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The legendary Gecko incident occurred on the president of Bankim’s seventieth birthday. After his first heart bypass surgery, thousands of President Pranit’s loyalists flocked to the hospital and held up homemade cardboard banners that read: “Happy Birthday, Sir” and “Long may you reign!” They gasped when their Guiding Sun Rays’ security guards wheeled him down the exit ramp. His Excellency, in his wheelchair, was nothing more than a skeleton of his former self; his once full face now thin; patches of white hair clung to his scalp; and his hollowed complexion brought tears to many of his citizens’ eyes. Murmurs spread through the crowd that he was “near-death,” and even the news reporters put down their cameras out of respect for not wanting to photograph the president in his fragile state.
While being escorted to his Rolls Royce, a gecko landed on President Pranit’s lap. A bright green, bug-eyed, common house gecko! The president let out a small yelp of surprise and the gecko started clicking, tokay-tokay-tokay, while the president’s many security guards tried to swat the creature off his Excellency’s lap. But President Pranit scooped up the reptile himself, stood up, thin arm outstretched, and watched it run off his left hand, leap onto the wall, and crawl up towards the roof. His supporters were stunned. President Pranit had been too old and frail to stand on his own, and his residence had been repurposed twenty years ago with gold ramps and bejeweled elevators to accommodate his personal vehicle. However, this revived president restored faith in his supporters, and word spread quickly about how the gecko was truly a good luck charm; that if a gecko fell on your lap it would make you stronger; strong enough to step out of a wheelchair even after being confined to one for decades.
Fon knew that Charn the back-stabber would reference this incident as the sole inspiration for the Greenest Gecko campaign.
At the Ministry of Merit, they worked together with Kik, a team of three, in a large, brightly-lit office coming up with ways for the religious people of Bankim to tum boon – make merit – which in turn, would help them be reborn in higher realms. The Bans were religious, everyone had to be in these times. Soldiers in khakis lined highways while military groups recycled potential leaders to rally support from the people, preparing for that fateful day: to seize the office from their dead president. Fon could barely keep up with the new faces in politics. There was Pommy the Socialist. Tippawat or was it Tippaway, the Oxford-educated businesswoman. Jaew, the wife-cheating horticulturist. All of whom, along with the rest of Bankim, believed that their good luck in this life was due to good luck from their past life.
In order to be reborn in higher realms once you died, you made merit, earned points to erase your wrongdoings and ensure a better immediate future. “Human beings,” Fon had said in her job interview three years ago, “are lustful, aggressive, and deluded.” From love potions to protective amulets to expensive funeral caskets, all their boons gave a peace of mind, all their boons were carefully designed to be bought and continually sought after by the Bans. Charms strike the sight, Fon thought. Give the fools their gold.
At the office, Fon, the only female Merit Creator, was sick of her supervisor Charn for not giving her full credit for her ideas. From her desk, she watched him clink beer mugs with the rest of their coworkers. He had brought in over twenty million kims in profits for their latest boon, and all over Bankim, the greenest geckos were being caught, boxed, and shipped out to lucky owners. There wasn’t a pop star at an award show without a gecko climbing her shoulder, a boxer who didn’t clutch a live gecko during his pre-fight dance, or a doctor performing surgery without a terrarium of geckos by the door.
“Why wait for luck when you can seize it,” Charn said to cheering coworkers as he strode into the spotlight. People slapped his round shoulders and called him a genius, making him spill more beer onto the carpet. One person flung a paper-mâché gecko that struck him in the chest. Charn pointed at the trail of wet green paper down his shirt and said, “Guess who’s bringing in the next twenty million?” He gave Fon a smile as he walked past her cubicle; his glasses magnified his drunk, watery eyes. Kik, the other Merit Creator, stumbled behind, hoping that Charn’s good fortunes would rub off on him.
“You forgot my name in your thank you speech,” Fon mumbled.
“Everyone knows you did it,” he mouthed, before continuing on his parade through the department.
Fon vowed to make sure her next merit received the attention she deserved.
She slid back down into her seat and stared at her blank computer screen: What did the Bans need to believe in right now? Her desk, littered with newspaper clips of emaciated farmers in the East praying for rain, videos of construction workers blocking freeways protesting for equal pay, blog posts about adjunct professors going on strike against yet another censorship law, made her dizzy. They were worthy causes, and every one of those people wanted something else to blame for their misfortunes, something tangible to hold on to, to give hope to their miserable existences. But which group would be gullible enough to buy a boon? Which group would be most influential in spreading it?
Fon started to sketch an idea for the emaciated farmers when she saw Kik moping around her cubicle. She swiveled on her chair to face her toad-shaped teammate and he hopped in, arms straight by his sides, looking down.
“Fon,” he said, his voice a warning. “Director Sombat wants to see you in his office.”
“Does he mean me or the genius Charn?” she said.
“He asked for just you. He didn’t seem very happy.”
