A taste for Thai

She sat on the low bed with her knees drawn up to her chin. She stared down her nose at him, with a glare accentuated by cleopatra-kohl.
Her neck, dripping with gold and excess skin, shook as she pointed to the girls who stood in the centre of the room. Their heads were bowed almost reverently. "Take your pick, but don't take your time about it."

Shakes took off his fedora and straightened the band before he placed it on the vacant seat beside him. The low light reflected off his gold tooth, his broad smile sweeter than the sickly smell of patchouli incense that wafted through the room. "Miss Feeder. I think there has been a misunderstanding," he said slowly. He stood up, using his cane as leverage. He cut quite a dashing figure in those days, with his bespoke pinstriped suit and his ruby pinky ring. The influence of American films and jazz music on township tsotsi fashion was clear. The cane had started off as a prop, a way of keeping his hands occupied while disguising the tremors. By the time his condition was obvious and the nickname stuck, he needed it to maintain balance. "My colleague and I have not come to sample the merchandise, but to present the compliments of my employer. He would like to congratulate you on your new business venture and extend his hand in friendship."

Karen Feeder did not blink. Her face took on an expression which would not have looked out of place on someone who had just stepped in dogshit. She grunted, swallowing phlegm, then nodded towards the door at the far end of the room. The girls filed out, barely making a sound.

"Muniko!" she screeched. The tacky bead curtain covering the doorway on Raymar's right parted to admit a petite figure stooped over a tray. As she turned, Muniko's hair fell from her face, revealing her grey-green eyes. Aromas of galangal and basil wafted from the bowls on the tray towards him. In that moment, Raymar Driver died, and was reborn.


The spell was broken by the sound of Karen spitting out the fragrant broth, followed by the back of her hand making brief but significant contact with Muniko's cheek. "Useless, even in the kitchen!", she squawked.

As Shakes parted the bead curtain with his cane and tipped his hat towards nobody in particular, Raymar hesitated for what felt like the first time in his life. It was the softness of her face and the economy of her movements which gave him pause, but those eyes, that look of defiance on Muniko's face, that was what drove him to act.

As Raymar held his hand forcefully on the back of her head, Karen Feeder drowned in the bowl of soup she had refused moments before. Spluttering and struggling, she splashed some of the contents onto him before she finally stopped moving. Her kohl left smokey swirls in the soup and dirty tracks on her cheeks. In death, as in life, her picture was crass and inelegant.

He licked his hand clean before offering it to Muniko. As he lead her through the door, Raymar Driver realised that he could be developing a taste for Thai.