by Zolbrod, Zoe
“Where’ve you been?” That’s the first thing NokRobin says to me when I open the door to our room. She’s in the bed already. Her voice is not sweet.
“I make some business for us. I make some money. Shh,” I say. I take off my shoes and socks and leave them at the door and go to kiss her, to make her sweet.
“Be there at five o’clock,” NokRobin makes her voice like the man’s to say this. “I had to sit in the bar for two hours with a freaked-out woman who can’t speak English. And then some Thai guy comes and just shows her a card and takes her away, doesn’t say a word. He could be an ax murderer. She didn’t know, she was terrified. Were you with that Volcheck all day? Where were you?” Her words are sharp and fast, and it’s hard for me to hear them now. When I’m tired, that’s when my mind wants Thai.
“Show me your back,” I tell her. “You’re too excited. I’ll give you massage.” She turns over. She’s not wearing clothes, but the sheet covers her bottom. I pull up the sheet and touch her hot back through that. I feel tight knots and poking knobs. I want to talk to her like this. To her body with my hands. No English.
“Did Nadja a end up with you guys? She’s not really his girlfriend, that’s for sure. I think she’s a prostitute, but maybe she’s not even getting paid.”
“She’s something, sure. Maybe bar girl from his country. But shhh. It’s okay. He’s not nice one, not smooth, but no problem.” I lean to her ear; my body goes all along her back. Her hair smells clean, some still wet. “Tomorrow we do some business. Me and you together. And we make some money. Three hundred dollars. I get this for us.”
“Three hundred dollars?” I feel her body fall under my fingers. Too bony, this one. The Thai lady is small, but not too many bones stick out. “What do we have to do?” she asks me. I feel her voice in her body, it shakes soft in there.
I tell her we do nothing. Go to airport. Pick up something from one man who knows that I will come. That’s all. Three hundred dollars for nothing, for our plan.
NokRobin is quiet for a while, and I massage her. I go from Thai-style to hot-oil style. I pull down the sheet, use Nivea lotion instead of hot oil. I rub her skin and move things underneath her skin. She relaxes. Maybe we both relax now.
“But three hundred dollars, that’s barely a plane ticket somewhere. We’ll need a lot more than that.” When she talks again it sounds like rain on one empty log. I stop massage then. I shut off the light. We make something, but it’s quick, small. After, I watch TV in darkness. Thai show. I want those words to rest my brain.
We pay Saisamorn’s nephew to borrow his Mitsubishi, and we leave the Star at eight o’clock in the morning, more than three hours until Royal Jordan plane arrives. We pass weekend market and orchid garden, and I know where we are, to drive is no problem. But when we get to airport, wow, cars go faster. I thought maybe when I am by it I would have one feeling about where to go, but it’s too much moving. Ugly Vol is right. I know nothing. Abu is wrong. Why he not tell me? How will I find what I need?
“Doesn’t that look like it could be a cargo area, way over there?” NokRobin asks me. But my mouth’s too tight to talk. Blue airport bus drives in front of me. White color bus drives on the side. I can see nothing. Everyone goes too fast. I need to go slow, look for some sign, but now the white bus comes close, wants to go past me even though minivan comes up behind. “What an asshole!” NokRobin says. When I can see again, it’s just in time. International Terminal. I can drive the car into that lane. Cars slow down again. I stop to let NokRobin out.
Her eyebrows squish, worried. “I thought you wanted me to help you find it before you dropped me off.”
“No problem. I can find. Better for you to go in now.” I don’t tell her it’s more peaceful without her. I need to listen to my heart. I need to find my own plan.
My plan is this: I drive away. Away from International Terminal, from expressway, from airport bus. I go on regular road back toward Bangkok. I drive until I see what I want. I don’t know it before, but something tells me: one 7-Eleven, parking lot in front.
I stop my car and get out to look. Sky near the earth is white, but sky straight above is light blue, and planes appear there as they lift. Inside, 7-Eleven is shiny like some department store. I choose tamarind sweets to buy; I like the sweet and salty taste. The man who takes my money has thick skin. It’s not dark, but it’s thick, tough, holes in it. His hair’s tough, too. I say to him: Wow. This 7-Eleven is big one. In my district center they have 7-Eleven now, but I don’t think it’s big like this. Even the ones in Silom area, in Rama IV Road area, they seem small compared to this.
