Arid Dreams Page 9

  I knew it—that’s what she’d been thinking. But it made me happy that she was beautiful both inside and out.

  “That’s all right. I just want to watch you bathe, that’s all.”

  “Do you think women like it when men watch them bathe?” She seemed annoyed, but I wasn’t upset with her at all. I even liked her more. “The only reason I let you stand there and watch is because I already have a husband.”

  She walked off as the sky was losing its light. I watched the towel covering her shoulders slowly disappear into the dark shadows of the reeds and trees. The sound of her flip-flops slapping against her heels faded as well. I really liked her; I was determined to return the next day.

  Having haphazardly made my way to the road again, I doubled back to the coffee shop to meet up with the mechanics. As soon as I arrived, I smelled alcohol in the air. My three coworkers, seated around a little table in the middle of the shop, called me over to join them. To be honest, I don’t drink often, even though it gives me a pretty nice feeling whenever I do. The three of them asked me various questions about my life, but I didn’t have a lot to say. This went on until we’d finished a whole bottle of liquor. I was starting to feel drunk, but my colleagues looked completely composed. I thought they were going to order another round, but Chon, the panel beater, asked for the bill and paid it himself. I realized then that I didn’t have any money on me. It was all right though; I knew I’d get to treat them next time.

  After we left the coffee shop, the three guys started whispering to one another, snickering. At first I thought we were going to call it a night, but Pook, the engine mechanic, said they weren’t done taking me out yet.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, but they only cracked up.

  “You’ll find out,” Chon said. Then he turned to the paint repairman: “Hey, but there’s no way Mama Tang has any girls as pretty as your wife.” He and Pook burst out laughing. I hadn’t known the paint guy was married.

  “Assholes …” the latter grumbled. “Obviously! If my wife wasn’t better looking than a whore, why the hell would I have married her?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Mai. You’re always bragging about how hot your wife is, but what about things in the bedroom? I bet things in that department are lousy,” Pook taunted.

  So the paint repairman’s name was Mai. As for Chon and Pook, I’d learned their names that afternoon. The paint guy’s name immediately struck me. I thought I had heard the woman by the well mention the name Mai, but I couldn’t remember the context in which she brought it up. She could very well be his wife. In any case, my good spirits left me completely; I felt like a rope being pulled to the breaking point. While I was trying to recall why the young woman had mentioned the name, this Mai was boasting compromising details about his wife, even making dirty gestures. The other two were clapping and laughing their heads off. I tried as hard as I could to control my anger, but the rope finally snapped. I grabbed Mai’s arm to stop him, and he turned to look at me.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced out, “You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that.” I tried to keep my tone as even as I could, but he immediately looked furious.

  “Why are you sticking your nose in this?” Chon countered. “If he wants to talk about his wife, so what? It sure doesn’t bother me!” He laughed again.

  “You should really go home to your wife,” I told Mai.

  “It’s none of your concern. She’s my wife; I’ll talk about her however I want.” He seemed like he was gearing up for a fight.

  “Hey! Hey! What are you guys doing?” Pook stepped in between me and Mai. “C’mon, let’s go find us some hookers.”

  “You already have a wife. So why do you need a whore?” I asked sternly.

  “Moron,” Pook spat. “The wife’s a sure thing. A man can have that whenever. He can even have it later tonight when he’s home. Am I right, Mai?” He nodded toward Mai but the latter was in no mood. He kept staring me down. It dawned on me then that he, too, was like a rope under strain, and I knew that as soon as it snapped, I would get beaten to a pulp because I was the one pulling it. I could either let go of the rope or keep on tugging, and I made my choice.

  “You shouldn’t treat your wife like that,” I insisted, my tone emotionally charged this time. “Your wife’s a good woman. I know she wouldn’t cheat on you even if she had the chance.”

  “What did you say?” The other two fell silent as Mai got up in my face. “What the fuck did you just say? Who told you my wife was a good woman? That she wouldn’t cheat?”

  I kept my mouth shut. I had planned on telling him about the woman at the well because I had somehow become convinced that she was his wife. But I couldn’t come up with the right words; I didn’t want to cause her any trouble.

  Mai glared at me menacingly. My silence had probably given him time to put two and two together. “Where were you earlier this evening?” he asked.

  “At the well,” I said, and just like that, the rope snapped. He hit me square in the chin. I didn’t fall back but stumbled forward, folded over like a wuss. I’d meant to tell him more than the fact that I’d gone to the well, but I didn’t have the chance. That first punch really helped: it saved me from being conscious of what followed while I was crumpled on the ground. Only a bit later did I sense that his hands and feet had stopped their assault. I could hear Mai panting.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. “You act like such a nice guy after putting the moves on my wife? Don’t you two help him. Just leave him there. And if I find out that one of you helped him home, I’ll kick the shit out of you.” The voice came from farther and farther away.

  I felt a foot nudge me twice.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  I couldn’t tell whose voice it was. After that, I heard a faint conversation and the sound of feet shuffling away.

