by Zolbrod, Zoe
“The National Reptile Breeder’s Expo. It takes place in the first week of May. It would be an invaluable experience for you, and we can arrange it so that you have something of your own with which to deal, a commission. We trust you, Piv. This invitation comes because you have our trust.”
Why does Abu trust me to go there, United States, but not trust me here? Many Thai people travel to Singapore, Malaysia, it’s nothing. In USA, that’s where they don’t trust the Thai person. They see Thailand and they look for heroin, ganja, drugs. Too many people tell me this. Farang and Thai people both tell me this-everyone who goes there from here—that’s how I know.
“But I do have a question for you,” Abu says. “What was the word you used for our Russian associate?”
“Excuse?”
“The Thai phrase that so aptly describes Mr. Volcheck?”
“Russian Vol? Jairong. Hot heart. Jairong. I tell you that word?”
“That’s it. Yes. He has a hot heart, as we know. So it’s best if I have all the facts to intercede on your behalf, if necessary. That is, to intercede on the part of Miss Miatta.”
It’s like when I read the book. If I know already what’s happened, it’s easier to understand the English words. But I say it anyway, as if I do not: “Excuse?”
“My question is this: did Miss Miatta tamper with Volcheck’s boxes?”
Through my stomach there comes something very cold. Cold, like the mist in Mae Hong Son. “What’s it mean, tamper? Lift them? She helped to lift them up the hotel stairs. Vol made her.”
“Did NokRobin open a box or two, perhaps change the nature of what’s inside?”
I want to travel. To fly. To go everywhere. And so I always study the map. I study the map so many times that it stays in my mind. I can see it now. I see Abu in Singapore. I’m in Thailand. In the middle, Malaysia; NokRobin is there.
“No. I don’t think so. I’m not with her every minute, all that time. But NokRobin cares about the money; she doesn’t care about that box. Why you think she opens that?”
“A business sense. Let’s call it a hunch. How’s your money holding out?”
“Money? No problem. I buy new suit today. But money, sure. Money’s okay.”
“Of course. Quite appropriate. I’ll reimburse you when I return to Bangkok. It’s a business expense. So you’re the aspiring business man, and Robin just wants money. You didn’t see her opening any boxes. How long was she alone with them?”
“She’s alone some small minutes only. I get the gas, some drink, something like that. How can she do something in that small time?” I’m apart from NokRobin. I want to be in the same place, but I’m apart. At this moment, in this situation, maybe it’s better for me like that.
“Just a business hunch. But keep an eye on her. Let me know if her motivations change. You maintain at the Star Hotel, Piv, and check in with me once a day. I have my phone with me at all times, so you needn’t wait until after midnight to ring.”
Chapter 14
The towel beneath her had drooped, and Robin’s shoulders slid slick with sweat against the straps of the lounge chair. She looked through her eyelashes at the wash of aquamarine before her, trying to catch the water hovering and rising. Evaporation. Condensation. She wished she could escape into a vapor. Except for the Russians and the Kenyans and her, there were only two other people around the Fortune Dragon Hotel’s pool: Asian businessmen in trousers and mercerized polo shirts, both sitting across the deck at a shaded table and working on laptops. Occasionally they tossed a deadpan ogle toward the two young Russian women accompanying Volcheck. Sometimes Robin got caught in the line of fire, exacerbating her sense of being a furred lobster in the sludge-green corner of a grocery store tank: unappetizing but destined to be made a meal of all the same.
She’d left her bathing suit in Bangkok, but the porter who showed up at her room that morning with a note from Abu—Please join us on the fourth floor deck after noon—also handed her a one-piece. She’d been summoned. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how to act once she got there, had pinned herself to her chair like a butterfly, etherized, encased in a black and white design not of her choosing. Next to her, Abu’s calves shone. They were the only part of him in the sun; his torso stayed under an umbrella’s shade. Jomo’s legs were an ashier, hairier black. Then came Volcheck’s fat knees-he wasn’t reclining, he was sitting upright. His stomach sprang forward out of an unbuttoned shirt; his head was covered with a flapping cap, and Robin could already see a gauze of pink spreading over his blanched thighs. It would serve him right. Piv, on the other hand, could only tan. He’d never burn, never ash. If he were here, she’d bury her face in his tawny glow and take comfort, turn feminine. She didn’t dare ask Volcheck where Nadja was this time, but Robin would have preferred her distressed intelligence to the cleavage-brimming fluffery of these two new girls, Irena and Anna. She had tried to share her SPF 15 sunblock with them, had gestured over the men’s knees to ask the girls did they want any, and pointed up at the sun. But they had just shaken their heads and caressed more oil into their skin, looking pleased with the sheen.
