Childlike, Jatupon had assumed that togetherness, firecrackers,
celebration, and the proud moment of that manly initiation of cold beer
(not that it was his first) to be the ending of negative events. The
day had resurrected him the way Kazem had once pulled him out of the
lake on the outskirts of the city, Kanjanaburi. He was wading then in
gradually deepening waters when the sludge beneath his feet suddenly
dipped and he was thrust off the precipice into a watery abyss. He was
just a boy then but one who owed his life to his brother. When he was
older and they had returned to Kanjanaburi on a two-hour train ride,
Kazem refused to allow him in stagnant waters. This was fortunate since
a few days later two people died from a protozoan infection. Kazem had
saved his life in both occasions and delivered his spirit on this one.
He had never deserted him. Unlike Kumpee who despised work, Kazem could
have gotten a slave labor position by signing an employment contract
for construction work where he would have found himself assigned to one
of such places as Taipei or Abu Dhabi. A few years there would have
added a solid savings that he could have used for vocational training
that would have broadened his opportunities. Broadened opportunities
and a bit of a savings beneath him would have provided a chance of
luring a woman who wasn’t a noodle worker. Instead, while knowing
escape was an option, he fulfilled his high shepherdly calling.
As he entered the basement cell that they lived in, Jatupon couldn’t
remember a time more linked in fraternity than this one except for the
memories of early boyhood. Boyhood was summarized in that one
photograph Kazem had salvaged out of a box of pictures that were thrown
out with so much from the move. It was a photograph that prompted a
solid memory (imagined or real). It was of the four boys. Jatupon,
three years old and fully nude, trailed behind. Kumpee led the way.
Kumpee had on a cap with the visor inverted to the back of his head.
The four of them were walking down a sidewalk that went along the
canal. Immediately to their left and across the canal were row houses
of tiny wooden cabin shacks with metal roofs that housed residents and
their scavenging businesses. The four of them were going to purchase
some candy.
—They are copulating?
—Yes, and he has just awakened from the brother’s penetration of him on
the basement floor. The belief that the world has been resurrected in
pure and gentle intentions has been thwarted. His brain waves are still
discombobulated from the liquor and none of what he is presently
experiencing seems real. It is though. Innocence has been disgorged
like a squeezed tube of love oil in a ride more painfully and
physically intimate than any intimacy he has yet experienced.
His head was spinning and he couldn’t grab himself in all of the
spinning images: sounds, smells, and visions all spun randomly. Finally
there was a bit of a shape and texture to his thinking and he dressed
himself. He wanted to use the wave of consciousness to exit.
—My dear, pain and pleasure have become inseparable in his young mind.
In this act a few minutes ago-maybe a few hours ago—there was a
yearning for this violation. The abuse was aggravated by too much
alcohol consumption but it wasn’t entirely unwanted. Being a creature
of habit and addiction, Jatupon yearned for his brother-only his
brother-since he vaguely felt that sexual experiences with two people
are totally unique and the physiological and emotional feelings his
brother induced could not be duplicated by any other person. The
madness of wishing to be overtaken, however, was confuted by painful
sodomized lances and an ejaculation of the one who did his stress
workout within him. In other experiences like this one Jatuporn, as
they call him, always masturbated to allow the desire to peel back like
a tide but this time his highest hopes were limp like a noodle. He is
opening the door. He is glancing at himself to make sure that he isn’t
wearing his underwear outside of his pants. Now he is outside as
insentient as a fleeing animal after it has been attacked. Here he is
feeling better in the open air. He is returning.
Jatupon reentered the room. For the first time, since awakening, he
noticed that Suthep had not returned. He had not come “home”-whatever
that word meant. Jatupon scavenged the pockets of his brother’s pants
that were wadded in the corner near Kazem’s sleeping head. In it was
money and a sheet of paper. He put it all in his pockets. He got on the
first bus he could and paid the ticket salesman. The idea crossed his
mind that being a coin collector on a city bus was not anyone’s best
choice. It would be much better to be one of the few men who jumped
onto the piers or docks to tie the city boats. Such a Bangkok
Metropolitan Authority would give three brief whistles so the boat
driver would give a backward thrust as he tied it down for the
customers to enter or depart. He could picture himself whistling once,
untying the boat he was assigned to, and jumping onboard at the last
possible second. The second mosquito spread out its wings and copiously
fluttered them about femininely. Jatupon began to be a little conscious
of himself as a man coming out of anesthesia.
