Cross Currents

by John Shors

  “Getting us coconuts.”

  “For what?”

  “To sell, silly.”

  “Oh.”

  Patch listened to the children talk, made sure that they were a safe distance from the tree, and dropped the first coconut. It landed with a thud, rolled a few feet, and was snatched up by Suchin. “Here comes another one,” Patch said, wrestling with a bigger coconut, surprised by the strength of its bond to the tree.

  The coconut finally lost the battle and rolled across the sand. Niran hurried forward, then set it next to his sister’s. “Don’t fall, Patch,” he called.

  Continuing to wrench coconuts free and drop them to the children, Patch worked until only fronds remained below him. Though bleeding in several places, he smiled as Suchin and Niran picked up their prizes and hurried toward the restaurant. He knew that Sarai would set the coconuts in an ice-filled cooler and later chop off their tops, stick a straw in, and sell them for twenty baht each. To Sarai and Lek, coconuts meant that money did grow on trees, and Patch knew they’d be pleased.

  Wiping his brow, Patch gazed across the bay toward the open sea. To the north sprawled the coast of Myanmar, hardly a country to escape to. More than a thousand miles to the west lay India. Patch was fairly certain that if he reached India, he could find an American embassy, get a new passport, and go home. But traveling to India was another story altogether. He might be able to stow away on a freighter, but that meant going back to Bangkok or maybe the nearby island of Phuket.

  As he did every day, Patch lamented his stupidity. To make a few hundred dollars, he’d risked everything and turned his dream vacation into the worst nightmare. He was now a fugitive. He’d hurt a police officer. If he were caught he’d be shackled and thrown in prison. Even now, within the haze of relative safety he’d found on Ko Phi Phi, it was hard to forget that his future had been jeopardized by recklessness and naïveté. And tomorrow his brother would arrive and remind him of his foolishness. Ryan would be hard on him, Patch was certain. Ryan would urge him to turn himself in. They would fight and fight and fight, and Ryan would never understand. He wouldn’t understand because he wasn’t a coward, wasn’t afraid to be held accountable. Patch had always thought that Ryan was almost incapable of fear. And Patch doubted that his big brother had ever looked into a mirror and wondered whom he saw. Patch, on the other hand, studied his reflection from time to time, musing over why he sometimes appeared as a stranger to himself.

  Though the two brothers looked like twins, and were only a year apart, Patch had always walked in the shadow of Ryan’s deeds, sheltered within that shadow but also weary of its influence. This weariness was one of the reasons that when Ryan had returned to business school to finish his master’s degree in management, Patch had traveled in the opposite direction, flying to Bangkok with no plan, with nothing but a backpack full of T-shirts and a yearning for adventure. He was twenty-three years old and brimming with restlessness and optimism.

  Patch loved his brother as much as anyone else. But he was afraid of what Ryan would say, of the looks that Ryan would give him. Nothing ever seemed to sting as much as Ryan’s disapproval. And Patch had felt it on too many occasions.

  Wishing that Ryan weren’t drawing so close, Patch stared down the tree trunk, wondering how he would get to the ground. Climbing up had been fairly easy, but going down looked problematic. He might have to jump.

  As he sat and debated how to approach his descent, Suchin and Niran reappeared. Suchin carried a drink of some sort, saying that it was for him. Niran held an old soccer ball, and asked if Patch would play with him on the beach. Suchin continued to talk as Niran tried to keep the ball in the air with his feet and knees. He wasn’t successful.

  “You’re stuck like a cat,” Suchin said, giggling. “Though I’ve never seen such a big cat, and I don’t see your tail.”

  Patch poked his head down through the fronds. “Meow.”

  The children laughed, Niran dropping the ball.

  “Come down, sweet little kitten,” Suchin replied. “Mother has a nice bowl of milk for you.”

  “Meow. Meow.”

  “Come on. You can do it.”

  Patch put his feet on the trunk and began to lower himself. He managed to slide about halfway down the trunk before his skin was scraped raw and he jumped away from the pain, and out into empty space, falling toward the children below.

