by Zolbrod, Zoe
“Hello,” Robin said to the driver, whose thick hair was shaved close on the back of his head. “How are you?” Weaving through the honking airport traffic, he gave only a choked syllable in return, and panic rose in her. Her bladder pressed upon her. Why hadn’t she gone to the toilet? Abu had told her that the ride to his client’s office would be long, but in the silence and the strangeness, it seemed unending. The car turned off the highway and turned and turned again, always onto a smaller road. Robin felt naked without the suitcase beside her, but what if the suitcase was beside the point, and what she was actually delivering was just herself, a stupid American female? Stu-pid. Stu-pid. Her heart beat that two-syllable rhythm. She looked out the window to try to find her bearings, but the views disoriented her. The mix of market stalls and modern buildings, the splash of billboards and palms were obviously not Thai, but she wasn’t familiar enough with Thailand to clearly identify why. Some of the women wore headscarves, she realized slowly. Script was Roman or Chinese.
Finally the car pulled into a parking spot in front of a modest strip mall. Next to a store selling stackable plastic furniture was an office with MUNDAI NUSA EXPORTS written on the window, its door flanked by decorative bushes planted in red pots. The driver cut the car’s motor, then he leaped out to open her door. She sent her hands groping to retrieve her backpack before checking herself, remembering that she was pressed and polished and the bearer of a dignified suitcase, which appeared on the asphalt next to her.
“Hello,” said the man behind the desk as Robin walked in. “Miss Miatta? I’m Donsum Rong. I trust you had a good trip.” He stood and walked toward her. Larger than most Asian men, he had an English accent and was well dressed, with a nicely draped gray shirt and trousers that cut elegantly above his loafers. Robin felt the first thaw of relief-people did speak in this country; she was here to do business. The desk fluttered with paperwork: thin invoices on spikes; faxes spread, stacked, and clipped together. Maps hung on the wall, and packing crates were stacked up in corners.
“Yes. Thank you. The trip was fine.” Should she shake his hand? No, this time she’d wait for cues.
He offered tea, and she asked for the toilet, using the bald British term in light of Mr. Rong’s accent and feeling grateful that she was back in a recognizable realm-one where she could read the signposts and make a basic request. Taking tea with Mr. Rong would still be awkward, but at least she would do it without fearing an organ would burst. As she turned to follow his directions to the restroom, he wheeled the suitcase out another door, which emitted a puff of sharp humid stink that made her wonder if that were a toilet, too.
The tea table was so small and low that they sat nearly knee to knee even with it between them. Mr. Rong was vague and soft-spoken, and his eyes occasionally rested on Robin’s body but just as often gazed elsewhere in the room: to the fax machine when it started spitting, out the window, into his ivory-hued porcelain cup. They made perfunctory small talk about Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok, and without her own transportation or a home or life to call her own, she could neither sharpen the conversation nor end it. “Oh,” she said lamely in response to a platitudinous comment Mr. Rong made about the Malaysian coast. “That sounds nice.”
Mr. Rong looked down the vee of her blouse again, and Robin hitched her shoulders, wishing she’d chosen the yellow-collared one she’d also considered in the store. Who cared now that it didn’t complement the purple of her jacket as strikingly as the sienna hue she wore?
“It is nice,” he answered, and he waited another few beats before finally turning to the business at hand. “Tell Mr. Navaisha thank you for another excellent shipment.” Mr. Rong handed her an envelope. “The driver will pick you up Tuesday at ten to take you to the airport. You’ll receive our shipment from him. Unless you’d rather I come to get you.” He reached across the table to slide his hand up her thigh. Robin stiffened; her armpits pricked with fire.
“No!” she said, standing and stepping backward, slapping down her skirt as if to scare out a bug.
For a moment, the clarity of conflict gave her a brilliant thrill, but Mr. Rong only shrugged indifferently. With bored gallantry he opened his office door for her and put her in the waiting sedan, handing money to the driver.