Director Sombat was never very happy with Fon. She started off as his secretary. Even then, she was grateful that someone as insignificant as herself, with no family or business connection, could have been chosen to work for such an important person. The men in the ministry gossiped behind her back: How does a woman of such little stature win a coveted Merit Creator position? Did Sombat have a taste of that ripe mango between her legs? How often does she offer herself up? Director Sombat avoided the rumor mill, that he fancied her in any way other than his hardworking protégé, by constantly belittling and scolding her for Charn’s and Kik’s mistakes; mistakes they wouldn’t have made had they listened to her in the first place. She thanked Kik for the warning, and took long strides to Director Sombat’s office. She knocked at his door three times before he called her in.
“Fon,” he said, without looking up from his desk. “I like what you’ve been doing.”
He slid a letter toward her. Fon eyed the ex-minister to the president with wide eyes. She admired him. In the last coup, everyone knew it was Sombat who advised the president to patronize the temples and religious monuments, calming down the zealots, and appearing calm, docile, and modest. The result was a bloodless revolution. No one dared to criticize a figurehead
supported by monks, and Fon was delighted an influential man with such grace and intelligence led their department, even if his moods intimidated her.
She recognized the golden phoenix insignia immediately as the president’s family’s crest. “In light of the popularity of green geckos,” she read in a formal voice, “his Excellency, President for Life, and Lord of All Orbiting Planets, wants to commission the Ministry of Merit to build the first Gecko Cannon in the country.”
“They also want to copyright it, “ Director Sombat said.
“Are we in trouble?” she asked.
He reclined into his chair and his weathered face lit up. He rarely smiled, and Fon remembered being confined to meetings with him watching Charn fumble for the pointer, feeling sorry for Kik trying to hide his pink cheeks as Director Sombat tore down their proposals simply by shaking his head like a disappointed father.
“They want to be the sole proprietors of the cannon,” he said.
“And you said – ”
“Of course I said yes. We’re a business, Fon. We’re not some foot-to-mouth department like immigration services or something.”
She read the letter in her hand. “They want us to make a machine that shoots out geckos?”
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for the lizards now.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
She wanted to see what went on in his mind. She rarely questioned departmental decisions that came from Director Sombat, and especially decisions concerning the ruling party.
“Well, they want to meet the brains behind the boons to help them develop the best product,” Director Sombat said. “If I’m going to bring a nimwit to talk to them, I could at least bring with me the best looking nimwit.”
* * *
At the City Residence, Fon couldn’t help but nervously tap her feet under the table. The ceiling, covered with ornate miniature deva statues in gold crowns weighed on her like monsoon clouds. Gibbons called out for help on tree branches that brushed their windows. Mozart’s Fantasy in C Minor chimed in the background from speakers attached to pillars, pillars constructed out of marble carvings of the Ramayana; the large eyes of the demon king followed her gaze. She and Director Sombat sat in the room reserved for press, waiting for the president’s son, the Fate of Their Nation, Field Marshal Kamlesh.
Fon had picked a blue navy shift dress that stopped right before her knee and pointed heels to accentuate her lithe figure, a “pleasure for sore eyes,” as Director Sombat had said, to make a favorable impression on the young marshal in his city abode. Director Sombat wore his best suit, a tanned military button-up jacket adorned with medals, presents given by the president’s family to acknowledge his services to Bankim’s prior peaceful reign. Security guards behind them, in front of them, and across the room by the door, watched their every breath, and Fon imagined snipers hiding behind the statues above were prepared to shoot at Marshal Kamlesh’s order.
A small, tanned pageboy popped his head through the double doors and prepared them for the Marshal’s arrival. “Try not to look him in the eye,” he said, and the doors swung closed behind him as Director Sombat rolled his eyes and said, “All this protocol just for a meeting when we’ve already made the product.”
“I’m so sorry I’m an hour behind, Sombat,” Marshal Kamlesh said, walking in with wind on his heels, his voice a loud temple gong.
“My lord.” Both Director Sombat and Fon bowed in unison, fixing their eyes on his feet.
“Please, please, not amongst old friends,” Marshal Kamlesh said.
Fon understood now why women went crazy for the heir. Tall, handsome with a full head of black hair, Marshal Kamlesh was not part of the proletariat with his long, raised nose like a European movie star in black-and-white movies. He shone like Versailles, and Fon felt like a casino copy, unworthy. He held out his smooth white hands to shake Fon’s. How brazen of him! Fon saw her own dry hands link his. Brown. Nervous hands. She saw her parents, a dark house on stilts, and attempted to hide her parents and countryside origins.
“Sombat tells me you were the brains behind the cannon,” Chief Kamlesh said. “I’m excited to be working with beautiful brains.”
Fon mumbled a thank you, not missing the sheen on his black leather shoes.
“My father is very weak,” Marshal Kamlesh continued, “my mother replaces him in his stead. She busies her days visiting farmers, the clinics in the countryside, and here I am signing decrees left and right because he can’t hold up a fucking pen.”
“Traitors in the military can’t wait to take the country back again,” Director Sombat said.
