by O Thiam Chin
Closer to the sea, he can’t differentiate between the brown-and-gunmetal floodwaters and the sea itself, where one ends and the other begins. The water comes up to his knees at times, and then recedes to ankle-height, before another step brings him to a pause on soft, sticky mud. The closer they get to the sea—bare, wasted land around them, quiet and solemn like a cemetery, one or two coconut trees standing in stubborn resistance—the fewer people they see, until there’s no one in sight. The wind, pushing in from the Andaman Sea, whips in Wei Xiang’s ears, skimming the skin of the water. The boy stops, looks around, and moves to higher ground, away from the tangled roots of the thicket of mangrove they have found themselves in. By this time, Wei Xiang’s feet are covered with cuts and scratches, and the sea water is aggravating and numbing these wounds at the same time. Wei Xiang makes a deliberate effort not to look at the cuts, though he’s feeling a considerable amount of pain.
Soon they come to a stop and Wei Xiang realises that they are standing at a breakwater, a few metres above sea level, facing out into the expanse of light and water. All around, the unbreakable membrane of silence. He takes in the panoramic view and catches his breath, his lips cracked and bleeding. The boy has barely broken a sweat, his body radiating an otherworldly sheen. Following his gaze, Wei Xiang shields his eyes from the glare of the sun and stares out into the distance, trying to see what the boy is intently looking at.
Along the horizon, towards the northeast, a dark smudge rises out of the water, a hazy ridge of land masses. They must be smaller, outlying islands that pepper the fringe of the main island—hundreds of them, according to Ai Ling, who read up on the geography of Phuket in the guidebook, most of them too small and insignificant for any geographical or historical interest. Ai Ling had wanted to hire a guide and rent a boat to view these islands, to see some of them up close, to know what it’s like to step foot on these lands that have rarely seen human existence.
The boy takes a step forward and, without a word, dives into the water. Wei Xiang squats on his haunches, blood rushing to his head, and scans the water for the boy. Nothing, except the rough, continuous lapping of the waves against the cracked stones of the breakwater. He stays motionless, counting the long seconds—sooner or later, the boy will have to come up for air. Still he does not dare to move a muscle; anytime now, the boy will have to emerge.
And then, a few metres from where Wei Xiang is staring, a head pops up out of the water. He gasps and lets out a shout. The boy swims unhurriedly towards him. When he gets to the wall of the breakwater, he grabs onto the gaps between the stones with his fingers and pulls himself out of the water. The wet clothes cling to his scrawny frame with a downward pull, but the boy is unperturbed, his attention focused entirely on the act of scaling the wall—a grip, a tug and a pull, repeat.
When he reaches the top of the breakwater, Wei Xiang stretches out his arm to take hold of the extended hand, and yanks him up with a final pull. Still dripping, the boy steadies himself, his chest heaving. The sandals have disappeared from his feet; they must have fallen off during the dive. Wei Xiang pulls off his T-shirt and puts it over the boy’s trembling body. Then on impulse, Wei Xiang hugs the boy. The wetness and rigid coldness of the boy’s body goes right through Wei Xiang’s shirt and touches his skin, making his heart lurch. He pulls away.
The boy opens up his hand, palm faced upwards. Something glints in the light. Wei Xiang looks at it, and then takes a longer, harder stare. It does not make any sense, this thing the boy’s holding in his hand. A silver ring. The boy lifts it higher, as if beseeching Wei Xiang to take a closer look.
Wei Xiang reaches for the ring and looks for the carvings on the inside of the band—the tiny inscription is there: AL + WX. He pinches it in his fingers and glares at the boy, fear mounting. The ground seems to have fallen away from him, and Wei Xiang feels as if he were hovering in mid-air, waiting to hit the ground. The boy returns his stare; something softens in his expression. Tilting his head, he regards Wei Xiang with a puzzled look, and then turns to gaze out into the sea, to where the cluster of islands stands, a mirage of light and land. A few strands of wet hair fall across his eyes.