No one is in store at this time. This man begins to talk to me-sure it’s big, sure he feels confused at first in airport area, sure he feels lucky when he gets his job three years after being in Bangkok. Before that he worked in toy factory, much more hard job for only one hundred fifty baht each day. He loses that job, but now his pay is better, more like three hundred baht per day. He talks some time, talks past ten o’clock. One lady comes in, wants to buy something. No problem. I move to look at things they sell-toilet paper, deodorant, mosquito coils, toothpaste. When the customer goes, I talk to the man some more. I say: The son of my uncle works near here; he works for airport. He works unloading luggage, and he tells me, hey, you never find your way to my dock. You’re from the province, finding anything in the capital city will be too hard for you.
I laugh, then I say this: I want to surprise the child of my uncle. To come to the place where he works. I live in Bangkok and have good job now. Car. I want to surprise him, so then he knows something about the son of his country aunt.
The man says to me: I know someone who used to work there. Maybe he could tell you the way to get to that place.
I reach in my jacket pocket and get Russian Vol’s phone. I hold it out to him. Older brother, I say, please, I beg you to try to call and find out.
Back in the car, clock says 10:45. Royal Jordan is coming in thirty-five minutes, but maybe I can find the dock before that time. I follow directions to one small road. The road goes through the row of trees, then follows one long silver fence. On the other side of fence is some dry grass, some cement, very flat. Trying to see through the fence is making me dizzy, and there’s nothing behind there. Inside my head I feel I’m falling. I search for too much and there’s nothing here.
But then—softly, softly—the cement I thought was flat goes flatter, more flat. And now I can see it, everything: when the cement goes down I see big airplanes coming up to my eyes, flat white buildings black at the bottom with dark openings, cars and trucks like ants moving all around. It’s almost eleven o’clock now. The sun is very hot, and what I see is in the distance. I see it shake there, move.
Inside Mitsubishi I feel hot, too; air-condition doesn’t matter. I feel hot, but I must do this. Signs say Do NOT ENTER. AUTHORITY VEHICLE ONLY. They say this in English and Thai, but I must drive closer. Where the fence opens and the road turns in, some orange arms reach across the pavement to stop my Mitsubishi, but no guards are there at this time, and these arms won’t stop me. At this small entry they’re plastic. The friend of the man in 7-Eleven already told me this, and it’s true, no problem-when you drive forward the plastic arms bend; they’ll let you through.
Then I learn this road is like one river. Like one skinny river, it starts somewhere small and pours into the great sea. Now I’m in the sea of cement, and I can start to see how big the airplanes are. First I feel small. How can I go closer without getting crushed? But then my problem is that in my car I am too big. How can I drive without someone seeing me? There’s nowhere to hide, and I need to. Like two white gulls sailing over the water, two hungry cars are coming toward me.
They come from different sides of the docking place, both coming to meet my fat Mitsubishi. I stop the car, and they come close-two white jeeps, luxury ones, thick wheels, and two men in each. I can hear the jeep engines, both running. I can hear metal doors close. Two men walk to my ca
r window. It’s the bad dream. They have automatic rifles that I know from the army, and I hate to see this. My fingers hurt and my stomach feels sick. I want to be away, but I roll down window and I wai and I smile. One man jerks his head at me. Tells me like this to get out of my car.
It’s like I get hit—pow—with hot air when I stand from my car. Hot wind blows my suit against my body, and I can hear the noise from the engines of everything: jeep noise, trucks, airplanes on the ground and moving into sky. One man pushes me with his shoulder, reaches into Mitsubishi to get the car key from there. What can I do if they keep this one? Then that mobile phone sings. It’s inside the car, on the seat where I threw it. The man reaches inside there and picks up the phone. Phone beeps again. He looks at the other man, looks at me. He presses the button. “Krup,” he says. “Krup.” Where is NokRobin now? In my mind I see her hang up the phone. Her face folds, confused. Man puts the phone in his own pocket. I want to take my phone away from that man. I smile.
