by Zolbrod, Zoe
This stuff. This poisonous, low-down, corrupting stuff. She began shoving things into the room’s wastebasket: spirit money and paper lanterns and saffron candles that she’d picked up for pennies in local markets and once held as keys to Asia’s mystery, antiques or skillful imitations that she’d believed would slake her longing for all the beauty back home that she couldn’t afford. Soon the plastic container overflowed with debris from eight months of yearning and delusion.
But it didn’t feel right. She looked at the crumpled luster of the tapestry in the wastebasket, and the sight made her hands itch. She wanted to smooth the nubbly weave. It wasn’t the silk’s fault that covetousness had sickened her. It wasn’t the silver’s fault she’d paid for it with spoilage. The maids would likely rescue the worthwhile things, anyway. Why make them dig through the trash? Robin went downstairs and, with effort, explained to Saisamorn that she wanted a cardboard box. She packed it with her extraneous clothes and souvenir bounty and placed the jewelry she’d designed carefully on top. Then she wandered the halls until she found the maid she thought the prettiest, the one with eyebrows as fine as watercolor brushstrokes. She was sweeping a room’s tile threshold with a whisk. Robin pressed through the girl’s smiling confusion until the box was in her hands, the broom dangling there, too. “Please,” Robin had said, “I want you to have it.”
Back in room 517, there wasn’t much left. When Abu came back to inspect her flaccid pack, he found only two necklaces, three bracelets, and one monkey statue along with the bare essentials. He insisted Robin follow him out the door, but even with him looming, she paused at the threshold. The well-used bed, the smog-smudged view of cement towers and golden stupas. Something bumped and thudded in her brain. She looked at the Buddha one last time, and, bringing her hands together awkwardly, still trying to hold onto her purse and her pack, she waied.
In a second-from-the-aisle seat, midway down a 757’s vast center row, Robin watched as the TV screen on the seat back in front of her showed an animated picture of the flight path: she was leaving Bangkok, leaving Thailand, flying over Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam. When the plane began its descent into Manila, she became sick with a new wave of panic. The air in the cabin heated and thickened within moments of the grounding. Passengers terminating in the Philippines stooped and fumbled, impatiently shifted. Her hand delivered fingernails to her mouth in a gesture she hadn’t made since college. Piv would be boarding. Piv. The mule she knew about, the man she had lived beside. Slivers of nail curled and scratched at the back of her throat. The departing procession drained away glumly. Flight attendants worked to freshen the cabin, but the oxygen supply seemed half what it should have been. For thirteen hours she’d have to share this paltry supply of air with him. She started panting. Finally, almost an hour after landing, a rustle of new passengers drifted down the aisle.
Of course, there was a chance she wouldn’t see him even now. It was a jumbo jet. She could hear the shuffle and clunk of people and things rows ahead of her, passengers settling into place whom she might never glimpse. Piv could be one of them. Or he might have ditched them all, both her and Abu. More clever than both of them and perhaps now off toward the sunset with his lady of the blue ribbons. If there was a lady of the blue ribbons ... Robin’s muscles clenched, waiting. She gave a quick prayer that he had gone so that she wouldn’t have to answer for his presence to the Wildlife guys, so that she wouldn’t have to answer to herself for the leaping in her chest.
But then. Coming down the aisle. On her side. There he was.
Gut-deep shock.
Piv was so beautiful. Of course, she’d always understood this, recognized the fact. But here was the surprise: She knew his face well. Calm. Controlled. But not inscrutable. No, not blank. She could read confusion there. She could see exhaustion. He’d been struggling.
He met her eyes.
An undeniable light went on in his own. His mouth lightened visibly. Piv. He saw her, and he looked brighter, beyond beautiful. More than that fact-he glowed for her. Or not for, but because of. With. With her he was an east-beach dawn, a west-beach sunset. She felt her own eyes warm with hope and relief and something more. Piv. Yes, Piv. Only three rows from her, now only two. He cast his eyes down; her attention was drawn to a tiny flutter at his waist. It was his index finger, lifting to tap twice on her aisle’s outer handrest as if wanting to reach across the seat separating them and touch her. He was about to step past her. She looked up and blatantly, hopefully smiled.