“I believe it’s time for a cocktail,” Abu said, breaking the mechanical silence of an air-conditioning unit’s hum. “Miss Miatta. Your second day in Singapore and you haven’t yet had a Singapore sling. I thought you liked to sample the local flavor.” His voice reached out from under his patch of shade and sent her shoulders hiking. She hated that Abu knew anything about her and Piv. “Was I wrong? About your preferences?”
She twisted her silver thumb ring and looked to the deck’s corner, where a screen of hanging plants hid the generator and bled kiss-shaped poufs onto the tile floor. Abu allowed no comment she made to go by unexamined for signs of ignorance, arrogance, bias. She had to be careful. “Umm ... they didn’t really originate in Singapore, did they?”
“It’s a British drink, actually. The sahibs used to sit on the verandahs and sip them. But in the postcolonial world, you don’t have to be an Englishman—or woman of course-to enjoy one of their slings. I’m ordering you one. Or are you saying they’re too European?”
“No, that will be fine, thanks,” she said. Jomo preferred to have a beer. When Volcheck heard drink orders being taken, he roused Anna and Irena and made everyone repeat what they were having, then translated it to the Russian women, who put on their heels and skimpy wraps and walked shoulder to shoulder into the bar. Robin tried to hide, lowered the tilt of her chair and turned onto her stomach, but Abu continued talking. He described high tea at the Raffles Hotel and other colonial customs he enjoyed. He said he admired British literature—Graham Greene especially, and even Kipling, from an objective standpoint. He peppered Robin with questions until she had to arch her back and cock her head around the edge of the chair to face him, had to admit from this twisted posture that she had never read Greene.
“Never read The Quiet American} Oh but you must. And Pivlaierd must, too. I’ll get you both a copy.”
Carrying a tray of ruby-toned liquids and wet green bottles, Irena bent over to give Volcheck his sling. Robin had to force herself not to gawk at the serving girl, her breasts falling forward, Volcheck’s hand sliding up to give her buttock a squeeze. Jomo didn’t touch Anna when she handed him his beer, but the way he looked at her, he might as well have. Abu took two drinks off the tray and held Robin’s out to her while she turned over to accept it. The Singapore sling was much too sweet. Her mouth puckered and her eyes grew filmy and hot. These people were a bunch of scumbags. Pimps and poachers and whores. She wished for Piv, was angry at him for not being near. Or she wanted to be safe at home, wanted a father who would fly her there. She sipped again. She wanted to get drunk.
A phone rang and Abu and Volcheck both reached for theirs. Abu answered the call sotto voce, in English. Then he switched to another language, his voice a deep lilting hum. What did they speak in Kenya? Swahili? Robin took sips in quick succession. Abu laughed once. When he hung up he spoke to Jomo without
switching back to English. He wrote something in the notebook he carried in his breast pocket, then ripped the page out and handed it to Jomo, who rose to go.
Robin inhaled. “I’ve gotten too much sun,” she gushed. She rocked forward to lift from the chair. “I should head in, too.”
She felt a weight descend onto her shoulder: Abu’s warm hand. “No. Stay out here and keep me company.”
“My skin ...” She pressed her index finger to her shoulder to create a momentary dollop of soured cream on the tough reddish-brown. She watched the pale dot disappear.
“Sit,” Volcheck said. He vacated his shaded chaise and walked, punching numbers on his phone, to a table on the other side of the pool.
