by Zolbrod, Zoe
“Honey! Where are you? Are you okay?”
Her mother was awake, if only just-the panic in her voice mixed with the husk of morning. Robin pictured her sitting at the kitchen table in her pink robe, a coffee mug in front of her, yesterday’s paper spread open.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m in Bangkok, Thailand. I’m traveling with someone.” Robin hoped that sounded reassuring. She hadn’t considered the jolt of anxiety an early morning phone call would give her mom, who of course would fear the worst when she heard the ring, because that’s what unexpected intrusions had most often delivered to her door. “I’m fine,” Robin declared again, although really she had called to ask—not for money; she knew her mom didn’t have any-but the question: Will I be fine, Mom? Will everything be all right?
“God, I worry about you. But I’m so proud of you, too, honey. Bangkok, Thailand. I’ll be. Isn’t that where they did The King and I?” She pronounced it “keeng and ah,” but Robin no longer minded. She wanted to transform all the sweat and blood of herself into particles that could bounce off satellites, settle in the coffee steam over her mom’s mug, and be sipped up. She wanted to be both the source and receiver of comfort.
“Yep. You get that postcard I sent you yet, of the Grand Palace? The one with all that gold?”
“I sure did. I just got it last week, Tuesday. I’m saving all your postcards for you. I put ’em in the recipe box, so you can have a record of your trip. And then you can sit with me and tell me in detail about what it was like to see each thing. My Lord, honey, you’ve been gone so long. How’s your money holding out?”
“Well, it’s tight. It’s getting really tight. But things are a lot cheaper here.”
“I still remember when your dad and me went to France for our honeymoon. Oh, we couldn’t afford it. It wasn’t in grand style, but no matter what happens, it’s something you keep with you for the rest of your life.” Robin’s mother had made a scrapbook of that trip, and Robin had thumbed through its scalloped-edged cardboard pages scores of times since being deemed old enough to sit with ankles crossed and “act like a lady.” Her mom’s voice now held the same wistful and sweet almost-smugness it had whenever she reminisced about her one brush with romance, but the track had finally been played too many times; the recollection no longer washed away the everyday weariness.
“How are things for you, Mom?”
“Things’re fine. I have Tiff every weekend now, during the day. Britt finally got a job at the Citgo garage. It pays good, but it’s weekends, and that’s the only time he gets Tiff.”
“How’re things holding up at Sunstream?”
“Oh well, fine. You know. They let some more people go, but they say that’s it. ’Course there’s always rumors.”
Robin put all her own anxiety into this familiar old one. “Why don’t you put some word in at Fisher’s or something? Didn’t you say they’re doing good?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, honey. It helps with Britt working. We’re all fine. You just take care of you now.” It was little enough to ask, Robin thought-to take care of herself, not to worry her mom. “When you thinking about coming home?”
“Well, I’m getting a little homesick. I might see if Dad’ll help me with a ticket.”
“I’m sure your dad’s proud of you, too, hon’. We better say good-bye, though. These calls cost a fortune. I love you. I’m always thinking of you. You take care.”
Her father had been asleep.
“Princess. Whoa. It’s early. What’re you doing up at the stroke of dawn?”
“It’s twelve hours difference here, Daddy. It’s cocktail hour.”
“Well, where are you now, globe-trotter? I was telling my client about you. She’s got a daughter at Skidmore doing a year abroad over there right now. Taiwan. You headed there? You could look her up.” At another juncture Robin might’ve played along with this, expressed the blase endemic to the clubby assumption that all roads lead back to those one knows, and how nice, but she couldn’t afford that charade of socioeconomic equality right now, and she resented her father’s indulgence in it.
“I’m in Bangkok, Thailand. Where I’ve been. You get the cards?”
“Sure did. Mount Everest, even. My little girl is seeing the world. You okay? Staying away from that Montezuma’s revenge?”
“I’m fine, Dad. How’re you? You have a new client? Have you been working?”
