by Zolbrod, Zoe
Volcheck shrugged. “Too skinny,” he said to Dang, using his pinkie to dislodge something his tongue hadn’t pried from his molars. Then he took a deep sniff. “What you get for her?”
Dang looked away. He muttered a translation under his breath. The other man muttered something back. She caught some numbers: sam roi ha-sip baht, see roi baht; three hundred and fifty; four hundred baht, a query.
Pig! But her stomach went cold. Eighteen hundred dollars. She’d tried to smudge the FWS into just a bad dream, but now she needed them.
“Where’s Abu?” she demanded. She gripped the table.
“Gone,” Volcheck said. “We go too. Get up.”
“No. I’m staying here. I’ll get back by myself.” If they tried to force her, she’d scream. She felt a cry nudge into her throat and crouch there, waiting. She’d let it pounce if they touched her. She would. Blood drummed through her.
Volcheck lumbered to his feet. “Get up.”
“No!”
He shrugged and gave an accompanying squirm of the mouth. He wadded some hundred baht notes and threw them onto the table toward her plate of half-eaten food.
The Thai pair took their leave from her and the trio filed out. There was a black stutter as they pushed through the door. Robin slumped alone at the table. The adrenaline drained from her, and her shoulders and elbows and wrists began to ache. She became aware of the spectacle she must be making of herself—a shrill, deserted farang woman crumpled like a stained napkin with the debris of a meal. A waiter hovered near, not sure of the protocol. She looked at him and then at her watch.
“Is there an international telephone nearby?” she asked him. She tried to think of the Thai word. “International tho-ra-sap?”
By the time she got up to the brightly lit twenty-four-hour phone center, she was desperate to find someone who cared whether or not she was okay, someone who could share her blame. It was 11:00 AM in Philadelphia. Her father worked at home. She’d call collect. He’d better be there.
“Princess! Baby! Don’t you stay out of contact like this again. Why haven’t you called?”
It was the indication of concern she’d been hoping for; she lit right in: “I haven’t called because I was really in trouble when I spoke to you last time, and you let me down.”
“Aw, sweetheart. Aw, Robin. I’ve been goddamn worried about you since the last time. You know there’s nothing I’d rather do than give you what you ask for, but I swear, I’m in a real jam.”
The familiarity of his rote made her despondent but righteous. She was alone. No wonder she had gotten into trouble. She let the accusation lay dead on the line.
“Come on now, Robin. You know when I have it it’s yours. Who gave you free reign with the credit card that summer at Macy’s? Who took you to Disney World as many times as you wanted when there was no place in the world where you’d rather go? And then who finally managed to instill some taste in you and took you to—”
Ah yes, her father: erratic provider of upper-middle-class perks, child support shirker, and exaggerator extraordinaire. It was true that he could be outrageously generous and had fine taste. The summer after Robin starting taking band he gave her a sterling silver flute. But meanwhile, her mom had lost her job and had been unable to pay the electric bill, and they’d kept their block cheese in a five-gallon cooler filled with gas station ice. Between the two parents they might have been able to provide a modest, safe circumstance, but no. She cut off his monologue.
“It’s your fault!”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then her father’s voice, reasonable and low: “I realize that, Robin. And what I’m telling you is I’m paying the price. I’d already consolidated once. I had no choice but to go to court to get the creditors off my back. How do you think it made me feel to have to tell you I couldn’t help my favorite girl?”
Courts. Help. What if she ended up needing that eighteen hundred? But mostly ... she was someone’s favorite girl. It gave her a moment’s rest. “Are you talking about bankruptcy, Dad?”
“Robbie, yeah. But I’ve got a job going now, and hey, while I’m thinking of it, did you ever bump into that Smith girl I told you about? Margaret Wheeler’s daughter, in Taiwan?”
“I’m in Bangkok, Daddy. Thailand, not Taiwan.”
