Arid Dreams Read online

  “If you want to get a massage with me, why don’t you stay?”

  “But tonight you have to go take care of your mother.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “There’s three hundred, five hundred, or seven hundred, up to you.”

  “And if I wanted to hire you for the whole night?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “That’s not possible.”

  I was taken aback but decided to ask again to be sure. “No? How come?”

  “It’d just be a massage. Nothing overnight.”

  I was confused. I looked at her, and she stared back, completely serious. “But last night you spent the night with that farang.”

  “Yes, foreign tourists only. I don’t take other Thais.”

  I didn’t understand, but chose not to react, keeping silent because her comment had sickened me to the point of outrage. I looked out on the water, eager to reach the shore. I could tell that Jiew was troubled by my reaction, which only stoked my anger. Did it make her feel superior pitting Thai and foreign men against each other like this? At the end of the day, a whore was a whore. As we approached the pier, I grabbed my bag, readying myself to be the first passenger off the boat without saying goodbye.

  From there, I went to catch the songthaew jitney to go to a town nearby. Jiew followed behind, heading to the jitney station as well. Just my luck. Could I not escape her? Because I was still so furious, I marched over to her.

  “What do you have against sleeping with Thai people?” I asked bitterly.

  She sighed and looked around, as if concerned about discussing this topic by the side of the road. But because of my serious tone, she answered me.

  “I don’t sleep with Thai men because the island’s a small world. Pretty much everyone knows one another. If I accepted Thai clients, it’d be difficult to turn down the locals. The farangs, they come and go in no time. But with Thai people or people from the island, we have to live together, have to see each other’s face until we’re old and gray. The fact that I’m a prostitute to westerners … it’s something temporary. We meet, then we go our separate ways. But if you’re a prostitute in your hometown, that’s what you’ll be until the day you die. Even if you quit, people will still look at you the same way. People who have slept with you and who still run into you every day, how are they going to forget? I just want to make enough money, and then I’ll quit. I’m still hoping that I’ll have a nice family, have children. Maybe there’ll be a good man on the island who can accept me. Then he can be with me without having to worry if I’d slept with his friends or his family members before.”

  She waited for my reaction. Seeing that I was stunned and at a loss for words, she said that she had to get to the hospital and then ran over to the jitney. The driver honked, asking me if I was going to board. I just stared at him blankly, my mouth hanging open, feeling as heavy as a stone pestle. The songthaew pulled out and left.

  EARLY THE NEXT day, I was sitting on the porch of the guesthouse, tapping my foot. Jiew came back at eight in the morning. She was surprised to see me. I smiled sheepishly and was quick to tell her how sorry I was. She said no apology was necessary—that she wasn’t upset, that this sort of thing happened so often she’d grown used to it.

  “In that case, can I get a massage with you?”

  She smiled immediately, a different smile from the one I’d seen her give the farang the other day.

  “Right now?”

  “Whenever. It’s fine if you need to take care of other stuff first.”

  “I’ll just be a moment.” She quickly went off. I watched her go, eyeing her every move.

  Today was Sunday. The Western couple and the pair of Asian girls had all gone to the beach. A middle-aged lady was carrying a grocery basket into the kitchen. Children, both boys and girls, were waiting to settle their accounts with the owner of the guesthouse. These were children who hawked knickknacks on the beach, relying on the investment of the proprietor, whom they called Pa. As Pa opened his ledger, the kids swarmed him, forming a tight cluster near the steps.

  Jiew had been gone for a while. When she reappeared, she was wearing a lavender kawgrachow top and a sarong the color of a jewel beetle. Her hair, long and still wet, was messy from having been rubbed with a towel. A lovely scent of soap and shampoo emanated from her whole body. The old Jiew, achingly seductive, was back, revived by her traditional attire. She asked me if I wanted my massage here or by the beach. I chose here, concerned that if we went to the waterfront, a farang might come and distract her. Jiew left for a moment and returned with her basket of massage supplies. She laid a straw mat down in the common area and put a blanket over it. After having me change out of my pants and into shorts, she asked if I wanted an oil massage or a standard one. I chose the standard, for fear that the oil would mask the scent of her body.

