Arid Dreams Page 6

  We had to ride on top of the roots for nearly four hours straight, so our legs needed stretching when we climbed down at our destination. Our foreman stuck his head out, reminding us to be back at the agreed pickup time, and then continued on alone with the truck to the sorting plant, where the roots would be sold. We were dumped in the center of town, beat as we were from the harvest, to make our own way to the local watering hole. Still, we walked over together in high spirits. Although I was stiff from being cooped up for so long, I felt happy.

  IT’S PRACTICALLY TIME. The living humans are finished using the elevator. The other employees will start heading out soon. I still haven’t attempted to operate the other parts of my body so that I can get up and walk out, and I want to understand why. The time for my release has come. I haven’t died and I can’t sit still forever. It’s funny to think that I was sliding up and down all the time. I hadn’t remained in place but I hadn’t moved, and despite that, I’m drained. It’s time for me to eat. It’s time for me to rest and sleep, to recharge my energy so that tomorrow I will have the strength to come back and sit still once again … Oh, no, this can’t be. I must be mistaken—stories like this cannot really exist.

  My heart is tired. If I wait any longer, it might stop altogether. Then I probably wouldn’t wonder whether or not I could move anything on my body other than my head and my right arm. If my heart were to give up, it would be pointless for the other parts of my body to continue to function. I probably wouldn’t want to walk even if I could. People want to walk or move with joy … Regardless, I have no choice but to check the other parts of my body.

  With my heart dying a slow death, I try to move the rest of me. I struggle to stand even though I have no desire to get up. I step out with legs as stiff as logs. My body feels as if it’s breaking apart. With extreme effort, I walk out. I can’t stay here. My heart is dying, but this place is a coffin for the living; it isn’t suited for my heart.

  Thus I leave, even though I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to eat, don’t want to sleep, don’t want to sit still. Really, I should leave my heart and the other parts of my body here to die, and let my head and my right hand go back to eat and sleep, to relax, as compensation for the exhaustion they had to bear … Ah, that would be fair, wouldn’t it?

  THE FINAL SECRET OF INMATE BLACK TIGER

  To my dear friend Inmate Somsak,

  Unless you were pulling my leg the other day, I’m happy for you. Allow me to just say, your woman is amazing. These five years you’ve been behind bars, she’s probably been wandering around, tirelessly searching for evidence to support your case. A woman so true is hard to come by. I have to give her serious credit. If she were mine, I’d even put her up on a pedestal and worship her like a goddess. Congratulations, old friend. You’re beginning to hope, aren’t you? If the evidence is persuasive, they’ll set you free in no time. I’ve believed that you’re innocent all along—I don’t need to see any evidence. I can read people. You were unlucky to have been locked away for somebody else’s crime, but you’re lucky when it comes to women. Once they let you out, if you want, you can tell her that I admire and respect her very much.

  My old friend, I am writing you this letter for two reasons. First, we may never meet again because you’re about to be exonerated. Second, we may never meet again because they’re about to have me executed by machine gun. I’m not a good person like you, my friend, and so it’s fitting that you’re going to be freed, whereas I’m going to be killed. The last two or three nights, I’ve been thinking about something. The closer my death looms, the more I think of it. I’m not afraid to die—death is no big deal—but my mind keeps fixating on this one woman. We’re not actually particularly close, though we did see each other often. She’s just your everyday prostitute, no eye-catching beauty or anything like that. In fact, I’d completely forgotten about her until just a few days ago. The story involving her, even she herself, would be insignificant if I had hope that I’d be spared or if my death were at least further away. This matter—I can’t tell you about it in person because I’m too embarrassed, but I can’t not tell you because I need your help.

