by Andrew Hicks
‘Fon, where did you get to? The boat goes in a few minutes.’
‘Not see you … looking for people on beach,’ she said.
Ben guessed she had come down to the beach by another path and when she did not find him, had gone touting for customers.
Seeing his disgusted look, Fon deftly offered another reason for being late.
‘And Joy have fever … not sleep all night.’
‘Oh, how awful. I hope she’s okay.’
‘It happen before. She get very sick.’
He was immediately concerned for Joy and also for Fon who must have had a bad night caring for the child. Then came the intoxicating thought that this could be why she had not come to his hut in the night. Unsure what to make of it all, he paid for his breakfast, shouldered his pack and the two of them went and sat together on the log under the trees. ‘Joy have problem with stomach, she cry, cry. Before, in rainy season she sick, go hospital Rayong. Pay, pay, pay … always worry she sick again.’
‘Poor little kid,’ said Ben. ‘Do you know what’s been wrong with her?’
‘Doctor say her stomach stuck … and medicine very expensive.’
The mood between the two was subdued and distant, light years from the euphoria of the previous night, Fon wearing the weight of her responsibilities on her face. Ben was wanting a better goodbye than this, but when Gop and Pornpun came and sat with them, his last chance of saying anything personal was lost.
As Fon chatted happily to them in Thai, he suddenly realised he did not have an address or phone number for her. In the excitement of the previous night he had forgotten to ask her for them.
‘Fon, is there a mobile I can get you on and can you give me an address?’ he said anxiously.
‘Why you write me? Say what?’
‘Come on Fon, just so we can keep in touch.’
‘Okay, have card hotel … can write me there. Give you number Gaeo’s mobile.’ She got up and walked away in no apparent hurry, leaving him awkwardly sitting with Gop and Pornpun, unable to talk to them as their English was minimal.
The time ticked by and Fon did not come back. At twenty past nine, Ben realised that the shuttle boat for the ferry was already loading up. His heart began to pound and his mouth went dry. How could this all go so horribly wrong? But just as the boat boy was starting up the outboard motor, Fon reappeared, calm and cool and not unduly rushed.
‘No problem, Ben,’ she said, ‘small boat go ferry two times. You go second boat … not get so wet.’
He watched as the overloaded boat went out through the waves, giving the passengers and their luggage a thorough soaking. He put the hotel’s card and the tiny scrap of paper with Gaeo’s mobile number faintly written in pencil into the safest place in his wallet and tried to say goodbye properly, but everything became a blur.
He could not later remember what passed between them before he picked up his rucksack, splashed through the shallows and got aboard the boat for its final run to the ferry. There was little that could be said; the real goodbye had been on the rocks in the moonlight the previous night.
Ben thought he would come back to Koh Samet to see Fon again, but he could not be entirely certain. He was utterly miserable and wondered how she was feeling. He had been looking for the signs but she was giving nothing away. Perhaps, he wondered, it was all much worse for her; while he could come and go at will, she could only wonder and wait.
By the time he was aboard the shuttle boat and could look back to the beach, Fon had already disappeared. Once on the ferry he climbed to the top deck, and stared towards the distant shore. He was sure he could see her standing by the water with a small child, both of them waving energetically. Had she gone to get Joy to wave him off? Was Joy suddenly better? Then the two tiny figures stopped waving and wandered off along the beach hand in hand.
He tried to control his emotions as the ferry pulled out of the bay and the beach began to disappear behind the headland. At first he was not successful, but the further he got from the little world of Ao Sapporot, the more his depression began to lift. He now had other things in his life to face up to.
On landing in Ban Phe, he turned right and walked the five hundred yards to the bus station. Already soaked with sweat, he was relieved to see a blue inter-city bus waiting with a Bangkok board in the front window.
He bought a ticket and the attendant showed him to a numbered window seat. The bus was clean and modern and to his relief was air-conditioned.