  HUNDREDS OF MILES TO THE north, Ryan and his girlfriend, Brooke, sat on the balcony of their hotel room, seven stories up and facing the heart of Bangkok. Ryan rested his laptop on his knees. His fingers tapped its keys with relentless speed as he scrolled through emails, replying to professors, potential employers, and friends. Brooke watched him as he typed, thinking that the Thai sun might do him some good. Though she had been attracted to him since the moment she met him in business school, his pale skin seemed out of place here in the tropical heat. The rest of him looked as it often did—his short blond hair spiked upward with gel, his blue eyes covered by narrow sunglasses. As always, he was clean shaven, revealing a strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. His Hawaiian-style shirt was unbuttoned, and the defined muscles of his abdomen appeared as firm as the cement floor of the balcony.

  Aware that Ryan was engrossed in his work, Brooke shifted her gaze to the city. A dozen towering office buildings reflected the midmorning light. Bangkok’s SkyTrain rumbled above a congested four-lane road. The blue-and-white train followed the wide curve of the elevated platform, heading toward downtown. The train moved much faster than the thousands of cars, trucks, and motorcycles beneath it. Brake lights made the road seem to glow. Horns were incessant, chirping like the cries of exotic birds migrating en masse. The air smelled of diesel fumes, but also of spices from the restaurant below—scents of saffron and lemongrass and fish sauce.

  Eyeing the zigzagging paths of scores of traditional threewheeled taxis known as tuk-tuks, Brooke felt an urge to explore the city. She’d never been outside America and wanted to hop on a tuk-tuk and ask the driver to take them somewhere interesting.

  “Can’t you finish that later?” she asked, running a hand through her hair, which was light brown with blond highlights and fell well below her shoulders.

  Ryan glanced up at her, then back at his laptop. “I’m going over Patch’s directions on how to get to Ko . . . Phi Phi, though I can hardly make sense of what he says. Must have been in a hurry.”

  “It probably costs money for him to get online. And he doesn’t have any.”

  “So, once again, his problem becomes my problem. Sound familiar?”

  “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “What a freaking mess.”

  Brooke rolled her green eyes, heard a screech of tires, and watched a SkyTrain approach. “Life is messy, you know. It’s not some perfect business plan that’ll always give you a great return on investment.”

  “With him it’s messy.”

  “And what about with me? Waking you up last night?”

  “That’s different. It’s not your fault.”

  “But that doesn’t make it any cleaner, Ry.”

  He sighed, partly closing his laptop. “I need to sweat. They actually have a decent gym downstairs. Would you mind hanging out for an hour?”

  “We could walk downtown instead of taking a taxi.”

  “Walking isn’t going to do it. I have to run to work off that nasty airline food. Don’t you?”

  “No. And I think we’d sweat enough just walking downtown.”

  Ryan nodded, noticing how her skin glistened. She wore a blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt, white shorts, and flip-flops. Her legs were mostly exposed, and his eyes followed the contours of her calves. She was more curves than muscles, more soft than not. Her breasts seemed to push at her T-shirt, and he had a sudden desire to lift Mickey above her head, to kiss her flesh. Her eyes found his and he smiled. “Caught me, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “I always catch you.”

  “Usually. Usually, but not always.”
<
br />   “You’re not as sly as you think. Unrelenting, yes. But sly, no.”

  “Can you blame me for trying?”

  Brooke nodded, though sometimes she wished he didn’t try. He forgot that men could try too hard with her, that men had tried too hard with her. “Go on,” she said. “Go work off that nasty food. I’ll be here for an hour. After that, you’ll have to go looking for me.”

  He set aside his laptop, putting his hand on her knee. “I’ll explore downtown with you. I promise. I’ll do a few reps, hit the treadmill, and head straight back.”

  “You could run in the city.”

  “In all that pollution? No way.”

  She glanced at the endless cars. “Maybe you should talk to them about sustainability. Put some of your thoughts to the test.”

