The Quantum Mantra Page 3

For the farangs, or foreigners in Thailand, the Chinese district of Yaowarat was too difficult to pronounce. For most of the drivers who made their way there, Chinatown was its International name.

  Cruising around in this neighbourhood, Pascal really felt as though he was transported to Hong Kong, a city he had traveled to, many times before.

  Thousands of scorching light boxes with Chinese ideograms, restaurants, shops, massage parlours, discos, karaoke bars flickered in a frenzy of colour. Whatever entertained you could be found here, particularly less-than-legal activities.

  It was crowded and noisy, hot and humid and especially pungent. Pascal found it positively delightful.

  Many Thai-Chinese who lived outside this district in comfortable houses in Thonglor or Ekamai Avenues loved to come here for a spot of shopping. More precisely, they came here to eat. Thai-Chinese immigrants from the last generation had succeeded in full integration into Thai society. No one purported that it was easy, and many changed their names, habits and even forbade their kids to learn the Chinese language. But, a visit to the hard-core Chinese center was a way for them to come back to their roots and enjoy happy meals with their parents and family. This is where they could appreciate old traditions by sharing delicious seafood and specialties from various Chinese provinces.

  Restaurants here served delicacies mostly from the Chinese province of TaiTiu from where the majority of Chinese migrants to South East Asia had originated.

  When Pascal, Sumit and his friends reached the famous Tang Jai Yoo restaurant, he was somewhat disappointed. He had heard that it was considered one of the best restaurants in the district.

  The appearance however, did not reflect its reputation. The building itself looked very common and the decoration was vulgar. Neon lights flashed everywhere and the black furniture with Mother of Pearl inlay looked falsely extravagant.

  “Is this the famous restaurant?” he asked Sumit.

  “Do not judge a book by its cover.”

  The front of the restaurant displayed large water tanks, each one full of living sea creatures: fish, prawns, crabs, tortoises and many more. Even though Pascal was a vegetarian, he couldn’t help but be enticed by the food around him. His nostrils had already detected the smell of the delicate cuisine and his emotions from the fighting had been replaced by the appealing expectation of a good dinner.

  As soon as the waiter opened the heavy door they were shown to a private room at the back, away from the huge and noisy main hall. Dozens of shouting voices blended into an exotic cocktail of noise. The long-time immigrants could be seen enjoying the vibrant atmosphere from back home as they lay back into their chairs with full stomachs. They drank heavily of strong cognac, generously poured by young Thai-Chinese beauties into their small glasses.

  When they strolled inside, they failed to notice three hard-faced Chinese youngsters sitting on their motorbikes outside, watching them carefully.

  Inside the private VIP room, a large round table was covered with an immaculate white cloth. The table was accessorized with a revolving glass platform where flowers had been placed. Blue and white plates, bowls and china were pre-set. It wasn’t unusual to see customers picking up their chopsticks and placing them in their mouths, ready to pounce on the arriving dishes.

  Around the table, a dozen revisited Ming-style chairs were available to cater for big parties. The red walls were decorated with fake antique Chinese scrolls, and a narrow dressing buffet in Rosewood imitation was placed along the entrance.

  Inside, three people sat facing the door.

  They pretended not to notice the new arrivals. The man in the middle continued to argue with his neighbor to his left. He seemed incredibly agitated. His round, ugly face was covered with wart-like lumps that couldn’t be acne, since he must have been over fifty.

  He was totally absorbed in his argument and his eyes were like those of a frog craving for his princess. His dark blue T-shirt with the Billabong logo slapped across the front was too large for him and looked ridiculous.

  “The guy in the middle is the chief of Bangkok’s gangster mob,” Sumit whispered to Pascal, out of earshot. “He looks funny, but beware; he’s far from it!”

  Sumit straightened his body and moved his chair in closer to the table. He leaned into Pascal, subtly.

  “The girl on his left is also famous. Her name is Supanee. It’s quite lyrical, don’t you think? If you happen to come across her and a wild snake, shoot her first. She is the most poisonous breed of all.”

  “Well, she doesn’t look dangerous” said Pascal in a low voice, admiring the beauty with long hair. She had a mane fluid enough to render any shampoo model jealous. He looked at her large, watering eyes and plump cheeks and couldn’t help but feel aroused by her aggressive breasts protruding from a half-open tight shirt.

  Sumit noticed Pascal was staring and pinched him, as a warning.