He sat and stared out of the window at the handful of people straggling slowly through the heat towards the bus. One of them caught his eye, a gaunt-looking western man hovering in the shade for a final smoke before boarding. Aged about sixty with thinning grey hair and a sallow, hawklike face, he was wearing a yellow long-sleeved shirt, pale blue trousers and white plimsolls. Ben watched as he climbed aboard the almost empty bus and was shown to the seat next to him. The man turned out to be an American who had worked in the Philippines as an engineer for many years and was now based in Texas. He told Ben that he had been coming to Thailand since the early eighties and had recently returned from visiting friends in the North East. Ben’s interest immediately revived.
‘What’s it like in Isaan? I’d love to go,’ he said.
‘Well, it sure is poor … poor as shit.’
‘What do you do when you’re there?’
‘Teach English in school, just voluntary. At first the kids are real scared of an old farang, but I know how to make’em relax. Sometimes they come to my place for lessons. Yeah, I love it there,’ said the man.
As the bus moved off, he politely said he wanted more space and moved to a pair of empty seats.
Ben was curious about him and now had plenty of time to speculate. Whatever made an old guy like that keep coming back to Thailand? He guessed that although the regular sex industry in Thailand was totally open and up-front, the unripe fruit must always be kept under the counter. Perhaps the vulture-man was unfortunate in his appearance and it was unfair to make this connection, but he did seem very odd. Both the Philippines and Thailand were known for the trafficking of children, often orphans like Joy. Watching out of the window as rural Thailand rolled by, he found the thought of it totally repulsive.
On the long road back to Bangkok, everything looked the same as before except that the towns were now the battleground for an important general election. In a day or two polling was due and the streets were festooned with campaign posters. Everywhere the same candidate’s face beamed down benignly on his electors. Ben did not know who he was, but if campaign spending could bring in votes, this guy seemed to have it all sewn up.
The traffic jam into Bangkok began in Sukhumvit Road far from the centre of town. As he stared out at the passers-by, Ben was becoming anxious about seeing Emma that evening; he had no idea what would happen between them. Familiarity, alcohol and crisp white sheets at the Regal might prove decisive, but he still did not know how he was going to reconcile his feelings for Fon.
At the Eastern Bus Terminus he got down into the heat of the city, to be hit by touts offering taxis. The fare to the Regal seemed excessive so he walked out into Sukhumvit Road and picked up a metered taxi. The battered green and yellow Nissan looked almost as old as its driver; Ben could not take his eyes off the old man’s cadaverous skull, the jaw and cheekbone devoid of flesh like a death’s head, though he was still full of life.
‘I drive taxi forty three year … start driving age eighteen,’ he said.
‘Amazing. You’ve got to be tough to last that long in this traffic.’
‘Now sixty five. Not enjoy taxi any more.’
‘So when do you retire? When’ll you stop work?’
‘Finish sick o’crock,’ said the taxi driver.
After a long crawl through the traffic the taxi dropped Ben off at the Regal Hotel on Ratanakosin Avenue. At the top of the wide marble stairs a uniformed doorman opened the door to him. Feeling distinctly out of place in his baggy shorts and bi
a Chang tee shirt, he checked in at the reception desk, surrounded by package tourists in a sea of expensive luggage. Following a porter, he then padded noiselessly in smelly sandals along deep-carpetted corridors to his room, where the porter made an ostentatious display of opening the curtains and adjusting the air conditioning, holding out for a tip. Ben hated this, unsure how much to give and feeling tired and impatient to be alone.
When at last the porter departed clutching a twenty baht note, he was able to look around the room and finally relax. It was a standard international hotel room with a double bed, television and mini-bar, anonymous and characterless but overwhelmingly comfortable. The bathroom was stacked with soft white towels, the end of the toilet roll was neatly folded in a V-shape and there was a paper sash across the sitdown toilet; so very different from the steaming shit-holes of Koh Samet. Now all he had to do was wait for Emma.