He says to me: What you doing here? You trespass on airport property, clearly stated by sign. Why don’t you stop at that roadblock? I think I should arrest you, take you to chief of airport police.
I still am smiling when I wai and duck my head. His eyes are stony. He holds his gun with two hands, pushes it into my chest. He says again, very angry, short words: Why are you here?
At this moment, I don’t know that answer. I can’t remember. Excuse me, I say. Engines beat my words. He pushes me again with his gun. Now I remember something. Army training, what I can do in this situation. My arm can come up fast like the bullet behind his gun. In one moment I can kick this man’s knee and push my arm down—gun flies down, too. In my mind I see this. But outside my mind is Saisamorn’s nephew’s car, and this man has the key. The other man writes down number of license. Russian Vol is judging. I think Abu is judging. My head breaks, my fingers hurt, my stomach. But I’m not in the jungle. This is some business. This is the plan. No kicking, not now.
I say: Excuse me. My uncle tells me it’s okay to do something here. He says go to dock N243.
Who’s your uncle?
If you will permit, I say. I reach into my trouser pocket for the baht bills. Ten one thousands. Folded once, they’re almost big as one book. I say: It’s arranged already. Please. Dock N243. I think they wait for me.
Gun man keeps his rifle on me. This other man goes to his jeep, gets in. He speaks into small phone that’s attached to the radio. Then he comes back from jeep. When he takes the money from my fingers, I smell his cologne. He says: They’ll meet him at hangar 12B.
Then that phone sings again. That phone like some child’s shoe in the gun man’s pocket. I wait one moment, then say: Excuse me. I beg you. Please.
The man holds his hand open for me. Now he smiles. He wants more baht. Phone is singing. I have no more from Russian Vol. I reach into my other pocket, into my own money. There’s only some hundred baht notes, but I give this to him. I take the phone. NokRobin’s voice comes at me, and it sounds like far away, like international call, from over the ocean. “Five minutes ago, Piv. It landed five minutes ago. Where were you?”
“Okay,” I say to her. I turn off the phone.
The gun man tells me: Get in your car, follow me.
I follow him past one plane, and it’s as big as the big building. It takes long moments to pass it by. Men in light purple clothing ride machines up to reach into the plane’s belly, and they take the suitcases out of there. Everywhere on the ground sit big silver boxes. We drive past these, drive under one long roof and into dark shade. The thick pillars here seem like they’re going to hit me. I want to duck while I drive.
When we reach the place where there’s no people, no metal boxes, gun man stops his jeep. He rolls down the window and moves his hand to the ground to tell me stay here, then he drives away. Inside my car, engine running, air conditioner, I wonder if that man takes my money and leaves me here, sets me here to be arrested or to be lost, and I will never find my way.
I step out of my car. Some broken cars and trucks and vans stand open; they spill their black mess onto the cement floor. Ugly. Old. No one is here. But I see one thing I like. On one gray pillar, I see picture of Thailand’s King. I go to him. I want to talk to him, something like pray. Maybe our King can help me find.
When I go to my King I hear something. Through all the far-off engine noise, I hear one small engine coming close to me. Then I see it-three wheels like a tuk tuk, but these wheels are bigger than that. And on this thing is one man who wears tan color trousers and shirt. He’s smoking cigarette. When he pulls up his tuk tuk close to me, all the other noise seems quiet.
He yells to me: What gate? When I tell him, he says: What flight? He nods his head when I say Royal Jordan Airline, flight 617.
He says: Yes. It’s arranged. You don’t move from here. Then he gets out of his tuk tuk, that engine still running. He comes to stand in front of me. He crosses his arms. He smiles.
We stand like this, then I wai him. I say: Excuse me. I would like to give you the gift, but I met those other ones. I did not expect them.
I show this man my pockets. No thousands. No hundreds. Empty. Only twenty-four baht. I hold this small baht to him. I say: Please. I am young, new to doing this business. Today I learn. Today I make mistakes. Please. Forgive me this moment.
