Arid Dreams Read online

  I stood in front of a full-length mirror, taking a good look at myself. My hair was getting long again. I remembered how, before the accident, my husband had told me to get it trimmed, but I still hadn’t done it. I wasn’t going to cut my hair anymore. I liked it long, didn’t I? Without makeup and jewelry, my face appeared plain and washed-out: I looked more like an average working-class woman than a moneyed lady. Digging through the bottom of my closet, I pulled out an old pair of pants and a shirt and threw them on. They smelled slightly of mothballs, but I was content because I’d picked out the outfit and bought it on my own, following my own mind and my own taste. At first glance, I almost didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. But I quickly corrected myself: this here was the real me. When I was seventeen or eighteen, before I was married, this was how I used to be. My thoughts and decisions used to be all my own. Not that I was claiming to be a good judge of things, but at least I expressed my genuine self.

  INSTEAD OF DRIVING my own car, I took the bus to the hospital. It was almost noon when I arrived. What I heard from the nurse shocked me: my husband was no longer in the ICU but had been transferred this morning to one of the premium rooms. I made my way to the room she’d indicated and paused in front of the door, having failed to even ask her about my husband’s condition. When I went in, I saw him lying in bed, no longer using a respirator. A table in the corner of the room was packed with vases upon vases of flowers. Five visitors were already there, including his boss.

  “Where have you been? Why haven’t you been here looking after him?” his boss snapped. I didn’t reply and simply kept my head down. “I was worried sick, especially so close to the election! I didn’t sleep at all last night so I came to check on him early this morning. The doctor said Vinai’s very lucky. He’s out of danger now.” He sighed. “I feel like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders.”

  While I stood there listening to him, I stared at my husband, my mind in complete disarray. My husband wasn’t going to die. He really wasn’t going to die, even if I could barely recognize his misshapen face.

  “I’m going to take off then,” the boss said. Then he leaned down and whispered to me, “I know this must be difficult for you, but you need to dress more appropriately. What will people think? Everyone knows you’re Vinai’s wife. Until he recovers, you’re going to have to help me with the campaign. Don’t ever leave the house in such a state again. It’s not respectable.” Then he and the others walked out.

  I left the hospital around one p.m., instructing our housekeeper to stay with my husband. Feeling hungry and a bit dizzy, I walked, perhaps out of habit, into a restaurant I’d frequented with my husband because he was friends with the owner, having done the man many favors over the years. There was a long line of people waiting to order. For the first time there, I also got in line. One of the workers, after staring at me for a moment, recognized me and called me over to the front of the line. I smiled but declined his offer by looking down. There were five people ahead of me.

  “Ma’am!” I heard a voice say. I looked up to find the plump face of the owner. “There’s no need to wait. Please, this way, please. I went to see Khun Vinai this morning. Thank god!” Bowing and gesturing with an open palm, he insisted that I go ahead and order my food. I shook my head, telling him several times that it was all right, but he refused to relent. Eventually, I was forced to give in. He went and instructed his employee, “Look after the lady, and don’t charge her,” and then he walked off.

  All five pairs of eyes in line glared at me. I took my food and quickly tried to pay. The worker smiled and pushed the money away, politely refusing. I tried again but was rebuffed, the gesture this time sending the bills flying onto the floor. Flustered, the employee apologized. I felt put on the spot. The scene was becoming so drawn out that the people waiting behind me looked even more irritated. All I could do was thank the employee and bend down to collect the money. As I stood back up, someone in line bumped my arm, sending my tray of food crashing onto the ground. The whole place went silent, all eyes trained on me. I was about to scream; I felt like I was losing my mind. Exasperated and in a rage, I threw the money onto the floor and stormed out of the restaurant, though I couldn’t even feel my legs.

  I went home, the feeling from this morning still palpable. One of our housekeepers had come into the bedroom to tidy up, but the red and magenta streaks remained untouched on the beige walls and the perfume still clung to the air. I felt drained. I slumped into a chair and found my body so limp that I didn’t think I could get up to do anything ever again. My husband was not in fact going to die; he would recover. I had to keep reminding myself that he would return soon, return to our home, to his work, to serve as the politician’s aide, to fill his own bank accounts and those of his boss, to pick up where he’d left off with laying the foundations for his promising future. He would certainly return; after all, he was still the same Vinai, unchanged. And I was still Vinai’s wife, as I had been for eight years.

  I was taken aback by something then: when I first saw my husband lying on the gurney, before the operation, from that very second, I was convinced that he was going to die. What kind of wife writes off her husband when there’s still breath left in him? What kind of wife then spends that time thinking about wall paint instead of praying for her husband’s very survival?

  Even though I was horrified by this person kicking and screaming inside me, I was determined to get a handle on it. It was enticing, a taste of life’s freedom. Yet it also terrified me so much that I shivered. It had made me indifferent toward my husband’s accident, numb to the plausible death of someone I’d shared a life with. I couldn’t help but hate myself, the shame rippling inside of me. What did I even want? What exactly was it that I longed for most? Over the past eight years, what had been real and what had been a lie?

