Currency

by Zolbrod, Zoe

  “Okay,” he says. “Sure.” And he tells me where to go.

  I walk toward the market to find the taxi, but even before the market, on the streets they sell everything. Teenage boys wear dirty towels wrapped around their heads; they sell newspapers. One old lady sells small statues made only from sea shells. One small girl, dirty face, dirty dress, sells flowers from buckets. Her eyes look sad. Maybe if I buy some flowers and smile, she’ll smile, too-but no, at this time it’s better if I don’t carry flowers, if my face doesn’t smile. To make this business, I should look tough. Many people on the street are selling food, and when I think about one gun, the smell makes my stomach hurt. Maybe I should not buy it. I think for me the gun might be bad luck. I stop walking. Across the street from where I am, one store sells stereos. Some song I know blasts out from there. What song is it? I try to hear. When I listen, my thinking’s pure. Then I know: the Macarena. Very popular. Dance music is not my favorite, but it makes me feel good to hear that song. Like this music, I travel over the world. I can move strong, to strange places, and not be afraid. No, it’s no problem to me. I am not afraid to make this business, to buy one gun that Abu thinks I should have. I walk up to one guy who leans on taxicab while he eats some white pudding with the spoon.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the taxi driver in English. I show him the address. “How much you charge to take me here, wait for me while I do business, bring me back?”

  The smooth road turns into the rough road. The big buildings turn into small. The roofs go from tile to tin. I see some chickens now, and dirt on the ground. Some children around food cart look at this taxi when it drives past. Where do we go? No one knows. Not even the driver knows. He stops the car and takes my paper with the address written down and asks some man. They speak their language. They wave their arms. Another man comes to join them. Dark skin, with his shirt all the way open. They hand the driver one small glass. He drinks from that, then gets back in the car.

  “Okay,” he says to me. He presses the gas, and the car kicks back stones. The radio keeps playing American songs I’ve never heard before. Finally the taxi stops in front of one small store, open to the street. I lean out window to speak to the boys sitting there, but they don’t talk to me. One runs over the dirt to the house behind the store, and he comes back with one man who says his name’s Carlito.

  This guy smells drunk. He holds one brown bottle in his hand. He raises his bottle and drinks some beer. “You know the African, di ba? Are you Pinoy? No? Thailand? Okay, I must be on the tourist list now. Ha! You could be Pinoy, though. You could be if you were.” He laughs again. Heh, heh, heh. Now I think he laughs because he thinks he makes some joke. Because he’s drunk. “Sure, sure, I can help you.” He pretends to box with those boys. They laugh and hit him. “Not out here. Come with me.”

  Wow! It’s hot in that house. Fan blows, but it’s still too hot. The TV plays American program, and two ladies watch that. The young one holds the small baby and waves purple fan. The old one sits, chews watermelon seeds. I see black shells on the floor. I see ants crawling up the leg of the table to a Crush bottle there. Carlito says something to the ladies and they leave, then he pours beer from his bottle for him and for me. He lifts his glass.

  “Ahoy,” he says, then he drinks.

  “Chok dee,” I tell him. He likes that. He laughs. He says it, too, then asks me what it means.

  “Something like good luck.” I lift my glass again. “Chok dee.” He hits mine with his.

  His beer is gone now. He goes to the bed against one wall and bends down on his knees. From under there he brings out one wood box. Yellow paint is peeling off, but I can read the letters: Bumble Bee Diaper Cream.

  That box holds guns. He unwraps four from old, gray cloth and picks up each to show me. He wants me to pick them up, too. I do. I try to study. I look at each one very close. Three black. One silver. Some made of metal, one of plastic. Some small marks on all of those. Someone already carried them. Someone already shoot. I pick one up, the little black one. It’s small but heavy. Small and heavy both.

  Carlito reaches in the diaper box and takes out something. “Go ahead and load it.” It’s one box of bullets. He puts them on the table and pushes them to me.

  I hand him the gun. “Please,” I say. I stand up. I feel ants are inside my shoe. They’re biting my foot.

  “What are you, bakla? Heh, heh, heh. You need a lesson, di ba? This is how you do it.” He takes the clip out and puts in some bullets. “See?” Then he shakes them out just to put them back in. He says it again:

  “See?” He thinks I don’t know how to do that, but it’s not true. No. In the army I use AK-47, I use service .45. And I don’t think this plastic gun is so different from that one. Sure, I can do this. But in the army, loading the gun and shooting is something I do too much. Why do I want to do that again?

