'A savior or a mistress of deceit?'
The air in the luxury club in Bangkok is a kind of cocktail of expensive perfume and the typical dry smell of an overzealous air conditioner, a mix of longing and boredom that sticks to every corner of the room. Tom, a successful CEO of an international company, sits at a table, slightly bored, eyes half closed, hands loosely around his whiskey. His business trip is almost over and then back to his family in the Netherlands in business class. He looks like he belongs here, like this place has shaped him in some way, even though he has only been here a few days. Or maybe he is just good at masks, his own masks, just like those of everyone around him.
The door swings open and there she is. Nit, the frail doll with shiny black hair and enchanting brown eyes in a simple but stylish and provocative dress that falls loosely around her hips as if it belongs there. She has the kind of face that gives the impression that she is always smiling, but her eyes are different. Her eyes say that she has seen it all. The kind of eyes that someone only gets by playing the same game over and over again and never losing. She looks around the room and her gaze lingers on him, just long enough to let him know that she is in control.
“Hello, mister,” she says softly, a sentence that almost sounds like a joke, as if she herself no longer believes in it. But she doesn’t have to. It’s enough that he believes in it.
“Would you like to sit with me?” His voice sounds sharper than he intended. He tries to soften it, but it doesn’t quite work. There’s something about her gaze, something about the way she looks at him as if he’s transparent, that throws him off balance for a moment. She sits down, her hand lightly on his. It’s a subtle gesture, but it says more than a thousand words. She’s playing the game perfectly, even though he knows she knows it by heart.
“You’re not the first to come here,” she says, the words spread out like drops of honey. Her eyes remain fixed on him, the dim smile lingering. He could ask her who the others were, but he doesn’t want to know. In her eyes, he wants to be someone beyond comparison, someone unique, even for one night.
He asks her about her life and she begins to tell, as if willing and open, but her words are carefully chosen, strategic. She describes the rice fields of Isaan, the endless heat and the long days. Her brother, her mother, the care, the scarcity. It sounds like a kind of fairy tale, but without the promise of a happy ending. He nods, his face worried, his gaze fixed on her face. For a moment he forgets himself. He sees her. Really sees her. Or he believes he does.
“You believe me, don’t you?” Her voice is soft, her words like pins piercing his self-control. He nods. He wants to believe it, he has to believe it. Because the alternative is too grim, because it means he’s been caught again, once again mistaken for something else his own emptiness.
She leans closer to him, her lips on the tip of his ear. He smells her sweet, sultry perfume and feels her breath long on his ear. “I can make you happy, more than anyone else has ever done.” Her words are velvety, but with an edge he hadn’t expected. It feels like she doesn’t just want to make him happy, but wants to dissect him, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left.
He feels a chill come over him, a sudden clarity that the whisky and the half-light have briefly dispelled. He suddenly sees her as she is: a master of her craft, a woman playing her part like an actress putting on a costume. And yet, even in that transparent moment, he finds himself not wanting to push her away. He wants to stay. Because, like her, he is searching for… something, for warmth, for meaning, for something that will make him forget for a moment who he really is.
She holds his gaze and chuckles, as if she’s read his mind. “Are you going to stay here a little longer or do you have to go?” Her words are both kind and cruel, as if she knows she has his last shred of control in her hands and is slowly crushing it.
“What do you really want from me?” he finally asks, his voice duller than he intended. She shrugs, a movement so nonchalant it hurts.
“Maybe money,” she answers, laughing but not smiling. “Maybe something else. You have enough, don’t you?”
He swallows, feels the weight of his emptiness grow heavier. He knows what this is, but he doesn’t want to know. He wants this to be a choice, to be here by choice and not out of a desperation he can’t name. But she sees. She sees everything.
“What do you gain from it?” he asks, a little provocatively. “You play the game. You win. But what do you gain from it?”
She looks at him, her eyes dark and determined. “I don’t win,” she says with a shadow of melancholy. “I survive.” Her words sound like a death sentence, but they don’t seem to bother her. She’s already judged herself, balanced her life, and paid the price. He’s nothing more than a passage, a chapter in her book of Western men who all think they’re looking for something they can’t find.
She taps her nails on his glass and looks at him with a gaze that pierces him to the core. “Choose, mister,” she says finally. “Either stay and play the game, or go away and find something real, if there is such a thing.” Her voice is just as soft, just as seductive, but he feels its depth now, the echo of all the men who have come and gone and the emptiness she leaves behind.
He stands up, half dazed, feeling his legs grow heavy. He wants to walk away, but he doesn’t. He stays there, eyes glued to her face, to the apparent perfection that turns out to be just a mask. He knows he will stay, one more time, one more night, because he yearns too much for the emptiness she fills…
About this blogger
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My age officially falls into the category of 'elderly'. I've been living in Thailand for 28 years - try to do that. The Netherlands used to be paradise, but it fell into disrepair. So I went looking for a new paradise and found Siam. Or was it the other way around and Siam found me? Either way, we were good-natured.
ICT provided a regular income, something you call 'work', but for me it was mainly a pastime. Writing, that's the real hobby. For Thailandblog I'm picking up that old love again, because after 15 years of hard work you deserve some reading material.
I started in Phuket, moved to Ubon Ratchathani, and after a stopover in Pattaya I now live somewhere in the north, in the middle of nature. Rest never rusts, I always say, and that turns out to be true. Here, surrounded by greenery, time seems to stand still, but fortunately life doesn't.
Eating, especially lots of it – that’s my passion. And what makes an evening complete? A good glass of whisky and a cigar. That’s about it, I think. Cheers!
Photos, I don't do that. I always look ugly in them, even though I know Brad Pitt pales in comparison. It must be the photographer, I think.
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