by Zolbrod, Zoe
“Give me ten baht.”
Robin laughed and handed him the coin, and Piv called to one of the hawkers moving down the aisle. A girl, not more than ten, pushed toward him, already pouring a thick green liquid into a clear plastic bag. She stuck a straw into the drink and twirled the bag around its stem, tying the plastic off in a knot. By the time she took Piv’s money the train was chugging forward, and she had to run toward the door, hand her thermos to someone on the ground, and jump after it as the engine picked up speed. Robin watched her, worried and pitying, but also admiring. Had Piv lived a life where even dreaming of a car was absurd? She started to ask him—if not that, then something-but at her intake of breath he gently placed the straw into her mouth.
“See?” he murmured. “So sweet.”
Chapter 5
We stay at Star Hotel. NokRobin wants to stay on Khao San Road, but I tell her no, Thai people don’t like to stay there. She pays for Star Hotel with her Visa and it’s fine, no problem. She likes to have one nice room-not like camping, not like the backpacker—with one Western toilet and hot water shower, with television and telephone and air-con. Yes, this is better. Bangkok is cool and clean up here, floor five, room 517. Sheets are clean, and we stay in bed long on the first morning, with NokRobin smelling clean, too. We plan to go to Indonesia—Bali is the good one-to buy some jewelry that farang tourists like. We can sell this in Bangkok for double, more, the value we pay. We have the goal together: first we do this and then we get better jewelry, I think maybe gold, and go to Australia, Germany, America to get triple, four times the value we pay. I ask NokRobin who does she know in America. Some shop owners? Some vendors? She says no, she doesn’t know those people. She knows some poor people, who work in factory, restaurant, car garage, in her home. And she knows some rich ones from her university. Some who work in offices; some who don’t have to work because they’re so rich-they make movies or paintings or write something about that. She doesn’t know any shop owners, but I think this is no problem. I think they would like to do business with one Thai person, to buy jewelry from Bali, to buy gold and rubies from Thailand.
But there is one small problem. I go with NokRobin to Khao San Road, to one travel agent there. We want to buy tickets leaving three days later to Jakarta. NokRobin wants to pay with Visa, but travel agent takes the Visa and returns, saying, “Excuse me. This card is not accepting the charge.”
NokRobin turns red in her face. She says, “Oh, sorry,” and gives her other Visa card. This one, also, travel agent comes back to give apology, to tell NokRobin this card is not, cannot, no. “Would you like to pay in cash?” she asks, but NokRobin is gone already. One bell rings when she pushes open the door.
I smile at the travel agent. Please hold these tickets for us, I say in Thai. We return soon.
I see NokRobin at the guesthouse restaurant on the other side of the street. Honey Guest House, I know this one; it’s not good. The small rooms have no windows, and if you store your backpack here, maybe not everything remains when you return.
NokRobin wants one Coke. “I said a Coke,” she yells to the young boy working.
I change that. I order in Thai: Younger person, please, I’d like two Cokes.
NokRobin is still red in her face. She’s very hot now. “Don’t worry,” she says. “This has happened before.” She takes her shirt out from her trousers and reaches in her money belt. She puts her passport and some small scraps of paper on the table. She’s looking at those. “What’s today’s date?” she asks me very fast.
I ask another farang tourist, “Excuse me, what is the day today?” I speak very polite.
“I don’t understand,” NokRobin says. “They’re not overdue. I have five more days on this billing cycle. I was going to pay them today. You heard me say so.”
“Please explain,” I say to her. I touch her hand to smile at her, but she moves her hand away.
“For a while I kept forgetting to pay. I know it was stupid!” NokRobin wears one white T-shirt like the boy would wear. Around the neck is dirt.
“I’m sure it’s no problem. We’re using Visa at Star Hotel. It’s no problem. It’s misunderstanding.” She teaches me that word.
“It is a problem, okay? Don’t you understand? Once it gets in the computer it can take more than a week to sort it out. I know it was stupid, but I haven’t done anything wrong this time!”
“It’s only one travel agent. Don’t get so upset about that one. We’ll go to Thai Farmers bank. I’ll talk for you. No problem. It’s better anyway to have real money.” I talk soft, lean close. I want NokRobin to do this, too.