This man smiles. He calls me young brother. Says: Young brother, I do not ask you for money. But this business can be arranged most quickly if I can make one phone call. Do you have phone for me to do this?
Now I see. I reach for that phone. It fits in my hand like someone’s fingers would. I give it to him.
He looks at it. What time is it? he says. He looks at me and my watch and smiles. I push the strap, pull it away from the small stick that holds it. It’s the watch that one farang girlfriend gives me. Plastic, but this man must be like many people, he loves the style. My wrist feels wet and cool without it.
Open your trunk and wait here.
Then that man gets in tuk tuk and vroom, he goes away. His noise get smaller. After he leaves, air smells newer, mixed with the old is fresh lead and gasoline. I open the trunk, and I lean against car door. I don’t know what to do now. I am alone. No phone for NokRobin to call me. No watch to see how many minutes pass by.
But one man comes. He drives something like small van, only with open shelves where the walls should be, and these have boxes on them. Brown cardboard boxes like you see in the store, in the P.O., anywhere. His dark blue color shirt has two buttons closed, that’s all. He’s dark and shiny from too much sun. Not talking, I work with this man to put boxes into trunk. Some don’t fit in there. I put these in the backseat of Mitsubishi. Dark man watches when I do this. His van is empty.
I say: This all I have. I give the rest too much. They take everything.
He takes the twenty-four baht. When he reaches for the money, I see his hands are very dirty. Before I turn on the car, I use the key to take dirt from under my fingernails so my hands look clean.
NokRobin is waiting for me where I left her. She’s relieved to see me. In the car, when I tell her what happened, she calls me brave soldier. Then she teaches me that word, relieved. She says I must feel relieved—and she does, too. And she’s proud I’m brave. Don’t worry about stupid Vol’s phone. Don’t worry about money. She has some money with her. I’m very smart. I did the right thing. She wants me to feel more awake, so she tells me these things. She’s sweet, but I still feel tired.
I tell her, “I know what I want to do now with you. I don’t want to go to Star Hotel. I want to go and get one drink, to rest there, someplace nice.”
She laughs at me. “I’ve never heard you say you wanted a drink, Piv.” She puts her hand on my knee. She wears her hair up on her head with pins, and some pieces come out. She smiles at me, and I see all of her teeth.
Then she turns and leans over to the backseat. Her bottom goes up. Why’s she sitting like that? Too many cars, too many buses higher tha
n this car. “What you doing?” I’m too tired to laugh. “Someone can see you.”
“I want to see what we’re risking our lives for.” I hear her slide cardboard. Her feet kick when she does this. “There’s no address on them. Just the word fragile and the name Prachat Saipradit. Who’s that?”
I tug her blue dress. “You want police to stop me because one lady in my car is upside down?” Now she turns to the front again. Hard to drive in too much traffic when she moves like this, takes up the whole car, and this car is heavy now. The trunk’s full; I can feel that weight. Other cars go past me. We pass one motorbike twisted all around metal. It’s been wrecked. At last NokRobin sits quiet again. She reaches up to put pins back in her hair.
She has money for nice lunch and some drinks, so we go to one place I know. It’s on large klong, and you feel that restaurant float on the water, relaxing. I want to feel relieved. I order Singha beer. Today it tastes good. But NokRobin is not ready for relaxing. She’s too excited. She turns her head this way, that way. She likes this restaurant on the water, she likes the market we walk through to get here. She points at the fish, the barrel full of snails. She says, “Ooooo, look at that.” Then she wants to eat adventure. Order some things that she’s never tried, that she thinks farang don’t get to eat. Okay, I order turtle soup, morning glory vine, dish with raw pork cut very fine. She tastes soup one time, two times, three times, then pushes it away. She tries the meat. One bite, two bites, eating with her spoon like I show her, but she doesn’t like that taste. Then she leans toward me.
“Whatever’s in those packages is too hot to go through customs, and we should be making more.”
“Three hundred is already more. Better for us not to know what’s inside. It’s not our business.” Turtle soup is not my favorite. For me, the best soup is tom yam, prawn and lemongrass, but farang always eat this, so I order some adventure for NokRobin.