Arid Dreams Page 7

  The next morning, Wasu repeated the same routine. He dressed his older son, bathed and powdered the baby, and they all climbed into the truck. With any luck, he would make some headway on finding his wife today. He dropped his son off at school, but after that he found himself in the same situation: at a loss as to where to even begin searching for his wife. In the end, he drove over to his friend’s house. He knew that Boonleua wouldn’t be in: he and this friend of his had the same job—both were water-truck drivers, and they never made it home before dusk. Wonpen, Boonleua’s wife, still had no children even though she was several years older than Namfon; she did, however, like looking after children, and wanted very much to have her own. Whenever something came up with Wasu’s two boys, he could rely on Wonpen to look after them. She was their godmother, and every time she saw Wasu lifting the kids down from the truck, she never failed to welcome them with a smile.

  Looking at his friend’s wife, Wasu felt his own misfortune even more acutely. Truckers like he and Boonleua were frequently scheduled for long-distance trips, which meant that Wonpen often spent the night alone, and the woman wasn’t even tied down by the obligations that came with having children. After almost ten years of living that way, why hadn’t she allowed herself to stray like Namfon? He should have taken a woman like her for a wife. Just look at her—she loves his children even more than their real mother! The thought thrust him even deeper into despair, and he began to sob. Wonpen rubbed Wasu’s back and shoulders for a long while trying to console him, looking like she too might cry.

  Between venting his grief and speculating wildly, Wasu ended up spending the entire morning with his friend’s wife. He made to leave several times, intending to go search for his wife, but always wound up sitting back down. He eventually departed at three thirty, leaving the baby with Wonpen.

  Wasu went to pick up his older son from school—the boy was waiting for him out front—and now he had to double back to pick up the younger one. Yes, the back and forth seemed like a lot of trouble, but he was willing to do it. As it turned out, his timing was impeccable—he couldn’t have planned it better. There was his wife! The shock left him numb: Namfon was sitting by herself inside Boonleua’s truck, which was parked on the roadside. In that instant, everything became clear as day. He understood now. He didn’t have far to go before he reached Boonleua’s house. Wasu pulled over in front of the truck and stormed over to his wife. Their son turned and saw his mother, so he jumped out as well.

  Namfon was sitting inside the other truck, stunned. Once she snapped out of it, she quickly reached over and locked both doors. Their son, running, beat Wasu to the truck. Clutching the footboard, the boy threw his head back and begged and begged his mother to open the door for him. Because she didn’t, his hollers soon turned into wails.

  Wasu stood in the front of the truck, glaring at his wife. His whole body trembled with rage; he tried to force it still. He knew he’d already given her the beating she deserved, but he still had to settle the score with her lover, whose identity he now knew. The only thing was, her infidelity had cut him so deeply that he wanted to give her one more good, hard slap just for the satisfaction. He ought to find a stick that fit nicely in his hand and smash the front of Boonleua’s truck in and yank that no-good wife of his out by her hair—that was what he should do. But he found himself not wanting to go through with it. The urge to hurt her began to dissipate and slowly become consumed by another desire. Such a knee-jerk reaction would just get in the way of his other plans.

  Namfon was paralyzed with fear. Her face was covered in green bruises and misshapen from the swelling of her right jaw, and she had a bandage on her left cheek. Still, she met Wasu’s eyes defiantly as she held her breath, waiting for his next move.

  But then Wasu simply returned to his own truck. He waited until he saw Namfon open the door for their son and let him climb in before he started the engine and drove off.

  At Boonleua’s, the husband and wife were busy packing clothes and other items into a duffle bag. Wasu walked in, perfectly calm, calling out a greeting as soon as he stepped inside.

  “I’ve been over here a lot recently, and I haven’t seen you at all.”

  Boonleua paused, studying his friend for a minute. “Pen told me. That’s rough. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

  Wasu laughed. “I was thinking about it. But I don’t want to impose.”

  “What is it?” Boonleua asked as he fussed with his travel bag. When he didn’t hear a reply, he stopped what he was doing and looked at his friend.