When he opened his rucksack, the dank smell of the beach hut came wafting out. He had a hot bath, drawing out the dirt from the pores of his skin, put on the nearest thing he had to clean clothes and read what his Lonely Planet guidebook had to say about Chiang Mai where Emma had just been. After buying a Bangkok Post in the lobby, he sat on the bed and learned more about the general election. A top Thai businessman, Thaksin Shinawatra, the face on the election posters, seemed to be ahead of the game and was tipped to be the next prime minister. Then he lay and relaxed, happily cocooned in his room and listened to the distant hum of the city, enjoying a welcome respite from Thailand on ten pounds a day, courtesy of his interest free student overdraft.
Outside the hotel, Bangkok was as always red in tooth and claw, its countless millions, many of them rural migrants, locked in a relentless struggle for survival. By the big intersection on Ratanakosin Avenue, twenty four hours a day, the traffic pauses when the lights go red. As they turn to green, the race is on, the motorbikes in the lead leaping forward noisily over the canal bridge. The girls riding pillion sit side-saddle, rather than compromise their modesty by sitting astride the machine. They are closely followed by speeding pick-ups, buses, taxis, tuk tuks and trucks, engines roaring, spewing fumes into the humid evening air. Under the arch of the road bridge, people are sleeping by the edge of the canal. On the pavement a family assembles sweet-scented white jasmine blossoms on strings for sale as offerings to Buddha and the spirits. Every bit of luck must be carefully nurtured; life on the streets is precarious and unforgiving.
That evening, anyone sitting inside the hotel lobby at six would hardly have noticed a young European woman as she came in from the street and stood waiting at the reception desk. When she reached the receptionist, she made her enquiry, looked puzzled for a moment, then left the hotel. She came back some hours later and again went to the desk. The receptionist was attentive and repeatedly checked the computer screen, but this time the girl became agitated; she had evidently not been told what she wanted to hear. Slowly and indecisively she went back to the lobby doors and hesitated at the top of the marble steps. She stood framed in the doorway for a moment or two as if unsure what to do.
She was an attractive girl with dark brown hair and a healthy tan, wearing ethnic jewellery, a fresh white tee shirt and blue cotton harem pants. Hovering briefly by the door, the breeze ruffling her loose-fitting clothes, she looked out at a world which was ignoring her. There were signs of distress on her face as she went down the steps and turned right towards Khao San Road.
Up in his room Ben was getting distinctly pissed off and increasingly anxious. He was frustrated that if Emma did not show up that night, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had no idea where she was and had no immediate way of contacting her; their overdrafts did not stretch to mobile phones. The only thing he could do was wait. By eight o’clock he was getting hungry so he decided to slip out for some food.
As Khao San Road was only ten minutes walk away, he headed in that direction, taking a perilous short cut across the four lane highway. He then realised he should have left a message at reception in case Emma arrived while he was out, so he stopped at the first place he came to, had a quick bowl of noodles and headed back to the hotel. Shortly before nine he sat around in the lobby for a few minutes but hating the package tourists, went up to his room.
As he waited in the room he became more and more agitated. He had a strong sense of déja vu, that it was his role to be kept dangling by women who had too much hold over him. Emma was his lover, sister and best mate all rolled into one and he still needed her; they had come for a holiday in Thailand together and now he felt very alone. Perhaps by not turning up she was giving him a final message.
In desperation he decided to raid the mini-bar. As he downed the bottles of chilled beer, he became maudlin and morose, thinking back to the good times with her. But when Fon began to dominate his thoughts again, he felt thoroughly confused and distressed. Sick with longing, he began to realise that if Emma had finally walked out on him, his way was now clear with Fon.
It was past midnight when he fell unconscious across the bed, fully clothed and with the light on. Sometime in the night he woke up, his bladder bursting and staggered to the bathroom, then undressed and got into bed. In his dreams, Emma and Fon ran rings around him, disturbing what little remained of his night’s sleep.
