by Zolbrod, Zoe
She slowed in horror. Went limp with blood-struck awe. But still moved forward, drawn there.
Robin felt a hand on her wrist, her shoulder blades meeting, her chest thrust up. A single clawed grip secured both her arms.
“Hold on.” One man’s voice blanketed the inside of her ear.
Two men and a woman surrounded the silver cart. Crouching. Low down. Guns drawn.
She had to save herself. Save herself. She couldn’t holler stop.
Chapter 33
When I see them come at me, I think one thing: I wish I sent that money to my parents. Almost two thousand dollars I have of my own now, but I kept that for NokRobin. I kept that for myself. I give nothing to my mother. Now I feel ashamed. I feel too ashamed. I should never come here. Never go to Philippines. I want this to be over, to start again. I want to go back to my home. Yak glap meuang Thai.
Strong legs stand above me. Maybe I say that to them. I feel my mouth moving. But if I say that, I speak only in Thai. I’m too sad now. Too ashamed. Too afraid. They point guns. They want the knife, and I give them that, sure. Why do I want that? It’s nothing to me now. That money is nothing to me. And I say nothing. For talking, for thinking, at that moment my English is gone.
Chapter 34
After spending a handful of hours in an airport security lounge, Robin was transported in the back of a white minivan to a holding facility on the industrial fringe of Orlando’s flat sprawl. When her escort told her to hand her purse over to the clerk who stood behind a waxy check-in window framed in smudged handprints, Robin realized she was in custody.
“But I haven’t been charged with anything. No one’s read me my rights,” she protested.
Just cause, innocent until proven guilty, free speech—she’d heard these touted as cornerstones of democracy, but she’d never connected legal principles to her own concept of freedom: the possibility of transformation via the right school, the right products, the open road. She hadn’t known that U.S. Customs could detain anyone without offering a reason, and even if she had known, she wouldn’t have understood the implications; she’d not been interested in Thailand’s stance on civil liberties. At 10:00 PM, the lights of the windowless room she was locked in blinked and dimmed, but they never went dark. She stretched horizontally on one of the benches molded to the floor, rested her head on her crossed arms. One elbow jutted meanly into the fiberglass, and her temple ached where it rested on her wrist. She tried to sleep, but her consciousness jittered around like a bagged goldfish in a terror of wordless loss and stupid confusion.
In the morning, she was at the drinking fountain trying to freshen her mouth when a metallic scrape broke the fluorescent hum. “Robin Miatta?” said a young man in a uniform the green of corroded rust. He held the door open with his shoulders. “Come with me.”
All that day and into the next she was taken out of the room periodically. When called, she’d straighten her skirt and press down her hair and put her swollen feet back into her pumps. She was never restrained; a light grip on her elbow guided her through the scuffed, chalky corridors. Once she glimpsed a flash of a penitentiary orange jumpsuit. Once Robert stormed past, leaning hysterically into his cell phone as if he had a bee in his ear: “What do they mean, they don’t have a record? They had a record in January!” When she met with him in one of the featureless interrogation rooms that reminded her of the deal carrels at Lowell’s Nissans, he was so distracted he barely saw her. When she met with Ray, a secretary poked her head in the door and told him he had a fax from Nairobi. “What about Marseilles?” he asked. “Jesus Christ.” Then he disappeared. Robin pointed out Abu through a two-way mirror on three separate occasions, but no one seemed to care about her testimony or ID. She didn’t get it. If they couldn’t be bothered about a couple rhino horns, a handful of turtles that crossed borders other than their own, what had Robert and Ray been doing in Singapore, anyway? She had no one to ask.
On the third night, two sari-clad mothers and four children smelling of citrus were incarcerated with her. Robin left them the six benches and lay on the floor, so exhausted she slept in the powder of tamped dirt and shoe leather. An escort woke her the next day to take her on her rounds. The room spun when she stood, and her legs nearly buckled. The families were gone, but curry still wafted. She wondered if her father had contacted anyone yet, how long she could legally be kept from a phone or a shower.