  The whole time we’d been together, I’d been well aware of the way our life was supposed to be. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known the dirty details, and yet I’d managed to live with them, even accepted them with open arms. But what of the wall color? I’d always told myself that it was nothing, but I never forgot. It buried itself deep down, patiently waiting for a moment to reassert itself. I knew now—it came from the real me. It was my own self, which now I craved so desperately. I could no longer return to the same life.

  I couldn’t keep living among all this corruption. I wanted my true self back, wanted it so badly that I’d been hardened to someone’s death. Could that be right? Had I really thought that I could only be myself if my husband died?

  IT’S NEARLY FIVE in the afternoon when I rush out of the house. My husband’s still alive. Luckily, he’s still alive. He wasn’t conscious this afternoon. I remember how the left side of his head had two small holes drilled into it and tubes sticking out of them. His bloated, contorted face covered in little cuts from the broken glass; both of his eyes bandaged. On the way, I pray that he not regain consciousness before I get there. A sick person wants somebody to care for him, somebody to be by his side, and that somebody is me. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. I’ll look after him until he makes a full recovery.

  And when he does, I’ll discuss the wall color with him again, along with all the other things churning inside me. When that day comes, I’ll know whether my true self can only exist if he’s absent from my life, or if it depends only on my own resolve.

  HOW A LAD FOUND HIS UNCLE AND LEARNED A LESSON

  WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD WE LIVE IN—I’VE ALREADY said this to myself so many times in my life, even though a young man like me still has plenty of good years left. No matter; in my experience I’ve encountered only good things, many more than I could possibly count. But if I had to, I wouldn’t be able to think of any examples. I’m awfully forgetful! As for the not-so-good things, I couldn’t tell you about them either, not because they’ve slipped my mind, but because I’ve hardly endured anything of the sort. Look at my current situation: I had no job, no prospects, and practically no place
to lay my head at night. Then, as luck would have it, someone told me that I had an uncle I could turn to. I honestly didn’t think it was purely a matter of luck. It must have been part of the universe’s plan to make the world an even better place, and I was going to follow that plan.

  Walking in search of my uncle’s house, I lugged my bags, looking for the address I had noted down. The little town wasn’t very developed, but the people seemed kind.

  I approached the first person I saw, a middle-aged lady, and asked, “Auntie, do you know Uncle Boonsom?”

  “Which Boonsom?” she asked back, probably wanting more details so she could point me in the right direction.

  “My uncle owns an auto repair shop in the market.”

  “So go look in the market,” she said, disappearing into her house.

  I was about to inquire further—And where is the market?—but it was too late because the woman had shut the door. I’m such a slowpoke! I wanted to knock, but I didn’t want to be a bother. She didn’t look too happy—probably because she was concerned for me and embarrassed she couldn’t help—and decided to hole up inside her house.

  After that, I stopped to ask several others, but they didn’t shed much more light on the situation. That made me sad. Here I was about to start a new life with my uncle, but on my first day, I’d already troubled countless people and made them worry about me. Ashamed that they couldn’t help, they all closed their doors and locked themselves in. It was up to me to show them kindness first. After all, I was a stranger coming into their village and hoping to live among them. At some point down the line, I knew I’d have a chance to make it up to them.

  In any case, I found my uncle’s place eventually. He really did own a car repair shop in the market, just like someone had said. I estimated him to be at least fifty-five years old, but no older than sixty. We have similar features, my uncle and I, so he and my father must look a lot alike. I bet I’m the spitting image of my dad, or so I would guess—I’ve actually never met him—but the resemblance between my uncle and me leads me to believe as much. To my surprise, despite the fact that we look related, my uncle didn’t believe that I was his nephew. Although I explained the situation to him in great detail, he remained in denial. Finally, bystanders who thought I really was his nephew had to chime in and help talk to him. Even then, he still couldn’t bring himself to fully embrace me. I heard him complain under his breath:

  “I’ve lived on my own for this long, and no one has bothered to look after me. Now that I’m almost dead, a nephew pops up. Probably hoping for an easy inheritance.”

  In the end, he allowed me to stay. How nice of him to take me in—and this in spite of the fact that he still didn’t believe I was his nephew. As for the inheritance or whatever, I sympathized with him: he didn’t trust me, so naturally he was afraid that I would deprive his rightful nephew of what belonged to him. I was so touched by my uncle’s love for his true nephew—which in fact was me—that I was almost moved to tears.

  After my uncle showed me where I was to stay, I came back out to meet the mechanics who worked for him. My uncle wanted me to start working at the garage that very day. To be honest, I would rather have rested a bit, being exhausted from half a day’s travel. But, you see, how could I go against the wishes of my uncle, who was so eager to teach me all he knew? I spent the rest of the day diligently learning about different types of nuts and wrenches, and became somewhat acquainted with the three mechanics. One handled paint jobs, another beat out car bodies, and the last fixed engines. I felt a little closer to the latter two because the guy who did paint work was more solitary and didn’t have a lot of tasks for me. All three seemed to be good guys and consistently engaged me in conversation. They were probably concerned that I, a newcomer, would feel awkward around them. I was touched. If given the chance, I’d certainly repay them for their kindness.