“I know, sweetheart. But if you do happen to, don’t mention anything about this, okay? And if you could not mention it to any of your college pals either, because I think Margaret’s colleague sent his daughter to Skidmore, too.”
“For God’s sake, Dad.” Robin’s voice spiked raggedly. “I’m in trouble. Real trouble. You don’t know the things I’ve had to do.” She started crying. Sobbed. “You don’t know,” she hollered through a wall of tears and mucous. For long seconds the phone line sloshed with her body’s liquids and grief.
“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, shhh. Calm down. I know you’re far away now, but don’t you worry. We’re going to get you home. Between your mom and me ... Baby, I’m embarrassed about my situation, but I’ve got this equipment here, state of the art. I’ve got it worked out so-listen, Robbie, what kind of trouble? Can you say?” She broke into a fresh wave of crying. “Shhh. It’s okay. Whatever you need. I’ll sell some things and then a ticket will be on its way.”
Robin subsided into rhythmic sniffs. Ashamed of her outburst, she still felt soothed by the reaction it had evoked.
“It’s too late, Dad. I’m already coming home.”
“You’ve already got a ticket? That’s great! That’s great, sweetheart. Whatever it is, it’s going to be better once you’re home.” The robust confidence in his voice made him sound small, dwarfed by his brave willingness to sell his equipment, diminished by his gratitude that he wouldn’t have to. And she understood. She understood.
“I had a Thai boyfriend.” Robin said it without thinking. Another tear ran down her cheek, silently this time. Forget Thailand, Kenya, the Philippines, the jungles and savannas and life’s woes. She was a teenager from Palatka awed by Philadelphia, turning to her father after she’d placed her bets on a guy who’d broken her heart for the very first time.
“Don’t tell me. He did something to you. Princess, what is it? This guy, is he ... ? Were you protecting yourself?”
“No. We were careful.” The one area in which she could make this claim.
“When are you coming home?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I land in Orlando the day after that. Then we’ll see. I don’t know.” Oh, to be a love-maimed teenager. Oh, to be simply dealing with a bankrupt father and herself headed that way. But she felt fortified. However small she was, she existed. She needed someone to know.
“What time do you arrive, sweetheart? What’s the flight number? I’m going to try to be there. I’m going to make sure your mom is.”
“No, Dad. Don’t. I mean it. And don’t tell Mom. But listen, if I don’t call within a couple days, you better come looking.” How to say it so he’d hear it, without alarming him? She tried to chuckle. “I’m kidding. But just in case, write down this name: Abu Navaisha. I’ve been staying at the Star Hotel, 286-6732. The code for the country is 66. The code for Bangkok is 2. I’m in Bangkok, Dad. That’s Thailand. Remember.” She gave one more wry laugh. “Margaret Wheeler’s daughter’s not here.”
Chapter 29
Nothing’s so easy as you think.
Okay, this sounds like the simple thing to do. Abu tells me to put the snakes in nylon stockings then wrap those to my ankles so no one at the airport knows where to look. Directions to do it: Put one snake in there. Spin that stocking leg around and the snake spins, too, into one ball. Now quick, make the nylon tight around him. Tie the knot. Then put another snake in there. Spin. Tie knot. Sure. Sounds simple.
But I start this job at 1:00 AM. When the sun came up at 6:30, I finally had twenty-three snakes in. It took me that many hours because the snakes don’t like it. They want to fight. And I’m one person. Think about this. From the dealers, I have twenty-four snakes
in three different cloth bags. Each bag has something like seven or ten snakes. How can I get only one snake out? I can’t reach in my hand. Those snakes will bite me! I have to ask in lobby, to one sleepy guy, at 1:00 AM: “Excuse me, young brother. I need to hang something in the bathroom. Please. The clothes hangers in my closet won’t move from there.”