“I’m telling you, I know, it’s not working.” She shakes her hands like something sticky, biting, is on them. “Just let me think.”
At this time, I want to be in Star Hotel to think quietly. NokRobin picks up her Coke to drink, then slams it down. It makes a sound— kunk!—and then the tan foam rises. She can’t drink that now. She’s looking in her money belt again. I don’t know why. Everything’s already on the table.
“I have to get out of the country. What happens if I can’t get out of the country?”
“Shhh,” I say to her. “Calm down. We have our plan. We’ll leave the country.”
“Hello? Piv? How? It’s not no problem, okay? It’s a big problem. Do you understand the difference?” I look away from NokRobin. Of course I understand. I’ve found the woman who will make something with me, and the problem has come too fast. Maybe my dream won’t happen. But we can find the truth by being calm. We shouldn’t yell in this guesthouse. The problem only gets big if we do that.
“Piv? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled. Will you come with me to the post office, please, so I can call the credit cards? Maybe it’s just a mistake.” Her eyebrows squirm like gold worms. Gold worms that turn gray in the rain.
We sit on wood bench in the post office while NokRobin waits to use one international phone. International phones are on the second floor. There’s no air-conditioning there, and none on the first floor, either. It’s hot, and the air smells from too many people waiting too close. The ceiling fan spins the dust. Also, the floor is dirty. There are three international phones, in red boxes, and many farang tourists wait to use them. I hear one tourist-very young one, younger than me, younger than NokRobin, with braids all over her head—she speaks rude to her mother. “Mom! I’m learning just as much here as I would in college,” she says. “I don’t care!” She yells this to her mother. “College can wait. It’s not going anywhere!”
NokRobin sits so nervous, bouncing her leg, looking at her paper scraps. I don’t like this. I want to be in Star Hotel. I see one fat Thai lady, very big for the Thai lady, wearing yellow dress, yellow shoes, high heels, very much gold, and gold glasses, too, and she’s dyed and curled her black hair. Looks like those hairs might break. She’s sitting on the wood bench. She’s with one farang man. Wow! This one is too big! He’s standing. If he sits, then everyone else would have to leave that bench, I think so. His big face is wet with sweat. He wipes it with his handkerchief. I look at them and I know: he’s married to the Thai lady. I think they live in Germany. Maybe he met her on vacation in Bangkok, long ago. Maybe she was one bar girl then, young one, beautiful. Or maybe she flew to Germany to marry him, they never meet before that time.
NokRobin goes in the phone box. She’s in there for twenty minutes, then more. I look at my watch: one half hour. When she comes out her face is not red, it’s white. She sits beside me. She touches me on my wrist, but she’s looking away. Her hand is slimy from sweating; it’s very cold-her fingers are wet stones from some stream.
“You finished?” I say. “Come on, let’s go.” I don’t want to be with NokRobin if she’s yelling in the post office about some money troubles. I take her wrist to pull her up. We walk back through Khao San Road. NokRobin doesn’t talk, and me neither. On Rachadamnoen Klang Road we still say nothing. Her wrist sweats under my hand. When the road splits around Democracy Monument, other roads com
ing in to that traffic circle, NokRobin pulls her wrist from me hard. She stops on the sidewalk, with many people and many cars, trucks, motorbikes, everything-with everything going by.
“I’m over my limit,” she says. Her face is wrinkled, dirty. The air is bad here. It hurts my throat, and I hold my long hair over my nose to breathe. The smell of shampoo makes the smell of the street more soft. “I’m over my limit on both cards. How did it happen? I didn’t even know what the limit was-it just kept going up. It seemed like so much, especially here.” People are walking across street, very many of them, and I reach for NokRobin, but she stands still, looking ugly, her face in too many pieces. I think she might cry soon. “They won’t give me any more. They say I have a bad record. And now what? How am I going to get out of here?”
“Come on,” I say to her. “We won’t talk here. Everything will work out for you. Let’s go to Star Hotel.”
“How are we going to pay for it?”