Wei Xiang collapses to the ground, his mind a gathering storm of dark thoughts. Something catches at the back of his throat. He looks up into the empty sky and feels everything around him coming at him, all at once, with a sharp clarity: the sultry heat, the distant call of a passing seagull, the crash of the waves, the grit of the tiny pebbles embedded in his soles. He thinks about Ai Ling, and the boy, and about the strange, unfathomable ways that life can bring and hold things together—but he can’t understand anything, not a single thing.
Wei Xiang closes his fist, holding the ring in the heat of his tightening palm, and brings it up to his face. Ai Ling—her name surfaces like a faraway dream, half-forgotten. He says it again and again, and each repetition of the name brings a certain, fearful finality to it.
Then Wei Xiang feels the light pressure of the boy’s body against his side, drawing him back to the present, to the breakwater where he is now. A growing despair is eating its way out of him, and all Wei Xiang can feel is the abysmal sense of coming apart, endlessly.
From somewhere around him, Wei Xiang hears the lilt of a song. It takes him some moments before registering the fact that the boy is singing. He sings for a long time without a break or an end; the song resounds in Wei Xiang’s ears, sinking into him, penetrating him. He finally comes apart, in the middle of it.
Even after the heat of the day has drained away, with the sea breeze blowing over them, leaving behind a speckling of salt on their skins, the song goes on uninterrupted, suspending Wei Xiang in a soft, protective spell.
24
CODY
Ai Ling had wanted to get away for the long weekend after their final-year examinations, back in 1991, before she and Cody started looking for full-time jobs. She had saved up for a short trip over the semester, working the evening shift as an assistant in a dental clinic while studying for her finals. She wanted Cody to accompany her—she had just broken up with Ian, and needed to get away for a while—so he agreed. She brought up Bangkok as the destination, since it was within her budget and he could not come up with a better place. They quickly settled on the travel dates, and Ai Ling started looking for accommodation and cheap air tickets.
Cody had known her for three years by that point, ever since hitting it off during orientation camp in the first week at university. She was a Social Sciences major, while he was doing English Literature. They got along so well that many of their university friends assumed they were a couple—Ai Ling rarely mentioned Ian even then—and for a while they did not discredit the assumption. Sometimes in lighter moods, Ai Ling and Cody would laugh about it, turning the whole thing into a joke. Ai Ling revealed very little of how she actually felt about him, and they left things platonic, casual and undemanding.
Because they spent so much time together in school, studying at the library during breaks and meeting for lunch, Cody never felt the need to build a friendship with another woman. With Ai Ling around all the time, he had gained a certain social legitimacy that was helpful, even useful, to navigate through university life. He was grateful for the security that came with it. Even at that age, he was still not ready to reveal his other covert self.
They decided to fly out on a Thursday afternoon and come back on Sunday night; the hotel Ai Ling booked was in Silom, in the heart of downtown Bangkok. Because it was her first time taking an overseas trip without her parents, she had to lie and tell them she was going with two female classmates.
“No way was I telling them I’m going with you, they would have killed me,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, I’m their good daughter,” she replied, “and I don’t want them to worry too much about me.”
The budget hotel was located on Sala Daeng, a two-lane road that branched off the main thoroughfare of Silom, and when they checked in, Ai Ling ask
ed for a room with two beds; because it was an off-peak season, they were given a room on the fifth floor, facing the road and towering office blocks. Because Cody had been to Bangkok once when he was nineteen, just before entering the army to serve his two and a half years of compulsory National Service, Ai Ling asked him to plan the itinerary; he used the most current Lonely Planet guidebook he could find at the library, which featured the usual tourist spots: Chatuchak weekend market, Wat Arun, Patpong.
Since it was still too early for dinner after checking in, they decided to check out the shops along Silom. Ai Ling was in a good mood, keeping up the chatter as they walked along, peeking into shop windows, restaurants, convenience stores, and catching fragments of music and conversation drifting from staticky radios and dusty televisions. At six-thirty, the street became thronged with office workers, street hawkers, beggars and tourists of all stripes, and they stayed close to avoid losing each other. Standing outside one of the massage parlours where the masseuses sat on plastic chairs and talked gregariously, Ai Ling read the massage options available. The masseuses studied Ai Ling with mild curiosity before turning a more direct, practiced look at Cody. Ai Ling asked whether they should give it a try and he shrugged. “Up to you,” he said.