  Still, I managed to smile. I shouldn’t have judged the paint repairman so harshly. He obviously loves his wife and guards her jealously. He really is a good guy just like I had believed in the beginning. I’m truly sorry to have misunderstood. And his wife’s so lovely. He’s probably gone to her now. Wait until tomorrow when I go to the well—I’ll tell her just how much her husband loves her and how possessive he is of her.

  THE AWAITER

  I’D NEVER HAD ANY LUCK—MAYBE BECAUSE I NEVER thought of it, and it probably didn’t think of me. Yet something was now lying at my feet. That it had wound up there was no mere accident. I could have easily stepped over it or veered to the side. Then somebody whisking about in the vicinity would have picked it up; he probably would have grinned and chalked it up to his lucky day. But I hadn’t moved aside, and as long as I stood in place, glancing calmly down at it by my feet, others could only steal a wistful glimpse. Some might have regretted walking a tad too fast; if they had been slower, they could have become its possessor. Some might have reasoned, siding with themselves, that they spotted it even before I did, but they were a step too slow. Regardless, I was the one who picked up the money, without concluding as of yet whether it was my luck or not.

  That evening, toward the end of monsoon season, I was walking by a crowded bus stop even though it was not on my way home and I had no purpose for taking that route. The money lay fallen behind a bus. When I bent down to pick it up, the hot air from the exhaust pipe blasted onto my face as I stood back up. A pair of eyes darted at me, whose owner walked toward me with a face painted with an uncertain smile. I knew his intentions immediately. While I myself was unsure of my status in relation to the money, one thing of which I was absolutely certain was: the man approaching was not the owner of the money—but he wanted to be.

  I didn’t wait for him to initiate the conversation; instead, I turned to ask a pair of university students, “Did either of you drop this?” The girls shook their heads. The man looked embarrassed and turned evasively toward the students and told them to board the bus. He turned out to be the conductor.

  And the owner of the money? Where had he gone?
He might be standing in that crowd without realizing that he’d dropped anything. Or he could be sitting on the bus that remained parked right there. Or he might have departed on the one before. It could also be that he happened to be passing through, like me. I clutched the money in my hand and stood hesitating for a long while. Those who found money—what did they do? People looked at me, but no one else assumed the attitude of the money’s owner. They simply looked at me because I was the object of attention. I had become the most interesting thing at that moment. Those who found money, they probably tried to extract themselves as quickly as possible from the site of serendipity. But what about the owners? They probably wandered around in search. The cash that I stumbled upon, the owner dropped it only a moment ago. If I waited a little longer, he’d probably realize that his money was missing and turn around to look for it. After I returned it to him, he’d probably thank me happily. I would say to him: No need to thank me; the money remained yours all along.

  I found a corner away from prying eyes and counted the sum—hundred-baht, ten-baht, and twenty-baht notes folded together: in all three hundred and eighty baht. If a person came to claim it, I should first ask how much money he’d lost, because someone might masquerade as the owner, and I would trust only the person who knew the exact amount. But what if the owner didn’t know or couldn’t remember how much money he had left in his pockets? I myself never kept track of the amount I carried around. But he was not I. He would probably be able to recall.

  I waited … The bus slowly set off, the conductor looking back at me once more before disappearing into the coach. Had it been right for me to judge him? Everybody wanted to be the lucky finder of money. If I didn’t have my designs on it, why didn’t I step aside? The two students, too—had they spotted it, they’d probably have the same finders-keepers attitude as the conductor. Naturally, anyone would be happy to come into money. My excuse to them was, I wasn’t hoping to keep the cash; I was going to wait for its owner. But if he didn’t return, the money would then belong to me. But wasn’t it luck? Luck was chance that could befall anyone. That it happened to me this one time was nothing strange. The conductor came here with the bus every day. The students and the other people waited for the bus daily as well. But what else could have inspired me to pass by this way, if not chance?

  I felt more at ease after I came up with a worthy reason why I deserved to find the money: because I was presently awaiting its owner—the money had an owner, and surely he’d had to earn it.

  It was a bunch of old bills stacked together. It might be all the money the owner had. I felt surer that he would return, even if he had no hope of recovering it, but because we humans have limited options, the choice to do something almost hopeless has to be made by those who refuse to abandon hope entirely. When he returned to discover that the money was still waiting for him, he would undoubtedly be surprised, but probably be even more thrilled.

  The evening sky softened as the sun faded. One after the next, buses pulled in and funneled away; one after another, people departed with the buses. I had never had to wait for anybody this way. Maybe I had, but long ago. When I was regularly employed and led a life to which others were connected, there were people who had to wait for me, and I for them. But that was a thing of the past. I had even nearly forgotten how I once lived amid causes and consequences. And was it for that reason that we were able to endure life without feeling its emptiness? The life where one woke up each morning assured that things were waiting to be accomplished in the hours ahead? People in the city were that way: they knew the evening before when they would wake up the next day. When they got out of bed, they knew how much time they would spend on their morning routines. Once ready, they knew, too, what kind of transport to take, the color of the vehicle, where to step off. Making their way through the growing city that never kept still, a city devoid of tenderness and saturated with dog-eat-dog ambition, they had to know even more than that, to know what their paths demanded in the coming days, weeks, and months.