  Carlito spins the gun on his finger and smiles at me. Then he points the gun at one lady’s magazine picture. “Oh, Baby Fuentes, why’d you fuck around on me?” He pretends to shoot that picture. “Boom!” Then he laughs. “Come on,” he says. He wants to leave the house.

  Outside, the light hurts my eyes, but my nose feels better. Today maybe it’s thirty degrees, but it feels like mountain air after I am inside that house.

  Pow!

  He shoots that! He shoots that gun into the air! Dogs start barking. Why did he shoot that?

  “Baaaaaby Fuentes!” Carlito shouts. He laughs too loud. More dogs start barking. My ears are still ringing from that sound. The two boys run out from their store. They laugh and jump. They push each other into dirt.

  “Go on, go on. Try the Glock.” He holds out the gun. He wants me to shoot it.

  “Oh,” I tell him. “Very good. Sure. But I don’t want the police to come.”

  “Why would they come here? Come on. For chok dee, come on.”

  He puts the gun handle into my hand. It’s warm. From some distance, another gun goes off. Pow! More dogs barking! In the street below the house, more people come. Some guys, children, ladies.

  “Go ahead. Come on. See how it feels.”

  Did Abu do this? When does Abu shoot his gun? I feel confused. It’s hot like the jungle. Dark like the jungle. A bug is biting my ankle; someone is coming; Carlito should quit talking, shhh! I put my arm up and pull on the trigger, then-boom! Boom boom boom boom! I shoot my arm off. My arm flies back. The gun falls down.

  Everyone’s laughing. Sure, I laugh, too. But no. No thank you. I don’t want to try again, try another one. No more beer. No.

  “This gun is good,” I say. “Wow. Sure. Like the army. I’ll think about it. I’ll come back tomorrow. Kawp-koon krup. Thank you. Sa-wat-dee krup. Okay. Okay. But for now, good-bye.”

  I get in the taxi. The street is full of too many people watching, but when the driver starts that car, those people move enough for us to pull away.

  “If you want a revolver, I know where you could go,” the driver says to me.

  I don’t answer. I feel too much disgust. Because of ants, watermelon shells, Abu, jungle, and me, too. Disgust. How come I forgot about how quick it shoots, the power when you shoot it? I remember too much-how come I forgot about that? My arm hurts where it meets my shoulder. Where my rifle used to go.

  Then I look on the dashboard, and I see something. One gold statue of Mary, important woman to the Christian religion. This statue’s small face looks something like NokRobin’s, sure. When NokRobin comes out from shower, sometimes she wears the towel over her head like that, like Mary wears. Clean towel only, never dirty. She lays it over her head and pushes it behind her shoulders, like long cotton hair. That makes her head look sweet, her chin look sharp as one point. Her eyes at that time are always open very wide. Like Mary, sure.

  When I ask NokRobin what she believes she says no, she doesn’t have Christian faith. That religion’s not for her. She likes the Buddha better, even though she doesn’t understand anything about that. But NokRobin, Mary, Lord Buddha, a
t this moment, in my mind they’re all together. I can feel them with me now. It’s very clear. I should do what’s comfortable. None of them want me to make something with the gun.

  I don’t feel nervous when I go to meet these animal dealers. I go see one dealer. I go see number two dealer. They don’t have Gray’s monitor lizard like they promised, but everything’s smooth, many snakes, other lizards. No problem. And I don’t feel nervous when I go to see dealer number three, even though there are too many men around that place-four or five. They have black fingernails and they stand around one shiny gun. They laugh and point. But why should I feel afraid? If I buy the Glock from Carlito, does that give me knowledge? No. I don’t need the gun to make them trust me. I have Abu’s name, and I have the truth: I come to buy, not to uncover something. I don’t trick you, so please, don’t trick me. Don’t try to tell me that you show me Gray’s monitor lizard when what you show me is water monitor, very common one.