—But the instinct of a man is to fight off predators. Is Jatupon never
tempted to take a knife and slit his brother’s throat?
—No, not for the most part, my dear. He loves his brother; and in some
ways there is intense intimacy and pleasure involved in the novel act
that he would hardly rid himself of despite the pain and humiliation
that is involved. I explained that earlier. Were you sleeping when we
discussed this issue?
There was nothing. There was movement while he sat in a city bus.
All elements had burst out of the Big bang. All things (even ideas)
were conceived violently in movement. And so he moved, switching to
busses only when the former ones parked and all passengers had to
leave. He did not know where he was. He didn’t care. In one bus ride he
suddenly became sentient to the feel of stiff paper in one of his
pockets. He pulled it out and looked. It was his uncle’s name and
address. That was no surprise. The bus was stalled in traffic. Riders
of busses who were near their destination began oozing out of them like
leaking oil. He realized that he was on a bus going on a street that he
had traveled on earlier in the day.
“Ajarn, Do you know what street this is?” he asked a monk.
“Sukumvit” the monk said.
“Which soi are we passing?” asked Jatupon.
“Forties or fifties” said the monk. “I really don’t know.”
Jatupon looked at the sheet of paper. It read, soi 51 Sukumvit Road. He
got out and ten minutes later he was standing at the wall of the
opulent mansion that Kazem had stood at. He didn’t stay long. He needed
to go to the bathroom. He didn’t want to wet his pants and he didn’t
think that being a distant relative with a hangover and urine
splattered pants would be very impressive to the senator. In a bathroom
at a KFC he looked at his face. It was of a dark Laotian or Khmer. He
was from a family with the last name of Biadklang from the North. His
face was as dark as the soil. He looked into the mirror. Just with the
amount of light, darkness, or expression one appeared like a totally
different person from one moment to the next.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked the reflection in the mirror.
“To Sanam Luang to see more of the kites” the reflection said.
On the bus ride to Sanam Luang he had to stand. He noticed the other
people. They were also wistfully discontent for their own personal
reasons. They wished to sit down when the space was congested and there
was nowhere to sit; and in times of sitting they yearned to have vacant
seats next to their own so that they would be free from having to sit
next to strangers and could have a little area of their own to
monopolize. They were all so petty and he told himself that he did not
want to be like that.
At Sanam Luang he bought a kite from a mendicant kite salesman. Feeling
chagrin that the forlorn child within him had taken over his thoughts
instead of the man, he flew his kite in a more obscure area. He was
somewhat relieved to find an innocent pleasure to engage in. A half
hour later the child diluted into his manhood and there he was in full
embarrassment of himself. So he reeled in the kite and sat down on a
park bench. A sidewalk salesman smiled at him.
On a rug this mendicant had six-inch motorcycles crafted from bamboo.
Nobody knew the art of a smile like the people in the Land of Smiles.
Toothless as babes they contrived smiles with the curl that has
distinguished a smile from a bite with a full opening of the mouth.
Thai infants and toddlers knew. They intuitively knew that with enough
naughty actions a toss into the trashcan was not inconceivable. They
intuitively knew big sister would be sold off to a man when she turned
14 and the fetus that was little brother or sister had been forced out
by deliberately rowdy sexual liaisons, making his or her exit no
different than menstruation. With enough shaking of the can of soda pop
all beings disgorged the same when the tab was opened. Thai babies
knew. They had their instinct to smile because of the cellular
replication planned by the DNA architect who made all Thai babies the
same as an American subdivision. How gullible was a human to the wish
of being struck down with pleasant feelings. When a mendicant salesman
with teeth sparkled them from his tanned face even an impoverished Thai
couldn’t resist the inclination to buy. It was the congenial feeling
more than the product itself that a consumer wished to gain. Consumers
bought to get a fuzzy feeling and forget the hostile 9 to 5 working
world (9 to 9 Thai time). How manipulative were the benevolent lies of
Thais in the business of survival. Jatupon bought one of those
purposeless products. He argued to himself that he could put it on a
shelf-that is, if he had a shelf to put it on.
