Cockroaches(75)

He hastened to add, with an assurance to Harry, that his sister didn’t show any signs of the same, more the opposite.

“That’s enough, Jens. Tell me more about yourself. Have you begun to think about marriage?”

“Shh, don’t say things like that. The word alone gives me palpitations. Marriage …” Jens shuddered. “The problem is that, on the one hand, I’m not cut out for monogamy, but on the other I am a romantic. Once I’m married I can’t mess around with other women. Do you know what I mean? And the thought of never having sex with any other women is quite overwhelming, don’t you think?”

Harry tried to be empathetic.

“Suppose I do actually go out with the girl from the lift, what do you think would come of it? Utter panic, right? All that just to prove to myself that I’m still capable of taking an interest in another woman. Bit of a failure really. Hilde is …” Jens searched for the words. “She has something I haven’t found with anyone else. And believe me, I have looked. I’m not sure I can quite explain what it is, but I don’t want to lose it because I know it could be difficult to find again.”

Harry thought that was just as good a reason as any he had heard. Jens rolled the glass between his fingers and gave a lopsided smile.

“Being held on remand must have really got to me because I don’t normally talk about these things. Promise you won’t tell any of my friends.”

The waiter came over to the table and beckoned to them.

“Come on. It’s already started,” Jens said.

“What’s already started?”

The waiter led them to the back of the restaurant, through the kitchen and up a narrow staircase. Washtubs stood stacked up on top of one another in the corridor and an old woman in a chair grinned at them with black teeth.

“Betel nuts,” Jens said. “Dreadful habit. They chew them until the brain rots and their teeth fall out.”

Behind a door Harry heard voices yelling. The waiter opened it, and then they were in a large windowless loft. Twenty to thirty men stood in a cramped circle. Hands were gesticulating and pointing while dog-eared banknotes were counted and passed between them at dizzying speeds. Most of the men were white, some of them in light-colored linen suits.

“Cockfighting,” Jens explained. “Private arrangement.”

“Why’s that?” Harry had to shout to be heard. “I mean, I’ve read that cockfighting is still legal in Thailand.”

“To a certain extent. The authorities have allowed a modified form of cockfighting in which the claw is tied to the back of the foot so that they can’t kill each other. And the time is restricted. It’s not a fight to the death. This one is run on old rules, so there’s no limit to the stakes. Shall we go closer?”

Harry towered over the men in front of them and could easily see into the ring. Two cocks, both brownish-red and orange, strutted around with their heads wagging, apparently uninterested in each other.

“How are they going to make them fight?” Harry asked.

“Don’t worry. Those two cocks hate each other more than you and I ever could.”

“Why?”

Jens looked at him. “They’re in the same ring. They’re cocks.”

Then, as if at a signal, they went for each other. All Harry could see was fluttering wings and flying straw. Men were screaming in a frenzy, and some of them were jumping up and down. A strange bittersweet smell of adrenalin and sweat spread through the room.

“Can you see the one with the comb cut in the middle?” Jens said.

Harry couldn’t.

“It’s the winner.”

“How can you see that?”

“I can’t. I know. I knew before the fight.”

“How …?”

“Don’t ask.” Jens grinned.

The screams died. One cock was left in the ring. Some men groaned, one man in a gray linen suit had thrown his hat to the ground in frustration. Harry watched the cock dying. A muscle twitched beneath the feathers; then it was motionless. It was absurd; it had looked like a sort of romp, a mass of wings, legs and screaming.

A bloodstained feather sailed past his face. The cock was lifted out of the ring by a man in baggy trousers. He looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The other cock had resumed its strutting. Harry could see the split comb now.

The waiter came over to Jens with a wad of banknotes. Some of the men glanced toward him, some nodded, but no one said anything.

“Don’t you ever lose?” Harry asked when they were back in the restaurant again. Jens had lit up a cigar and ordered a cognac, an aged Richard Hennessy 40%. The waiter had to ask for the name twice. It was hard to grasp that this Jens was the same man Harry had comforted on the phone the night before.