  “Maybe I should.” He stood up, moving with purpose, as always. “We’ll explore, see some sights, have lunch, do whatever you want. And then maybe we can come back and I can get a look at what’s hiding behind Mickey.”

  “Really, you should study this place. It might teach you something.”

  He pulled off his shirt, grabbed his iPod, and then walked into their room. She watched him change into his workout clothes, wondering why the sight of his nakedness didn’t stir her as it once had. He could have modeled for a famous sculptor, she thought, recalling images of white marble statues that she’d seen in some history book.

  After saying good-bye, she returned to the view of the city. She should have taken the time to use his laptop to catch up on her studies as well. Though her specialization in business school was marketing, while he studied management, they were in two of the same classes, and he was wise to use the holiday break to get ahead of everyone else. But she didn’t want to read about IPOs or exit strategies or venture capital. She wanted to watch Bangkok—a chaotic, mesmerizing city that seemed to inspire something within her, something that had been robbed of wings but still longed to take flight.

  AS USUAL, MIDDAY ON KO Phi Phi brought heat, humidity, and sun. The island lay near the equator and at times felt like the inside of a greenhouse. The scent of damp soil mingled with that of tropical flowers and salt-laden air. The water near Rainbow Resort was placid, as it was in all but the strongest of storms. Most of the bay was protected by the limestone cliffs, which curved inward from the north and south, forming a shield the shape of a half-moon. The water was such a bright blue that it almost appeared to be illuminated from below.

  Though Rainbow Resort wasn’t popular among tourists, its beach was a desirable destination, and held a few dozen wooden lounge chairs, half as many faded Heineken umbrellas, and travelers from around the world. Swedes, Danes, Germans, Brits, Israelis, Japanese, and Australians lounged in the chairs, kicked soccer balls on the beach, or waded in the shallows. Most of the tourists were in their early twenties, some sunburned, others tanned. A trio of Swedish women sat in the bay, fifty feet from shore, the water almost reaching their exposed breasts. Farther out, several Westerners used snorkels and masks to explore beneath the tranquil surface.

  As they often did during the weekend, Suchin and Niran walked along the curving row of chairs and umbrellas, asking foreigners if they needed cold drinks or ice-cream cones. If anyone did, one of the children would ask for thirty or forty baht, walk to the restaurant, and give their mother the money in exchange for the treat. Sometimes Suchin carried her little sister, Achara, on her back, but when the weather was hot, Achara was usually looked after by her grandmother in the restaurant.

  Today Suchin and Niran were alone. They didn’t enjoy some chores, such as cleaning up the beach in the morning or at dusk, but chatting with foreigners had never bothered them. Suchin, in particular, liked selling refreshments, liked the smile on her mother’s face when a sale was completed. Since the sky was cloudless, business was brisk, and the siblings walked from one end of the chairs to the other several times before deciding that everyone was content.

  Niran knew that the afternoon ferry would soon dock on the opposite side of the island and that his father would want him to help lure customers to their resort. Worried that he wouldn’t have time to play, he took Suchin’s hand and led her toward the water. “Let’s catch some crabs,” he said, wondering where he’d left his net and digging spoon.

  “You and your crabs. And your fish. There’s no room left in your tank. The fish practically sleep on each other.”

  “Fish don’t sleep.”

  “Well, your fish are going to sleep forever if you put any more in that tank.”

  “Maybe we can . . .” Niran paused as his father appeared in the distance, wearing a frayed canvas hat that a tourist had given him years earlier. “See, we should have worked faster,” Niran said. “Now I have to go to the pier.”

  “I’ll go to the pier. You stay with Achara.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Wait. Let me tell you a new joke before you go.”

  He watched a fish break the surface of the nearby water. “Tell me.”

  “Why did the farmer call his pig Ink?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he kept running out of the pen.”

  Niran giggled, pushing her. “Tell me another one.”