  I lay on my back, with Jiew sitting behind my head. Her cool hands began massaging my forehead and eyebrows. I let my mind and body relax. She pressed lightly, going from my forehead to the top of my eyebrows and out around my eyes, and then moving over to my temples and scalp. She tucked her hands under to massage the base of my neck, working her way down to my shoulders.

  To make conversation, she asked where I’d stayed the night before.

  “I slept on the beach. I stayed up late drinking so I rented a chair and fell asleep. I walked over here in the morning to take a shower and have some coffee.”

  She started massaging my left arm, shoulder, wrist, and hand. She committed to the massage—this was a strong woman, and she wasn’t holding back. Before long, the squeezes, presses, and pulls of her hands created an unintended effect: instead of relaxing, I became increasingly tense. Her pleasant smell and her touch sent me into a state of nervous arousal. I tried to control myself. Each time she removed her hands, it was as if an alarm went off in my head, reminding me to pull it together. Oh god, I was going to have to brace myself for a tougher fight if I was going to keep my body under control.

  Jiew stationed herself at the tips of my feet. I felt more relaxed with her a bit farther away. Once I calmed myself down, I realized how steady the pressure from her hands had been this entire time. She was young but her skills as a masseuse were top-notch. She moved up to my calves and knees: squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and then press, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and then press, running her hands up and down several times. Not again! My manhood began to pester me again. But how could I blame it? My desire had been building so fiercely inside of me all weekend, and kept so bottled up, how could it not burst out at the first opportunity? I started to worry … I doubted I could keep it in check for long. And she was only working on my feet and legs.

  Jiew bent my left knee so it was pointing toward the ceiling, and started to massage down from the calf to the Achilles tendon. A while later, she switched to the right leg. But how would she massage my thighs? Would she sit in between my legs like I’d seen her do with that Western lady? Thankfully no: she merely sat to the side and squeezed my thighs one at a time. Then it occurred to me that when the ma’am had her legs spread, she had actually been lying facedown. I suffered through the massage, feeling Jiew’s hands dangerously close to my groin, and something down there was beginning to stir. I fought hard to control it, but my efforts were in vain. After a while, I began counting. I told myself that if I got to five and Jiew still hadn’t moved on, I’d excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Luckily, she suddenly changed maneuvers. I opened my eyes, letting my body unclench. Saved at the very last second. When I glanced at her, I noticed a slight smile, and I was mortified. Had she seen? She caught me looking at her, and flashed me a smile before continuing the massage. Now she configured my legs into a number four shape, with the left leg folded over the right, and leaned her weight onto the ball of my left foot. A moment later, it was the other side’s turn. She continued stretching my legs in different ways for several minutes, perhaps giving me time to compose
myself.

  Finally, we got to the position I was most interested in. She lifted my right leg and rested the heel on her shoulder. With her arms wrapped around the leg, she slowly leaned forward, making it increasingly perpendicular to the ground. I watched her; she was singularly focused on the massage, nothing more. I was gripped with a sudden sense of shame as it occurred to me: Was this how she massaged her mother in the hospital? Was this how patients with paralysis were massaged? Jiew set my right leg down and moved to the left. I waved my hand in protest, saying, “That will do. I really should be going.”

  She told me the price, five hundred baht, and asked how the massage was and if I felt any more relaxed.

  I chuckled as I got my money out, not knowing how to respond. But when I saw that she was earnestly waiting for an answer, I gave her an honest compliment: the massage was excellent.

  Jiew beamed when I handed her seven hundred baht. We nodded, bidding each other farewell. I carried my bag to the stairs and sat down to put on my sneakers. With the cash in hand, she walked over to the porch, where the owner of the guesthouse was still absorbed in his ledger. She stuck out her palm, asking for the remainder of what she was owed.