  I first encountered this woman at the top of my street. She appeared in a dark corner next to my local coffee shop and told me her price was five hundred baht. I turned her down immediately. Not for any particular reason, but I already had three women I was sure were AIDS-free, and I didn’t want to chance it with a random streetwalker. But when I went inside the coffee shop, she followed me in and sat down with me. I was annoyed, but in a generally good mood that day. To ward off her persistence, I told her something that shut her up. I didn’t think she’d believe me so I feigned a sad expression until she went away. When I told my buddies the story, we laughed so hard our jaws locked. But because she lived nearby, I later ran into her again. I thought what I’d told her that day would make her not bother me anymore. As it turned out, she headed straight toward me as soon as she spotted me, but not to offer her services. She smiled at me, greeted me nicely as if we were two people with a warm and friendly rapport. When I went inside the coffee shop, she again followed me in. No, she wasn’t plying her trade. She was interested in what we had talked about the other day. When I realized what her intentions were, that she wanted to offer her sympathy, I thought I’d have a little fun so I embellished some more. From then on, even though we never sat down for a real chat again, the way she behaved toward me let me know that she was giving me her lifelong friendship. With others, she’d rush up to them and tell them her price, but with me, she’d nod with a smile, wave her hand, and openly say hello. It went on like that until I eventually got used to it and stopped giving it much thought.

  My dear friend, I’m going to die soon, and you are the last friend that I have in this life. Out of all the friends I’ve ever had, you’re the best person and the only good one. I’m writing this letter and then holding on to it. I’ll give it to you either the day before your release or the day before my execution, as the case may be. I want to be sure that you’ll read this letter only when there’s no chance we’ll ever meet again. You see, it’s humiliating for me, my friend.

  What I want your help with is for you to go and find that hooker. Do you remember the coffee shop at the top of my street? You said you’d been there before. Tell her that the story about the guy who got his dick cut off by his wife is a lie. Vouch for me, make her believe you. Maybe you could tell her you’ve showered with me. Just help me, my friend. The past two nights, I haven’t been able to sleep a wink, and I’ll probably die with my eyes wide open if a woman is under the impression that I don’t have that. I’m touched by the goodness of her heart, but I can’t allow her to have the wrong idea forever. Alas, if I hadn’t landed in prison, one day I would have told her myself. Laugh all you want, but I hope that you will help me.

  From your true friend, Inmate Black Tiger

  MEN’S RIGHTS

  WASU SAT IN BED, HIS HEAD BEARING DOWN ON HIS hand. He’d never been so deep in thought. It was utterly exhausting and excruciating. But he stayed that way until three in the morning, when he finally dropped himself back onto the bed. While he was physically drained, his mind was wired and his eyes were locked open.

  By the time he heard her motorbike, it was almost five a.m. His heart pounded and he tensed, hyperalert, on the bed. He pricked up his ears: the sound of his wife unlocking and opening the door, pushing the motorbike inside, closing and relocking the door. Wasu glared at her black silhouette. Against the white wall, he could make out the fair-skinned whore’s face. He sniffed—that scent again, that suspicious fragrance. The shape of his wife moved past the bed toward the bathroom. She switched the light on and cracked the door open to help her see. From there, she tiptoed back to the wardrobe. Face upturned, she appeared lost in thought as she reached into the pockets of her pants and shirt and put their contents on the table nearby. Wasu couldn’t see her face because she had her back to him, yet instinct told him she was smiling.
Next, she undressed and tossed her shirt and pants into the laundry hamper. Then she unhooked her bra; her underwear was the last thing she slipped off. With her bent over, her ample hips and ass loomed conspicuously.

  Wasu shut his eyes, consumed by agony. One image played over and over in his mind: his young wife having sex with another man. It was unthinkable—how could it be? Here he was, crammed in bed with their two sons; the youngest was only seven months old. How could she have the heart to do it—a new mother carrying on a secret love affair, her child not yet walking? It was beyond contempt. The five years they had shared a life together obviously meant nothing to her. He was going to kill her—he needed her dead … As she switched off the light and felt her way onto the bed, he lay with his eyes wide open in the dark. He caught another whiff of something, an unknown smell … He must take her life. He must kill her. Tomorrow, once he’d brought his older boy to school, he would drop the baby off at a friend’s house. Then he would come back and kill her.

