Arid Dreams

by Duanwad Pimwana

  TONGJAI PULLED ALL HER CLOTHES OFF THE HANGERS and threw them in a pile on the floor, leaving only her two school uniforms. She was twelve years old and finished with sixth grade; in fact, yesterday was the last time she had worn her uniform, and she was still waiting for her report card. Kui, her little brother, was sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over and crying. Tongjai had dumped his clothes on the floor in front of him, but he couldn’t have cared less. From the sound of his miserable wailing, it seemed like his world was falling apart.

  With the sun setting, Tongjai’s white uniform shirts stood out in the darkening room. Hearing Kui’s sobs, her heart grew even heavier. Although she had her clothes folded and packed in a paper bag, she couldn’t find the strength to get up and light the lantern, letting the entire house become engulfed in darkness. When she heard a truck approaching, her ears perked up, and headlights poured in through the windows, casting a glow on the walls and the uniforms suspended on the rail.

  Tongjai stood up and went to the window. The truck moved forward, reversed, moved forward again and then reversed again, parking with its back end in front of the gate to the chicken coop. Her father got out, followed by her mother. From the other side emerged the driver, who had a large build. The woman who owned the chicken coop walked over to them, speaking in harsh tones. The coop was completely empty, not a single chicken in sight. As her mother headed toward the house, her father grabbed a shovel and a basket, ducked down, and slipped through the doorway into the coop. Tongjai jumped up to light the lantern.

  “Stop crying now, Kui. Mama’s here. Pack your clothes,” Tongjai commanded.

  “Kids, what are you doing? Why is the house so dark?”

  Tongjai came out of the room carrying the burning lamp, held its flame against another lantern’s wick in the kitchen, and then returned it to the other room. Her mother unhooked the barn lantern from the crossbeam and lit it before inspecting the items that her daughter had packed in baskets. Tongjai placed the bag with her own clothes next to them, mustered every bit of courage, and waited for the right moment. But then her mother heard Kui whimpering in the other room.

  “What’s that noise? Is that Kui?”

  “Mama, can we wait another day?” Tongjai’s voice quivered.

  Her mother looked at her skeptically. “Why? Why do we have to wait?”

  “Kui wants to … he wants to go to the fair at the shrine in town.” Tongjai pressed her chin down into her chest, almost panting.

  Exhausted, their mother let out a soft sigh. “Oh, you want to go out and have a good time, is that it? Don’t you understand why we have to leave today?”

  “Yes,” Tongjai said, almost in a whisper. “But if we wait until tomorrow, I’ll pay the bus fare myself. I can take him.”

  “Oh, you’re so rich! You go to school and still manage to save money while I work myself to death and still can’t manage to pay off what I owe. Don’t be so difficult. Go take a last look around the house. Make sure the windows are bolted. And take all this stuff out to the porch and lock up.” Their mother walked over to Kui. “What are you moaning for? Or do you want the cane? Pack your clothes and go wait outside—now!” Then she marched out of the house.

  Kui was sobbing even harder now, so Tongjai packed his clothes for him. She was on the verge of tears but did her best to control herself. Outside, she heard some voices yelling. Tongjai tilted her head to listen; Kui fell into a grim silence.

  “Kui! Kui!” Hearing the calls, the two siblings leaped up at once and raced out to the porch. About ten children, big and small, were huddled at the bottom of the stairs. Spotting the two faces, they hollered, “Are you done yet? Let’s go!” Kui sank down at the top of the stairs, his cheeks stained with tears. Tongjai went back inside to grab the barn lantern and carried it out to the porch. She sat down, clutching the railing as she observed the cheery faces below.

  “I can’t go anymore,” Kui told them. “My mama said no.”

  The other children urged him to sneak out, saying that even though he would get the cane when he came home, the pain would be over the next day. Kui scooted down two steps, but Tongjai stopped him before he got any farther. As his friends took off, he leaned his face against the railing and burst into tears. One of the older boys, about Tongjai’s age, hung back. He got off his bike, walked closer, and looked up at the porch.

  “How come?” Gaew asked.

