the river below.
There were large sheds for the elephants, who were out on the forest trails at this hour, and houses of woven bamboo and plaited roofs standing on stilts. The women carried Lao-type habs, with their hair in ornate side knots and tight, dark blue blouses with shining silver buttons that went from waist to collar. Most wore white cotton pasins with their blouses. There was a rundown store, a food commissary, another open shed for tools, two battered trucks, and the sawyers’ machinery. The smell of cut mahogany and teak logs and wood chips fought with the scents of frangipani and the smoke from charcoal stoves in the workmen’s houses. There was always the inevitable effluvium of a mountain settlement. The men in sight, like Nam the foreman, reminded Durell of Southwest American Indians, being taller than most Thai, with bandy legs and high cheekbones.
There were two larger structures, one a Western-style bungalow with a veranda, built of rough boarding, and a tiny wat at the far end of the single street, which followed the stream in typical linear fashion.
“You have a bhikkhu here?” Kem asked the foreman. “No, father, not for several months.”
“Do you wish me to perform prayers?”
“If you like, father. Will you be here long?”
Durell said, “Only overnight.”
“Whatever the bhikkhu chooses to do will make us grateful,” Nam said to Kem.
Beyond the brook and the bungalow, where Benjie headed with a long stride, were some clearings and fields planted on the terraced mountain slope, growing some rice and tobacco and bananas. Two of the fields looked as if they had been used to grow poppies. Kem asked to be excused and headed down the village street toward the small temple. Durell followed Benjie across a log bridge over the brook to the bungalow. His eye caught the glimmer of aerial wire from a radio antenna, and he traced it to the bungalow roof before he stepped up on the veranda after Benjie.
She was waiting inside, in a small den, her fists jammed on her hips. She looked angry and tired.
“All right, what now?”
“We’re looking for Mike, remember?”
“You’re looking for more than Mike. Tell me about it. All of it, Sam. Don’t hold back, or we’ll be in trouble. I can smell trouble here, already. The place doesn’t feel normal, somehow. Nam talks too much. The women aren’t chattering, the way they usually do. I feel like a stranger here. And I practically built this camp with my own two hands and recruited the local tribesmen myself, and had them trained as loggers. They ought to be here by now, finished with their day’s work. It’s not like these people to put in voluntary overtime. Sam, I’m worried.”
“Where’s your radio transmitter?” he asked.
“What’s that got to do with what I’m asking?”
“Maybe everything. Maybe we can talk to Mike.”
Benjie stared at him. “You don’t give much, do you? You still act as if I’m a suspect, in whatever you’re looking for.”
“It could be,” Durell said. Then he surprised her by crossing the hot, shadowed room and kissing her on the mouth. “You’re also a hell of a good pilot, Benjie.”
Her lips were cold and surprised, hardening under the quick pressure of his mouth. Stepping back, he watched her eyes widen with astonishment, then reflexive anger, then something that was not quite amusement.
“And what was that for?”
“For being a woman,” he said.
“I didn’t think you could tell,” she snapped. She drew a deep breath. “Let’s see to the radio, Sam. We need something to eat, too. And we’re not safe here, as I said.”
“We’re not safe anywhere,” he replied.
Durell worked on the radio while Benjie slammed things around in the kitchen, shouted at a native woman and drove her off in a fine fit of pretended fury. Durell half hoped, as he worked on the transmitter, to hear her break into singing; but Benjie didn’t go quite that far. Nevertheless, after a time, there was
There were large sheds for the elephants, who were out on the forest trails at this hour, and houses of woven bamboo and plaited roofs standing on stilts. The women carried Lao-type habs, with their hair in ornate side knots and tight, dark blue blouses with shining silver buttons that went from waist to collar. Most wore white cotton pasins with their blouses. There was a rundown store, a food commissary, another open shed for tools, two battered trucks, and the sawyers’ machinery. The smell of cut mahogany and teak logs and wood chips fought with the scents of frangipani and the smoke from charcoal stoves in the workmen’s houses. There was always the inevitable effluvium of a mountain settlement. The men in sight, like Nam the foreman, reminded Durell of Southwest American Indians, being taller than most Thai, with bandy legs and high cheekbones.
There were two larger structures, one a Western-style bungalow with a veranda, built of rough boarding, and a tiny wat at the far end of the single street, which followed the stream in typical linear fashion.
“You have a bhikkhu here?” Kem asked the foreman. “No, father, not for several months.”
“Do you wish me to perform prayers?”
“If you like, father. Will you be here long?”
Durell said, “Only overnight.”
“Whatever the bhikkhu chooses to do will make us grateful,” Nam said to Kem.
Beyond the brook and the bungalow, where Benjie headed with a long stride, were some clearings and fields planted on the terraced mountain slope, growing some rice and tobacco and bananas. Two of the fields looked as if they had been used to grow poppies. Kem asked to be excused and headed down the village street toward the small temple. Durell followed Benjie across a log bridge over the brook to the bungalow. His eye caught the glimmer of aerial wire from a radio antenna, and he traced it to the bungalow roof before he stepped up on the veranda after Benjie.
She was waiting inside, in a small den, her fists jammed on her hips. She looked angry and tired.
“All right, what now?”
“We’re looking for Mike, remember?”
“You’re looking for more than Mike. Tell me about it. All of it, Sam. Don’t hold back, or we’ll be in trouble. I can smell trouble here, already. The place doesn’t feel normal, somehow. Nam talks too much. The women aren’t chattering, the way they usually do. I feel like a stranger here. And I practically built this camp with my own two hands and recruited the local tribesmen myself, and had them trained as loggers. They ought to be here by now, finished with their day’s work. It’s not like these people to put in voluntary overtime. Sam, I’m worried.”
“Where’s your radio transmitter?” he asked.
“What’s that got to do with what I’m asking?”
“Maybe everything. Maybe we can talk to Mike.”
Benjie stared at him. “You don’t give much, do you? You still act as if I’m a suspect, in whatever you’re looking for.”
“It could be,” Durell said. Then he surprised her by crossing the hot, shadowed room and kissing her on the mouth. “You’re also a hell of a good pilot, Benjie.”
Her lips were cold and surprised, hardening under the quick pressure of his mouth. Stepping back, he watched her eyes widen with astonishment, then reflexive anger, then something that was not quite amusement.
“And what was that for?”
“For being a woman,” he said.
“I didn’t think you could tell,” she snapped. She drew a deep breath. “Let’s see to the radio, Sam. We need something to eat, too. And we’re not safe here, as I said.”
“We’re not safe anywhere,” he replied.
Durell worked on the radio while Benjie slammed things around in the kitchen, shouted at a native woman and drove her off in a fine fit of pretended fury. Durell half hoped, as he worked on the transmitter, to hear her break into singing; but Benjie didn’t go quite that far. Nevertheless, after a time, there was
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