  “What’s skinny, has black hair, and says ‘ouch’?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She reached forward, pinching his arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “It’s you,” she said, giggling. “You’re the answer.” Before he could get revenge, she kicked some sand at his feet, and then ran toward their restaurant, waving to her father but not pausing. Niran started to run after her but stopped, since she was much quicker. He saw that his father was carrying their sign—a piece of wood that had been painted white, with RAINBOW RESORT written in bright colors.

  “You sold six Fantas, four Sprites, and three beers?” his father asked, leading him to a footpath behind the beach, limping as he walked.

  “And one of Patch’s coconuts.”

  Lek smiled, though he wished they had sold more. “You’re a fine salesman. Are you sure you want to be a scientist?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Then I can catch all the fish I want. Just like the French scientists who were tagging all those tuna.”

  “That was neat.”

  “It was amazing. And they get to do it every day.”

  “How about we tag some tourists today? We’ve got seven empty bungalows. And that’s seven too many.”

  “Let’s try.”

  Father and son followed the path, which turned to the east, toward the interior of the butterfly-shaped island. The body of the butterfly was a rise about a mile long and a half mile across. On either side lay a beach, and at the end of each beach rose the massive limestone cliffs. The main village was located between the beaches.

  As they neared the village, they began to pass a row of simple one-story shops that sold T-shirts, swimsuits, balls, sunscreen, refreshments, souvenirs, jewelry, and just about anything else that a tourist might want. The farther they walked, the more elaborate the stores became—soon small, A-framed structures that mimicked traditional Thai architecture. These one- or two-room stores contained masseuses, dive centers, Internet cafés, crepe and pastry shops, minimarts, and travel agencies.

  The walkway was now paved with bricks, and thinking about how Patch had started to work on their path, Lek smiled. He looked up, gazing at the main trunk of a massive banyan tree that dwarfed everything beneath it. The base of the tree was encircled with strips of red, blue, white, and yellow fabric. A little red shrine had been inset within the weblike mesh of the tree’s roots. Several incense sticks burned near the shrine. A variety of soft drinks had been set nearby—opened, but not emptied. Straws were aimed skyward, offering ancestors easy access to the drinks.

  The center of the village bustled with vendors, children, and tourists. The foreigners wandered around carrying large backpacks, sat in cafés, haggled with shopkeepers, or studied maps and guidebooks. As Lek and Niran approach
ed the opposite beach, a slew of restaurants materialized. Each restaurant had some sort of wooden boat outside, which was filled with ice and fresh seafood. There were rows of squid, giant prawns, lobsters, crabs, clams, snapper, shark, barracuda, and sea bass. Patrons could order any item and have it cooked to their specifications. Lek studied the offerings, wondering what he and Niran would spear for dinner. He didn’t see much tuna and decided to hunt for such a fish. More tourists might come to their restaurant if fresh tuna was available.

  The pier was about three hundred feet long and filled with people, carts, and baggage. Secured to the pier near the shallower waters were almost a dozen colorful dive boats, full of glistening scuba tanks and grinning tourists. Next came several rust-stained barges that had brought goods from Phuket. Toward the end of the pier, battered two-story passenger ferries had been lashed together, so that they pointed toward shore and stretched out, parallel to the pier. The boats were empty, but in the distance a white-and-blue ferry approached.

  Dozens of Thais congregated near the end of the pier, holding signs and brochures featuring their guesthouses and resorts. Lek greeted many of the men and women he saw, taking his place in line. None of them jostled for a better position or sought to create a competitive advantage. Everyone was friendly, excited by the prospect of a full boat, of travelers with money to spend.

  Lek leaned against a steel railing, his hip aching. “What did you learn in school yesterday?” he asked his son.

  “What?”

  “Tell me, my little daydreamer, what you learned in school yesterday.”

  Niran shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? That can’t be true. Think of one thing. One thing to make your father smarter.”

  “Well, a whale is not a fish. It breathes air. Like us. I asked Miss Wattana about whales. And she told me all about them.”

  “Really?”

  “A whale has a . . . a hole in the top of its head. And it goes to the surface and breathes air.”