  “We’ve got to help our parents work tomorrow—a job harvesting sugarcane,” Tongjai responded. “A truck came to buy fertilizers for the farm next door, so Mama’s having us hitch a ride with them tonight. We’re going any minute now.”

  The boy looked crestfallen. “When are you coming back? Have you told your mom about the new school?”

  Her eyes red and nose dripping, Tongjai tried as best she could to keep her feelings inside, but her voice betrayed her.

  “I don’t know how long the job will take. At least several days … maybe a few weeks. And my mama said I won’t be going to school anymore. We don’t have the money.”

  “But didn’t you tell her that they’re treating you as a special case, how you don’t have to take the entrance exam to get in? If you don’t go to this school, you won’t get to play music anymore. Did you already tell her that?”

  “Yeah, I told her.”

  “Did you tell her that you’re going to be the jakae soloist? She doesn’t know about that, does she?”

  “She knows. She knows everything. But we don’t have the money.”

  Gaew’s head dropped; he felt defeated. He had been longing to play with Tongjai again. The year before, when he was in sixth grade and Tongjai in fifth, they got to see each other every time the band practiced. At the solo competition, they had both come back with awards. After sixth grade, he moved on to the new school. They had exempted him from the entrance exam because of his musical talent, and he had been nicely paving the way for Tongjai. She had promised to apply to the same school, so they could once again play in the same band. She had promised they would go together … no matter where. Gaew looked up at her. Her head was bowed, completely still. Where her right cheek was visible under the glow of the lantern, silent tears were flowing down.

  “But …” Tongjai met his eyes. “If we make enough money from this job, maybe Mama will let me keep going to school. I’ll ask her again when we come back.”

  Gaew’s eyes glimmered slightly. “Don’t forget. Beg until she says yes. And do you have to leave now? You should stay so we can go to the fair together, at least for one night.”

  “We’re off as soon as my mama and papa are done loading the chicken manure onto the truck. You go ahead.”

  Tongjai went back in the house, bolted all the windows, checked their belongings, and then carried the baskets outside. After extinguishing all the lanterns and locking up, she sat there waiting in the dark. Gaew was gone.

  The chicken manure on the truck gave off a vicious stench. Kui fought as hard as he could, kicking and screaming. Their mother tried to get him to sit up front, but he threw such a tantrum that she got mad. He said he hated her and didn’t want to sit with her. Their father said fine, if he was going to be that way, he could sit in the back, and he laid a tarp over the mound of manure for Kui to sit on. Nervously, Tongjai asked if she could ride with her brother. As they set off, she spotted Gaew riding his bike out of a shadow, closely following the truck. She could make out his face, but then the truck accelerated, leaving him farther and farther behind. Soon Gaew disappeared into the darkness.

  The stink lessened with the quickening breeze. The truck drove past stretches of rice paddies as it made its way out of their village. When the fair came into view, Tongjai told Kui to look. He sat up, his eyes wide. Over there, lights shone bright, and the thumping of the music drifted over, together with the sounds of the MC’s banter and a slew of other things. A white movie screen loomed over the fair grounds. The film hadn’t started yet, but soon a picture appeared on the screen.


  “The sandals ad!” Kui blurted out. Tongjai knew it, too.

  A woman walked over to another woman, who was sitting down. Almost in time with the first, Kui recited her line, “You want to go to the market?” The seated woman replied, together with Tongjai, “Okay.” In front of the door was an array of flip-flops. The two women each put on a pair and walked off. The picture cut to another woman lounging on a beach chair. She was wearing what looked to them like a skimpy floral set of bra and panties, her breasts and buttocks spilling out, luring the viewers’ eyes. A man in his underwear, or so it appeared, walked over and stood in front of her. “Do you want to take a walk?” Kui and the man asked at the same time. “Sure,” Tongjai responded along with the woman. The pair put on their flip-flops and strolled along the beach holding hands, her porcelain butt cheeks showing. The screen was soon obstructed by trees, and they grew denser and denser along the road until nothing more could be seen.

