The Queen of Patpong Page 14

  “Three or four years from now, your father is going to start looking at her and seeing money.”

  “But he can’t,” Kwan says. “My teacher, she says that the police—”

  “Forget the police. I’m telling you, you have to come down to Bangkok with me. And you need to make up your mind right now, because you have to leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “But tomorrow he’ll get the money to keep me in school. Then I won’t have to worry about—”

  Nana’s hand lands on top of Kwan’s. “Be quiet and listen,” she says. “Tomorrow he’ll get the money to keep you in school. The day after tomorrow, he’ll sell you.”

  Chapter 10

  The Moon Below

  The colony of small frogs that makes its home in the little creek behind the houses, somehow staying alive even during the long dry season, chooses this moment to start a conversation. The two girls sit there, still as a painting, wrapped in the chirping and thrumming from the creek bed.

  At last Kwan says, over the noise, “Before you say anything else, I want an answer to my question.”

  Nana pulls out another cigarette, raises it halfway to her lips, and says, “You’ve asked a lot of questions.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, she lights it, taking the first drag in a businesslike fashion this time, no fancy inhaling techniques. She blows smoke and leans back slightly, and the movement tugs the blanket off Kwan’s shoulder.

  “Why I should believe you. And . . . and how you know. About my father. About the sixty thousand baht.”

  “When I got off the train,” Nana says, “somebody was there, somebody who probably knew I was coming. Not from this village, and you don’t know her. But she told me not to try to take you with me.”

  Kwan says, “Because . . .”

  “Because these people talk to each other, and somebody, most likely someone from my bar, told somebody else I was coming up here. Probably got paid five hundred baht for the information. So she—the woman at the train station—wanted to make sure I knew that you were bought and paid for.”

  “But I haven’t been. Paid for, I mean.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s already got some of it. He’ll get the rest when they come and take you.”

  Kwan leans forward as though that would drive her words home. “He can’t. He’ll sign the paper tomorrow. He’ll take the money from Mr. . . . Mr. Pattison.”

  “The scholarship fund,” Nana says, not even leaning back to reestablish the distance between them. She makes a pfft noise between her teeth and lower lip. “Small change.”

  “But . . . but Teacher Suttikul, she said she’d tell the police if I wasn’t in school, and the police would come looking for me.”

  “Oh, they will,” Nana says. For a moment Kwan thinks she is going to laugh, but she shakes her head. “They’ll be here in no time. They’ll drive a hundred miles an hour.”

  “Well, then my father can’t—”

  Nana’s hand comes to rest on the top of Kwan’s head. To Kwan it feels as if a circuit has been created between them. “Because they want the money. Your teacher will complain to the cops right away. That day. She’ll want to get you back fast, before anything happens to you. So your father will still have the money, all of it. The cops will come and demand to see you. Stamp around the house and scare everybody. There will be two of them, so one can keep an eye on the other, make sure he doesn’t pocket anything. When they discover you’re not there, which they already know you won’t be, they’ll tell your father he’s going to jail unless he gives them half. Thirty thousand baht, probably. It was sixty thousand, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Kwan says, more breath than voice.

  Nana takes her hand away and turns a palm upward. “They’re getting a deal. If they could see how beautiful you are, your father could hold them up for a hundred thousand, maybe more. You’re a bargain because you’re tall.”

  “But my teacher—”

  Nana scrubs the air with the open palm. “Your teacher, your teacher. Your teacher can’t do anything. Didn’t you hear me? The cops will take the money. Then they’ll go and tell your teacher that they’re mounting an investigation. They’ll say they’ll find you wherever you’ve gone. They’ll throw your father in jail for a week or two, but he’ll get good food and they’ll treat him well because it’s just a show, because they’re going to want more money from him later. After a month or two, they’ll tell your teacher you’ve just vanished. By then she’ll have some other girl to worry about.”

  The half-moon, cream yellow now, hangs at a slant just above the treetops. It looks to Kwan like it’s spying on them. Lanterns shimmer through the windows of the two nearest houses, but the ones farther away, at the village’s edge, gleam with the hard, bluish, skim-milk light of fluorescent bulbs. In the farthest of the houses, the light is snapped off. It’s getting late. The frogs chatter in amphibian, back in the dry creek.