Robin cringed as she sank down into the seat Volcheck left behind. She gathered her knees to her chest to rescue her toes from the sun. After a moment of silence, Abu breathed deep and patted his palms on his chest, a rich hollow sound. “I usually stay in the Emperor when I’m in Singapore. They know me there, but perhaps I’ll switch my regular. What do you think of this place?”
“It’s great,” Robin said. One of the Russian women let out a two-syllable laugh, and Robin shot a glance her way.
“Don’t worry, Miss Miatta. They can’t understand a word we say. They’re not laughing at you.”
“Oh, I ...” Abu shone a close-lipped smile upon her, catching her struggling against her tangled-up nerves.
“So you think the Fortune Dragon’s great. Are you curious about the business that allows me to live half my life with room service?”
Robin blinked. She sipped from the watery dregs of her drink. “You do import-export. That’s enough for me.” She brought the glass to her lips again, looked over the rim. The sun hung, a lit coin, a thumb’s width above the lone skyscraper on the western horizon. So close to the equator, the line between afternoon and nightfall was paper thin, and they had just fallen through it.
Abu turned his gaze from the pool to Robin. He wasn’t smiling, but the planes of his face were gentle, relaxed.
“So you can’t use the excuse of curiosity to explain why you pry into property that doesn’t belong to you?” he said.
The blow of his words hit her backhand, knocking her dizzy though she’d been preparing for it all day. Her throat contracted to supress her jumping stomach. Should she deny innocently—what property?—or spit out words of negating indignation—how dare you suggest ... ? As if she could fool him. Her throat spasmed. She threw her hand to her mouth, but it didn’t work. She leaned over her chair and gagged up stringy, pinky bile. The Russian women both jerked from their repose to look.
“You must be careful, drinking in the sun.” Abu handed her a limp handkerchief and a highball of tepid water. He stepped away to retrieve a Styrofoam starfish float from the deck’s railing, then returned to drop it over the sick. It settled with a farty puft. Affecting delicacy, the Russian women gathered their things to leave.
“So, we’ve gotten that out of the way. And now, Miss Miatta—” He held up his dark-framed pale palm to her. “I’m sure you want to offer the apology that you owe, but really, I insist it’s not necessary. Your forthright conversation is all that I ask. You’ll give me that?”
“Abu, I’m so—”
He held up his palm again. Raised one eyebrow skeptically, a half-smile on his lips. “Let’s start again. You were curious?”
A bird cawed overhead and rose her goose bumps. Robin’s throat stung. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t drugs before I carried something for you again,” she whispered. The crease where Abu’s solid neck gave way to broad shoulders was literally black.
“So you didn’t believe my word. Surely you’ve heard of Pandora’s box, Miss Miatta?”
Robin peered at Abu with her eyes big, her heart thumping. The smell of gin and stomach acid was in her nostrils.
“It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”
“Relax. I’m not going to pounce. We’re just going to talk.” He put his elbows out and tented his fingers professorially. “So, you wanted to be sure it wasn’t drugs. And what did you think when you realized I’d told you the truth?”
“I was relieved, I guess.” She almost felt relieved again, for a moment. The matter to be judged was out in the open, splattered next to her, and all she could do was to wait for the verdict.
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“I ... I don’t know. I was ... confused. I didn’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” Abu’s lips moved distinctly. The moment of relief passed: he wasn’t going to simply let her wait; he was going to make her hang herself. Robin twisted in misery. “Miss Miatta, even if frank conversation is painful to you, I’m sure you agree that given the circumstances, it’s not too much for me to ask.”
“I didn’t know what it was at first, why someone would want it.” Robin’s voice came out a hoarse croak.
“Really? And you an art historian? A lover of the Orient?”
“An aphrodisiac?”
“You dissapoint me. That’s a common Western misconception, but rhino horn has never been used as an aphrodisiac. Very small quantities are used medicinally, but for centuries the horn has been prized for its ornamental value. And now do you feel straightened out? Are all your questions answered?”
“Yes, I ... I’m glad to know.”
“Don’t dissemble, Miss Miatta. You’re terrible at it anyway. Forthright. I want your true responses.”
“Well, it’s true that I—there were so many boxes. So many ... And they’re endangered.”
