Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
Several days had passed since Tom Barton said goodbye to Emma Parkly in New Delhi. On arrival in Bangkok he had set about exploring the city, discovering to his surprise a considerable contrast with the poverty and underdevelopment of India, where he had just passed what was doubtlessly the most difficult month of his life. During his stay in the small coastal resort of Kovalam a cholera epidemic had broken out, ending with the spectacular evacuation of thousands of foreign tourists, airlifted out of the country before the ecstatic cameras of the world’s news media.
Barton had been looking forward to Emma joining him once she had completed the remaining formalities relating to death of her husband, Stephen Parkly, head of the failed West Mercian Finance mortgage bank. Since Barton’s last call to the New Delhi Oberoi, a thin shadow of doubt had drifted his mind. Was it his imagination, or was there a barely perceptible change in the tone of her voice, a vague hint of vacillation? But Emma reassured him announcing she had booked a flight to Bangkok for the following Sunday.
The next evening Barton called the Oberoi as promised. Emma was not in her room. He left a message then waited in his suite, in vain; she did not return his call, leaving him tormented by doubt and uncertainty. The following morning he called again, without success. That same evening, to his profound chagrin, he was informed she had quit the hotel.
Late the following day she called from London; he was not totally surprised. Her father had been suddenly taken ill, she weakly explained. She had had no alternative but to fly home from Delhi to be with her mother. The doctors pronounced a mild stroke, it was not life threatening. Emma then quietly informed Tom she would like to spend a little time with her family. There was little he could do but try to hide his pain.
The days passed. A week later she was still putting off her arrangements to join him in Bangkok. Then, towards the end of Barton’s second week in Thailand, Emma told Tom she needed time to rethink the future. He was hurt and felt abandoned after all the promises they had made to each other.
After returning from yet another now depressing walk in the stifling dusty city the front desk handed him an airmail letter addressed in Emma’s writing. It seemed strange to receive an airmail letter in a hotel in Bangkok, it was like something from the past. He could not remember when he had last received an airmail letter, something he could have never imagined only two months before, and even stranger in the world of Internet and instant communication.
Apprehending bad news he returned to his suite to read the letter. It was long, Emma poured out her thoughts, she was confused, her parents had persuaded her to take more time to think things through, after all she had her family and friends in London. Starting a new life far from them would be too much — with a man she barely knew — after the dramatic events that had suddenly and brutally changed her life following the tragic death of her husband in India, and the subsequent collapse of his mortgage bank, West Mercian Finance.
At first Barton accepted Emma’s need to be close to her family in the UK. Under any other circumstances he would have jumped on the next flight to join her, but given the conditions under which he had left London that was not an option.
There little he could do but wait and hope. Then, as the days passed it slowly began to sink in Emma would never join him. At first he passed the time by the hotel pool overlooking the Chao Phraya River, hopefully waiting for news, making plans for their new life together — where exactly remained vague. Then slowly, as the reality of his situation became clearer, he accepted the idea he was on his own again and began to look at his surroundings differently. He had all but ignored the magnificent hotel and its personnel with their respectful wais, giving little attention to the lobby he passed through each day. He became aware of the enormous crystal chandelier that lit the elegant atrium, the sound of the grand piano, played by a graceful Thai girl, the burbling of the water flowing from the imposing fountain sculpted in white marble that dominated the hall.
Finally, as his hopes faded, he was reluctantly forced to turn his attention to other things. Thailand, he discovered, was different from India, very different. Bangkok was a vibrant modern city, another culture, another world. He explored the seedier side of the city with its abundant bars and clubs: Patpong and Soi Cowboy, for the entertainment of less discerning tourists and weary expats. He had to admit the girls were nice looking, different, but nevertheless attractive. He was tempted by the bar girls and massage parlours, but he had been warned of the risks of such brief encounters; that, with his refusal to drown his sorrows in drink, kept him on the straight and narrow.