  At seven a.m. Wasu got his oldest son showered and ready for school. He dressed him neatly, buttoning the boy’s overalls and cuffing his socks evenly on both sides. He put formula and flat cloth diapers in a backpack. While that slut of a mother was still asleep in bed, he changed the baby, powdering him front and back and pulling on his tiny clothes—a shirt and a pair of shorts. The backpack slung on his shoulder, Wasu picked up the lounger where the baby lay. He and the children made their way to the sky-blue water truck parked outside, his older boy wearing his own school bag. Wasu then carried out his plan: he dropped his son off at school and took the baby to his friend’s, knowing full well that the friend’s wife would be the one to babysit.

  By the time Wasu got home, he was ready to explode. The door slammed open, rousing his wife into a state of drowsy confusion. Before she had the chance to wake up fully, Wasu charged in and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her off the mattress. As she shrieked, he slapped her in the mouth until her voice died down. On the floor next to the bed, he kicked her and kicked her. She cowered and moaned and tried to crawl away. Once she regained her footing, she rushed toward the bathroom and tried to shut the door and lock herself in, but he pursued her—and he was fast. This time she screamed at the top of her lungs, mouth stretched open, crying for help. She struggled with everything she had, as if she knew he wouldn’t stop until she was dead. She pushed, she kicked, she did anything she could to prevent his access to her body. One of her hands managed to take hold of the mop standing in the corner of the bathroom. Without hesitation, she tried to hit him with it, but he blocked the blow, seized the mop for himself, and smashed her face with it. Blood poured out. Out of fight, she dropped to the floor, slumped over the squat toilet, her face covered in red. Wasu, too, was panting by this point, but when he pictured her having sex with another man, he kicked her again. And again and again.

  This time, Wasu really was spent, but his wife was still breathing. Seeing the shape she was in, he decided to stop the beating there. He forbade her from going to work from then on—she was to stay home and take care of the children, and that would be it. If he ever caught her cheating again, he would bury a knife in her gut.

  But when Wasu returned home again after picking up the baby, his wife was gone, as were her clothes and the motorbike.

  Wasu realized that he was responsible for everything now. Every day he had to be out driving the truck, delivering salt water to multiple shrimp farms. By the time he managed to fill each day’s orders, it was inevitably after dark. He didn’t get home until nearly eight p.m., exactly when his wife would be leaving for work. This had been their routine: She looked after the baby during the day and Wasu took over at night. Their older boy hitched a ride with him on the truck every morning and rode home from school on the back of his mother’s motorbike … This harmony had now collapsed. Wasu was lost, unable to think his way out of the situation. He couldn’t afford to hire a nanny, not that he wanted his family to be raised that way anyway. But he had to find a solution, seeing that he couldn’t very well quit his job to take care of the children. His only option was to find his wife and drag her back, by the hair if he must—and fast. The problem was, he had no idea where she was hiding—or who the other man could be.

  Wasu emptied the basket he had been using for the baby’s clothes and diapers and put the infant’s lounger in it instead. He carried the basket out to the truck, secured it to the seat with a rope, loaded what he thought necessary into the vehicle, and, with the baby propped against his shoulder, did a final inspection of the house. The various neighbors, curious about the recent events, stuck their heads out. Word about the beating had already gotten around, so all of them were eager to know what had caused the outburst. Wasu was willing to indulge them. He shut his front door and walked over, cradling the baby in his arms.

  “Would you mind keeping an eye on the house, Iad? I might not make it back until after dark,” Wasu said.

  “Hey, Ratom, this morning—what happened? Why’d you have to lay hands on her?”

  “Iad,” Wasu frowned, “as you know, I changed my name a long time ago. I thought a new name would improve my fortune, but my life is more cursed than ever. Fon, my wife, has run off with her lover.” He swallowed and licked his parched lips.