She’d given him what he wanted, she could hear that when he spoke. “I could tell you that it’s always been the way, in the African bush, to collect what is near to use or to trade. It wouldn’t be untrue. And should Western morality interefere with this pattern? But I won’t pretend to you that I’m involved in tribute to my forebears. It’s only because the animals are endangered that they’re worth my attention. The fewer rhinos there are, the more they’re prized. And my income supports sixteen people. According to the options open to me, this is a clean trade.”
In a Khao San bookstall, Robin had found an outdated volume on endangered animals, and she’d studied the picture of a rhino brought down by poachers. The top half of its head was a chewed pulp. The rest of its body lay untouched; the huge leatherey belly rising to the shoulder of the ranger. Even in the blurry photo, you could see the haze of flies gathered round. The rhino weighed over a ton. A ton—that inconceivable, unattainable mass. I need a ton of things, he makes a ton of money, a ton of prehistoric beast left for flies, vultures, ants that would carry away its flesh, visible mauve bits bobbing in a waved line through savanna grass. A clean trade? But sixteen people was a ton, too, for one person.
“Sixteen, wow,” Robin said. If she could flatter Abu with her awe, perhaps he would release her. And she wasn’t just dissembling; in part, her deflection was genuine. It had always pained her when her college friends judged situations they didn’t understand. She knew you couldn’t always count on the world to give you your due, and that what looked like mistakes-having four children when you couldn’t afford two, dropping out of school, missing work repeatedly-were often reasonable choices if there was any choice at all. She didn’t know anything about familial responsibilities or the realities of sub-Saharan Africa. Her knee-jerk censure shamed her.
But the mass slaughter of endangered animals shamed her as well, and Abu’s situation was not her own. She had carried those packages. There was blood on her hands. She’d been desperate the first time, hadn’t known what was in them. Did that justify her actions? But what about now, acting knowingly? Having bought some time, shouldn’t she be able to find another way to get herself home?
Then the sun slipped behind the lowest stratus cloud, electrifying it into a glory of orange. The whole sky lit up Venus pink, and her questions flared and exploded, became part of the light show. An airplane sliced ribbons above her, and those caught fire, too. And
she wanted it. Even trapped, pinned in this isolated hotel, discussing money ripped from the face of an animal, she wanted a piece of that sky.
“Wow?” The word withered in Abu’s mouth. “That’s your response? Your mind is churning. I’m offering answers. Ask for them now, so you aren’t tempted again to sneak and steal.” He palmed the phone and let his arm dangle. His legs were pushed out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.
“I don’t know,” Robin said, trying to find a safe place between his incisiveness and her fear. “I don’t know anything about life in Kenya. You’re so well educated. Are there not many jobs there? How did you get into this?”
He smiled, pleased. “We have a wonderful educational system but an abysmal unemployment rate in Kenya. I was privileged to get through college—I’ll leave off the description of the ridiculous amounts of luck and hard work that entailed. And luck was on my side again, getting me into the military, rising to officer. But the salary was scant. The compensation was the expectation that officers would use their advantages to involve themselves in other profitable pursuits. Drugs, for example. And I can’t allow you to think the weakness is only African. You’ve done your research on endangered species. You can do some on this. Start a campaign. Because it is American men, too. Military men, CIA, operatives posted abroad in Mozambique, Namibia, Nicaragua, El Salvador-they get paid far more than the few hundred we do, yet most of them are involved elbow deep in dirty business.” As he spoke he looked at her and gave a soft nod. Robin flared her nostrils.
“Oh, I know. I mean, not exactly, but I’ve read about stuff like that. It doesn’t surprise me.” She pressed her finger pads onto her closed eyelids and shook her head.
“I am only trying to ensure, Miss Miatta, that if you pass judgment you do so nonpartisanly.”
Abu turned to a waiter entering the pool deck. The server’s white shirt reflected more light than anything else around. “A Singapore sling for me. The lady would prefer a ginger ale. And you’ll want to send someone up here to clean up her mess.” Abu gestured to the ground, the dark stain spreading beneath the starfish float, the smell of vomit mingling with that of flowers and the chemical-infused pool. Robin accepted the humilation.