Little by little he began to feel strangely at home in his suite, developing a kind of familiarity with the surroundings of the garden wing of the Oriental, a hotel where great writers such as Conrad had once stayed. He drifted into a careless routine, rising early; an hour in the fitness club followed by a shower, then a buffet breakfast in the Veranda Coffee Shop overlooking the river, there he caught up with the details of the international news in the English language press, observing the comings and goings of other guests. Then an hour sunning himself by the pool, becoming part of the scenery, exchanging words with those he began to recognise, business people for the most part.
At first he had kept to himself, his thoughts too fixed on Emma, then as boredom threatened he forced himself into a semblance of action. He checked out the squash courts where he played a couple sets with another long staying guest, who thoroughly thrashed him. Barton was surprised to discover how out of breath and out of form he was in spite of his daily visits to the fitness centre.
After showering he joined his squash partner at the bar for a cold beer. Steve Howard, an amiable Liverpudlian, chatted about Bangkok and South East Asia in general. After more than two weeks of maudlin introspection Howard was a breath of fresh air, unpretentious and good company, asking few questions, clearly used to discretion. Howard vaguely intimated he was an investment consultant, alluding to the development of hotel projects in nearby Cambodia.
He was what certain Americans would have described as a corporate fixer, or the French an éminence grise. Whatever the description it was he who, behind the scenes, arranged affaires for powerful men in the world of business affairs. He was also an astute investor using the knowledge he gleaned in the company of men such as Sergei Tarasov, a Russian banker, and Fernando Martínez, a Spanish property and construction magnate.
He was a discreet guest wherever the rich gathered; London, Biarritz or on a yacht in warm waters. Howard’s skills lay in the buying and selling of commercial property: landmark properties, prestigious hotels and the occasional condominium or golfing complex. His commissions had made him wealthy man.
Contrary to growing media reports, Howard knew business continued whatever else happened in the world. It was just a question of looking in the right places. He had no fixed place of business and could move with the market, and like any wise investor he knew the rules were simple and never changed: buy low and sell high.
Howard parted company with the promise of a return match on his return from Phnom Penh, which he informed Barton was just a short hour’s flight from the Thai capital. He had meetings scheduled with his Spanish clients who were planning a hotel complex. Laughingly he told Barton of his preference for the comforts of Bangkok, a city of eight million, sophisticated in comparison to the provincial atmosphere of Phnom Penh, a small and underdeveloped city, where it was difficult to go about business unnoticed.
The North Atlantic
Barton had been looking forward to Emma joining him once she had completed the remaining formalities relating to death of her husband, Stephen Parkly, head of the failed West Mercian Finance mortgage bank. Since Barton’s last call to the New Delhi Oberoi, a thin shadow of doubt had drifted his mind. Was it his imagination, or was there a barely perceptible change in the tone of her voice, a vague hint of vacillation? But Emma reassured him announcing she had booked a flight to Bangkok for the following Sunday.
The next evening Barton called the Oberoi as promised. Emma was not in her room. He left a message then waited in his suite, in vain; she did not return his call, leaving him tormented by doubt and uncertainty. The following morning he called again, without success. That same evening, to his profound chagrin, he was informed she had quit the hotel.
Late the following day she called from London; he was not totally surprised. Her father had been suddenly taken ill, she weakly explained. She had had no alternative but to fly home from Delhi to be with her mother. The doctors pronounced a mild stroke, it was not life threatening. Emma then quietly informed Tom she would like to spend a little time with her family. There was little he could do but try to hide his pain.
The days passed. A week later she was still putting off her arrangements to join him in Bangkok. Then, towards the end of Barton’s second week in Thailand, Emma told Tom she needed time to rethink the future. He was hurt and felt abandoned after all the promises they had made to each other.
After returning from yet another now depressing walk in the stifling dusty city the front desk handed him an airmail letter addressed in Emma’s writing. It seemed strange to receive an airmail letter in a hotel in Bangkok, it was like something from the past. He could not remember when he had last received an airmail letter, something he could have never imagined only two months before, and even stranger in the world of Internet and instant communication.