He turned his face away. His visage still a sunset but his eyes somewhere else.
Heart-crushing. Heart-hardening. She’d been mistaken.
Or maybe not. Abu and Volcheck might have been watching, and Piv followed orders. Not to speak until out of customs, these were their instructions.
But a sign? Surely they could exchange one last sign? Another meeting of the eyes or the swap of a smile?
His lips pursed fastidiously. So stern and negating. Like hard plums. Or a kiss. Was he looking at her over his far shoulder, even as he turned away? Or was he searching the seats for the blue lady, or for another seduced, addled mule? It was totally within his power, she knew, to round up a half dozen farangs who wanted, needed, were simply willing to take a small risk for a ticket or a story or some cash. Or for him. There was an obvious backpacker right over there. What was she carrying? The line surged forward again. Piv kept walking. Robin didn’t dare turn her head to see where he went. She remained buckled to her seat all through the boarding.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, Robin got up and walked toward the bathrooms, scanning each row of seats on her way there and back. She saw Volcheck, but that was all. Where was Piv? If he’d see her, glow again, slide up to her, or slip her a note, she’d tell him. She’d tell him as clearly as she could that when the plane set down he had to walk empty-handed away from Abu. So where was he?
Robin squirmed in her seat for seven hours, rising to wander the plane every couple. Her body grew sore from craning, from twisting, and she never saw Piv. He must not have wanted her to. As with everything, she’d been mistaken. About his glance, about his dusky finger tapping, about him. Over Alaska, she finally slipped into a half-doze. When she closed her eyes, she saw sweet plums, salted plums, pecans, policemen. Oh, Piv. Was it all you thought it’d be? Up in the air for countless hours, speeding over the world, halfway toward outer space, backward through time? She saw a citrus souvenir shop and a bag of gold swinging from a utility pole fixed on the side of I-95.
Chapter 31
NokRobin always says she likes my country—she loves my country, loves to be in Thailand. One time I ask her: “What don’t you like about USA?” Her answer was very simple: Disney World. But that’s only one place. She doesn’t have to go there. I think she means something more. So, because it’s NokRobin, I can ask again. Very direct.
“You know,” she says to me. “They think they’re making something fun, but instead they’re making everything boring and the same, and it’s all about money anyway. They charge this huge admission, and what you’re paying for is to have exactly the same experience as everybody else. And not just Disney World. Everything’s too expensive, especially compared to here.”
She went to Disney World too many times when she’s small, sure. She grew up around there. She goes maybe six or eight or ten times-Epcot Center, too-so many she says she doesn’t remember. Because of that, no, I don’t think she wants to go with me to that place. But maybe I’ll go anyway. Disney World is famous, very big, very important. I understand it’s not the artistic place, but I want to see where so many people from the whole world want to go.
I asked NokRobin another question: what does she like about her country? She says she likes that it’s big. You can go many different places. If you want to be hot, you can go somewhere. If you want to be cold, sure. If you want to be very dry, very wet, anything, there’s someplace in the United States for you. And she likes that so many different races of people live there. S
he says they’re not always fair to everybody, which is bad, but they try to get better about that. People try to live together. Also, many different people means possibilities for very good food.
NokRobin says that even where it’s hot in her country, it’s not as hot as the hot season in Bangkok or Philippines. But I sit on that plane for thirteen hours—I don’t even get up one time because I’m afraid those snake bracelets will fall if I walk around-and when I finally step out into the USA, first thing I think is the air feels the same as the place that I left. I walk down the tunnel that’s wet and hot. On the wall, pictures of Disney World, Busch Gardens, Sea World, pictures of America. Then I’m inside air-conditioning. Dry and white and very big, bright place, but I can still smell the things that grow when it’s wet and warm. I don’t love this, but it makes it feel like my home. Maybe this is okay, because I’m wearing the bracelets and it’s better for me at this time to be calm, not think of the new things. It’s better not to think of my emotions, to let them pass me like some clouds. I need to attend to each moment, to be inside it, so I can be with whatever happens now. Because right next to the hot growth, I smell something else. Maybe you think it’s impossible, but it’s not impossible to me once I empty my mind. I smell NokRobin, even though I don’t see her. I smell her sweating, then burning. I can smell that she knows something that makes her afraid.