“Don’t worry about that one. I know those people. They let me stay there. That one’s no problem.” I take her wrist again. She moves with me now, but the traffic is coming. We take two steps then we must wait, try not to breathe. Every time I turn on the TV it says that this air is very bad for breathing, for health. Lead is in this air. They say that pollution is number one problem in Bangkok.
Back in Star Hotel, I tell NokRobin to shower, that it will make her feel better. I sit at the table near the window while the shower water comes down and beats on the wall. I think about this problem: NokRobin has no money at this time. How can I make something with her, then? How can we make our plan together? With no money, it’s better if I start again. When I think that, it hurts me, but maybe it’s better. Or the other word-necessary. For longer than three weeks I’ve been with NokRobin getting no money. I mix the money I have already with hers, and we spend it. I have only five hundred baht left that I save for myself. Perhaps it’s necessary for me to start again in Bangkok, on Khao San. I need the lady to make my plan with, to travel the world, to go with me. Perhaps it’s necessary to meet another special one who will do that.
But this necessary thought makes me sad. NokRobin is here with me—I hear her turn the shower off; the room is quiet, but I know she’s here. I feel her, soft. I’ve moved with her longer than with any other lady, and she wants to make something international with me. Maybe it’s taking too much time to find another girl like that. And if I don’t have the feeling, can I move with some other farang for even one week? Smell them and taste them? NokRobin knows some things about me: how I like my hot coffee, how I sleep, what I dream, things like that. And she’s very nice person, polite most of the time, or she tries to be. She tries to understand Thai ways. She likes being with me. She can be quiet, can be peaceful, but she likes moving; she likes jewelry, clothing, shopping for these things, and I do, too. She’s from America, and she knows many rich people there. Maybe some money can come from them. Or she can call her parents. They’re not rich—she already told me, they’re something like poor-but they’ll help her, sure. In America, even almost-poor parents give money to their children. If she calls them, I think they’ll send her money for one airplane ticket home to them. Indonesia’s very cheap. Maybe we can use that money to buy jewelry.
Or maybe she’ll use this money to fly home, to say good-bye. To disappear. Maybe she’s too scared now. Maybe she doesn’t like me so much when the problems come. I don’t know.
When NokRobin steps out from the bathroom, wrapped in pink towels with her skin pink, too, I get up to kiss her forehead. I touch her eyebrows with my finger, make each one smooth. I walk her to bed. I tell her she can rest here, that she should rest here while I go talk to some friends. I unwrap towel from her hair and spread her wet hair on the pillow.
“This is just one small problem,” I tell her. “Really it is. Mae pen rai. Thai saying meaning it doesn’t matter. Can you say that? Mae pen rai. You wait here. Maybe I can do some business to get us more money for the immediate days.”
My five hundred baht I have to keep for me, for emergency, but I want some other money to buy some thing for NokRobin—food and cold drinks, taxi ride, whatever we need. If I pay for those things it’s better; it will make her less scared. First, I talk to Saisamorn, manager of Star Hotel. “Sa-wat-dee krup, Khun Saisamorn,” I say to him. I wai, then we shake hands. He says that his employee tells him I stay again in Star Hotel. He invites me to sit, to have some tea with him in one small office, behind hotel counter.
I drink my tea and tell him I stay in the Star Hotel, yes, with one lady friend. I tell him I have come from the North, and we speak of the North, although he has never been. He is Southerner, and business is better in the South. Why go up there? After some time I ask him about his business, how it is going.
He says it’s going okay, not bad, but peak season ends soon, and not many tour groups have made reservation plans. He says to me that if I tell some friends to stay at Star Hotel it’s good for him, and he’ll make it good for me.
Thank you, I say. I am always happy to recommend your excellent hotel. But I am wondering, are the friends from Kenya staying here? Abu and those ones?
Abu arrived yesterday, like you, Saisamorn says. You didn’t see him? He has plans to stay for one week here.
This is good news for me. This opens possibility. I thank Saisamorn for the tea, and I get some business cards from him. I write my name on the back of them, in English and in Thai.
On Khao San Road, I go to one travel agency. It’s smaller than the one I go in with NokRobin, crowded, but with strong air-conditioning, and I sit next to some farangs who are waiting. “Oh,” I say. “Wow. Doesn’t it feel good to be in some air-conditioning during hot season in Bangkok?”
