“Pedophiles?”
“Yeah, the place is crawling with them.”
The place referred to was the 3rd floor of a popular mall in Pattaya, Thailand. Pattaya is about a two hour drive south-east of Bangkok and might best be described as a Disneyland of carnal delights for Western thrill seekers ranging in age between twenty-five and death. Although it originally catered exclusively to men, the place draws a fair number of the fairer sex these days, as well.
I used to go over there from Koh Samui a couple of times a year when the charms of island life were becoming a bit stale. One thing I enjoyed there was watching the latest movies. The cinemas were located on the 3rd floor of the mall. I’d been up there many times and never noticed that it was a cruising ground for pedophiles.
“There’s an open bar on the West side of the floor. Sit there, order a beer and watch for the action.”
So, late one afternoon I did just that. And, sure enough, the action was unmistakable. Mostly middle-aged White guys cruising for young Thai boys. Sitting next to me was as Englishman about my age and next to him was a young Thai man in his early twenties. We started up a conversation which got underway with the usual assortment of who, what and where issues. His name was John; he came from the East-end of London and had been living in Pattaya for five years. It doesn’t happen often but, occasionally I meet someone to whom I take an immediate liking. That was one such occasion. I asked him if he worked in Pattaya and he said no.
“So, what have you been doing here for five years?”
“Enjoying my life.”
“That working out for you, is it?”
“Yeah, pretty much so.”
“How do you afford it without working?”
“Well, me two brothers and I used to have a bar in London. I made a bit of money when I sold out me share. Mostly, I did some modeling for a painter…fifteen years of that. When he died he left me in charge of his estate. I live from that.”
“Wow. You modeled fifteen years for a painter who left you in charge of his estate when he died, huh? There’s enough money in that estate to cover all your bills?”
“I manage pretty well.”
“Good for you. He must have been a fairly successful painter.”
“Yeah, he was. You ever hear of Francis Bacon?”
“You mean the 16th, 17th century English essayist, playwright and general man of letters?”
“No, I mean Francis Bacon the English painter?”
“Sorry. I never heard of him.”
“That’s alright. No worries mate. Not important.”
My friendship with John lasted nearly four years. During that time I came to learn a great deal about Francis Bacon the English painter. Three days after our first meeting John invited me back to his apartment…it turned out to be the most luxurious penthouse in town overlooking the Gulf of Siam…a private elevator, five stand alone balconies with gardens and mini-waterfalls, a sauna, huge living room, three or four bedrooms, and Bacon lithographs hanging from all the walls. We spent the evening with two young girls and drinking scotch that was older than they were. Neither the girls nor the scotch was underage, though.
The value of Bacon’s estate surfaced that evening. I’m sure I didn’t ask John outright but, he told me.
“One hundred million.”
“One hundred million dollars?”
“No, one hundred million of the big blokes.”
“Pounds?”
“English pounds, yes.”
That was rather stunning.
“And, as you said you ‘manage pretty well’ on that?”
“Yeah, so far; so good.”
“Keep me in mind if you have any trouble spending it all.”
“You bet I will, Mac.”
I wouldn’t have bet a penny on it.
Every three months or so John and I would meet up in Pattaya or Bangkok. We drank and talked and hobnobbed with local talent in the bars. Being bi-sexual, John did a lot more hobnobbing than I did. We always enjoyed each other’s company and I learned more and more about Francis Bacon. John gave me many books to read about him…books that John could not read: he was dyslectic. Not sure I would want to wake up looking at one of Bacon’s works first thing in the morning but, he certainly had a unique style. I never have to check for a signature when viewing one of his pieces.
I also learned more and more about John. The more I learned, the more I liked him. He had been viciously ridiculed by the elite of the artistic community. They resented the fact that Bacon had left his estate in the hands of an illiterate ne’er-do-well. Many accused him of being Bacon’s gay toy boy. He wasn’t.
“How do you know that?”
“Because John told me.”
“Well, what would you expect him to tell you?”
“I would expect him to tell me the truth and, as far as I’m concerned, he did.”
On a visit to Pattaya about a year after we had met John and I sat at a bar drinking beer and smoking cigs. It had been four months since we’d seen each other so John was regaling me with his latest exploits…three weeks in Bali at a five-star resort, several pink champagne parties at the penthouse with an assortment of nubile young men and women, countless evenings out at the finest restaurants in Pattaya and Bangkok, frequent visits to the go-go bars and so on and so forth. I just listened.
A pause ensued when he had finished recounting the various frolicsome episodes of unbridled hedonism.
“You ever consider committing suicide,” I asked.
“Often,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Mac, you’re a smart lad. I think you know why.”
“No sense of purpose to your life, right?”
“Exactly right.”
“So find one.”
“I’m working on it.”
When I saw him again three months later he had found his purpose. Namely, promoting Bacon’s work to a wider audience. He had even quit smoking.
“I have a reason to live now. You helped me think about that, Mac. And, I thank you. Nobody else I know would ever have asked if I had considered committing suicide. It’s time I stopped killing myself.”
John devoted himself to his new found mission in life with great zeal and no small success. Unfortunately, the seeds of his demise had already been sown.
John Edwards died of throat cancer in his early fifties. Shortly afterwards, I read somewhere that he was widely considered to be one of the most enigmatic characters of the 20th century art world. To me, he was a friend and I think I was one to him, as well. Twelve years on and I still miss his company.
Excerpt from: An Eclectic Journal...Cambodia
e-book via Amazon