17
The following morning Ben slept through to nine o’clock. When he woke, the luxury of his room at the Regal came as a surprise, but cold reality and the trauma of Emma’s no-show quickly came back to him. His penalty for drinking the contents of the mini-bar was a thumping headache and a serious case of Sahara tongue. Throwing on his clothes, he went downstairs and asked at reception if there were any messages for room 127 before finding the hotel coffee shop; he would spoil himself for once with a full hotel breakfast as a consolation for the disasters of the previous day.
Waiting for a menu, he spotted a sign on the table: ‘General election today. It is illegal to serve alcoholic beverages on election days.’ The very thought of beer was stomach-turning.
Realising that the lavish buffet breakfast cost only marginally more than ordering from the menu, he helped himself to a coffee and orange juice and sat down and admired his surroundings. The place was an extravaganza of polished marble and teak, more a palace than a coffee shop. The ceiling was at least two storeys high, there were potted palms everywhere and a fountain was spouting water in front of a photo montage of a tropical seascape. At the entrance to this earthly paradise stood an angel in a pink jacket whose job it was to open the door to each guest and to smile sweetly. If she got pregnant, fat or reached twenty five she would, he guessed, be instantly redeployed to the kitchens.
To the sounds of piped music and falling water, he then started on a marathon relay of muesli and yoghurt, bacon and eggs and a cornucopia of fruit. As he ate he looked around at the princes and the paupers in the restaurant. The Thai staff were as handsome as princes and princesses, the waiters in black trousers, waistcoat and a bow tie, the waitresses in neat white blouse and long black skirt. Yet these were the paupers, beholden to the every need of their wealthy paymasters, the package tourists.
He watched the holiday-makers drifting into the coffee shop for their buffet breakfast blow-out. Unlike the smart uniformity of the Thai hotel staff, they came in all shapes and sizes. Many seemed middle-aged with rotund middles, some were grey and balding, the women with hair tortured into tight curls. Styleless in baggy shorts, garish shirt or singlet, they were loud and gauche, their legs fat or spindly, and wearing brand new trainers that were far too big for them. Ben decided he did not much like them.
They struck him as being the uncultured masses of the package tour tribe, Mondeo men, promoted beyond their own mediocrity to be royally treated in the top hotels of Thailand. In front of the fountain, she in long tee shirt with pudgy white legs and no apparent shorts was being photographed with a smiling Thai waiter. He at the next table could be heard complaining that the butter was too hard and the toast had gone soggy. ‘Do be
tter than this in Brenda’s Butty Bar on the bypass,’ Ben heard him say.
Ben was nauseated, a mixture of disgust at what he saw around him, at his own capitulation to the deadly sin of gluttony and by his anxiety about the day ahead.
As he began to think about Emma again, his anger alternated with concern and he felt lonely and lost. Emma was unpredictable at times but it was not like her to fail to show up; she was not totally thoughtless. The murder of a Welsh girl in Chiang Mai had been in the news and they had not yet caught the killer. Could something awful have happened to her there?
It then crossed his mind that he had not read his email since agreeing to meet up with her at the Royal; the previous night he had been far too drunk to think of anything as sensible. So when he had finished breakfast, he headed out towards Khao San Road and stopped at the first internet café he found. Hot and bothered, he opened his in-box. There was a message from Emma sent the previous night.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Expletives Not Deleted
Bloody Ben flipping Farnsworth. I came to the Regal several times and asked for you, but were you there? Oh no!And did you bother to email? Chiang
Mai was brilliant, great crowd of people and I could be myself for once without you getting on top of me. They’ve all come back to Bangkok and are going to Angkor Wat in Cambodia at the end of the week. I couldn’t go because of meeting you here, but now I’m damn well going too. I’d rather be with them anyway and after all your insults I just can’t take any more.
Yours never again,
Emma
Ben gazed at the computer screen in shock. He was overwhelmed by a succession of responses; disbelief, jealousy, frustration, fury. He had to restrain himself from smashing his fist into the screen.