“Of course it does,” the man says to me. They are from Germany or somewhere, I can tell by the way they speak English.
I ask them does their guesthouse have air-conditioning. “It doesn’t? Wow! That’s too hot!” I tell them about Star Hotel, that it’s cool there, every room has TV with very many stations, and I give them the business card. “This is where I stay when I travel to Bangkok,” I tell them. “It’s more expensive than the guesthouse, but it’s very nice. It’s worth more than you pay. You get discount if you show this card.”
They don’t seem excited to get my news. They don’t believe me. I don’t think they’ll come. They stand up and go to the travel agent.
I find the price of ticket to America, and I go to find some tourists who are looking too hot, to tell them about Star Hotel, but I don’t feel easy, I don’t feel comfortable. I give out twelve cards, but pretty soon I leave to go back to Star Hotel, and I think no one else will follow me.
I don’t go back to see NokRobin; I go back to find Abu. I look in the lounge for him and his friends, but they’re not there. To wait, I sit in the lobby where it’s bright, and I read Bangkok Post to practice English. I read about General Motors, one American company, world’s biggest company. They start to build large factory outside Rayong. One thousand people can work there. They say it’s good for Thai people, but that’s not good for me. That’s not the business I want. I want to be together with NokRobin, and Abu always tells me that he might have some business for me and for the farang friend, too.
But at this moment, it is better for me to plan alone, so when NokRobin gets off the elevator, I move softly to one corner and stand behind the tall chair. I watch her and she doesn’t know it, like the first time I see her in Sukhothai. She has on one clean dress, blue one, covering nicely her small body. I hear her talk to the boy at the check-in counter. She says, “Excuse me. I’m sorry, but is it possible to make a collect international call from the phone in my room?” She tries to be very polite.
The clerk doesn’t speak good English. He says nothing, but NokRobin can tell he doesn’t understand.
“How can I make a collect call?” she says, and she makes the phone shape with her fingers and speaks like that. I want to help her, to speak in Thai to
this boy, but I can’t now. I watch her try alone. I watch her give up. If her parents give her ticket, will she give up on me?
NokRobin leaves the Star Hotel, and I sit and I read and I wait for Abu.
Chapter 6
On the panting-hot, cacophonous street, Robin was aware of the flammable nature of her rayon dress. Since meeting Piv she’d seldom walked alone in public, and without him alongside she had so much space to stretch her limbs that they felt lost, and she tingled with need, was giddy with it. She envisioned herself reaching out her arm, palm cupped open, and asking likely strangers, white ones, “Please. I need money. I need a ticket somewhere. Bali. Anywhere. Home. Please.” She would use all her private-liberal-arts-college poise: “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s been a mix-up. You know how it is.” She’d appeal just like their daughters, but be less demanding; she’d seem more grateful.
She traced the path back to Khao San Road, searching faces as she went, alive to possibility. During their week together, Zella had taken Robin behind and between Bangkok’s rushing skyscraper facade to market districts where ginseng dust shimmered in lone streaks of sunlight, silver prawns the size of cigars rose in domed piles, and jade obelisks and gold and sapphire medallions changed hands in tented shops too small for more than three people to stand in at once. Robin would have never seen this on her own despite passing daily right alongside. She wondered what else she wasn’t noticing, what option she was missing now. She had visited the sex clubs on Patpong once, as a sightseer—all the tourists did-and she had noticed a Caucasian girl dancing on the stage, numbered and bikinied like the Thai women shimmying blank-faced beside her. “What’s up with her?” Robin had asked her companions, a couple she had struck up conversation with the evening before. The boyfriend shrugged. “Maybe she’s living out a fantasy.” His eyes were jumpy and he bounced his knees. The girlfriend nodded blithely. Robin’s hunch was that the dancer hadn’t had infinite choices-but maybe that was the option she wasn’t seeing now, the way to earn enough money to get out of and back to Thailand with Piv in tow, or to get back home alone. But no, she wasn’t that stuck yet. She trudged down the block under the late afternoon sun. At the post office, she sat once again on a bench to wait for a phone. When a booth came free, its wooden door flapping open with a rude clap, Robin took her place inside it.