  After work, I showered, put on some nice clothes, and went out to meet the three mechanics at a coffee shop, as they’d suggested. They wanted to take me out to celebrate since it was my first day at the garage. I’m a lucky person like that: no matter where I go, I always manage to meet friendly people. Having left with time to spare, I strolled along, enjoying the view of the early evening sky. I cut through some fields because I thought the landscape looked nice. Reeds, some tall, some short, grew more densely as I walked on, and I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a little path? And then suddenly, there it was, a small footpath right in front of me. This is what I mean: it seems like luck grants me whatever I wish for … but I think it’s more than that. I started to follow the path, unable to contain my excitement over what I might come across next.

  The path led me to a well and a young woman; she was dripping wet and had a sarong secured around her chest. In truth, I had heard the sounds of someone bathing from a distance, and I had had a feeling that it was a woman. At that point, I had fully emerged from behind the reeds and was staring at her. She likely already saw me, too, because I wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous. I stood still, waiting for her to turn and acknowledge me, but she didn’t look my way for so long I became convinced that she wasn’t actually aware of my presence. Wanting to strike up a conversation, I searched for something to say but couldn’t quite find the right words. Meanwhile she squatted down on three or four planks of wood and began to scrub herself. I figured she would surely notice me when she turned her attention to her left arm. But she kept playing dumb. I got bored of waiting for my cue, so I changed tack and decided to simply stand and watch, as if I were looking at a beautiful picture in a newspaper, one that I could inspect from every angle. And it was a moving picture, too. My anxiety disappeared instantly, and I was walking on air … The picture was certainly nice.

  Suddenly I froze, scared to death, because the woman had begun screaming her head off, catching the sarong that had fallen to her waist. I also realized that my feet had been moving. But I hadn’t been walking toward her but around her. Like I said, I only saw her as a picture, and I wanted to examine the different elements from every possible angle. I was face-to-face with her by then. She stared at me, her left hand now clutching the sarong over her breasts. In her other hand, she held a rope that went down into the well. She couldn’t let go of either. To make a move, she would have to choose between letting the sarong or the rope fall.

  “Can you help me with the water bucket?” she asked finally.

  From the look in her eyes, I thought she was communicating a sense of goodwill. If I helped her with the water, I would get to see her even closer, I reasoned. I would get to pore over the drops of water on her face and body. And I would be reciprocating her goodwill. But if I remained still, merely watching, letting the scene take its natural course, she would be able to resolve the situation on her own. After all, I just happened to be standing there, and what was more, I had completely separated myself from her. She was only an image, and I a mere observer.

  “Hey! If you’re not going to help, then get out of here,” she snapped.

  My aesthetic moment vanished immediately. I rushed over to help her. Once she handed me the rope, she turned around to secure her sarong. I began hoisting up the rope and a bucket full of water.

  “You’re Uncle Som’s nephew, right?” She was leaning against the well, which came up to her waist, her hands resting on the edge.

  “Yes. Do you want me to pour the water in this other bucket?” When she nodded, I dumped the water into the bucket next to the wooden planks and turned to fetch more.

  “That’s enough,” she protested. She walked over to the planks, squatted down, and tucked the sarong even tighter around her chest. I took her place by the side of the well. “People in this town aren’t too welcoming of strangers,” she said, pouring a bowl of water over herself and then lathering up with soap. I continued watching her. “A couple of months ago, a man asked to stay over at Yai’s place. That night, he robbed Yai and another house, a rich family. That was just two months ago.” She started rinsi
ng off with the rest of the water. “This afternoon people couldn’t stop talking about the new face in town. They thought it might be that same bastard.” Pausing, she stood, grabbed a dry sarong, pulled the tube of fabric over her head, then held the front of it up with her teeth, using one hand to drape the sides over her shoulders. With her other hand, she maneuvered the wet sarong, letting it fall to her ankles. “Mai said he was going out drinking with a new guy from the garage tonight. I thought it might be you,” she said once her mouth was free, the new sarong having been tucked over her chest once more. From there she picked up the cloth that was piled on the ground and wrung it out. Once done, she grabbed a white towel and put it over her shoulders.

  I had barely been listening to a word she said. She was a beautiful woman, with such a natural way about her. She unabashedly bathed in front of me, chatting all the while, even though I hadn’t taken in anything.

  It was getting dark. A swarm of mosquitoes had begun devouring my arms. She was getting ready to head home, and I had hardly said a thing to her.

  “I should be going,” she said.

  “Will you be here tomorrow? Maybe I could come and talk with you some more?” I rushed to ask before she left.

  She scrutinized me for a long while, looking ready to sigh, and then said, “Don’t bother. Go look for girls somewhere else.”

  “No, I’ll be here again tomorrow,” I insisted, blurting out, “I just want to come and watch you.”

  “Look, I have a husband.”