The next day, Robin went to the Thai embassy to renew her visa. She had forgotten to pack any of her regular clothes, and so she wore her plum suit. It was fine for her walk through the lobby and for catching a cab to the embassy; it was appropriate for her errand, but in the waiting room there she sat next to three backpackers, and without some ethnic clothes to signal camaraderie she felt like she was stuck behind one-way glass. She couldn’t remember the last time she had talked with peers, had the typical “where are you going, what’s it like there, do you want to go for dinner then” exchange, and she stared at the shaggy British trio hungrily, but they never glanced back.
Chapter 9
When NokRobin goes to Malaysia, she tells me this: “I think I’m going to miss you, Piv. Will you miss me?” She looks cute when she says this. She wants to look that way—little smile, face sideways. At that moment, I know NokRobin wants to make some cuddle, she wants some attention. She asks me: “Are you going to hook up with another girl when I’m gone, Piv? I’m scared I’m going to come back and find you not here. Will you think about me every day?” I tell her yes. Yes I will miss her. Yes I will think about her. I hold her to me and kiss her face. She wears perfume now, from Sogo department store. We buy that together; Abu gives us money. She smells the bottles, sprays them, asks me what do I like. At this time, I don’t want to be gone from NokRobin. I like her small body, next to me every night. I like to see how she does her things, everything-cleans herself and smells perfume, talks to people on the street, and how she decides what to buy. And I like that she’s sweet and thinks about me, too. Not always talking; sometimes she’ll listen very serious. Her heart is generous. So I want to be with her, sure. I want to go with her to Malaysia, to Africa, USA, somewhere else.
But this is some business, and so I cannot at this time, and why do I want to think every day about that one? Why do I want to miss NokRobin, grab for her when she’s gone? Better to forget, for now. In one corner of my mind, of course, I do not—we make something together, this business is together. But every day grabbing? No. Only to her I say yes. She wants to hear that—yes, yes—it’s the romantic thing.
The day NokRobin leaves, I go to see my friend Chitapon. For four weeks I’ve been with NokRobin; before that, alone in the North. I carry one rucksack with me, but one other rucksack Chitapon keeps. I have money left from what Abu gives for NokRobin’s clothes, but I don’t take taxi. With my rucksack I take the bus to Chitapon’s soi then hire motorbike to take me down that one. My friend is eating rice in stall across from his apartment building. Chit sees me first and says hello.
I sit with him. He eats kao mun gai, specialty of this stall, and I order that, too. He tells me that in one month his band play thirteen times. Fallow band. They play some songs by AC/DC, by Pearl Jam, by U2, and some songs they make themselves. Their sound is good. Chit writes some songs in Thai, some in English. His speaking English is not so good, but singing, wow!
Chit asks me where I’ve been. Why I don’t see any of the shows. I tell him only that I’ve been moving with one farang girl, sweet American one, very pretty, and now she’s gone. He tells me he’s not sweet anymore with his old girlfriend, Kathy. Chit says she’s not beautiful, not pretty. Now he makes something with Wanphen, more beautiful, but Kathy comes every time Fallow band plays, and she pulls at him, wants to talk, sometimes she’s yelling. They play tonight, and he says I should come, talk to Kathy in English-he knows I’m like one farang—tell her no, cool down, now he’s sweet with Wanphen.
In Chit’s apartment he plays new songs on his guitar. For some time I listen, then I look at the things I keep in my red color rucksack there: some shirts, some trousers, one belt buckle from America, shiny, showing the big cowboy hat, and on
e American book, A Long Road Home. One farang girl on Ko Phangan paid to have her hair made into braids, and when she goes home she cuts off one braid and gives it to me. “Remember me,” she says. That almost-red braid is in my rucksack, and in my rucksack are tapes: Fallow band, Litobou band, tapes of Sinead O’Connor. I don’t have Walkman, but sometimes I can borrow. Sometimes some farang might have speakers for their Walkman, and if I give them the tape, everyone can hear the Thai band play-they might like that. I also keep some photos in this rucksack: English girl on Ko Samet, American lady on that one, pink color of the sun going down, the Australian nurse wearing white uniform in front of one hospital—I ask her to send that one when she goes home, and she did, she remembered to send me—and I have photos of my sister, mother, and father in front of the blue water at Erawan Falls, my grandmother with some flowers near my home. I have many photos. I put them back. Only thing I don’t put back in the red rucksack is two shirts and some trousers. These ones I pack in my blue rucksack, and I leave some different shirts and trousers in the red one.