  Kwan reaches behind her and grabs the blanket and wraps it again around her shoulder. She is surprised to find that she’s shivering. The image of the wide, dark door, banished while she talked with Nana, yawns open again. “What . . . what will happen to me?”

  “Here’s what will happen if you go with me,” Nana says. She puts the cigarette on the edge of the platform, spreads the fingers of her left hand, and ticks them off with her right index finger as she makes her points. One. “You’ll work in a bar.” Two. “You’ll take your time before you have to get up on the stage.” Three. “You’ll make friends with the girls who work there, and they can be like your map, they’ll show you what to do and what not to do.” Four. “Once you decide to dance, you’ll go with men once in a while, if you want to. Some of them are even handsome. The way you’re going to look, you’ll be able to pick and choose. You’ll be able to get the men all the other girls want to go with. And you won’t have to take the ones the other girls don’t want. Remember, you don’t have to leave the bar with any man you don’t want to go with. If he’s too fat or crazy or too drunk or anything, you can say no. Nobody can force you.” She waggles the spread fingers at Kwan’s face like a spider and then remembers the cigarette. She picks it up and takes a leisurely inhale. “In fact, you don’t really have to go with anybody at all. You won’t make much money, but you can live off the commission on the Cokes the customers buy you. You’ll get fined part of your salary if you don’t go a few times a month, but you’re going to be so beautiful they’ll never fire you. You just won’t have much money to send home. You won’t have money for fun.”

  “I don’t need fun.”

  Nana shrugs. “You’re not there yet. There are more ways to have fun than you can imagine.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not going.”

  “You’re even thicker than I was afraid you’d be.” Nana takes a long, angry drag that turns the coal on her cigarette a brilliant, hellish red. Kwan looks away from it, letting the darkness soothe her eyes. “You haven’t asked the important question.”

  “What is it? What’s the important question?”

  “What happens if you don’t go with me. And don’t talk to me about your wonderful teacher. She can’t do anything.”

  Kwan lifts her feet again and puts them on the bench, her long legs folded vertically in front of her, knees as high as her chin. She puts her hands, fingers spread, on top of the familiar curve of her bent knees. Nothing there comforts her. Her knees feel like they belong to someone else. “What happens?”

  Nana looks down at the cigarette in her hand and then drops it into the dust. She shifts the blanket a little, making sure Kwan is covered, and slides closer, so that Kwan can feel the other girl’s body warmth and smell something sweet and flowery on her loose, thin clothes.

  Nana sighs. “Day after tomorrow, on your way home from school, three men will grab you. They’ll wait until you’re walking alone. They’ll cover your mouth with tape and put these tight things on your wrists that will hold them behind your back. They might do that to your feet, too. T
hey’ll throw you into the back of a car and drive you to Bangkok. One man will drive. Two will sit in back. They’ll touch you any way they want to, but they won’t do anything that would cost their bosses the money they’re going to make from selling you as a virgin. But they can think of plenty of things to do without that. By the time you get to Bangkok, you’ll feel like filth.”

  “My father wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Nana doesn’t say anything. Kwan closes her eyes and listens to the frogs as they sing the songs she’s heard her entire life. She feels a tear slide down her cheek. She says, “Then what?”

  “You’ll be taken to a house. It’ll be dirty, and it’ll have windows that don’t open. Some of the rooms will have bars on the windows.”

  “Bars?”