  “I’m so lucky. I settled the hospital bill yesterday, and I still have a whole five hundred baht left. Plus I got another seven hundred for the massage. What a relief! And there are no more bills to pay today.” She tapped the money on her cheek and then leaned over the railing to say to me, “Thanks again for coming back for the massage.”

  I smiled at her. “Yes, my pleasure.” I looked at her one last time before walking away. My final image of Jiew, her face over the porch railing, was nothing like the seductive young woman I’d first met, but merely a hardworking person who had a tough life. I realized that, with women you’ll never stand a chance of sleeping with, it’s better to learn as much as you can about them, until lust gives way to other feelings.

  WOOD CHILDREN

  PRAKORB WOKE UP SUDDENLY DURING THE NIGHT. HE didn’t feel for anyone next to him because a dim light was still on in the room. From behind where Mala was sitting, he saw her shadow in a corner, pitch-black and sharp since she was blocking the lamp. The glowing light formed a halo around her, as though she were cradling a luminous glass ball in her hands. Mala was hunched over, her head bowed low, her arms and shoulders constantly moving. The round stool she was sitting on was ill-proportioned to the table.

  Prakorb reached for the alarm clock. He nearly gasped: it was almost three in the morning. Troubled, he sighed, turning his back to the scene in the corner and closing his eyes, even though he no longer felt sleepy. He knew how much Mala wanted to have a child. She’d expressed it often the first year they were married. But after trying for one year, Mala had begun to realize that conceiving wasn’t going to be easy. She talked to him less about it. Now Mala had lived with him for a full six years, and they still didn’t have any children. She never brought up the topic anymore. Prakorb worked so hard that he rarely ever had a day off. As for Mala, she stayed at home and performed her duties as a housewife impeccably. He had never once seen any nook or cranny of the house looking less than tidy. Mala also loved gardening. Prakorb was happy that she had found something to occupy herself with. He didn’t want his wife to wallow in the sadness brought on by her longing for a child, which he knew she still concealed in her heart.

  But Mala had changed. She wasn’t dedicating herself to housework and gardening like before. One day Prakorb had come home to find a new table in the corner of their spacious bedroom, which already contained his desk. Piled on top, there were cylindrical pieces of wood six or seven inches in length and three or four inches in diameter; a short, sharp knife with a pointed end and a large handle easy to grip, the blade itself two inches long; plus several chisels. Mala had told him wood carving was something she’d dreamed of doing for a long time, and now she felt more compelled than ever to go ahead and do it. He remembered being completely caught off guard that day. He had never known that Mala enjoyed it.

  “What are you working on?” Prakorb had asked. “I don’t see a model there.” But Mala hadn’t answered; she had merely smiled without looking him in the face.

  A week later, Prakorb had gotten to see Mala’s first piece of work, which was downright awful. Not only was it crooked, its proportions were off, and the details didn’t look realistic. But despite the poor quality of her work, he could tell immediately that Mala had intended to carve a child. He had stared at the carving for a long time, deeply pained. Mala had obviously poured a great deal of effort into it; perhaps it had come from pent-up energy over the last six years. He realized that Mala had probably wasted ten or twenty pieces of wood before she had produced her first passable carving. He hadn’t understood what she’d been thinking: Once it was clear that she had miscarved, why had she insisted on finishing it? Or maybe her goal wasn’t for the piece to be perfect?

  Over the past several months, Mala had carved almost ten figures. Children formed out of wood, in different poses, were lined up on her table. Some of them smiled, lopsided mouths and all; some had heads that skewed back, hands that didn’t align with the arms, or feet that were disproportionately large. Mala was pleased with all these figures, spending most of her days stooped over on that round stool, never appearing to get sore. She did chores around the house in a frantic manner, but sometimes paused midtask, her eyes off somewhere else. When she caught herself, she quickly got back to work so she could return to the wood children she was making as soon as possible.