  As their eyes locked, Wasu’s anger flared up again. Boonleua was supposed to be his best friend. They had long been eating and drinking buddies. They had sworn their lifelong allegiance to one another. They had known each other for over a decade. They were from the same hometown. They spoke the same language. They had helped each other out more times than he could count. Wasu bristled with resentment. He wasn’t the type to take this kind of insult lying down. He should lunge at Boonleua’s throat and fight him to the death. This was an act of war, an affront that warranted an equally grievous act of revenge.

  Boonleua searched his friend’s bloodshot eyes for either anger or sorrow. Finding only ambiguity, he forced himself to remain calm and not overreact.

  “All set,” Wonpen said. She zipped up the bag and carried it over to the door.

  Boonleua followed his wife’s movements, staring at the bag a few seconds before speaking up.

  “This trip is going to be a long one. I’ll probably be gone several days.”

  “Go right ahead.” Wasu’s eyes were on Wonpen. The image of her picking up his baby and resting him on her shoulder had an immediate calming effect on the father of two. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after things here for you.”

  Boonleua tensed up at once. He turned left then right, his eyes shifting restlessly.

  “Why haven’t you left yet? It’s past six!” Wonpen said to her husband.

  “It’s all right. I can be a little late.”

  Wasu smirked and turned toward Wonpen. “I have to trouble you a bit at the moment, Pen.”

  “Of course, it’s no trouble at all. Don’t think anything of it! It’s not a big deal, it’s me you’re talking to after all.”

  “I should be able to figure everything out in a few days. My older son shouldn’t be a problem. The younger one, I’ll try taking him to my mother’s. See if she can manage.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Wonpen said. “Just deal with whatever you need to deal with first.”

  “Thank you. Regardless, I need to think of a solution as quickly as possible.”

  Boonleua was visibly agitated. “Have you picked up your son yet, Ratom? School let out a while ago.”

  Wasu glared at him. “Damn you, Leua! You know that name is cursed. You drove me to that monk to get my name changed. You of all people should know better, but, still, you refuse to use my new name. You’re doing it intentionally—I know it!”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Boonleua said, fuming too now. “It doesn’t matter what your name is. It’s not the problem. You are.”

  “What is it about me? What is it? What?” Wasu got loud. “Don’t forget that you were the one who said it—how I was cursed by the name Ratom. And now you’re taking it back? You’re the one who’s making my life so shitty. The fact that you were able to do what you did to a friend—you’re not even human.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Boonleua responded even louder. “It’s not me, it’s you. Everything that’s happening—just think about it—it’s all your fault.”

  Wonpen was horrified. Her eyes flitted back and forth between the two men as she struggled to understand what was happening.

  Wasu was furious but confused. Boonleua’s words made no sense—maybe he was being evasive to try and get himself out of a bind. Or perhaps Boonleua still thought he was too stupid to have caught on.

  “Be straight with me, Boonleua. There’s no point minc
ing words. Or do you want me to say what you’ve done?”

  Boonleua bit his tongue, suddenly remembering that his wife was standing right next to him.

  Wasu snorted, jerking his chin to one side.

  Wonpen used their silence as an opportunity to say to her husband, “Why don’t you two clear this up later? Weren’t you in a hurry to leave?”

  Boonleua looked at his wife and then turned to Wasu. “We’re not going to settle this today. Why don’t you go home?”

  “Why don’t you go to work?” Wasu sneered.

  Boonleua clenched his jaw. “Get the hell out! Otherwise, you and me, let’s take this outside.”

  “That’s enough. This has gone too far!” Wonpen, who couldn’t stand watching from the sidelines any longer, intervened by inserting herself between them.

  But Boonleua was quick to shove her aside. He pointed a finger at his wife’s face and said, “This isn’t women’s business. Take the kid outside. Go!”

  Wonpen shot him an indignant look and then swung her head and walked out. Boonleua waited until his wife made it to the bench under the tamarind tree across the road. Then he turned to face Wasu.

  “If you touch my wife, you’re a dead man,” Boonleua growled.