  “What do you think this is about? You think you’re going to work in a flower shop? You’re going to be in some filthy, rat-filled cement house in Bangkok with bars on the windows and a lock on the door. You’re going to get put into a room with a bed in it and a bucket to pee in, and you’re going to stay in that room for months without ever going out. You’ll get fucked, you’ll rest, you’ll get fucked again. They’ll bring you some food, and then you’ll get fucked again. At night you’ll sleep in the same bed you fucked in all day, with the sheets still dirty from all those men, and whenever a new man comes, no matter what time it is, they’ll wake you up and you’ll have to fuck him. Doesn’t matter if he’s fat, filthy, drunk, mean, ugly, smelly, toothless, diseased. Doesn’t matter if he wants to slap you around. You’ll fuck him. Every day, seven days a week, all year long. For two or three years, until you’ve paid back the sixty thousand baht they paid your father, and they’ll cheat you on that. They’ll charge you rent for the room they lock you in, they’ll charge you for sheets and towels, for food. Whatever it costs them, they’ll charge three times as much. Until you’ve paid back every baht of the sixty thousand, plus interest.”

  Nana has been whispering fiercely, but Kwan hears the creak of wood down the street. She puts a hand on Nana’s wrist, and Nana goes silent and throws a protective arm around Kwan’s shoulders.

  Another creak, and then the slap of a rubber sandal. It’s coming from the dark rectangle of Kwan’s house fifteen meters down the street, its flat blackness broken only by the single window, a hazy patch of light thrown by the lantern on the far side of the room. The sound came from above the street, from the wooden deck that surrounds the house. Nana’s breath catches, and Kwan whispers, “Shhhhhh.”

  The creaking continues, and then there’s the confused thump of a stumble, followed by a slurred, muttered curse. And then Kwan hears the sound of her father’s sandals on the four steps that lead down to the street.

  “Stay here,” she whispers, her lips practically touching Nana’s ear. Kwan throws off the blanket and eases herself back so she can slip off the edge of the platform that faces away from the street. From there it’s just a few fast steps to the darkness beneath the house that’s behind the platform. Kwan has to bend almost double to squeeze into the space, and the rough, unfinished wood above her snatches at the threads of her T-shirt, but she keeps going until she’s well past the midpoint of the house, two meters or so beyond the moonlight’s milky edge. She drops to her knees, scoops dirt into her hands, and rubs it on her face. When she finally breathes, it feels as if a stone is caught in her throat.

  Nana sits on the platform, one knee drawn up like someone who could sit there forever. She is humming.

  “Well,” her father says from somewhere to the right, out of Kwan’s line of sight. “Look here. It’s little Moo.”

  “Nana. I stopped being Moo a long time ago.”

  Kwan’s father lurches into view. He stops in front of Nana, swaying slightly. He is as drunk as Kwan has ever seen him. He blinks heavily down at Nana as though to clear his vision. “Still Moo. Got nice clothes now, got pale skin, not so fat, but you’re still dirty.”

  “And you’re still a drunk,” Nana says, with a calm that amazes Kwan. She could never talk like that to an older man who’s not a member of her family.

  Her father takes half a step back. “Little whore. Up from Bangkok, waving around your hundred-baht ass.”

  Nana laughs. “A hundred baht? For a hundred baht, I wouldn’t show you the bottom of my foot.” She waves him off, left-handed, like she’d shoo a chicken. “Why don’t you keep going wherever you were going? There’s probably another bottle there.”

  Kwan’s father clears his throat loudly and spits. Kwan thinks the spittle may have struck Nana, but Nana doesn’t move a muscle. Beyond Nana’s black silhouette, Kwan can see half of her father’s face, rendered in pastel by the moonlight. After a moment he says, “Your round little ass.” He lifts his chin imperiously and stumbles back a step. “I got money.”

  Kwan’s heart is suddenly pounding at the side of her neck.

  “Not enough,” Nana says. “No matter how much you have, it’s nowhere near enough.”

  “Got a lot.”

  “Fine,” Nana says. “Thirty thousand baht. Special price, just for you.”

  Her father pulls his head back, as though someone has swung at him. “Thirty— ’At’s a joke, right?”

  “For thirty thousand,” Nana says sweetly, “I’ll let you lick my shadow. It’s right down there, on the dirt.”

  “Little bitch.” He takes a step toward her, raising one arm.

  “Hit me,” Nana says. “And then I’ll scream, and when everybody comes, I’ll explain how you offered me thirty thousand baht to sniff my butt. And then I’ll ask where you got thirty thousand baht. In fact, you don’t even have to hit me. I’ll scream anyway, just for fun.”