Then my eyes find her body. Abu tells me not to look at NokRobin during this trip, and when I saw her yesterday on the plane, very nice, very pretty, and she’s happy to see me, I wanted to look, but I turned away. That felt good. Not looking is business between us, and her smile says to me that maybe we will make some romance together again. I can be patient when I think that.
But now when I look I see something different. Two very business people stand close to NokRobin. One farang man, one farang woman. Both of them wear some kind of blue suit. All three face the tunnel that connects to the runway.
I don’t know how, but I know: these people in blue suits didn’t get off some plane. NokRobin’s eyes look worried. They don’t look at me. Deep in my heart, I know: at that moment, romance is gone.
Then it’s like magic. I see more of those people. Not all in blue suits, but I can see who’s not tired from one very long trip. Maybe six people. I see more. Maybe twelve. It’s like I wear the special glasses. I see them move fast. They move outward. Like someone dropped one stone in the middle of fish.
Now Russian Vol comes from the tunnel into this big room. I think I see NokRobin’s chin move, her eyes get small. I see some fish swim by her, toward Vol.
Then NokRobin sees me. Everything’s very clear for me in this moment. No feeling, only truth. Because her eyes are not blue, before this time I never think they’re like the sea. This is wrong thinking. Now I see correctly. They’re not like the sea in my country-soft, peaceful, blue—they’re like some ocean that I have only seen pictures of. They’re like the rainy, rocky sea. Gray-brown and crashing. Waves trying to escape from that place. Dangerous. Trouble. She brings those with her. Why didn’t I understand before? Those fish that stand by NokRobin want to know what she’s looking at, so they follow her eyes to me.
But she turns away now. She looks at someone else. Then she brings her hand up and rubs and rubs her head. She makes that sign. Very fast, so no one can follow, she looks one more time at me. Like the ghost who’s been awakened from the stream.
Who is NokRobin? She’s only secrets from me. She rubs her head and tells me to get rid of those animals, but this is too late. Before she does this, I already see everything. I already see her gray and cold. I already look for the place to get these bracelets off me.
I look for the toilet and I see nothing. I walk quickly now, but not too alarming. I’m very calm. I look for some closet, some cave, something in this big, white place. The fish are everywhere, but nothing will happen. These clouds are passing. They’re not reality to me. NokRobin’s eyes made my emotions start crashing, crashing like the ocean, like the sea, but I don’t feel that. I only watch it happen.
I see some door. It has silver handle. That’s all I need. One door. Toilet. Something. Privacy.
On that door the sign is small and says in English only: PRIVATE. CUSTODIAN. This is for me. I turn the handle. Locked. Again I try. Again. Locked. Locked. The other door I go to is the same.
I’m coming closer to lines of people. Passport line or search-you line? I don’t know. I can’t remember which came first in Philippines. Above my head are signs. Pictures of luggage, passport, bus, car, sure, but the arrow says one thing for all: go straight. Maybe this time I should break the rules. If I could ask Abu, he would tell me. I don’t see him. I look around. No fish too close to me. Maybe it’s very simple for me to enter United States. Maybe no one will look at my legs. Maybe this is my destiny, to be safe. I stop to breathe and make my heart go slow.
Then I hear something, like the movement of kicked chickens. Very quick. Then I hear something else: one shout. My back gets stiff. Then I’m like everyone—I turn to look.
It’s Russian Vol! Two men hold his arms back, but he leans forward. His stomach pulls him toward the floor. Then Vol jerks up like the rusty saw. One man is coming closer; Vol jerks back... He spit on him! He spit on him! Another shout. Russian Vol yells something. He makes this! Too much trouble!
Everyone moves quickly. The fish run back toward Vol—the fish are on him!-other people curl up and move away. I move away. I hate that Russian Vol. I hate him. I want him away from me. He yells again and hurts my skin. His yell sends something electric deep inside of me.