That night I go to Trombone Club to see Fallow band play. I have too many friends there. Some friends are musicians, some still students, some working at restaurant or in shop on Khao San or at MBK Center. I talk to them. Do they go up North? I tell them I have been there with American farang for one month. I talk to Kathy, tell her, “Chitapon says later. Now he is too busy. There are too many other things.” The music is loud. I’m talking very loud, but no one can hear me.
The next morning I stay in the bed, smoking cigarette, watching American program on TV. I want to relax like this. Someone knocks on my door. In English, I call out to say the room doesn’t need cleaning. Then I remember the maid doesn’t speak English, so I call out in Thai. Saisamorn sometimes lets me stay for free in Star Hotel, but the maid does not clean my room every day when I do this. If I want clean room, I pay her myself.
“I had no intention of cleaning your room, my friend.”
I jump quick from bed. “Excuse me!” I say, and I put on one T-shirt. I move my hands over my hair to make it smooth, and then I open door. I smile. “Good morning.”
Abu tells me he looks for me yesterday. “You seemed to be gone all day, and I have some business to discuss with you. May I come in?”
“Excuse me,” I say. “My room is very dirty, very disarray. Please. I think it’s more comfortable for you if we talk in the lounge.”
Abu smiles. Wow. Too big for this morning. “You just informed us all that your room doesn’t need cleaning. I’m sure you were right the first time.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say. I stand in the door space. “Hello, maid?” I pretend to call down the hall. “I lie, my room is too dirty!” Abu laughs now. He has short sleeves on his shirt and I think I can see thick ropes in his arms under his shiny skin. I step sideways, and he comes through my door.
He sits at the small table by the window. Two chairs are there, and I sit also. The TV still is going; I hear the doctor on that show tell the nurse about the old grandmother’s problem.
“I had a long day yesterday,” Abu says. “A long, long day.” He sighs and shakes his head, his big arms crossed. Then he says nothing.
“Business?” I ask him.
“Ah, yes. Just as well you weren’t here. You were enjoying yourself?”
I cross my arms on my chest like Abu. I smile at him—I want one moment to think. What does Abu want to know? What should he not? “I see some friends,” I tell him. “My friend Chitapon. I think I tell you about him already. His girlfriend’s mother, she’s farang, but she divorce the father and marry General Sivara.”
“What’s her nationality?”
“American.”
“American. Of course. It’s fine if she’s American. But let me ask you something, Piv. Is there any scruple, any bad feeling, about interracial marriages such as this?”
Does Abu want to marry the Thai lady? I never see him with one. No bar girl visits him. I don’t think so. But maybe. Maybe there’s something I don’t see. The Thai woman is very popular with the foreign man. I tell him, “To get married is no problem. It’s between two people, what they want to do.”
“Ah, Mr. Pivlaierd, you are open-minded, you are an international man, but not all of your countrymen feel that way, I am afraid. In any case, we need your help. We need to involve you in a little business.” Abu uncrosses his arms, puts them on table. He does business now, I can see that; he leans close to me. “I’m leaving tomorrow, for a brief side trip. This has been planned. But before I do there’s something I need to confirm. I want you to visit Admiral Wattanayakorn for me. Tonight.”
I laugh when Abu says this. In Thailand, military man has power. Too much, some say. They do what they want, arrange my country. If they don’t like someone to talk loud—boom! tear gas-they hit them down. Only the King can tell them please to behave, think of Thai people. Maybe Abu gives him money for something, sure, but it’s only me, Pivlaierd from Kanchanaburi Province, how can I make him do something?
“Oh, Admiral Wattanayakorn. Yes. But the admiral is very important. Too important to see me. I think he doesn’t have time.”