  “You son of a bitch.” Wasu got right in his face. “Now do you get it? You can’t stand the thought of your wife having an affair with your friend. What about me? How could you do it? Why did you do it? How could you?”

  Wasu finally snapped. He jumped at Boonleua, who already had his guard up. They threw punches, tangling themselves together, but suddenly froze: Boonleua was holding a kitchen knife in his hand. Outmaneuvered, Wasu ended up on the floor, back against the wall. Both were breathing heavily. The knife, pointed and gleaming, had restored a sense of calm.

  “Listen to me, Ratom,” Boonleua said finally. “I did it because you did it to me first. You stole my Moddang.”

  “Moddang …” The name fell out of Wasu’s mouth. Suddenly, everything clicked. Moddang—it was because of Moddang. Oh—when had he slipped up? How had Boonleua found out?

  Boonleua tossed the knife onto the table and dropped himself into a chair. “Let’s call it even.”

  “Those things are hardly even, Boonleua. Moddang is that kind of woman—anybody’s free to take her anywhere they want. But Namfon, she’s my wife, the mother of my children—two of them! You’ve taken it too far. I swear I’ve never even thought about making a move on your wife, and I’ve had plenty of opportunities, believe me. All I did was fool around a bit with your whore—that’s it.”

  “She wasn’t a whore!” Boonleua shouted. “Moddang was just a kid. She lost her virginity to me—she belonged to me. She wasn’t just one of those women anyone can pay to take around as they please. I was serious about her. It wasn’t just a fling.”

  Wasu sighed, exhausted. He didn’t know what else to say. Both men were still for a long time. Although neither of them expressed it, they did share one sentiment: each felt an enormous weight lifted off his chest. While they didn’t yet know how to resolve this debacle, at least they now knew how it had come about. That alone made the impossible appear less so. And because each of them was eager to downplay what he thought was his own fault in the matter, the problem at hand shrank in significance.

  Boonleua was the first to speak up. “Let’s get out of here, toss back a few drinks, and get a bite to eat.”

  The hot sun had largely retreated for the evening, and the scene, the light at this hour, was easy on the eyes. Under the tamarind tree, Wonpen and Namfon sat side by side; the baby was snuggled against his mother’s chest, while his big brother entertained himself by drawing in the sand. Wasu and Boonleua limped out of the house, dragging their heavy feet over toward the women.

  “So,” Wonpen said, “you could only work things out through violence? Where are you headed now?”

  “We’re going to find us a few drinks,” Wasu replied. He smiled at Wonpen and glanced quickly at Namfon.

  Boonleua, too, peeked at Namfon, but he didn’t look at Wonpen at all. He threw his arm around Wasu’s shoulders, and the two walked off.

  The women stared after them. Wonpen grumbled about Wasu. She thought that now that he had found his wife, he should have talked things out with her. But instead, he just went and walked away. Namfon, meanwhile, sat lifelessly on the bench. Her face was badly bruised, her eyes on the verge of tears.

  “So, what do you say?” Wasu said. “Should we just trade or what?”

  Boonleua’s feet stopped. He stepped back from Wasu and threw his hands aggressively on his hips. “We’ve already traded—Moddang for Namfon—that’s done. Pen’s out of the question.”

  “You just said that you were serious about Moddang, and it’s obvious that you’re pretty indifferent toward Pen.”

  “That’s no longer the case. Moddang became a whore the moment she let you take her out.”

  “Well then, have the woman choose for herself.”

  “That’s my wife you’re talking about.” Boonleua was beginning to lose his temper again. “She’s not going to choose anybody because she’s already chosen me.”

  “Oh, she’ll choose—if she finds out you’re having an affair with my wife.”

  Boonleua glared at him, with nothing to say in response.

  “All right, all right. Let’s go grab that drink.” Wasu wrapped his arm around Boonleua’s shoulders. “We can discuss this another time. Anyway, in the end Pen might choose you regardless, but you’ve got to give her the choice, you know? After a certain point, you have to allow women the honor of choosing.”

