by Zolbrod, Zoe
“Time to wake up, Pivlaierd. She’s one of those Americans who brag that they tread softly through the world then become bullies once on their own shores.”
I don’t understand all the words that he says. I laugh. “No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t figure you as a one-woman man.” Abu takes whiskey ice cube into his mouth so it makes the lump in his cheek like someone hit him there, but he still smiles so relaxed, his eyes lazy. You can hit him, but he knows he’s the one who can cause the most hurt. “This is reality, friend, and your instinct better be right.”
Chapter 22
Robin’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the algae-hued green of the Star’s lounge when she walked into Abu’s voice as if into a spider web: “What would you like to eat, Miss Miatta, now that you’ve returned to the spicy choices of Bangkok?” Her heart knocked silly as a punching bag at the sound, and she grasped Piv’s elbow for support.
In Singapore, Robin had been numbed with dread. She’d been so crushed and empty that she could scarcely summon the energy to rise from bed and pour herself a cup of tea let alone feel anything so passionate as fear. But once she made it through Bangkok’s customs and saw Piv standing there, suited up and smiling with both his lips and his eyes, some feeling lit inside herself; a crescent of hope kindled in her chest. Within minutes her skin was consumed in a fire of pinpricks, like glass popping and shattering inside her brain. A little hope, a little love, a desire for something, for life—that’s what made her feel terror instead of collapsing into a stunned, dead heap of it.
“Miss Miatta,” Abu demanded. She stammered a greeting, demurred choosing the restaurant, and so they went to a German place on Sukumvit Road, Otto’s Black Forest, where even the heavy air-conditioning could not erase the dissonance of eating leaden food on a tropical night, and where the delicate half bow of their lederhosened waiter only added to the nightmarish quality of Robin’s past few days. It took all her composure to sit straight in the wooden booth and order sauerkraut salad. Next to her, Piv sat slurping a bowl of chicken soup and asking Abu questions about Singapore. Abu turned the questions to Robin, inquired whether she was aware of her own country’s impatience with Singapore’s markedly Eastern recipe for success, how she herself felt about it, and whether she had discussed the issue with her contact, Mr. Yeo.
“How do you know Mr. Yeo?” She felt like she had flopped a wet fish on the table-something that obvious, repulsive, and dead, stinking of her treachery. But Abu answered benignly: they had met at a reptile conference five or so years back; Mr. Yeo was an exporter who had a variety of needs to fill. That wasn’t close to the kind of information the federal guys had set her loose to collect, and her brain teemed as if with skittering ants, frantic for relayable details about the Orlando gig, but her attention kept getting drawn to Piv.
She had no choice about Abu; she’d give the Wildlife guys all the information she could come up with on him and Volcheck-poachers, both. But what about Piv, unnamed by the Americans and unfingered by her, and unguilty, as far as she knew, of blood or violence, of anything other than having a dream and limited circumstances and an accommodating morality and a plan? And an electric presence. Even in this fug of boiled pork she thrilled to him. She so wanted him. She wanted him at least to be safe. But if he went to Orlando, he’d almost certainly be busted whether or not she breathed a word about him to Robert and Ray. And what about her own safety? If she didn’t warn Robert and Ray about Piv, and he got caught anyway, wouldn’t she have to answer for her silence? It would be infinitely better for them both if he never got on the plane.
But Piv was dying to go to the U.S. The only way to keep him off a plane to Florida was to tell him in no uncertain terms that she had been apprehended by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service-not a very menacing-sounding agency she realized-and that they knew all about Abu’s business and, with her coerced help, they were going to close in on it. She’d have to use easy words like arrest, force, prison, police, jail, and she’d have to repeat herself and make sure he was telling the truth when he said he understood each term, because sometimes he pretended comprehension, she knew that, and she knew he would resist the fact that his international business opportunity was going to end in a sting. What she didn’t know was exactly where his loyalties lay.
“Really?” Piv was saying now, subverting her attempt to thwart another of Abu’s American poli-sci lessons. “Really the U.S. was against ASEAN?” He smiled and blinked, offering the animation of his naive shock like a gift, playing the straight man to Abu.