  Prakorb knew he had to do something to improve the situation between them. He brooded, his mind aglow beneath his closed eyelids. He tried to figure out why Mala never discussed having children with him anymore. She kept that consuming desire all to herself. This behavior led him to believe that it was perhaps his fault, and that was why she was upset and acting antagonistically toward him. Prakorb tried to shake the thought: it was rather this line of thinking that was antagonistic toward her. He sighed, feeling helpless as he lay worn out in bed, his breathing shallow. Every time he agonized over their relationship, unable to say or do a thing, he felt like a feeble old man. Prakorb’s eyes widened—perhaps he was too old. He had often considered his age, but it had never alarmed him as much as it did this time. He had turned fifty this year, but Mala was only thirty-one. She was still young, her body able; she even looked younger than her years. Little by little, he was gaining clarity. She blamed him, didn’t she? She thought he was the reason they couldn’t have children, and that was why she refused to broach the subject. It was because he was too old, wasn’t it?

  Prakorb sensed Mala get into bed when it was almost dawn. Within two minutes, she was sound asleep; he could hear her breathing evenly. A short while later, he got up to shower. Out of habit, he always rose early. He’d decided to take the day off because he wanted to stay home and spend time with Mala. They might not have children, but their married life couldn’t languish as a result. He loved Mala, and there was no way he was going to let her distance herself any more than she already had.

  MALA WOKE UP shortly before noon. She didn’t see Prakorb and assumed he had gone to work as usual. The house felt so empty and hushed, and her loneliness was unbearable. Something was amiss in her marriage: she was simply living out the days, waiting for time to pass, as old age gradually crept closer. She had only been married six years, yet in that amount of time, she already felt alone. What was more, the age difference between her and Prakorb was distressing: When his time eventually came and he left her behind, how was she supposed to go on—especially when they didn’t have children?

  Once she had taken care of all the household chores, Mala went back to her carving table as usual. She had just completed her tenth wood child last night. This one had an expressionless face, neither smiling nor crying, and stood with its head cocked, as if curious. Mala was happy with the result. She thought that children who appeared impassive were more intriguing; they gave her the impression that they c
oncealed their feelings from the world. These were the children who were full of imagination and whose minds searched far and wide for things to ponder, yet no one could discern their thoughts. Mala smiled. She picked up a new piece of wood and stood it on its end as she tried to conjure up images of children. Then a picture came to her of a giggling newborn, squirming in a cradle with its hands punching and its feet kicking the air. She laid the wood down on its side, trying to visualize the baby trapped within. Mala grabbed her knife and used the sharp point to slice into the wood. After forming the general shape, she began to chisel away the unwanted bits.

  Mala’s hand froze when she heard Prakorb calling her name. She hollered in reply, her curiosity piqued. He wanted her to come down. But why wasn’t he coming into the bedroom? What had he forgotten? She left the room and walked around the entire house looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Then she heard him again, asking her to open the front door.

  When she did, Mala was speechless at the sight before her. Prakorb was standing there with a smile, his left arm supporting a child against his waist, his right hand carrying several bags of takeout. The little boy stared at her with his bright round eyes, a piece of candy nestled in one cheek.

  “Can you take something? My arms are about to fall off,” Prakorb said. Mala hesitated, not knowing what to grab. He laughed and went to give her the child, but when Mala opened her arms, the boy wriggled free and ran into the yard.

  “Whose kid is that?” Mala kept her eyes trained on the boy.

  “He’s the son of one of my construction workers. He’s a cute kid, very clever. He takes a while to warm up to people, but once he gets comfortable with you, he’s really talkative,” Prakorb said. “He has a bit of a naughty side, so his mother spanks him a lot. When he’s with her, he’s a crybaby and whines for attention. He knows me well because we see each other often. I’ve already scrubbed off a layer of grime. If you’d only seen him earlier! He was so filthy you couldn’t tell if he was dark- or light-skinned,” Prakorb went on animatedly.