  Boonleua disagreed, but didn’t respond. The two continued walking down the road, linked at the shoulders.

  WITHIN THESE WALLS

  THE FEELING FIRST HIT ME WHEN I WOKE UP ONE morning. I was lying by myself in our huge bed, which felt strangely empty. My husband was in the hospital. I could still see his face: mangled beyond recognition, swollen like a soccer ball. It had been three days. He probably wasn’t going to make it. It seemed like I was trying to make myself feel something, anything at all. My heart sank—wasn’t I the least bit sad? Or did I not yet believe that he was really dying? That certainly wasn’t the case—I believed it. Even yesterday, when I stood there looking at him, it was like he was already dead.

  My heart sped up as I scanned the bedroom. It was full of signs of him. These beige walls had once been white. Maybe four or five years ago, my husband and I had decided to repaint the room a different color. He thought white was too bright, and I agreed. But when I’d suggested a pale green, which I liked, he’d dismissed me, saying absolutely not, that he didn’t think green was nice at all, and then he’d chosen beige. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t take a hint—all he needed to say was that beige was nicer than green.

  And that was that. It was a minor thing, after all, choosing a wall color. It wasn’t exactly complicated. And I’d told myself that, since I loved him, I ought to go along with his wishes.

  I should hurry up, shower, and get dressed to go be by his side at the hospital. He wasn’t dead yet, and in what little time that remained, I should be doing everything I could for him. But hard as I tried to motivate myself, I couldn’t get out of bed … What could I really do for him anyway? He couldn’t even breathe without a machine! Me on the other hand, I needed to figure out what was wrong. Wasn’t it crazy that the issue about the wall color had been bothering me this entire time? I wanted to tell myself that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just something random I remembered that happened to spring to mind.

  I sat up, my body trembling all over. I suddenly ripped off the blanket, bunched it up, and hurled it at the vanity, knocking over all my cosmetics. The perfume bottles rolled off the table and shattered on the floor, filling the whole room with their stench. I burst into tears, my anger mounting as I looked around the room.

  I’d lived with him here for eight years, ever since we got married. Now he was close to dying, or might already be dea
d for all I knew. I didn’t know if I should laugh, be upset, or pity myself: every single thing in this house was just like that wall color—they were all things that he liked, because they were nicer, better, or more appropriate than anything I liked.

  I jumped out of bed and grabbed two lipsticks. I pulled the caps off, twisted the tubes, and started scribbling all over those perfect beige walls. Of all things, I really wanted to understand why he’d felt the need to insist on beige. Why did he care which color was “nicer”? He knew I preferred green, so why couldn’t he have chosen something I liked for once? He never paid attention to what I wanted. He probably didn’t even realize that I had my own opinions, too. I’d married him because I wanted to live life as a couple, a team, not like I was his shadow. Look around! Every single thing in this room had his name written all over it, every single thing. I flung the stumps of lipstick away, the walls now smeared with red and magenta—his favorites, of course. The perfumes were making me lightheaded, and I collapsed on the floor, sobbing hysterically.

  By the time I managed, with difficulty, to calm myself down, it was almost nine in the morning. I tried to think clearly as I got up to go to the bathroom: Was I losing my mind? Maybe I’d cracked. Throughout our eight years of marriage, we’d never had any problems or fought at all. My husband was the top aide to a politician who belonged to a powerful cohort in our province. In my opinion, my husband was even more well-connected than his boss. Everybody wanted access to him because, with a snap of his fingers, he could arrange for their children to be admitted to the best public schools, help procure IDs for people who had lost theirs or never had one to begin with, and even manage to have deeds issued to people who had never owned land.

  Bitterness started seeping into my heart. I’d never asked myself whether or not I liked the way we lived. Why hadn’t his dealings bothered me before? I could only laugh. How could they? A woman like me getting to rub shoulders with all the wives of the most important politicians, attending all the same social events? We all received special privileges; nepotism was to be expected, wasn’t it? But how could I have lied to myself? Throughout these eight years, I’d been living in this filth all along.