“The Bangkok Post has covered this as well as anyone, my friend. Certainly better than the Herald. They want to withhold IMF money from Indonesia if they follow the Singaporean model.”
“Ah, but American model is better, I think so. More fashion, cool music, home of rock and roll.” His smile shifted from a minstrel’s grin into a sly loungey beam.
They went from the restaurant to a katoey floor show at the Asia Hotel, where Robin slipped away to use a pay phone. She dialed the number she’d been given, had been told to memorize. “Nothing,” she told the American man that answered in monosyllables. “I’ve been with them all evening. I’ve been trying to get them to, but they haven’t said anything about next week.”
“You’re going to have to fax us everyone’s itinerary. And we need to know exactly how many are coming and what exactly they’re bringing in.”
“They won’t tell me. They aren’t saying anything.”
“Try harder. You’ve got to insinuate yourself. Do what it takes.”
Outside, the sky was as overfull as she was; it was starless, moonless, stuffed with bruised dense smog. She and Piv exchanged only a smattering of short sentences when they finally closed room 517’s door behind them. Then they were on the bed, the room thick with their customary darkness, parting folds and creases to emit the humid silk that cocooned them away from the worlds they wore with their clothing. When the borders of their bodies dissolved, Robin gasped in a little wave of joy, but it crashed against the bund of fear around her heart. She exhaled a sob, and then they wouldn’t stop coming.
“What?” Piv whispered, still inside her. “What?” A touch of impatience. He softened and fell out.
If she told him, and he told Abu, what then? The Zimbabwean massacre and the hacked flesh of the rhino and the violence that hovered around Volcheck like a swarm.
Piv stroked her back dutifully.
“Why are we always with Abu? I don’t want to see them. I just got back. You like him more than me. Why can’t it just be us alone?” She curled tightly to Piv, pressed her forehead to his chest and snuffled into her hand.
“Shh. Shh,” he whispered, and for a while that was all. Then, “Remember when you had that problem with your visa? Because of Abu that problem’s gone. I like him because he lets me stay with you.” He tried to lower his head to kiss her, but she didn’t want her wet, sticky face to meet his. He massaged the knots of her spine instead.
“Tomorrow day Abu already plan we go to floating market all together. Please, he buys us tickets to your country. Better for us if we go, and you show you like him, too. Then tomorrow night, anything you want, only me and you.”
She kissed Piv’s pecs, stuffed her tears into dry hiccups. Eventually said, “Okay. You’re right. Okay.”
They didn’t tell Abu about their date. Instead, at Piv’s insistence, Robin peeled off the piece of tape that held closed a bag of Piv’s favorite thick yellow cookies and used the adhesive to affix a folded note to the door of their room. In the elevator on the way down to the lobby, they held hands. Robin wore a long, fringed skirt and a faded T-shirt—her backpacker clothes-and Piv had on worn Levi’s and a Pong T-shirt; he was dressed like a cool Thai guy. She’d asked that they go to Khao San, and in the collegiate din there she hoped she’d be able to tell him, if not everything—she couldn’t risk everything-then at least something. She hoped she’d be able to feel where his heart was.
/> But they dropped hands as the elevator reached the ground floor, and when the doors parted, she saw Abu leaning back into the rose-colored easy chair in the center of the lobby. He lifted his hand to them and smiled wide.
“You look comfortable, my friends. Ready for your evening cocktail?”
Robin knotted her hand in the strap of her hill tribe bag. Piv laughed.
“We’re going to Jimmie’s Rasta Bar. You know that one? NokRobin says she wants to go there.”
“A rasta bar? Imported from the brothers in Jamaica, eh? That’s a culture that travels well. Have you been to Jamaica, Miss Miatta?” Without touching her, through only the adjustment of air currents, Piv steered Robin toward the chair. “So you’re going to listen to Mr. Bob Marley tonight,” Abu said as they got nearer. “No, woman, no cry,” he chanted. Then he chuckled. “Go on along. I don’t want to interfere with the romantics. You only have a couple of days together.”