This time, two officers she’d never seen waited in the examination room, both with swarthy shadows over their jaws. After a volley of greetings, one of them pressed a button by the two-way mirror to reveal a motley, mixed-gendered line-up: a Caucasian man with long red stubble and a Tintin Goes to Saigon T-shirt on; a neatly bearded Arab in a pinstriped dress shirt; a light-skinned black man with a loosened tie and a twisted mouth; and Piv. A battered, tousled Piv. Still wearing the trousers with black blood at their hems. Robin hadn’t seen or heard of him since the incident. Heat shot through her veins.
But no, it couldn’t be him. The way he sat with his knees pressed together. The way his shoulders sloped toward each other. The dull cast in his eyes. It wasn’t him. A raw bloody place inside her rubbed open and throbbed. Where was he? What had she done?
The men allowed her a moment of silence. Then the questions began, a machine-gun spray of American words.
“Recognize anyone?”
“No.” The fact that her voice worked, that it came with such ease, surprised her.
“No one? Take your time. Some of these guys were on your flight. Not even a maybe?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
“Not even the one on the left? He’s the one who made the big mess.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I recognize him from that. From the other day.”
“We saw you looking at him.”
“I couldn’t help it. Of course I looked.” She had looked and rubbed her head, but that hadn’t been enough, had only made it worse. She hadn’t told him.
“Pretty gross, wasn’t it? Pretty pathological. What’s his deal? Was he in on it, too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does the Kenyan know him?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’re talking about planning and abetting terrorism. You need to know. You want to be responsible for that, to stay here and take the heat?”
She paused at the top of her breath. Then exhaled. “Of course not,” she murmured. “I’ve told you already about Abu. Where’s he?”
“I doubt it’s a coincidence-that guy with the snakes, you tied up with the reptiles, too. Tell us. What’s his story? What’s the story with this guy and the Kenyan?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you. I really do. But I don’t know.”
Piv slid his eyes from his shoes toward the edge of the room he was in, and his eyebrows-those calligraphic gestures-drew toward a point, formed the outline of a steeply pitched roof. Three weary creases cut into his forehead. Then, in apparent response to command, he looked straight at the mirror with hurt, numbed dismay. After some moments, the window went black, but a rotating cast of characters came in the room to knock on her brain, the voices sometimes menacing, sometimes cajoling, sometimes weary. “Does he ... ?” “Do you ... ?” “What about ... ?”She said it every time they asked her: I don’t know.
It was less subterfuge than the agonized wail of a woman scorned: I don’t know why he did it. I don’t know why he left me. I don’t know if he loved me even a little. But his beautiful face, wilted and battered. She had done that. They had done that. They said his name again and again: Pivlaierd Sreshthaputra. What did it mean, who did it signify? “When did you meet him?” they asked. “Is he the one who approached you?” He’d never told her how he spelled his last name. The despairing plea of a woman driven mad from being kept at bay: I don’t know.
“Fucking cunt!” The swarthy examiner who looked Mediterranean slammed his hands on the table and strode out of the room.
“Sorry. We’re just frustrated tha
t you aren’t able to help us.” A few more questions and his partner left, too. She sat alone in front of the darkened five-by-eight window, her own smeared reflection an agonized specter in the black glass.
It was nearly two hours later before they came at her next, this time bearing fries and a hamburger, the smell of American franchise filling the room as the curtain went up on the same lineup—Piv now leaning his head back against the white wall. His eyes were shut. Even through the glass and despite a piercing headache, Robin recognized the ink black line of his fused lashes, the ochre hills of his lids. She’d studied them so often when she thought he was asleep. Sometimes he would smile when he sensed her looking.
“I’m going to ask you again. Please point out Pivlaierd Sreshthaputra.”
“You guys already told me. He’s there, the one in the suit.”
Her fingertips pulsed with the memory of the flick of his eyes beneath his soft skin.
“Okay, so you can identify the subject. Why did he let loose those snakes on Wednesday?”