“Oh, yeah. Something big’s going to come out of this. We’re still working on the details. She’s got to approve it with someone higher up on the food chain, you know. But they’re going to love it, and this would be a long-term gig.”
“Well then, Dad. I was wondering if you could maybe float me a loan?”
“What’s wrong, Robbie? I thought you said you were fine. What’s the problem?”
“I’m having some trouble with my credit cards. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be fixed up for a while. And I need to leave the country. My visa’s almost expired. I think I’m done traveling. I want to come home.” Her heart pounded. She could hear it quite clearly because she was sealed inside herself, the door to the phone box closed, her body pressed into a paint-chipped corner, one ear blocked by her hand and one by the phone.
“Well, what kind of trouble, sweetheart? What are we looking at? Because, you know, sometimes you can squeak by. There’s a period in there when you can actually still use your card.” This was the kind of advice she got? She turned her face from the corner; she looked out at the room.
“I’m past that point, Dad. Could you please charge a ticket for me? Just one-way on whatever’s cheap.” A mop-headed boy wearing tie-dye dropped the gnawed saffron core of the mango he’d been eating onto the floor. Pick it up! she wanted to bark. You think your mother works here?
“Well, princess, my credit’s all tied up. I’ve needed major upgrades to land this job. I mean, I’m invested in this state-of-the-art printer, animation software ...” Robin’s father chanted a litany of technological stumbling blocks: computer programs and shareware problems and she didn’t know what all. She stamped her foot because the senselessness of the words stung her, because the littering kid had disappeared down the stairs. “And you have to understand, I wasn’t expecting anything like this from you. I’ve busted my balls to get you through college, and I’ve gotten you out of jams before, but I can’t keep—”
“Dad, I busted my balls to get me through college. I paid for most of it, and I’m still paying.”
“Whoa now, honey. Hold on. That scholarship was mostly symbolic. Your taking out loans was part of the deal. But don’t tell me I didn’t come through with my ten thou a year. I got the gray hair to prove it.”
“But you didn’t, Dad. Never all of it. I’m not talking about my goddamn student loan bills; I’m talking about me picking up your end with my credit cards.”
“One year I couldn’t make it, Robin. One year. And you knew that. We talked about that. You could have done one of those semester away deals, gone to Gainsville for a semester where it was cheaper. But no. You didn’t want to go. Okay, I wasn’t going to make you.”
“You never held up your end. You’re the one who wanted me to go to a private school, and then you left me with registration holds every year that I had to clear up with my Visas.”
“One year I couldn’t make it, and one year I was late. They moved the date up on me, and I was late. I just don’t have ten thousand dollars lying around like some of those other guys. Hey, I’m in a changing business. In 1990, I didn’t gross more than thirty thousand. Thirty grand, and I paid out ten thousand dollars to keep you in that school. I’ve done my job.”
“What job, Dad? Mom’s the one who had the job, and she did it with nothing.” She heard herself, and she knew she sounded melodramatic, but it was a relief to yell in English to someone who could understand her words.
“You know I’ll be there for you if you get in some real trouble, but this isn’t it. Quit acting like a hysterical kid, spoi
led rotten. Come on, use your brains. Use your wits. Go talk to the credit companies. Or the aid for travelers. Or take a courier or something. You got a hundred thousand dollar education, you should be able to figure something out. It’s not like you’re busted for drugs, right? Or, Jesus Christ-is there something you’re not telling me? Is that what this is about?”
“No, but Dad, just come on. What’s another few hundred? It’d be only about five hundred dollars, one way. I really need this. I need to get home.” As the possibility of home receded, she felt the truth of her statement; she reached into the twilight sky for the balloon that had escaped her hand, but too late. “I want to come home.”
“Look, Robin, don’t you understand? I don’t have it. I’m in the same position as you, here. My credit’s tapped. I’d have to go begging to get that money, to—I don’t even know who I’d go to. Talk to the embassy. That’s what they’re there for. And look nice when you do it. You’ve got to present yourself.”