“Then let’s do it,” she said, and approached the counter to book a session for both of them. Without asking, she requested for a male masseur for Cody while she opted for a female masseuse. “No hanky panky,” she said, giving him a wink. He smiled and shook his head.
They were both led into a large, dimly lit back room with several mattresses on the floor; each massage area was separated by thick curtains hanging on rods suspended from the ceiling. Through the curtain, Cody could hear Ai Ling change into the proffered loose shirt and wraparound knee-length shorts. The masseurs arrived shortly, bowing and muttering a soft greeting. Cody kept his eyes closed throughout the massage, unable to relax. When the masseur’s hands moved from Cody’s feet to his inner thighs, his mind slipped naturally to sex, and thoughts of Terry.
At that point, Cody had known Terry for three months, but nobody else knew of his existence, not even his close friends. They had met at a party at Rascals, a disco located on the ground floor of the Pan Pacific Hotel, exchanged numbers, and Terry had suggested they meet up for drinks shortly after. Despite his initial apprehension, Cody agreed to it. Terry, as it turned out, was more or less the person he was the night they met: frank, affable, candid. Like Cody, he was a student in his second year at a different university, studying electrical engineering. Unlike Cody, he was more outgoing and sporty, a tennis and rock-climbing enthusiast, and even though he was a year younger, he had already had past relationships with much older men. Mostly he talked during the first date and Cody listened. After that, they met up more regularly, sometimes three times a week, and usually at cafés or restaurants of Cody’s choice. Terry was happy to oblige.
On their third date, Cody suggested a fast-food restaurant in the housing estate where Terry lived with his parents and elder brother. After dinner, Cody asked to visit his place. Since his parents were at home that evening, Terry ushered Cody straight into his bedroom. Barely had he closed the door before they were all over each other. Terry kissed Cody hard and asked whether this was something he wanted, and if he was comfortable with it. The words tripped over one another as Cody uttered them in a thick, hoarse drawl: Yes, yes, yes. Terry undressed him and guided him to the bed, and showed him what needed to be done. Against his body, Cody felt out of place, dislodged from his own physicality, displaced and removed at a distance even while he was fully in the moment, drinking in every touch and sensation as if it were the first and last pleasure that he would ever experience. He was hungry and voracious and achingly open. When it was over, Cody collapsed onto Terry and began to cry; Terry held Cody and cooed as if mollifying an injured child. From then on, they would end all their dates at Terry’s place, having sex at every opportunity. Cody felt constantly ravenous and restless, always fidgeting and frustrated as if making up for what had been hitherto denied to him.
It was the thought of sex with Terry that caused Cody to have an erection while having the massage in Bangkok. In a panic, he jerked upright from the mattress, surprising the masseur, who quickly apologised for his strength. Embarrassing as it was, the erection did not wilt, and when he lay back on the mattress, the cause of his erratic behaviour became apparent to the masseur. The man chuckled to himself and resumed where he had left off. Cody gave him a large tip later when paying. “So generous, he must be really good,” Ai Ling said as they were leaving the massage parlour. Cody gave a blank smile and nodded.
The next day, they visited the temples in the morning; to escape the heat in the afternoon, they headed to Siam Square, navigating the busy alleyways and seeking out hole-in-the-wall restaurants for meals and coffee. At one point, Ai Ling slipped her hand into Cody’s and he held it, unquestioningly. They did not talk about what the gesture meant—out of modesty on her part and deliberate obtuseness on his. It meant nothing to Cody, just an expression of friendship, and he left it at that.