The thick clothes hanger he gave me is good for picking up heavy snakes, but it’s not good for bending. I need to change its shape, but I can’t do this with my hands, so I use the bathroom door to squeeze it. It takes me many tries. I squeeze; the hanger flies free to hit me in the chest. I squeeze the door on it again; the hanger falls down and bangs-clack! —on the tile floor. After some time, finally the hanger changes to be skinny and long. When the maids at Casa Magellan see this, to them they will see the mystery. Saisamorn finds funny things like this many days at the Star Hotel. Sometimes he would ask me: What reason did those old American tourists have to cut one big square hole in the middle of the sheet? What is the reason that the Cambodian man took the soap dish from the bathroom wall and screwed it into the wood above the bed? Maybe I have the answer now. Maybe it’s something about the turtle or the bird or the snake. Or something else about money. You cannot always guess the strange thing you will have to do for that.
It’s after 2:00 AM when I open the packs of nylon stockings. Wow! These are very short and skinny. They don’t look like ladies’ legs at all. But you know something? It’s not too hard to put the leg in that small hole, because the leg wants to be there. Snakes don’t want to. They won’t help you. I push my arm down where the lady’s foot is supposed to go and spread my fingers to stretch there. Then I do the same for stockings number two. I put the second pair inside the first one, make it double, because these stockings always rip. Everybody knows that. Then I take these double stockings to the bathroom and close the door.
I hold the stretched stocking in one hand. In the other hand, I hold the hanger. I open one bag and use hanger to hook one snake. This one is the habu, green pit viper. I lift my arm and out he comes, not so big but feeling heavy because the way I hold him on the hanger.
And don’t forget these snakes are moving. I hook him by the belly only, but his head moves through the air and wraps his body around the hanger. Now he twists around there tight. His whole body moves like water. It moves something like one line of ants-when you look quickly it seems still, but it’s getting closer all the time. This snake is getting closer to my hand that holds the metal hanger. He’s moving farther from the stocking in my other hand. His mouth is open. I see his teeth there. Why didn’t I think of this? How can I grab behind his head when I’m holding something with both hands? I drop the stocking so I can take his head, but too late! He strikes out for my other arm.
Crash! I drop that hanger on the floor.
He’s too quick! That snake is like one dancer, moving sideways to the door. His head goes under. Stop! I put my foot down on his bright lime body. I press down harder when I feel him try to move. I want to crush him. But one thousand dollars is too much to lose.
Now I have one snake under my shoe. Twenty-three snakes in bags. Zero snakes packed up like balls.
Very careful, I pull this snake backward. I bend down and use my hand to pull, my foot to make him stay. I feel him fighting. He wraps around my wrist and squeezes. At the end, he makes his jaws big. I can’t pull his head under the door. I have to open that to slide him out. My foot’s on his neck, but maybe he can still turn and bite.
No. I’m the quick one now. My thumb is on his head. I got him. I put my fist into the stocking. The whole snake is covered with nylon. I did it! But I have to get my hand out. With my other hand, I grab his head from outside the stocking, then I let go with my hand that’s inside. But that doesn’t mean he lets go of me! His one-meter body’s wrapped around my arm as tight as one bandage. I roll my wrist. Slowly, slowly I can get free. I pull out my hand. And when I swing that stocking around and around, Abu’s right. That snake get scared. He curls into the ball. I tie him very tight in there, and I feel relief.
After that, some snakes go in there easy. Some snakes, very, very hard. And one escapes. One mangrove snake, larger and more dangerous than habu. Five o’clock in the morning. He disappears too fast; his golden belly moves like spilling water. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to chase. Casa Magellan, I give you the expensive pet. For me, I don’t leave for my plane for three more hours, but I don’t close my eyes even though they’ve been open all morning, all night. I think maybe that pet snake wants revenge for his friends. Maybe he’ll bite me if I close my eyes and lie in bed.
I use NokRobin’s Swiss Army knife to cut the double stockings at their vee so the legs aren’t connected anymore. I put those two legs, heavy like dirt, like stones, like metal, on the bed while I shower. In the nylons, the yellow and green of the snakes looks the same as dirt. I don’t know why, but the shower feels like sand; it doesn’t feel like it’s getting me clean. I soap myself once, twice, three times. I don’t know when my next shower will be. I shave and put on cologne and comb my hair.