“Thanks for your help, Dad. I knew I could count on you.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” he said to her wearily. “But call me in a couple days and tell me you’re okay. You will be, princess. You’ll do fine.”
Chapter 7
I read about Siam Center art opening in Bangkok Post, and I read about some politics in America, and I get tired from reading this thing in English. I wait in the lobby too long, but something tells me to stay there: I have one feeling. And you see, my feeling’s right. Abu comes in from the street, and he’s glad to see me.
“Mr. Pivlaierd, my friend!” he says to me. His voice is heavy. He wears Kenya-style shirt, not Bali-style batik but something like it, and his big stomach or big muscles push out that shirt so it doesn’t touch his trousers. “We meet again in the Star Hotel!”
He sits down next to me on the couch, and I feel the couch move. He’s one big man. He tells me he just comes back from his country, short visit to make some business there. I ask does he see his family, how is his family.
“I have a whole village of a family,” he says. “It’s a lot to take care of.”
One time before he tells me he lives in Mombasa, big city, with three daughters and one young son, but I don’t ask him why his family lives in the village now. Instead, I want to answer him. He asks about my travels, asks me do I travel with lady friend, where did I meet her, where she’s from.
“You have a talent with the ladies,” he says to me. Then he looks at his gold watch, very nice one. I wear watch, too, cheap but with style. One farang gave it to me when she said good-bye.
“I have a call to make,” Abu says. “But then business is done, for the day. Join us for a drink in the lounge, my friend.”
Through the glass door of the lobby I see the light outside grow thick and yellow. Evening’s come, and when I go to the dark lounge, it’s night already. Abu, Jomo, and Yoke drink Singha beer. I want one Coke, but I drink Singha beer, too. We speak about Kenya—it’s mankind’s birthplace, the African friends tell me, proud of their country. Nigeria is the biggest, but Kenya has very ancient culture, very important to the world.
“I would like to visit your country,” I say. “I like to visit important places. Do I need visa to go there? How long does the visa last?”
“Mmmh!” Abu makes one deep noise. He faces Jomo, not me. “You’re sure they’re in his possession? Absolutely sure? I don’t want a fracas at the border this time.”
Yoke says to me, “Every visitor needs a visa, but he can stay for several months if he has the funds. You might have to prove that you have the funds.” Yoke leans close to me. He wants to have my eyes so I don’t look at Abu, I think so. Yoke’s head is smaller than Abu’s, too small for his body and neck. “Jomo, if a man comes from Thailand, does he need to show a certain cash reserve to get a Kenyan visa?”
Jomo holds his hand up, open, stopping this question. “I watched them being signed. I delivered them three hours before we left, into his hands.”
“I’m not sure, you see,” Yoke says to me. “Because of course I never have to get a visa to enter my own country.”
“Mmmh!” Abu says again. Every eye is big in the darkness of this lounge, even my eyes, the seeing part of them grows big. “Not to worry. We can speak freely,” Abu says to Yoke. He looks at me. “Mr. Pivlaierd, it would be an honor to have you as a guest in our country. Arranging a visa would not be a problem.”
“Thank you,” I say. I smile to him. “My American friend has that problem now, while she’s visiting my country. Her visa runs out before she’s ready to leave.”
“She needs only to go to the embassy. They’ll extend her visa there. I’ve done this myself.”
“She already do that. She’s in Thailand three months, and now she must leave, go to Thai embassy in another country, if she wants to spend more time here with me. We want to go together to Indonesia—I can make some business there, I think so. But. Unfortunate my friend has one other problem.”
“Ah, the ladies love you. They don’t want to leave!”
“Oh! She’ll leave me, sure. But her other visa, Visa card, it’s not working either. That one runs out, too! She doesn’t have money for tickets anywhere, for her or for me.” I make one small laugh. “I wish I could help her with this problem, but at this time, I cannot.”