Marshal Kamlesh sighed dramatically. “Which is why we need to implement some sort of plan now for our country to stay united.”
He walked to the windows. “They need to believe in their president,” he said, and Fon heard the guards refocus their aim. “They need to believe in their Father. In their new father. In our divine leadership.”
Like every other young girl growing up at the same time as Marshal Kamlesh, Fon had often dreamt of meeting him when the President’s family visited military programs around the country. Her university, the Heavenly Order of Three Orchids, notorious for producing the wives suitable to men with high military standing, had prepared her to be charming for this moment. But Fon believed she was more than charming. She had spunk. Spunk got her to where she was in the ministry. Spunk made her speak.
“We don’t believe in fathers because your family are not like us,” she said.
Director Sombat paled.
“I shit and eat and breathe like you, don’t I?” Marshal Kamlesh kept his gaze at the gibbons outside.
“You were an ordinary man chosen by Buddha. We were not.”
Their eyes met, and Fon did not smile; her presence was its own reward. Rumors of the unmarried Marshal falling in love with waitresses, taking baristas out to dinner, and sending gifts to unsuspecting hotel maids gave way to her fantasy. She came as Director Sombat’s beautiful nimwit, had been called the beautiful brain, and now she would use that to her advantage.
“And I choose you to help me, help Buddha,” he said.
“Glad we got that straight,” Director Sombat said in a hurry. “Let’s show the Marshal what we brought for him, shall we?”
From under the table, he lifted up a giant container that clanged opened revealing the shiny gold Gecko Cannon, no bigger than a tennis ball machine, and no louder than a hand fan once turned on. Fon unveiled a clear box of green geckos and dumped them into the chute. The Marshal smiled watching the lizards cling for their lives in the see-through pipe.
“My lord, would you mind standing on the opposite end of this room?” Fon asked.
She heard clicks, possibly snipers readjusting their front sights onto her forehead.
Marshal Kamlesh laughed, “It’s painted in our colors.”
He leapt to the furthest corner of the room. Fon altered the focus on the cannon, Marshal Kamlesh’s chest aligned with the target and shot. Green appeared on his right shirt pocket.
“This is constructed to not make any sound,” she said, popping another gecko on his shoulder, “with such superb accuracy so there’s no need for servants to rearrange where you need the geckos to land.” Pop, a gecko squared on his stomach. Pop, a gecko on his left arm. Pop, pop, more geckos.
Director Sombat and Fon imagined guards descending on them. Green geckos hung onto Marshal Kamlesh like tamarind pods on a tree, their dangling tails and feet swayed as he jumped up and down gleefully.
“The people need to remember that you were chosen,” Fon said. “That Buddha looks down and smiles on the man He chose to lead his people.”
“Luck on demand,” Marshal Kamlesh said.
“The Guiding Sun’s rays continue to shine down and bless us with their good fortunes.” She gave a coy smile, in line with the role of the beautiful brain she had been christened. The daughter of a chauffeur and a nanny, Fon never forgot how hard it was
to work her way through her courses as a scholarship student, being told that the best thing that could happen to her at graduation was marrying a rich and important man. She knew luck played a good part in life. You walk through the doors you opened, and for Fon, if that meant winning over rich and important men with a smile, then she would smile until her cheeks shook. If that meant not raising her voice, then she would speak in whispers barely decipherable in a tomb. If that meant wooing Marshal Kamlesh to get her Cannon full exposure to the Bans, then she would make sure he imagined what was beneath her dress when he was alone in his bedroom.
Marshal Kamlesh walked over to her and Director Sombat, geckos climbed up to his head. “I want you both at my father’s belated birthday party.”
* * *
“Did he like it?” Kik asked, resting his elbows on her desk.
Back at the office, everyone knew that Fon had impressed the President’s son with her invention. Celebrations continued in her honor for the next two months, and Fon confided in Kik that she saw her profession as two halves: Before the marshal and After the marshal.
Before Marshal Kamlesh, her coworkers barely noticed her: the first to open the office and the last to leave well after dinner, the only person being called to Director Sombat’s room to be told, “Skirts below the knee.” Only after comments like, “Only the stupid wouldn’t take advantage of the ugly and helpless,” and “Well, she shouldn’t have been so drunk anyway,” would the men notice that they were in her company and say, “Sorry, you know you’re not like those girls.”
After the marshal, she received a bouquet of lilies from Charn with a card that read, “My muse.” She left that in her wastebasket. The week after that, two busty interns showed up at her cubicle in tight-fitting dresses and heels, both of whom were excited to work with such a strong, passionate mentor. Fon heard Charn’s fake compliments when they opened their mouths, so she sent them away – she wasn’t their mother. She wasn’t going to raise them simply because they were women. She wanted smart workers. Hard workers. Fearless help. The week after that, Fon received a wardrobe bonus of dresses and shoes from French brands with labels she couldn’t pronounce. These were gifts from the marshal she left piled in boxes under her desk.
The Greenest Gecko Page 1