  I try to be polite when dealer number three does this. He hands me water monitor and he says it’s Gray’s. I say nothing. I put that lizard back down in its bucket, pull the screen over the top of that. I walk away from him and look. To me, this place doesn’t seem secret. It’s in some village that’s close to Cebu City. It’s on one paved road. Palm frond roof overhead, so it’s shady. No walls, so anyone can come there and the wind can blow through. When I walk away from the lizard, some lady come and buy turtles. She wears plastic sandals and one faded T-shirt that says something in English: Miami Heat. She’s some country lady, that’s all. These turtles aren’t special. They’re just for eating, for turtle soup.

  To get to the snakes I came to see, I have to follow the dealer away from his market. We walk short distance down one dirt path to the wood building that looks soft and sad from seeing too much rain. He pulls three big baskets from underneath there. When you look into that, snake bodies are all you can see. They’re moving, twisting, but slowly. That picture is always the same but always different, like the sea. Like some black and yellow sea. The dealer reaches inside the basket with one long hook and brings out the single snake. I grab it like Abu showed me, my thumb behind his head so he doesn’t bite. I grab quickly, with one motion, like this is every day. My face is blank. No fear. No disgust. With my hand behind his head and my hand holding his body’s middle, I feel his snake strength, like some cool leather whip. I feel his tail. It scratches my arm like some dry ghost. I look at his gold eyes, his red mouth, his black tongue. I look at his belly, the color of one banana. He’s skinny as three fingers, longer than my arm. “How many do you have?” I say. The dealer says fifty. I take time looking. I choose ones I want—most colorful, most alive-put them in another basket.

  Sometimes in Thailand, you see the guy who wears the cobra around his neck. Some young guys might do this, because the kids will come around then, the girls might—they’ll want to touch it; they’ll think he’s cool. Sometimes you see the man in the park who wants to get healthy, who wants to get strong. He’ll drink the blood from one cobra. And in the United States, someone will pay maybe one thousand dollars for this snake that I buy now for two thousand pesos. To all these people, I’m thinking the same thing: why? The snake is dirty, not beautiful, not friendly. It’s nothing I want to be.

  The profit, that’s the only thing I want. And when I get that, I’ll turn it into something better. Something silver, something gold, with my partner, NokRobin. She’s the one to do this with. If I don’t do this business then she’ll love me again, sure. She’ll love it when I have money. Maybe I can get five thousand, six thousand dollars for selling these snakes. And I can grow my hair again; she’ll like that, too. And then I won’t come back to this dealer who takes my money-sixty thousand pesos for the snakes-and tries to lie again.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I tell him. “I’m looking for something. Very hard to find. Gray’s monitor lizard. Bright green. Maybe you can help me find this?” I give him the chance to save his face, but no. He insults me. He shows me water monitor again, says it’s Gray’s. “Okay,” I say. But I don’t touch that when he holds it out to me. I look away from that dirt-colored thing.

  I already told the other dealers that I’ll call them in the morning to see if they have found Gray’s lizard in the night, but I don’t think this will happen. One Gray’s monitor lizard can be worth twenty thousand dollars. You can dream about that money, but even for Abu, it’s not as easy as you think.

  Chapter 28

  “Offer to do a body cavity.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told you, he doesn’t trust me. He’s worried about a controlled delivery. What’s a controlled delivery?”

  “That’s why I told you to offer the body cavity. Just offer whatever you have to. Whatever they want.”

  “Just, please. He hates me. I can’t do anything for him. You know the itinerary. What does it matter if I’m on the flight?”

  “You get in his bedroom—”

  “He’ll kill me. He’ll literally kill me.”

  “You stay by his side and tell us exactly what they say and where they are-and you get on that plane, or I’ll personally deliver you back to Singapore.”

  Leaving her standing in the doorway of his hotel room, Abu let Robin beg. Let her stumble over the offer of her body’s holes. “If you’re worried about a controlled delivery, can’t I carry something inside of me? Isn’t there something I can do for you?” She reached her hand to his chest. She let her phlegmy words hang publicly in the echoey hush of the hallway. Abu shifted his eyes to acknowledge the maid who passed by, transforming her servant’s invisibility with the power of witness. He spoke so she would hear him address Robin in a tone that needed no translation.

  “I take it this means you’ve overcome your moral ambivalence about the animals. How gratifying. But I don’t want you. Jomo might have, and Piv, but ...” His left eyebrow lifted, his right eye squinted and locked hers. “I never understood it. The one before you was much nicer.”