On the bench he pulled out of his book bag the Lao classic, “Thao Nok
Kaba Phuak which in English meant “The White Nightjar.” The back cover
said that it depicted the second queen consort’s birth of a bird and
her exile from the kingdom. The preface stated that both Laotian queens
had prayed that life be recycled in their wombs but only the youngest
became pregnant. At the consort’s request, the oldest queen blindfolded
her when the labor pains ensued. She solicited the help of the court
magician in particular to take advantage of the younger queen’s
squeamishness over the sight of blood by using the time to switch the
baby for that of a bird. When the child was replaced the soothsayer
could then deceive the king by making him believe that the younger
consort had had sexual relations with a foul bird months earlier. This
was not needed since the consort actually begot a bird. Jatupon stopped
reading the preface. It was spoiling the book. He began to read the
first chapter. “I, who have composed this narrative fled far away just
like the little one for I, your servant, sleep alone; I am very lonely,
in my bedroom, with my arms dangling empty. It is destiny that keeps me
away and prevents me from embracing my beloved. I am here, without my
younger one, since I left my home to go among the Thais where I have no
friends...” Jatupon thought about his basic nature. He had lived for 14
years in Thailand but still he did not feel particularly Thai. He
wished that he had been born in some other place like America with a
nice American family. As he was falling asleep he heard the
counterparts:
—What will happen to him on that bench?
—I can’t imagine anything good happening from it. He could apply for a
job but instead he plays with his kite and sits on the bench. He wants
to be an aristocrat.
—You don’t say.
—Yes, it is true. He thinks that all whores, laborers, and
professionals are slaves. He thinks that they all have petty lives.
—How would he gain such conclusions?
—Partly from me. Partly from the amphetamine-poppers under the
overpass. Partly from his own original thoughts. I am surprised to see
that he is half way intelligent.
—There isn’t much chance of him being an aristocrat.
—No, none. He will soon be accosted.
—By whom?
—By a man desiring to have sex with him.
—Explain this approach.
—The same as any other I presume: hello, hello, how are you, I’m fine
and how are you. The man will be thinking to himself, while engaging in
small talk, that he’ll put twenty dollars into Jatupon’s underwear when
they are alone in his apartment. He will not have any doubts about
being able to buy him.
—Just for the feel of human flesh?
—For a human that feel is indispensable. They are gadabouts and they
expend themselves in motion as a defense mechanism by which to avoid
their own thoughts. It is the same for feeling the silk of other skin.
It breaks them from isolation. They find their thoughts such a prison.
He and Porn had an American style apartment. She was content with it
for a few days and then became discontent with the furniture. The
chairs and the sofas, despite their padding, were still wicker and
stiff. He knew that having the landlord take away the furnishings and
using his credit cards fully for the purchase of her wishes would not
ameliorate the discontent that all beings had and few could rein in.
He had met her and her mommy on the bleachers of the stadium on
Ramkhamhaeng Road while sketching out a field and trees and yet still
Nawin felt that she did not know who he was. He went to classes in the
morning and from late afternoon he was busy painting. He couldn’t
understand how she thought that he should just conjure up images
instantaneously with his brush, spend money, and take her places.
He kept avoiding the issue of taking her across the border. She had a
student visa since she was technically enrolled in a language school
(although she rarely attended) so it wasn’t in fear of her visa status
that made him want to avoid the issue of the border. He had his
American passport and yet he still had never spent a day there. He told
himself that he should. And yet it continued to seem to him like such a
dreadful place.
He told himself that it had been a mistake to bring her here. He hadn’t
known how far the campus was from the city. In part he chose the
location with Noppawan and Porn in mind. Still, it was a mistake and he
knew it all along. In Thailand she had seemed so excitable. She was a
gadabout and she always made friends out of strangers from adjacent
tables in restaurants they frequented. She had seemed so open to the
world. Now she seemed like such a Victorian whore, jumping around in
motion but prudishly obdurate to change within. She was
conventional-this Victorian whore of his. Like virtually everyone else,
she was part of the big band and the universe of movement fully
cognizant that the most popular and sexy people were the ones who could
twist and turn with universal movement.
He was the oddity. This Nawin, the romancer of whores, was all for
show. Deep inside was not impetuousness but paralysis. This artistic
brooding was not part of the natural course of events and who was he to
chastise her normalcy. He just smiled and evaded her wishes.