In the evening, they went to Chinatown and ate seafood in a restaurant that was highly recommended in the guidebook: black pepper crab with vermicelli, chilli-fried squid and barbecued tiger prawns. Done with their dinner, they took a taxi back to Silom, alighting at Patpong. The streets were ablaze with noise and neon; the touts, coming out of the woodwork and armed with dog-eared laminated lists of sex shows, were badgering the tourists in loud, beseeching voices, sometimes even tugging them forcibly towards the clubs. Ai Ling and Cody were approached by a young woman in a leopard print mini-dress who waved and rattled off a list of sex acts, pulling Cody’s arm playfully. Ai Ling walked faster and dragged him away. “So aggressive,” Ai Ling said with a growl. They made their way through the brightly-lit stalls selling 50-baht T-shirts and knockoff handbags, purses and watches. At a pirated-VCD stall, they stopped to scan the titles and eventually bought five VCDs for only 200 baht. After drinking some coconuts at a roadside stall, they decided to call it a night.
At the hotel, Ai Ling complained about an upset stomach, and disappeared for long stretches in the toilet. They tried to trace it back to something she had eaten, but Cody had eaten everything that she had. After taking two charcoal pills, she decided to sleep it off while he scanned the television channels with the volume muted. When she woke up later, she was feeling better but worn out. They lay on their separate beds and watched Police Story 2 starring Jackie Chan; during the commercials, Cody would get up to walk around the room or peek out the window, feeling the itch of restlessness. Ai Ling, sensing his agitated state, suggested that perhaps he should go out and do something, rather than stay cooped up in the hotel room with her.
“Just go, don’t worry about me. I just need to rest,” Ai Ling said.
“I’ll go out for a short while and then come back.”
“Just go and enjoy yourself. Don’t worry, I’m okay. Switch off the lights before you go.”
Stepping out of the hotel, Cody took the printout out of his pocket and orientated himself to the streets indicated on the map with his actual location. He had solicited information from acquaintances he got to know at the parties at Rascals: the best go-go shows, the most outrageous theme nights, and the types of men available at different establishments. He had kept the printout in the inner pocket of his backpack, afraid Ai Ling would see it. He did not think he’d be able to visit any of these places since Ai Ling was with him all the time; now her sudden illness left him free to do what he had planned to do secretly without her, and the elation he felt was complicated by a nagging guilt.
At the entrance leading into Boys’ Town, Cody paused to look at the colour-saturated clutter of signboards advertising a variety of shows and services, arrows pointing to what was hidden behind the half-closed doors and heavy velvet curtains. A tout approached and brandished a folded, laminated cardboard. “Sir, you want cute boys? You want see fucking shows? I have. C
ome with me.” Cody moved away from him and stepped into Boys’ Town.
Keeping a moderate pace, staying in the middle of the lane, not daring to venture too close to any establishment, he caught glimpses of neon-lit flesh. A few of the dancers caught his stares and returned them with virile smiles. He looked away, conscious that his movements had become slow, deliberate and heavy-limbed. The patrons sitting at the tables outside the bars, mostly middle-aged and Caucasian, turned to survey the moving crowd, their hawk-like eyes moving in succession from person to person. A short, strongly-built man wearing a white tank top and a tattoo in Thai script that wrapped around his biceps came up to Cody and shouted into his ear: “We have show now, you want see? Only two-hundred baht, one drink. Muscular men, you like?”
Numbing his nerves, Cody made his way into the club, pushing past the curtain and entering the smoky room. Any sense of order or clarity had dissolved in his head; all he could feel were the pure, dark urges of his physical self. He followed the tattooed man and sat where he indicated. A series of stares came his way, some lingering longer than others, but Cody sat stonily still, unable or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge or reciprocate these looks. Up on the raised podium, oiled-up muscled men in swim trunks labelled with number tags were swinging their hips lazily in a pantomime of seduction. Loud, thumping dance music pounded through the club as repeating patterns of strobe lights wallpapered the lurid interior. Along the perimeter of the podium were three staggered rows of benches, filled with a mixed audience of locals and foreigners. Not daring to let his eyes stay too long on anyone, Cody glanced from one dancer to another, taking everything in but registering nothing.
An announcement came on during a break in the music, and the dancers left the podium single file. The stage lights dimmed for a second, and in the next instant, three men of similar build appeared on the podium, naked, each nursing an erection. Cody held his breath, his insides seizing up, throbbing with an acute, inexplicable ache. One of the men bent over, holding his ass up in the spotlight for a moment, before another man stood behind him and penetrated him slowly, while the third man stuck his dick into the man’s mouth.