  “Wait for her to open her mouth” he said. “I’m not sure you will appreciate her raucous tone.”

  “Really?” Pascal was bewildered.

  At the Mafioso’s right sat a young man with broad shoulders and slanted eyes. He looked completely indignant, with his chest poking up unnaturally. His large, white face had the blankness of a man untouched by remorse. He might have had some handsome features, but an ugly scar from the bottom of his nose stretched across his lips, distorting his smile. He stood still; staring pokerfaced at the foreigner. He eventually returned his attention to his meal.

  Pascal noticed that he had looked away, and continued observing the animal devour his meal.

  Although it didn’t occur willingly, Pascal sometimes experienced intense color reactions to certain individuals. It was a kind of social/emotional synesthesia.

  A neurologist might have detected that some of his neurons, specialized in emotional perceptions and located on his brain temporal, were probably interacting with other neurons located in his neighboring brain color area.

  But Pascal didn’t know, or even care. In this instance the familiar, albeit uncomfortable, feeling began to surface. His eyes felt painfully dry and his ears could no longer hear anything around him. As the sensation warmed his forehead, he began to see a spectrum of color radiate around the scarred man. Swirls of light flowed in and around the man’s entire body, never still.

  The colors were saying to Pascal: “Be careful, this man is extremely dangerous!”

  Sumit went on whispering and confirming his apprehension.

  “That one, that image of innocence over there: he is the worst,” nodding towards the scarred man. “He is a high ranking drug dealer who works for uncontrolled groups in neighboring northern countries.

  No one knows his real name. Some secretly call him ‘The Asshole’”.

  “He also control a prostitution ring. He has absolutely no shame.”

  “This one is very, very powerful—and completely unforgiving!” said Sumit.

  “You’ll do well not to step on his toes.”

  “What a nice community you have here in the City of Angels!” exclaimed Pascal with a wink.

  Just then the Mafioso turned to them, having probably lost the battle with his girlfriend.

  He said to Sumit:

  “So… little man. I hear you are having problems with Igor, the giant puppet with no brain. What did you do to hurt his feelings?”

  “Nothing, really nothing,” gestured Sumit, trying to look innocent. “I have a good friend here who saw him doing strange prayers in the wrong temple. He just wants to know where he stands.”

  “All I can tell you is that these guys are extremely well protected, even though they are pea-brains. But they can ruin your life. Don’t mess with them,” said the Mafioso.

  He tore off a big prawn tail and shoved the rest of the head into his mouth and declared:

  “I don’t have any more information!”

  “Really?” asked Sumit, who always had the gift of making others feel at ease. “I thought you were the Main Man in Bangkok? Maybe we
were mistaken. From what I have been told, you know everybody here. I’m sure that someone of your stature could provide us with something a little more interesting… for your good friend.” It was something about Sumit’s honest face that always helped him get his way.

  “OK.” said the mobster with a quick anger flashing in his small eyes. He wanted to keep face in front of his lady.

  “Come back tomorrow. I have to talk with some Russian ‘friends’.” He pronounced friends with a funny Russian accent.

  Sumit knew he had hit him where it hurt. In Thailand, as in most Asian cultures Pascal had visited, keeping face was everything.

  But the most important information had been relayed. Body language had told them all that they needed to know.

  Without muttering a word, the mobster had just told them that the sinister Chinese character here was probably the operational mastermind behind the biologist murder.

  This information they had gleaned was not unexpected, but it was not good either. They also understood that the giant also known as Igor was also part of the Russian mafia; executing sensitive orders for the organization. Chinese drug lords with Russian mobsters was never a good equation.

  The case was certainly very important for the Burmese counterpart, and the money involved was very huge. Unfortunately the puzzle was still missing the most important pieces: What was their plan, what was their technology and why they were chasing them.

  The three rough characters stood up and left without exchanging formalities.

  “I almost forgot,” said the Mafioso without turning around, “I have ordered dinner for you. Try our house special, the zuoai shia: drunk shrimps swimming in alcohol. You must eat them alive. Please be my guests!” He waved around his fat fingers in the air, splashing some of the seafood juice on his neighbor’s cream jacket.

  “See, sometimes it is pleasant to be his guest,” muttered Sumit with irony.

  It was time to return to the hotel and have well-deserved rest.

  …

  “My mi sawan bon din”

  Thai proverb (there is no paradise on earth.)