The Kenya men finish with Singha. They ask the bartender, please, four more beers. I don’t finish mine, but the dark lounge, the dark glass, hides this. I push my bottle to center of the small table to join with the other bottles, and four more come. Abu gives one five hundred baht bill.
“Keep it,” he says to the bartender.
Resit asks in Thai how I know these African men, and I tell him they’re my friends. I meet them here.
“How many languages do you speak, man?” Jomo asks me.
“I speak only Thai and English. German, maybe, small amount. If I have one German friend, meet the German girl, maybe then I’ll learn some more.” We laugh together at this one.
“Can your current lady get her visa in Malaysia?” Abu says.
“Of course. For visa it doesn’t matter, and maybe there’s some business I can do in Malaysia, too, sure. But, this problem with her visa, money Visa, credit card, I don’t know how big this is.” I put my hands up, to show their size. “One very big problem, then it’s better for her, better for me if she goes home, to America.” My hands are small, compared to Abu. I shake my head. “But I hope not. She’s nice. Very nice person.”
“Nicer than the German lady?”
“Oh! I don’t know that German one yet. Maybe that one doesn’t like me!” And then Abu wants to know many things: how long I know NokRobin, what her family’s like, what’s her career in United States. For some things, I don’t know the answer. I try to say what’s best, but I don’t always know.
“Well, perhaps we can help you both. Please ask her if she will join us for supper. If you will show us a fine Thai restaurant, you will both be my guests.”
The door to room 517 is thick; the key’s thick, too-it feels good, solid, not like one bamboo guesthouse door anyone can break. I open that door and see NokRobin sitting on the bed. Her back is curved, one piece of hair falls down, her hands go under her legs, her feet on the floor.
“Piv,” she says. First two days we are together, she never said my name. At that time I wonder does she know my name, was I clear when I spoke it. “Any big business deals?” Her face is two faces. One side smiles at me, one side pulls down, and she wants to pull me down; she does that, onto the bed. NokRobin’s skin smells like Singha beer. Before she says anything, I know she tried to fix her cards, but that didn’t work, so she drank. Not good for the plan we make now.
“Perhaps,” I tell her. She doesn’t listen. She says my name again, and her face is in my neck. I laugh. I keep my arms loose. I don’t want to make something with her now. Over her shoulder I see Buddha statue on the floor. I think when she came back from drinking, she took that from her backpack and left it o
n the floor near some wrinkled purple cloth. I tell NokRobin before this time: Thai people must put Lord Buddha up high. Floor where you walk is disrespectful to Buddha.
I put her head away from my neck; I hold it between my two hands. It looks very small there, like one small nutria or squirrel, tan color but you can see white underneath, round eyes with moss in them, small bones two hands can break, and sad, scared.
“Shh,” I tell her. “Listen. Some friends invite us to eat with them. Don’t worry. They pay.”
“What friends? I don’t want to. Let’s just stay here and enjoy our nice clean room.” Her hand goes under my shirt. “Our fortunes have changed, Piv. We can’t afford this room. Let’s just enjoy it one more night together.”
I don’t want her hand there. It doesn’t feel good, so I remove that one. Then she moves her face back to my neck. I roll onto my back to stop this but she rolls, too; she puts one leg over me, heavy. She’s like some jellyfish you try to get off but then it stays somewhere new. Clock says 7:25.
“You don’t have any money and I don’t, Piv.” She whispers this to me, hides her face. “We’re going to have to part ways. We’re just going to have to, so I really want tonight to be just me and you.”
When she says this, I feel cold-it makes me wonder something: Maybe NokRobin didn’t go today to fix her cards, instead she called her parents for one ticket back to America, and they already send that one. Tomorrow she’ll fly away. The farang woman do this sometime, to the Thai man. They want to go somewhere—if it’s to one island, maybe they’ll take you. Perhaps. Somewhere too far, they never do. I want to move Lord Buddha off the floor.