  “No, no, no.” Kwan’s father looks reflexively in the direction of his house. “Don’t.”

  “Two thousand baht,” Nana says. “Right now. Two thousand baht or I scream.”

  A pause. “You said what?”

  “Village men,” Nana says, spitting the words as though they’d caught in her throat. “I always forget how slow they are. Two thousand baht right now, from your pocket into my hand, or I scream. Was that slow enough for you?”

  Kwan’s father squeezes out a bleary laugh. “Who’s going to believe you? Everybody knows what you do down there.”

  “You’re probably right. So it’ll be twenty-five hundred. For reminding me.”

  Her father sways in the moonlight, looking down at Nana.

  “All right,” Nana says. “Here goes.” She takes a deep breath and raises both hands to her mouth.

  “Stop.” Kwan’s father digs into his pockets, pulls out a handful of bills, and fumbles blunt-fingered through it. “One thousand, fifteen hundred, two thousand five hundred.” He puts the other bills back. It’s a thick wad, and Kwan’s eyes follow it, something in her chest threatening to break into sharp pieces.

  Nana withdraws her outstretched hand. “Put it on the platform,” she says. “Do it politely. And not too close.”

  He releases a sharp hiss between his teeth but shuffles forward and bends down to put the bills beside Nana. The movement puts his eyes level with Kwan’s, and for a heart-freezing moment she thinks he’s seen her, but he straightens.

  Nana picks up the money by its corners, using the tips of two fingers, and shakes it as though things are crawling on it. Then she slips it into her pocket. “Were you looking for Kwan?” she asks, as pleasantly as though they haven’t exchanged a word yet.

  “Was I— I was, yes. Stork, looking for Stork. Ought to be home by now.”

  “You take such good care of her,” Nana says. “She’s a lucky girl. She went that way.” She points off toward the other end of the village. “Maybe half an hour ago, maybe more.”

  “By herself?”

  “Who could she have been with? Her fiancé? Her big gang of friends? Of course she was by herself.”

  Kwan’s father hesitates and licks his lips. “Can I have the money back?”

  “Ask me again and it’ll be five thou
sand.”

  He bares crooked teeth. “Ahhhh. Fuck you and your mother.” He turns and shambles down the street in the direction Kwan indicated. “And your mother’s mother,” he says over his shoulder.

  “Keep talking,” Nana says. “Sooner or later you’ll think of something clever.” She gets up from the platform and wraps the blanket around her like a big shawl, watching him go. Hunched down in the darkness, Kwan stares at her. She has never in her life heard a woman talk to a man like that. It violates everything she’s been taught about men and women, about young people and their elders, but somewhere deep inside, somewhere even deeper than the heartbreak, she wants to laugh.

  “I’m going to walk the other way,” Nana says very quietly, without turning toward her. “Go out on the other side of the house and take the same direction. Keep the houses between us. After the last house, I’ll come to you and we’ll find someplace else to sit. We have to finish talking about this.”

  “YOU HEARD,” NANA says. “You saw. The money.”

  Kwan doesn’t answer. They’re in a small clearing fifteen or twenty meters beyond the last house in the village, a rough rectangle of pale earth, black-shadowed by trees silhouetted against the moon. This is a place Kwan knows, a place she went to sit, a place she hid in, when she was a child and wanted to be alone with her thoughts. A long time ago, before she was born, a house had stood here, but the owners went away. Over the course of years, the villagers had gradually picked the structure apart, piece by piece. Bits of it are now woven into every house in the village.

  For some reason the foliage never grew back. On hot, still days when the air was thick with sun and the electric buzz of cicadas, Kwan sat and probed the soil with a stick. She unearthed broken pieces of dishes, sharp corners of old pottery, on one memorable day a tarnished spoon, and this miscellany of litter became her treasure. After days of reburying it every time she went home, she thought, Nobody ever looks up. And so, high in a tree behind the clearing, knotted around a branch, she hung a tattered head scarf that she’d wrapped her treasure in. Feeling Nana waiting for a response, she finds herself wondering whether the treasure still hangs there.