“I’m sorry, I—do you want me to make something up? There’s just no way I could even possibly have any idea.”
Her head pounded. She was nauseated and trembling. But a steel beam of fact swung into view: what she really didn’t know was anything about the blue hairpiece, anything at all about that, one way or another. The humiliation of having let the pomaded thing dictate her actions made her feel sick. The space between her and Piv had been so magnetic. Night after night, afternoon upon morning, simply glancing hands on the street or in a cab, they’d dizzied themselves from the polar sway, the energy drawn from one to another and back again. What did it matter if he’d never cried with her, if he’d never spoken his last name, if he perhaps rented a room by the occasional hour with someone else? Whatever rules of conduct he had brought to their coupling, she saw now that he had recognized their rare treasure. What would have happened if when he’d asked her to marry him, she’d laughed and given at least a joking okay? But here they were instead, imprisoned, imperiled, separated by the thick glass of betrayal. The assault of her full accountability smashed into her. She quit responding to the men at all, except to grimly shake her head no.
When they roused her at 3:00 AM for another round, her vision was blurred at the periphery, host to floating sunspots. She couldn’t feel her limbs, stumbled into the hallway walls. They had stacked all the chairs from the interrogation room, forcing Robin to stand as Robert and one other man and a woman whipped their questions, yelled profanities, leaned over to whisper insinuations. The one thing she heard was: “He must’ve fucked you good,” hissed in a stage whisper. Her stomach went cold at that. She almost cried No! Please let it be no! You don’t understand! Her right hip buckled, and she flopped toward the floor, caught herself with a jerk.
Then, “Here’s your boyfriend,” the woman said. She pressed the switch again, and this time Piv stood alone on display. He was looking straight toward her with cloudy-glass eyes. He was all she could see. Half conscious, head pulsing, he was all that she knew. She knew him. She knew him. She felt sunlight shoot up her spine. They could do what they would with her. They could imprison her, fine her, flog her—she wouldn’t care. Even if it meant Abu would hack at rhino horns unimpeded for years. Even if it meant she’d never sit down again, never leave this room. If given twelve million dollars right now, she’d pay it for the strength not to betray him.
“Come on, Robin. Say the word, and we’ll let you go home. What’s this guy got to do with Abu?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to vow I’ll never tell.
“Maybe this will jog your memory: fifty-one days at the Star Hotel? We’ve got the fucking records, girl! Stop lying! We’ve got the fucking records!”
She stumbled backward to the stacked chairs and buried her face in her arms on the seat of the top one. It smelled of rubbed pennies and graphite, the odor of a stultifying high school classroom in the hick backwater from which she would never be far enough away. “What records?” Robin said to the chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you keep picking on me? I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.” The heat of her breath intensified the dirty alloy smell. Condensation beaded on the beige plastic seat.
The next day, eighty-odd hours after they had detained her, they booked her for abetting the transportation of a hazardous substance. Two days later, her mother posted bail, and Robin was released to her to await sentencing.
Chapter 35
You want to know all about that jail? If you do, sure, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you at night. During the day, there are many things to do here for the tourist. You can trek to see hill tribes or maybe rent motorbikes and go to see the waterfalls or go to visit Pai—I can get you the trek guide’s name, the motorbike rental, directions to all the good places, to the delicious restaurants, no problem. But at night, not so many things to do. In the dark, we’re far from Pai, and anyway, there are no movie theaters in that small mountain town. I’m sorry, but no Hollywood movies play there or Thai movies either. There’s no discotheque. Not yet. They plan to, but they don’t build that yet. I’m sorry. Please stay one more night at this resort anyway. It’s my job to make you happy, make sure you don’t get bored, don’t leave this place for some big city, Chiang Mai or Bangkok. Even Mae Hong Son has the discotheque and bar girls. Pai will, soon, sure, but not tonight. If you want, I can tell you who to talk to about the opium, how to get that adventure. But if that’s not comfortable for you, no problem. You can stay inside here, listen to the night sounds through the screens. You can stay here where it’s not too hot, not too cold, and I can tell you the very sad, very exciting, very dangerous romantic story about me.