  The two children looked at each other, giggling. Although Kui didn’t realize it, his tears had dried, but Tongjai was laughing so hard her eyes were watering. The siblings tried to recall what happened next in the commercial. Tongjai thought the same woman would be standing on the beach, with flip-flops arranged in a circle nearby. She had seen the clip twice, but Kui, who had seen it only once, argued that, no, the woman would be standing by the pool. And in fact, he was correct: the camera would pan down from the woman’s face to the whiskey glass that she held in front of her cleavage, then to her belly button, her tiny bathing suit and her legs, finally pausing at the flip-flops on her feet. By the side of the pool, sandals would be arranged in a circle.

  But then Kui remembered his predicament. He wasn’t getting to go to the fair at the shrine like the other kids. He thought about the Chinese opera theater, the likay stage, the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, the shooting games, the cotton candy, the balloons. Why did his mother have to be meaner than everyone else’s? All the kids from the neighborhood were probably headed to the Zeng Tek Xiang Tung Shrine, hanging in their own cliques, passing other groups of kids from their and other neighborhoods as they roamed around. Each and every thing was sure to dazzle and excite. Toys and treats would be on offer all over the grounds. The shrine held its fair once a year, for three days. Kui got to go for the first time only last year, and only on the last night. This year he would miss all three nights. If only his mother were a little nicer and let him go just for tonight—they could have left for work tomorrow. He hated his mother, intensely hated her. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t getting to go to the fair this year. But he was still hoping for a miracle. He prayed that the truck would break down, and prayed that one of his parents would get such a bad stomachache that they would have to turn around and go back.

  “What’s wrong, Kui? We were laughing just now.” Tongjai stared at him, but it was too dark for her to be able to make out his face.

  “I hate Mama!” he yelled. “Because of her, I’m the unluckiest kid on earth. I wish I’d been born someone else!”

  Tongjai sighed, expelling the horrible stench that she had just inhaled. Kui’s words made her think: should have been born someone else. She really wondered, if she weren’t Tongjai, what would her life be like? What would she be doing now? She could be Supa, the richest kid in her class. Then she’d probably be lazing around in that beautiful house. But Supa was such an awful student. She failed two or three subjects every exam period. Still, Supa got fifty baht of allowance for school every day, and the treats and fruit she brought always looked delicious. She had pretty stationery with unusual designs that no one else had. Things that she got tired of, she simply gave away to her classmates. What a charmed life! Tongjai wanted to try being Supa for a day or two; it couldn’t be so bad. Let Supa come and ride in this truck full of chicken crap with Kui. Let her get up early tomorrow morning, eat rice with salt-cured fish, and go work as a farmhand harvesting sugarcane. That was as far as Tongjai got, but the idea made her laugh. Kui looked at her, confused.

  “Kui, if you don’t want to be yourself, who do you want to be? Have you ever thought about it?”

  “I don’t want to be anybody.”

  “I want to try trading places with Supa. Do you remember her? Supa, my friend with the peacock at home? I can be her and she’ll have to go cut sugarcane instead. If you don’t trade with anyone, then you have to go cut sugarcane with Supa. Me, in a minute, I’m going to go buy myself a pretty pair of shoes.”

  “You’re talking crazy,” Kui snapped, his anger still raging. “I’m not going. Just watch. I’m praying for Mama and Papa to get stomachaches, both of them.”

  Tongjai had had it with him. “Enough. You’re taking this too far, Kui. You need to learn to put up with things, to have some patience. They have the fair every year. You can wait and go next time. Stop whining and tell yourself that you’re going to wait and go next year.”

  “I’m not going to wait. You just watch.”

  “So what are you going to do then? You’re not going to get to go. I told you, you have to tell yourself to wait. If you can do that, then you won’t be upset about it. The fair isn’t so important. If you try being me, you’d know. From now on I’ll never get to do anything. I won’t get to go to school. I won’t get to see my friends, my teachers. I won’t get to play music. All day every day, I’ll be out working as a farmhand, like Mama and Papa have done for over ten years. I don’t have a single thing to hope for, and still I’m … I’m waiting for the right opportunity, the right moment. Maybe Mama will change her mind and let me go back to school. No matter how long it takes, I can wait. You have to be able to wait, too.”