Chapter 23
Before I have this business with Abu, I used to go to Jimmie’s Rasta Bar as the good place to hear music and meet the farang ladies. Satit knows me; if no farang buys for me, sometimes he gives me my Coke for free. But tonight I want Singha. NokRobin wants Singha, too. He gets those for us and then he asks me something in Thai: Can NokRobin speak our language? I say no. She tries to say something, but she only speaks English language. Then he says NokRobin’s nice, she’s pretty, he knows her from when I bring her here before, but why does he hear from Kathy that I have Thai girlfriend now?
I think Kathy confuses me with Chit, I say. We both laugh at that one. Since the time when Chitapon forgets Kathy to make something with Wanphen, Kathy tells everyone from the Trombone Club that Thai people are prejudice against farangs. She says this is wrong, like the people from her country who feel prejudice about blacks. She says the only difference is Thai people always think farangs have money; American people never think that about the blacks.
I’m not prejudice, I say to Satit. I tell him I like black Africans. I still like my farang lady.
When NokRobin hears this word farang she looks at me like I hurt her. She hears this word, and she thinks I say something bad about people like her.
“I tell him I like the farang lady,” I say. I smile at her and Satit smiles-he speaks good English, of course, to have this business.
I talk in Thai again: What’s some new music? He tells me about one band called Asia Dub Foundation. Very international. These people from India who live now in England, where they get the Jamaican influence in their music. Maybe he’ll play that later tonight, after the customers are already coming. Jimmie’s Rasta Bar is behind Khao San Road on one small soi. It’s all outside, on one square of cement behind the short building; the buildings on each side of it are longer. Overhead, Satit built the bamboo and thatch roof, so farangs feel like they’re on Ko Samui or Ko Phangan, even if they have to wait in Bangkok for some visa, some shopping, or to get ready to leave our country. But if you’re on one island, even in hot season, breeze from the water can make you feel cool. In Bangkok, between two buildings, you cannot get that. Tonight, there’s only two farangs in Jimmie’s Rasta Bar. When it’s so hot, the backpackers want to go to the air-con disco, I think so. I feel bad for Satit because he cannot have place with air-con, and so he loses business.
“I’m sorry I speak in Thai to my friend who owns this bar,” I say when Satit goes to some new customers. “Now I speak in English to you, okay?”
NokRobin gives me strong look. Her face is greasy tonight; colored lights from the thatch roof shine on there. I tell her that in hot season she should put powder on her body, to keep her body cool, but she doesn’t do this. She thinks the white powder looks ugly. She looks down and touches the places on the table where the colored lights make spots, one pink and one green. With her finger she connects them together. When she looks at me again, her face is more soft. Then she asks me something.
“What did Abu mean, we only have a couple of days together? We go to Orlando on the fifteenth; that’s not for over a week.”
“Oh! I don’t tell you?” I slap my hand on my forehead. “In three days I go to Philippines. I travel, alone, to make some business for Abu.”
“What? No, you didn’t tell me!”
Now she knows that I can go somewhere, too. Her face looks something like surprise, afraid. When she has to go to Singapore, Malaysia, she says she doesn’t want to do that, but now she can see that to be left is what feels worse. She moves her leg too hard and the table shakes.
“Shh. Calm down,” I tell her. “I have to get certain kind of animal. Live one, I think so, very special. At this time it’s not possible for you to come with me. But it’s no problem. You stay here with Abu, and we meet again in United States.” I tell NokRobin I’m like one traveler now. Philippines, Hong Kong, USA. “I’m like you were. I don’t know when I’ll come back to my country.”
I light one Krong Thip and lean back on my small chair. I move very slow, smooth, relax. I try to show NokRobin how to be peaceful, but she doesn’t follow me. She moves too fast again. This time when the table shakes, one bottle of Singha falls onto cement floor-crack!-and breaks into three brown pieces. The beer makes foam at our feet. The smell of beer is in my nose. Anyone can smell that, sharp, like bread that grows mold in wet heat. I think NokRobin might feel embarrassed she makes this mess, this smell-but no. She doesn’t care about that.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Are you staying over there? You mean you aren’t flying to Orlando with us on the fifteenth?”