You’re farang, like NokRobin, so you probably want to hear that, right? You probably want to hear about the bad things, the sad things in my life. With the army in the jungle. What it’s like in that American jail for six months. How it feels to be deported, forbid to enter again the place where you dreamed to go. How shamed I made my parents feel. You probably want to know who I feel angry toward, who do I hate. Sure, you don’t care who it is, or what-even if it’s your government—you only want me to tell you; you want to know about my sadness, shame, anger. Then you can think you know me better—me, your tourist guide at Pai Mountain Resort. Then you can think you understand me, understand something about Thailand. Then when you go home, you can say: Oh yeah, Thailand. Our tourist guide told us all about that. We were up there where they grow opium, where they still make heroin. Really wild. Oh, but there’s some shame, they’re chopping down the forest, burning down the jungle. It’s environmental mess. And the economy! This young man, he has so little. Sends all his money to his family. No wonder they always try to cheat the tourist. Got to watch out for that over there. You can say, Oh, it’s so sad.
So sure, no problem. It would be better if I could put it out of my mind. The past is gone, and forget about that. But for the moment, no, I don’t forget, so I can tell you. Maybe NokRobin remains in my mind because I have to be around farangs to make some money for living. Some of them are polite, very nice. Some of them are angry, rude, ugly. Some, nothing. Nothing at all. Pale, puffed with fat and money, blank. And some farang women are cute, pretty, sure. Sometimes they want to make something with me as part of their vacation, and on occasion I do, but for one night only. Only for release. The way their skin looks naked, the way they show themselves like that so easy, the way they smell—it’s the same as before: bad and good. Bad and good both. But for romance, for marriage, I want to be with Thai now.
Still, I study you. I study farang to find the answer to things I keep wondering.
Okay, I understand NokRobin loves the animals. We all love something. Animals are something, too. Maybe she helped the fish catch me, because she thought that if she saved the animals, something good would happen to herself. Tham dii, dai dii; tham chua, dai chua. Maybe she wanted that more than to help me.
But I’m the
person. We slept together, ate together, made something together-the three most important parts of living. She would not marry, but don’t you think she love me at least some small amount? More likely thing is this: she didn’t want to help the fish to catch us. Maybe they found out something about her, made her tell them. When I remember about it now—she was always so nervous, so upset about something. Sure. Okay. They made her. My heart feels better for one thump when I think this.
But next thump, I wonder again. I wonder again, and it hurts me, because I ask: What did NokRobin think of me, this person she trusted with her body, if she couldn’t tell me the truth-even when it wouldn’t hurt the animals, wouldn’t hurt anybody, would save my pride and dream? When I look at farang, I’m always asking: Do you know? Do you know?
So I tell you about something that makes me feel ashamed. Now do you like me better? Sure. If you’re bored tonight, far away from home, and want to listen to someone speak English, but in the Thai style, I can tell you. Listen to me. In some ways you can say this is my job now: you want to know, and I can tell you almost anything.
Chapter 36
Robin stepped out over the threshold, the screen door slapping shut behind her with a quick, sharp poing. While she was growing up, the door remained gaping open, shifting lazily with the breeze and letting bugs in if you didn’t give it a backward shove, but someone had fixed the spring, and now the slab of metal and mesh was stingy with what it let pass. Robin supposed the coil would loosen in time, though, and in another few years a perfect equilibrium would at last be reached: A door that pushed open easy to the pressure of a human hand, closed slow and gentle, but firm, tongue giving way to groove with an affirmative click. A poignant countryish symbol of lemonade and lazy days. Maybe she’d have paid off her debts and vamoosed from Palatka by then, to start anew somewhere else-this time for real, for good, for something true-but she couldn’t be sure. With the fines and the fees and the credit and school, she owed close to sixty thousand dollars. It’d take a while. Maybe she didn’t even care how long. She was safe at home, the men who would have indentured her fled or deported. She felt muffled with a soft new patience.