Apprehending bad news he returned to his suite to read the letter. It was long, Emma poured out her thoughts, she was confused, her parents had persuaded her to take more time to think things through, after all she had her family and friends in London. Starting a new life far from them would be too much — with a man she barely knew — after the dramatic events that had suddenly and brutally changed her life following the tragic death of her husband in India, and the subsequent collapse of his mortgage bank, West Mercian Finance.
At first Barton accepted Emma’s need to be close to her family in the UK. Under any other circumstances he would have jumped on the next flight to join her, but given the conditions under which he had left London that was not an option.
There little he could do but wait and hope. Then, as the days passed it slowly began to sink in Emma would never join him. At first he passed the time by the hotel pool overlooking the Chao Phraya River, hopefully waiting for news, making plans for their new life together — where exactly remained vague. Then slowly, as the reality of his situation became clearer, he accepted the idea he was on his own again and began to look at his surroundings differently. He had all but ignored the magnificent hotel and its personnel with their respectful wais, giving little attention to the lobby he passed through each day. He became aware of the enormous crystal chandelier that lit the elegant atrium, the sound of the grand piano, played by a graceful Thai girl, the burbling of the water flowing from the imposing fountain sculpted in white marble that dominated the hall.
Finally, as his hopes faded, he was reluctantly forced to turn his attention to other things. Thailand, he discovered, was different from India, very different. Bangkok was a vibrant modern city, another culture, another world. He explored the seedier side of the city with its abundant bars and clubs: Patpong and Soi Cowboy, for the entertainment of less discerning tourists and weary expats. He had to admit the girls were nice looking, different, but nevertheless attractive. He was tempted by the bar girls and massage parlours, but he had been warned of the risks of such brief encounters; that, with his refusal to drown his sorrows in drink, kept him on the straight and narrow.
Little by little he began to feel strangely at home in his suite, developing a kind of familiarity with the surroundings of the garden wing of the Oriental, a hotel where great writers such as Conrad had once stayed. He drifted into a careless routine, rising early; an hour in the fitness club followed by a shower, then a buffet breakfast in the Veranda Coffee Shop overlooking the river, there he caught up with the details of the international news in the English language press, observing the comings and goings of other guests. Then an hour sunning himself by the pool, becoming part of the scenery, exchanging words with those he began to recognise, business people for the most part.
At first he had kept to himself, his thoughts too fixed on Emma, then as boredom threatened he forced himself into a semblance of action. He checked out the squash courts where he played a couple sets with another long staying guest, who thoroughly thrashed him. Barton was surprised to discover how out of breath and out of form he was in spite of his daily visits to the fitness centre.
After showering he joined his squash partner at the bar for a cold beer. Steve Howard, an amiable Liverpudlian, chatted about Bangkok and South East Asia in general. After more than two weeks of maudlin introspection Howard was a breath of fresh air, unpretentious and good company, asking few questions, clearly used to discretion. Howard vaguely intimated he was an investment consultant, alluding to the development of hotel projects in nearby Cambodia.
He was what certain Americans would have described as a corporate fixer, or the French an éminence grise. Whatever the description it was he who, behind the scenes, arranged affaires for powerful men in the world of business affairs. He was also an astute investor using the knowledge he gleaned in the company of men such as Sergei Tarasov, a Russian banker, and Fernando Martínez, a Spanish property and construction magnate.
He was a discreet guest wherever the rich gathered; London, Biarritz or on a yacht in warm waters. Howard’s skills lay in the buying and selling of commercial property: landmark properties, prestigious hotels and the occasional condominium or golfing complex. His commissions had made him wealthy man.
Contrary to growing media reports, Howard knew business continued whatever else happened in the world. It was just a question of looking in the right places. He had no fixed place of business and could move with the market, and like any wise investor he knew the rules were simple and never changed: buy low and sell high.
Howard parted company with the promise of a return match on his return from Phnom Penh, which he informed Barton was just a short hour’s flight from the Thai capital. He had meetings scheduled with his Spanish clients who were planning a hotel complex. Laughingly he told Barton of his preference for the comforts of Bangkok, a city of eight million, sophisticated in comparison to the provincial atmosphere of Phnom Penh, a small and underdeveloped city, where it was difficult to go about business unnoticed.
The North Atlantic