  I was currently unemployed. This might have been one reason behind my luck. Others headed to the stop to board their bus home. The roads they pursued had a purpose. This was another reason why I deserved to find the money. I had plenty of time to wait for the owner to return for it. Out of nowhere, someone like me, someone with no aim in life like others had, wound up tasked with holding a sum of money and waiting for a person I had never met—an unfortunate individual who happened to drop his money.

  I suddenly realized something else: my good fortune resulted from another’s misfortune. Someone suffered bad luck in order to give someone else good luck. Must everything in the world be a zero-sum game?

  In reality, I shouldn’t agonize over it. There was no good or bad luck. I was waiting for the owner to come claim his money. Any moment now, all this fuss would come to an end. The owner might be realizing this very second that his money was missing—he was thinking about where he might have lost it. Give him a little time to mull it over … Soon the places where he might have dropped it will occur to him. He might have to retrace his steps elsewhere as well. It was conceivable he would come back here last. No matter how long it took, I would wait. I didn’t have any responsibilities to attend to, no wife and children to hurry back to. It was a blessing that my life regained some semblance of purpose. For a long time now I hadn’t known what I would do in the coming minutes and days. It was a welcome development for me to resume a life intertwined with others’, even if ever so slightly. No matter who the owner of the money was, he was bound to be happy since he couldn’t possibly imagine that his money would still be waiting for him. He’d probably feel touched by my actions. He and I might become a little bit acquainted, and if he didn’t have anything pressing to do, we might walk together and chat, perhaps have a meal together. He’d probably ask me why I was still waiting, why I didn’t pocket the money for myself. I already had an answer ready.

  As for me, if he returned, what would I ask him? I should ask, “Why did you return? Why did you believe that your money would still be there?”

  It seemed the story began and ended with the money, the sum of three hundred and eighty baht. But what was I really waiting for? I was waiting for someone, a person I believed would come back to look for his money. Why was I convinced that he would return? Was I hoping he would have faith in people’s integrity, even though the whole time I’d been thinking how it was by chance that I found the money? And the owner? Would he believe in that chance? The chance that the finder of his money was not in a hurry to go anywhere and was waiting for him? The chance that the finder was more cognizant of others’ misfortune than his own good luck?

  The evening air didn’t cool me off. On the contrary, I was simmering with anxiety. There was, in fact, no reason for me to feel that way. He, he who lost the money, was probably flustered and rushing back to try to recover it. But a long time had passed. I asked myself how much longer I should wait when there was no sign of anyone searching for the money.

  I questioned myself anew: What was I truly waiting for? No, not merely waiting, what was I hoping for? Was it too much to expect? I was still waiting here because I believed that if I were the one to lose the money, I would return to look for it. Even I didn’t find it, even if no one was waiting, I would still return. I should have some faith in the goodness of people, shouldn’t I, even if it depended upon chance?

  What if he didn’t return? Why would he not return? Because he felt certain that he wouldn’t find the money? My heart sank. Why? Why did he not place hope in people? Despite the fact that this money might have been hard-earned, that it might be the last sum for this month or until the next paycheck, that he might need it to feed his family, that a sick loved one might need it for treatment, that it might be tied to the promise to buy his children gifts, despite all this he was willing to relinquish hope and surrender to cruel destiny? Who could help tell him that I was still waiting for him? There was only he, who must tell himself—not that the mo
ney was still waiting, but that he should have faith in people … even if just a little.

  Darkness was returning. How long could dusk last when our world was but a lightless planet? Everyone knows the evening hours must dissipate, and our world must succumb to the night. I, too … How much longer could I persevere in waiting for something in which one held only faint hopes, when perseverance only walks the path toward its own demise?

  I continued to wonder: Why did I have to wait with perseverance? Why not wait with ease of mind? Why not wait with joy? Alas, I could only raise questions. Only reality could answer, and I couldn’t twist my own feelings and turn them into something other than the response that I was persevering in my wait.

  I was now confronted with another question: Why did I persist in waiting? Was it so that my hope would come to fruition? Of course I was hoping—and it was hope placed in others. Or, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say I was wishing that another person be as I imagined. Oh, what was I trying to accomplish? Did I in fact want to return the three hundred and eighty baht to its owner, or was I seeking something from that individual? Unanswered pleas to another or unfulfilled hopes in him, those were what made me endure the wait.

  The bus stop was deserted. My eyes scaled the tall buildings up to the stars speckling the sky. We coexisted in close proximity on this planet. Nonetheless, we led a solitary existence; we were good or evil all alone. What right did a person have to demand something of others?

  My perseverance had come to an end. And my hope in somebody else and entreaty to him had ceased as well. That moment, I was merely someone who found three hundred and eighty baht and wished to restore the money to its owner, nothing more.

  I finally decided to leave the bus stop after I was able to persuade myself that the money’s owner would probably not return. Only at the same time, I found that, in truth, I was still waiting.

  SANDALS