  No. No. No. Robin sank down at the threshold, arms falling between her legs. Her rib cage felt cracked open-the wound to her pride, her self, her heart. She needed to go before Abu kicked her, but she couldn’t rise, couldn’t catch her breath.

  Abu stepped to relax his shoulder against the doorframe. One of his polished black oxfords was inches from Robin’s sandaled foot, the top of her bent head was level with the creased drape of his pants’ knee. “Why don’t you buy your own ticket home?”

  Robin agitated her head no. She prayed to disappear into the floor, to shrivel into a sand crab and scuttle away.

  “I’ve certainly thrown enough money your way.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “We spent it. And I maxed out my credit cards and had to pay a lot to them,” she mumbled.

  “Were you aware that Kenya pays twenty-five percent of its GNP to service its foreign debt? And that’s low by African standards.” Abu nudged Robin’s cheek with his knee. “Your country loaned tens of millions to Zaire during the Cold War with full knowledge that it was going straight into Mobutu’s bank accounts. Now you’re holding the people of Zaire accountable. Did you know that?”

  “No.” If she stood up, she’d be too close to him, her breath at his throat.

  “As an employee, you’re worthless to me. Ten to one you’ll be stopped, and a full body search isn’t out of the question. You have no fortitude. But you’re a young white female, not Tanzanian, not Nigerian. You’re a decent business risk.” Without the lift of his usual amusement, his face looked older, flat and hard. “Here’s the deal I’ll make with you,” he said. “I’ll let you keep your ticket, and within a week of your arrival you pay me back double the cost, or I sell the debt to Volcheck.” He crunched his hard leather heel onto the top of her foot; she snapped her head up and yelped. “Are we clear? Eighteen hundred dollars to me, or you’re dancing wherever our Russian friend sends you until the debt and any expenses incurred are repaid.”

  The splattered lights of a disc
o ball. The thump thump thump of dance music on tawdry docudrama shows, on Patpong. But she’d be on the plane. Robert and Ray would catch Abu, lock him up, lock up Volcheck before they could ever hold her accountable. Right? Robin cried out again, and Abu lifted his foot. “I don’t have a choice. Whatever you say.”

  “Stand up,” he said. “As you wished, you’ll spend the evening with us. I want you at dinner when I tell Volcheck about this arrangement.”

  Abu and Volcheck had arranged to meet two Thai men at Papaya Garden. One of them, Dang, had a square jaw and well-shined wire-rimmed glasses, but the other one was slightly unkempt, with pocks in his face and limited English. “She had a Thai boyfriend,” Abu told the men. “The two of them spoke English together, of course, as well as the language of love, but I think he also taught her a little of your language.” He turned to Robin. “Won’t you say something to our guests?”

  Robin shook her head. “Oh, I can’t.” She stood in front of an underlit fish tank of giant prawns. Their antennae tapped at the glass.

  “Ah, the typical American. Speaks nothing but English, won’t even try. But come now. Surely after all this time, and your love of this country-your love of its inhabitants ...” He paused to chuckle. Robin smiled wanly. “Say something,” he demanded.

  “Phasaa thai mai dai,” Robin said to the men. I can’t speak Thai.

  Dang smiled and nodded indulgently, but the other man didn’t encourage her or seem amused.

  The conversation at the table was intermittent. Speaking English, the different accents traded names of species, categories of paperwork, surnames from a half dozen languages. Robin tried to remember details to toss like meat to the FWS that evening, but her mind was full of static, waiting for Abu to offer her for sale like a snake, like a lizard, like an animal’s appendage torn from its heart-beating rest. He never did, and immediately after the meal, he excused himself abruptly. Feeling Volcheck’s eyes suck onto her like leeches, Robin asked to leave the table as well. There were vases of orchids by the sinks in the bathrooms, and she took a long inhale as she touched each purple-white blossom. But the flowers didn’t offer an escape route; eventually she had to return to her seat. Abu’s was still empty; Volcheck rotated his massive frame around on his chair to watch her walk through the room. He moved his mouth in seeming response to the Thai men, and then his tongue resumed working his teeth to extract the last fibers of food from the cracks. Robin tugged her skirt down and crossed her arms across her chest. She tried to keep her eyes focused on some point in the far distance as she settled back into her chair. Pig, she thought. I hate you.