Then, before I put my trousers on, I make ankle bracelets out of the snake-stuffed stockings. I try to think that the snake balls are like big, brown pearls when I wrap three rows of them above each foot. I wrap them like Abu told me, high enough so when I sit and my trousers lift, no one can see. The empty waist part of each stocking I pull tight. I tie that piece around the first knot, so that the bracelets stay still. I use some silver tape to stick them to my leg, so they don’t fall down. I put on my suit trousers and to test, I walk in front of the mirror. I raise my knees high like if I have to climb stairs. I sit in front of the mirror. I cross my legs and lean like I have to reach to get my Coke from the waitress. I light one cigarette and watch myself smoke in the Casa Magellan hotel in Cebu City. No matter what I do, no one can know those bracelets are on me, but I wish I could take them off and go into the shower again. I try to think that they’re jewels-like topaz, like emerald-but no, my thinking can’t make those bracelets beautiful to me.
Chapter 30
It was just after dawn, but Robin was already packing for the afternoon flight when Abu rapped on the door and pushed into the room. His eyes jumped from corner to covered surface and lighted on her flopped-open backpack on the floor by the bed. He pulled it up and began frisking it, unzipping pouches with hard yanks and running his hand along the edges. “You’re not to pack a single thing that could raise an eyebrow, do you understand? I don’t want you in a position where you have to be explaining.” He eyed the Buddha on its perch and pinged its shoulder with his index finger. The bronze range dolefully. “You can’t take this.”
“But I have the papers.” Robin had felt so knowing when she insisted upon the permit from the vendor as part of the purchase price.
“The papers are probably fake.” He turned the bed, rummaged the cultural prizes Robin had laid out there: sarongs, statuettes. “No,” he said, tossing on the floor an antique tapestry, a lacquerware bowl, a framed temple painting whose brittle glass cracked from the fall. He emptied the sack holding the lotus necklaces and the one with the hundred odd bracelets she’d picked up at the factory the day before, and he rooted through the silver with a two-fingered poke. “Looks like goods to be sold for a profit. You can’t take these.” His eyes met Robin’s for the first time since coming into the room. She shriveled. How could she hate him so much and still be diminished by his contempt?
“But they’re worth money. Maybe you could take some toward—”
Abu picked up a necklace out of the pile. He looked at it casually, then tossed it onto the mound of clothes on the bed. “They’re not worth much. If you’re really that attached, you’ll have to take your chances with the post.”
When he left, Robin tentatively surveyed her belongings. The slew made her queasy, like smelling tequila for the first time after a disastrous night out. But there was the same kind of irresistible pull, too. The hair of the dog. The ma
ss of bracelets and necklaces were the one solid thing she had to show for her whole miserable mess. What if she didn’t pack the jewelry all together, but stowed individual pieces here and there?
She got up to examine the bag before stopping herself. For God’s sake. What was she thinking? Wasn’t she running a great enough risk? She slapped her own face in reprimand. A doughy sound filled the room when her open palm contacted cheek. She did it once more. Her jaw slid sideways under the impact. But she couldn’t deny that the bracelets had turned out well. She put one on and let her arm fall to her side. Like the necklaces, the bracelets consisted of five primary pieces, but these were cylindrical, the ends of each molded to resemble a tight bud and joined to the next with an additional small round link. Piv hadn’t seen them yet. She wondered if he’d notice this one on her wrist, if he’d be the least bit interested in the tangible result of all their planning. She felt a twinge in her chest, closed her eyes, and smelled the musky hot wax and cold grass smell of the Black Canyon restaurant in Pai, where, tipsy on Mekong, she had first connected Piv to her dream of making money from beauty. Then the tequila gag reflex kicked in again, and Robin’s guts wrenched. Her cheek still stung from her slap.