river and into the jungle.
We climbed, and emerged fifteen minutes later looking down at the smooth curve of a waterfall as
My touch sent her into a paroxysm of hysterical laughter, wave after wave of unforced hilarity, so that it was impossible to undress her and ease her into bed. Frightened by my effect on her, she managed to escape before she laughed herself to death.
And then Lilly, who bled when I caressed her; and Liz, who cried; and... well there were others, many others, before word got round and my friends shunned me, assuming that I was physically hurting, with intent, the women I dated.
Disconsolate and increasingly lonely, I took to drinking by myself at my local public house, hardly daring to look women in the eye lest my mere gaze provoke some ghastly reaction. Life became hell over the course of the next year. I, who had been accustomed to the attention of countless beautiful and eager women, now found myself with no one. I knew true loneliness: I was a pariah in the city where once I had thought myself a prince.
Then one night, ten pints to the good and staggering homeward, I spied a slim child’s figure watching me from across the street, its shoulders moving in such a way as to suggest that she was crying.
I hurried across the street, and all at once realised two things: one, the girl was not crying, but laughing, and two: it was Li.
Then she stepped back into the shadow of the building, and, when I moved forward, she was gone.
The following day I booked a flight back to Thailand.
~
I took a taxi north as far as the bend in the river, and when the big villa came into sight, a hundred meters away, paid the driver and climbed out. The night rasped with a chorus of crickets. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of some over-sweet nightbloom.
I moved towards the villa, hesitant, perhaps even a little fearful, now that the time had come to confront my tormentor.
Perhaps villa was too grand a word to describe the house where Li now lived: it was a long, low weatherboard construct, painted white. Wind-chimes tinkled in the faint breeze. I heard the melancholy song of caged birds.
I climbed the steps to the fly-screen door; the main door was open, and within I made out the amber glow of a paraffin lamp.
I hesitated, hand raised to knock, but called out instead, “Li?”
There was no reply. I pulled open the fly-screen door and, after a second, stepped inside.
In the low lighting of the big front room I made out a sofa, rugs and tapestries. I called her name again, and moved around the room. Incense burned, filling the villa with its sickening sweetness. I felt as if I were intruding, that at any second Li might emerge in rage and shout at me to leave.
Then I saw the photograph. It stood on a small bamboo table by the window. Beside it was a joss-stick, curling smoke. It could only have been lighted very recently. Had Li known I was on my way?
I picked up the photograph. It showed Li, beautiful in a tight red dress, standing next to a tall Westerner. The man was me.
I had taken the photograph on our very last night together, setting my camera on delay and leaving it on a boulder in the jungle, then rushing back to Li’s side.
I picked up the photograph and stared at the fool I had been.
~
My work on the screenplay was over, and I had no reason to prolong my stay in Khon Khai. The last scene was shot, and the cast and crew were packing up to leave.
On my last day in Thailand, I returned to the hotel in the afternoon to find Li still in bed. We made love, with a passion that surpassed all our previous encounters – she must have known, of course, of my intention to leave.
Then, wordlessly, she dressed, indicated that I should do the same, and led me from the room. On the way she picked up my camera. We left the hotel, took the path beside the river and into the jungle.
We climbed, and emerged fifteen minutes later looking down at the smooth curve of a waterfall as
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