  Kui said nothing in response; he simply dragged his forearm across his face, wiping away his tears. Then he moved toward the side of the truck and pulled himself up, grabbing onto the edge. Tongjai told him to sit back down, but he acted as if he didn’t hear. Making his way to the back, he looked like he was about to jump out. Tongjai panicked, cried for him to stop, but it was too late. She screamed, telling her mother to stop the truck, but no one heard her. Kui’s body lying on the road was about to be swallowed up by darkness.

  Tongjai couldn’t wait any longer. She wasn’t going to get a better chance. She didn’t even have a second to pause and contemplate. She dived after him. In that moment, she was dreaming of the beach, the breaking waves, and she imagined her body was a sandal, floating adrift in the middle of the ocean.

  KANDA’S EYEBROWS

  MY WIFE HAS NO EYEBROWS. WHAT SHE HAS INSTEAD are black tattoos mimicking their arched shapes. When she was younger, she didn’t use to look like this. Now her jaws seem wider, her cheeks have started to sag, and she has become thicker, on top and bottom. I wonder if anyone remembers how my wife, in her youth, was the most beautiful woman around.

  I find it unnerving how fast women’s looks change. This is something I’ve been preoccupied with since I was young. I have noted, as I observed more women, that there are some exceptions to the rule. These female outliers were what I’d always dreamed of finding. For most women, family life seems to weigh them down with obligations that men often can’t imagine. The burden falls on their fragile shoulders and pins them down until they become conditioned and surrender themselves to their new role, forsaking their beauty and losing the fire that makes them want to show off or flirt around their husbands.

  When pursuing women they desire, young men, consumed by lust, are infatuated with every inch of their girlfriends. And the ladies, even the ugly ones, are all eager to flaunt themselves for their lovers. Their beauty shines brightest during this period. But once they settle down, the husbands are caught off guard by their wives’ transformation. Every part of youthful female beauty, once so affecting, slowly begins to fade. Before five years of married life have passed, the husband is living with another person, someone completely different. Because of this, I respect women who make the effort to primp for their husbands for as long as possible.

  My wife used to be stunning. When we fir
st saw Kanda, the five of us—my four friends and I—all vied for her attention. Because she didn’t readily show interest in any of us, she appeared to be even more beautiful and more complex. She smiled at all of us; she was equally friendly with each of us, which made us even more determined. My friends and I worked at a car dealership. When we spotted Kanda for the first time, she was walking past the dealership’s showroom, dressed to the nines, making her way to the crosswalk down the block. She worked at the little real estate agency across the street.

  With the five of us, it was always the same old story: whenever a woman entered the fray, Wonchai, that handsome bastard, was chosen every time. We were all pretty fed up. We thought badly of those women, questioning their taste. In every way, aside from his good looks, Wonchai was clearly the inferior man. He had a playboy’s roving eye and the body language to match, and his flirtatious way of engaging in conversation didn’t exactly inspire trust. Still, we had to concede that most women were into men like him. Kanda was the first girl to look coolly past Wonchai’s attractiveness. We were beside ourselves—the woman of our dreams had finally materialized.

  Every week we invited Kanda out with us, to catch a movie, go work out, have a picnic. Without fail, it was Kanda and the five of us. This woman was unbelievable. She didn’t put on airs, wasn’t easily upset, wasn’t fussy. She was cheerful, smart, and honest. We made a pact among ourselves: if she fell in love with one of us, that lucky guy would make her his wife and be a faithful husband to her, and no matter whom she chose, the rest of us would be happy for him.

  But Kanda’s eventual pick upset us. No way in the world, no one could believe she went for the bastard Wonchai. It transpired one night at a beachside hotel when the lover boy snuck into her room. In the morning we demanded an explanation. Wonchai insisted that he hadn’t forced her, that Kanda had feelings for him and was all too willing. We didn’t believe him. Kanda herself was tight-lipped. In the days that followed, circumstances changed, and we backed off. Kanda openly became Wonchai’s girlfriend. I don’t know what the others thought—certainly we all wished things had turned out differently—but me, I was thinking further ahead: she was in for a struggle. Even though Wonchai, too, had sworn that he would marry Kanda and be faithful, we all knew his words were meaningless. In predicting this, I felt like I was counting down the days until Kanda’s inevitable heartbreak.