  The neighbor, Iad, exclaimed with her hand on her heart, “My goodness! How could she? The baby’s not even weaned. And who’s this other man? Where’s he from, Ratom?”

  Wasu scowled at her, shaking his head. “I’m off. I’m going to find her and bring her back.”

  Shortly after Wasu, then known as Ratom, had been hired for his current job, he and his friend had gone to see a monk to request a new name for him. The holy monk had told them that that particular name should have been eliminated ages ago. Being called “Ratom”—“Misery”—he was destined to be unlucky forever. The monk renamed him “Wasu.” He’d made sure everyone he knew was aware of the change, yet few people bothered to adapt to it. That was probably why his life hadn’t improved at all.

  Wasu went to his employer to ask for time off, again with the baby nuzzled up against his chest. With a look of torment and tears welling up in his eyes, he explained his predicament: how his wife had been unfaithful and run away with her lover. Later, at three thirty in the afternoon, he went to pick his son up from school. That done, he was free for the rest of the day. But the search for his wife … it was like he was in the dark and couldn’t find his way. Where was he supposed to start looking and how, when he didn’t even know the degenerate’s name?

  Wasu’s wife, Namfon, was only twenty-two years old. She had given birth to their first child at merely seventeen. She had abandoned her hometown in Chantaburi to move to Chonburi with him so he could look for a job. He found employment as a saltwater truck driver, while she stayed home taking care of their son—the furniture she’d begged him to buy on installment, piece by piece, keeping her perfectly happy. An obedient wife, she rarely left the house and never exhibited any behavior that caused him to worry. And then, out of nowhere, what dark force caused it all to come crashing down? His boss’s wife asked Wasu whether Namfon had had her tubes tied after the birth of their second child. Yes, as his wife had decided, she had. Wasu was then told that women who had had the procedure developed an elevated sex drive. It had never occurred to him that this could be the reason. But it was possible, wasn’t it? His wife had turned into a slut because of her sterilization.

  How bleak and full of suffering the world was. Wasu felt like he was sinking deeper and deeper all the time. He had never faced such a crisis in his entire life. When he pictured the future, he could see how his life would be turned upside down; nothing would ever be the same. He would no longer be like those around him. He’d been robbed of his vitality. His spirit had been broken. He’d lost the will to work, to see friends, to chat with anyone, to do anything at all. He’d run out of strength, of hope.

  But the neighbors weren’t buying the sterilization theory.

  “She w
as born that way. As long as she stayed at home and didn’t meet anyone, she kept herself in line. But as soon as she started working and got to meet and talk with new people a little, she showed her true colors.”

  Perhaps they were right; Wasu allowed himself to be swayed. He had unknowingly married a slut, the kind to really spread her love around. That was why it wasn’t long before she acted out. Such innate characteristics weren’t something easily uprooted. But regardless of the cause, the consequence was unfair to him. Their two sons—his wife had to share responsibility for them. So he had to find her. He was going to drag her back, one way or another.

  Later that night, Wasu crept out of the house, leaving his two sleeping children alone. Since it wasn’t too far, he decided to walk. Once out of the housing development, he made his way up the main road until he saw the gas station where his wife worked. Instead of going straight in and asking, he hid behind a tree, using it to shield himself from the light. He stared unblinkingly at the station, waiting for her to appear, even though he knew too well the serious nature of her injuries. But he hoped for the off chance that she would come to ask for the night off. For close to an hour, he continued his stakeout, despite knowing deep down it was utterly pointless. Maybe she’d already come by that afternoon. Or perhaps she didn’t need to ask for leave—she’d probably just decided to quit and go live somewhere else with her lover. That had to be the story. He would never see his wife’s face again.

  Wasu walked home, barely aware of the motion of his own body. It seemed that his life had sunken to an alltime low. He realized that there was no justice in this world. At random, a person could be forced to endure hardship all alone. Yes, that was the truth. This was what reality looked like. He saw it now, with painful clarity.