“My friend, it is arranged. He may not want to see you exactly, but he wants to do the business for which you will be sent.”
I tell him okay, of course I will go tomorrow. I have to say this. My rucksak is empty, curled on the floor. I already put my clothing into the drawer. NokRobin’s backpack stands by mine, but it’s bending down, one black color, limp. Her blue dress is inside closet. NokRobin is coming back to this place, and Abu is our something, our spark to make something.
“Good. But Pivlaierd, you will need a suit and a visit to the barber. Or get a pretty beautician to shave you if you’d like, a lady, and ask her to cut your hair.”
I laugh. Today I think I’m always laughing. So much it hurts my face, and it’s not the sweet thing, not funny. I’m in Star Hotel more than one week now, and I think of other places: the clean room on Ratwithi Road when I was student at Ramkhamhaeng; the wood floor of my grandmother’s house in Kanchanaburi. Laughing, I look into Abu’s face. I tell him this: “My hair helps me with the ladies.” I smile some more. These African men are always smiling about the romantic thing. “Admiral Wattanayakorn is not beautiful. I cannot make my hair to please the man.”
“Piv, your spell with the ladies goes deeper than your hair. You can explain to NokRobin your good reasons for changing your appearance. She seems to have a practical perspective.”
“No need to explain. The Thai man, he needs to wear the neat hair for business.” I press my hair with open hands. It goes smooth to my neck, and I twist it there, too tight. “I do it before. Make some business with hair like this. It’s traditional in my country.”
Abu leans forward to me; his soft chair squeaks when he does this. He puts his big hand on my leg. I wear some faded Levi’s jeans. Their color is almost white now, but there’s no hole yet. Abu’s hand looks thick and dark on that washed cotton.
“Piv, your hair is fine for a beachfront gigolo. For some slick tout. But if I’ve understood you correctly, you want to be an international businessman.”
I only look at Abu. Okay, yes, is how I move my head, but I say nothing. For four years I do not cut my hair. In the Fallow band, only one singer has hair so long like me. It’s not traditional, like I tell Abu. Thai people, my mother, my father, they don’t like. But certain ones, certain people-Thai, American, either one, international-they understand this long hair. They think it’s beautiful; they think it’s the best way to be. Abu takes out money from his pocket. Big pile, folded over. Five hundred, one thousand, five hundred, two thousand. Three thousand baht down on the table, smooth, for me. The same as he gives for NokRobin. If I want, this money could pay for one month of living, no problem.
“You have a day of shopping ahead of you, my friend. A distinguished suit, a distinguished haircut. You meet the admiral at nine o’clock tonight. We’ll put you in the car at
... what do you think is best? How is the traffic at that hour?”
I tell him I will see him at seven thirty.
“You are doing us a favor. It won’t go unappreciated.” Abu puts his hand on my Levi’s one more time. When he’s outside the door he says another thing: “And don’t forget the shoes and socks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in shoes and socks.”
Of course I have these. I have shoes and socks; I’m not the peasant. But I will buy new ones anyway, more agreeable to one suit, with Abu’s money. I close the door and Abu’s gone. I put my cool hair in my face. I wish someone was here now to take the photo of my hair, how long it grows. I light one cigarette and smoke, watching all that time in the mirror my hair and my face.
Three ladies stand around my hair in the beauty parlor. They can’t believe it, wow, so much hair. They make small sounds with their mouth, tssnk, like my mother makes. They say, how you get so much? All three ladies touch it, hold out my long hair. They say, now we make you look handsome, your girlfriend will like it. One takes sharp scissors and cuts. You’ll be handsome! The three ladies laugh together.
You think I’m handsome? I say to these ladies. My girlfriend has left me. Will you be the next one? Two ladies are old, married, I think so. But one is more young. I look at her. She makes her hair curly in the beauty shop, but her skin looks very pretty, pale and smooth. She’s tall for the Thai lady, but with the small body it gives her grace. NokRobin taught me this word. Grace, she tells me, when we watch some young boy wash in the Pai River. To move pretty and natural, that is some grace. The other ladies push at this graceful one now.