I say nothing, because Satit comes now to clean that broken bottle. I feel embarrassed for NokRobin. Maybe she starts to feel that, too. “I’m sorry Jimmie,” she says. She moves to get down on the ground with him to help; she holds big, brown glass pieces in each hand, but he tells her please, let him clean, it’s no problem. He takes glass from her.
When he leaves, I’m surprised to see that NokRobin’s not too ashamed to stop talking. Beer smell keeps coming from cement, but Satit brings her another Singha, and she speaks as loud as before. She says it again, like crash never happened: “You’re not going to be on the flight from here to Orlando?”
I explain to her about that thing. How she, Abu, Volcheck, fly from Bangkok to Hong Kong, and I meet them there. Then we go to Orlando. We go together, but we act like we don’t know each other. Sure.
She holds on to the table when I say this. She doesn’t want that table to shake anymore, but she still moves too strong. She leans over and gets too close to me.
“But maybe it’s better if you don’t go on that flight. What if there’s a problem, Piv? What we’re doing is illegal, you know. What happens if we get caught?”
Her face is hot. Khao San Road is not my choice anymore. Why did I let NokRobin say where we go? It’s better if I take her to some nightclub with air-condition, where loud music will cover any shouting.
“Please. Speak quiet. Why you want someone to hear?” I tell her.
“You don’t understand. No. No. You might get caught. You should stay here.”
I whisper to tell her we won’t get caught. This is not some big crime. Why does she worry about that? “Please.” I tell her.
Now she bounces when she talks to me, something like the baby would do. “You’re Thai, Piv. At U.S. customs, Thailand is going to equal drugs. You’ll probably get stopped. You’ll get searched, and they’ll find whatever you have. You shouldn’t do this.” Her face screws tight, like you would do to some lid from one jar. “You should stay away. You shouldn’t go.”
I make my eyes very cool when I look at her. I freeze her now, so she cannot speak. She cannot yell anymore, cannot bounce around. For some moments, I enjoy this silence. I can hear laughs from some other table. I can hear Bob Marley. Singha bottles clink. Tuk tuk starts to move. But NokRobin is frozen. She waits for me. When I want to, I talk to her again.
“Oh, now you say I should not.” I speak like one American. If it’s ugly, I don’t care, I
still say it. “You don’t want me to go to Philippines. You don’t want me to go to USA. You use me for one guide when you travel my country, but you want to go to your home alone.”
I think NokRobin sees some ghost when she looks at me now. She says nothing. Then she says too much, too fast.
“No, that’s not it! I want you to go. I want to be with you. I love you!” She reaches her hand across table to touch me, but I am too far. She looks silly, her arm one rope that she cannot throw to good purpose. But her voice gets quiet. “I’m just worried you’ll get caught,” she says. “That we’ll both get caught. We need to work together, to make a plan, just in case.”
I nod at her, sure. She cannot keep me from her country, but one plan is no problem.
Five farangs sit together at another table. They have been in my country for some time, at least one month on an island, I think so, because they are brown almost like Thai people. On their wrist they wear the friendship bracelets you can buy for fifteen or twenty baht on the touristic beach. Now these bracelets fade because of the sea and sun. One lady sitting there wears very short skirt. Her legs are long and brown, and she has friendship bracelets around her ankle, and I can see her like she’s on Diamond Beach, lying close to the blue water, one small bathing suit on, putting oil on her skin so it shines.
“Listen, Piv. This is important. We need a signal, so if there’s trouble the other person will know to get rid of any incriminating stuff-incriminating means illegal, anything to do with animals or whatever. Understand?”
NokRobin is scared because I can leave without her. That’s the reason she wants to make me feel scared, too. “Listen to me,” she says. “Do you want to end up in jail?” I know what she’s wondering: will I guide her in my country if I can go to any country, always go somewhere new? Maybe it’s true that she loved me. Maybe she wants to keep me outside her country because if I go there she thinks I can find the girl with more money, with some good credit cards. She wants to keep me, but not to be my wife.