Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘My name is Maia. You will follow me please?’

She led him down a corridor lined with specimen plants in full flower. He held back a little, pretending to scrutinise them, the better to observe Maia’s slender and perfect figure. She stopped at a closed door and called out, then opened it, standing aside to let him enter.

‘Mr Rama is manager here, Mr Jones,’ she whispered as he passed. ‘He is also my father.’

The office was more grand than Trexler considered appropriate for a plant nursery. Mr Rama rose and extended a hand bearing several rings, at least one of which, in gold, bore an orchid motif. Maia did not leave them, but withdrew to a nearby desk and sat upon it cross-legged while her father presented Trexler with his card.

‘You are new to this business, Mr Jones? Your name is not familiar to me.’

‘Not at all. I’ve grown orchids for many years. But only as a hobby, you understand. The commercial side is a recent interest.’

‘May I ask what led to that interest?’

‘I own a small supermarket chain. Orchids are back in fashion. But the Germans and the Dutch have got too expensive and the English – well, frankly, they aren’t very good at it.’

‘Then I hope we can do business together. First my daughter will show you around, then we will have some tea and talk.’

Within the polythene dome the diffuse sunlight passing through the high cooling fans fell like yellow petals onto the carpet of colour below. Here were species familiar to him from his early days as a collector and hybrids in profusion. The same shifting light turned Maia’s long black hair momentarily red and caused the gentle contours of her white blouse to glow. She extended her arms above her head to capture a raceme for him to examine, then released it with a smile.

‘You mentioned slipper orchids in your letter, Mr Jones. But as you see, they are not well represented here.’

‘My friends tell me that you supply them regularly.’

‘They are from our nursery at Attuthya, about two hours from here.’

‘Could I see them?’

‘It would be my pleasure to take you.’

They continued to walk amongst the profusion of flowers. There opened up a vista leading to an area of intense human activity. As they walked towards it the air became heavy with the dank smell of the composts that about a dozen young women were scooping frantically into black pots. Seeing the visitor, one of them put down her implements and came up to them. Trexler noticed that she did not approach him directly but held her face away. Only when he deliberately shifted his position did he see that her left eye was sightless.

‘This is my sister Sirita,’ Maia said. ‘She is responsible for all the production here, while I am merely… a secretary.’

Trexler looked for a response to Maia’s self-abasement – a smile, a grimace, perhaps. But none came. Something akin to pity – for she was otherwise as beautiful as her sister – made him fall behind the departing Maia. Then for twenty minutes he and Sirita talked seriously about orchids.

Compared with those of the previous night, the moths around the naked light bulb above Trexler’s bed seemed to dance in tune with his quickening expectation. Sleep was beyond his grasp. He read – as he had on many occasions in this very room – the paper by his grandfather, Gerhardt. There was no need. The features of the orchid were imprinted indelibly in his memory. It was now a matter of riding out the night while waiting for dawn to break. Only once did he think of Maia, asking himself in genuine puzzlement why he had not paid her more attention.

Trexler’s offer to drive her to Attuthaya had been rejected politely but firmly. By eight she was waiting for him in reception, black hair shining against her fresh white blouse. By ten they were walking up a winding track between clumps of oleander towards a clearing in the scrub.

‘This is not a… well… a conventional nursery, Mr Jones, as you will see’, she said. ‘I know we can count on your discretion.’

‘Of course.’

They followed a barbed wire fence clothed in creeper, broken at one point by a rusting metal gate opening just sufficiently to let them squeeze through. Going ahead of her he tried to open it further, but managed only a few centimetres against the reluctant grass at its foot. He felt the warmth of her body against his straining arm as she passed. His embarrassment was stilled by the innocence of her smile.

Trexler found himself at a dimly remembered threshold experienced years before in this same country when anticipation of finding the treasures he sought sent waves of pleasure surging through his body with an intensity that was almost sexual. Maia, apparently sensing this now, seemed to be searching his face, as if trying to separate the truth from the deceit, although that could not possibly be. ‘I hope we can find something to interest you,’ she said. ‘I suggest we go on a bit, down this path.’

They entered a clearing bounded by dense festoons of purple and red bougainvillea. Rows and rows of slipper orchids, many in bloom, were laid out on low trestle tables in the shade of mimosa and frangipani trees. The entire genus Paphiopedilum seemed to be represented here. Established species mingled with hybrids that in quality matched any in Trexler’s own collection. And then he saw it, next to where the girl was looking innocently up into the tree above, where birds were twittering. It was as if all of them had been waiting for him to find it.

Trexler approached the plant circumspectly, fearfully almost. Though there was no flower, the pattern of blotches on the leaves left him in no doubt. So rapt was he that he hardly noticed Maia had put her hand in his.

‘Is this one for sale?’ he asked huskily, trying to sound calm.

‘Everything has its price,’ she replied, laughing.

For a moment Trexler was silent. Then he asked, ‘Are there others?’

‘A few. They came from one place only, in the north. As far as we know all were taken and we have them all. We searched very hard.’

‘And you have seen the flower?’

‘The collector did. But since then none of them has flowered. So I cannot help you.’

‘I would like to buy… all of them.’

‘Then you must talk to my father.’

They drove back to Bangkok in silence, embarrassed by the awareness that each was withholding information from the other. At his hotel she left him almost no excuse not to walk away, but then called after him.

‘You couldn’t let a girl go hungry,’ she teased.

Over dinner she told him that her father was away on business until the following afternoon, but would be back in time to watch the races at the Royal Turf Club. They danced, they looked at the moon with their arms around each other. Then, under the single light bulb with the moths now revelling in ecstasy, they made love. When he woke in the morning she was gone, but on her pillow lay a leaf of the orchid to which he had vowed to give his name.

At breakfast, the waiter set a phone beside his plate, and he received instructions for the meeting with Maia’s father.

The Mercedes that took him into the city he remembered seeing parked at the Anova Nursery. The black curtains at the window remained undrawn. He knew where he was only when the driver set him down somewhere near Chulalongkorn University.

From the street and on its lower levels the apartment building was unremarkable, and remained so until they reached the third floor. ‘Mr Rama uses a separate entrance,’ the driver whispered, as if apologising. ‘You will be met on the top floor.’ He stood to attention at the lift entrance and remained there until the doors had closed. Trexler felt himself whisked upwards.