No animals. No snakes. They must leave. I can’t take these into USA. I hate them. They’re heavy. They’re poison. They have to come off. But where? Nowhere to hide in this big, white room.
Okay. Here’s something. Silver carts against the wall. They’re pushed together. I think if I get behind them, no one can see me.
They’re too close to the wall. I try to move them, but they’re connected all together. They’re too strong. I can’t get behind. I try to get under. Volcheck’s yell comes after me again. I hear that. It hurts me. Below the cradle part of the cart in front is some small space. No walls on that, but no one will look here. No yell can come. I climb over the bar that attaches to all four wheels. I’m all alone. No one will see.
It’s very crowded under here, but I can still move. I reach inside my suit pocket. I feel the Swiss Army knife. When I crouch down like this, my trousers rise high over my shoes. Still, my trousers cover the snake bracelets. I reach up and feel that. In the jungle, if the poison snake bites you, you use knife to cut out the place from your skin. When I want bracelet off, I put my knife up my trouser. I cut off that stocking. It feels very thick and the blade doesn’t move, so I make my hand more strong. Outside the cart, feet pound around me. Feet pound around me, and I still hear Vol. That bracelet doesn’t fall off quick enough, so I cut there again and again. Many times. All the knots I tie yesterday, I cut those. All those snakes I got in there, I want them gone. I feel something wet. Maybe I cut myself. I feel something cold, maybe snake blood. But still it’s not coming off. I have to do this. Get this bracelet behind me. No animals. No snakes. No Vol. But it’s not coming off.
Then I remember: tape! I reach my hand higher and pull that tape from my leg. I pull and cut. That pain is nothing. And then okay. Okay, I got it! I hold the bracelet. Snakes and stocking, it’s separate from me. I throw that like it’s burning. I throw that bracelet from the row of carts like it’s one grenade. Away from me before explosion.
Blood on my hand. I don’t know where that comes from. I reach inside my other trouser leg. I start to use my knife again. Please. I cut you out. Please. Be gone.
Chapter 32
Robin would indicate which passengers she knew. The USFWS would keep an eye on them. The immigration officers would discretely pull the suspects aside. That was the plan. But from the moment she stepped off the plane into Robert’s hungry gaze, Robin knew it was going
to go wrong.
The Wildlife law enforcement agents were shadowing too closely. When Volcheck stopped walking to consider a drinking fountain, the flat-bellied, broad-shouldered agent following behind kept moving until the toe of his shoe grazed Volcheck’s heel. Volcheck glowered. Instead of apologizing, the agent bristled, offended. Volcheck took a few more steps then stopped to adjust his trousers. The agent bumped him again, this time in the elbow.
“You fuck,” Volcheck said. He gave the man a shove.
They were on him like sharks. Two men pinned his arms. Volcheck hollered. The football player flashed his credentials. Volcheck pulled back and spit. His profanities echoed through the corridor. Security guards ran over-clubs, chains, radios clanking-and Volcheck used his bulk like a crowbar. He rocked and he kicked.
An alarm went off. Inside her head or outside, Robin didn’t know. She had one thought, one emotion: get out.
Robert and his partner leaned toward the scuffle. Robin dropped her bag. She crossed her arms at her navel and bent over, covering as much of her body as she could. She scuttled. Keeping close against the wall, she half walked, half ran, her back hunched in a curve. The only place to go was toward customs. In the painful tensed lock of her limbs she still clutched her purse. Her money. Her passport. Her way to get out.
Then, slithering at her, a surrealist painting come to life: gold and black scrawl against industrial gray, a bad dream ... the tempter, the devil ... Jesus, what was that? A snake. And, God, then another. This one bent and disfigured, electric green. Pulsing forward with jerks, body ending with a frayed gray pulp. A mutilated serpent. A mangled piece of legless squirm. Coming from where? Robin followed its trail backward, to a row of hard silver carts. American supermarket-style. Clean chrome, not a jungle. But, Jesus. Red blood on the gray. Red blood on beige trousers. Red blood on the hands of a contorted Piv. Another snake streamed from him. The tail of a snake lay by his shoe. Snake pieces, and his arm sawing, hacking. Raw power Robin had never seen him use.