Timothy Hallinan - The Queen of Patpong

"Getting there," Nana says. She yawns comfortably. Her nails are now a kind of tangerine color with red underneath it, like a juice mix. Kwan thinks the polish is as garish as some of the colored electric signs they've been passing for the last half hour.

Looking back out the window, Kwan says, "It's too big."

"It's still a village, once you know it. It's just that it's a big village." The train begins to slow, and Nana is up, yanking her bag from the overhead shelf while the world is still sliding sickeningly by. "Come on," she says. "We've missed most of the night." And she's halfway down the car, moving toward the rear of the train, before Kwan has even gotten her arms around her book bag.

Outside the train Kwan sees a rice paddy of people, a solid field of people, pressed shoulder to shoulder, too close together for light to shine between them, stretching back four or five meters from the train, where it thins into individual shapes, blurs to Kwan's nearsighted eyes. She is seeing, she realizes, more people in one moment than she has seen in her entire life. She hesitates, one foot still on the step leading up to the train, but Nana reaches back without even looking, snags Kwan's T-shirt, and drags her behind. Kwan has to dodge the wheels of Nana's pink suitcase.

Outside, in a haze of heat and fumes, Nana stops and sizes up a long, long line of taxis, all new-looking, painted every color Kwan has ever seen, plus some she hasn't. Nana opens the door of the cab at the front of the line, leans in, and says, "Patpong 1. Forty baht."

The driver says, "The meter."

Nana says, "Fuck the meter. Forty baht. With the air-con on."

The driver glances up at the rearview mirror, sees the number of taxis behind him, and does something under the dashboard. Kwan hears the trunk pop open. Without a word Nana goes to the back of the cab, raises the trunk all the way up, slides the bag inside, and slams the trunk. To Kwan she says, "What are you waiting for? Get in." She hip-shoves Kwan across the seat and, even before she closes the door, says to the driver, "Go, go, go."

Kwan has to fight the urge to press her nose against the window. Lights, cars, people, more people, more cars, buildings high enough to lose their tops in mist. No stars at all. The taxi is freezing, and goose bumps have popped up all over her arms. She glances at Nana, who is sitting there gazing at the back of the driver's seat as though a movie were being projected on it. Just as Kwan is about to speak, Nana says, "Listen. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Good. Here's what's going to happen. He'll drop us at the end of Patpong. There's a market set up in the middle of the street, and the sidewalk is crowded. I don't want to have to keep looking for you, so you grab the back of my blouse and don't let go. If anybody gets in the way, just shove."

"Shove someone?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? If we get separated, I could waste half an hour looking for you, and I want to get to work. Don't look at any of the men."

"Oh," Kwan says, thinking, She wants to get to work? "I won't."

"Well, don't. One of them might try to stop you, and I haven't got time for that. When we get to the bar, you just keep your mouth shut. I'll introduce you to the mama-san, and then she and I will go away to talk some business for a couple of minutes. You stay wherever she puts you. Exactly where she puts you. Don't talk to the customers." The taxi passes a big, brightly lighted shrine, and Nana dips her head and makes a wai in its direction. Kwan follows suit, and Nana begins talking as though she'd never stopped. "It's important that you do not look at, or talk to, any customers. You don't want to make enemies of the other girls before you even start to work."

"Enemies?"

"Think about it. They've been up there all night, dancing their feet off, trying to get one of those fatsos to buy them a drink, take them out, whatever will put some money in their pocket. Then you come in, with dew still on you, and the customer one of them has her eye on suddenly decides you're the angel of the evening. That girl is not going to be your friend. And neither are her friends."

"I'm not going to be anybody's… angel."

"See that you're not."

"Why can't I go with you and the mama-san?"

"Because I say so."

"Oh."

Nana pats her hand. "I know this is confusing, but just do what I say and stay out of trouble. A week from now, you'll feel right at home." She smiles at Kwan and then leans forward, slaps a hand on the back of the front seat, and says to the driver, "Could you move this thing? I'd like to get there in this lifetime." THE SIDEWALK IS solid with people, almost all of them farang. They seem to be suffering in the heat; their shirts are as wet as second skins, their hair is matted, and their necks and faces are red and dripping. Maybe they sweat so much, Kwan thinks, sneaking quick looks at them, because so many of them are fat. They smell different from Thais, too. Some of them smell so bad that Kwan breathes through her mouth, thinking it would be rude to hold her nose. For a sliver of a moment, she tries to imagine being close to one of these men, being alone with him. Could she do it? Would it be rude to ask him to shower first? Maybe she could wash him, like a baby, to make sure he was really clean.

What amazes her is how tall they are. Most of them are only a little shorter than she is, and some are actually taller. For the first time in her life, Kwan doesn't feel like the one nail that's sticking up from the board. She doesn't feel like a freak. She has a brief sensation that she's walking in a trench.

To her right is a long line of brilliantly lighted booths, rich with the saturated dyes of new clothing that's never faded, never even been washed; paintings on black cloth of impossibly clean villages, full of colors where, in a real village, there would be only the leached-out, sun-bled browns and grays of old wood; big wooden frames surrounding enormous scorpions and spiders pressed into white cotton beneath glass (for whom?); and then-gleaming directly at her, as though they've seen her coming-wristwatches, dozens of them, enough wristwatches for her whole village, with a handful left over. Kwan lags, drawn by the glitter, but Nana reaches back and grabs her arm, zigging left at the same time to avoid three men walking side by side yet towing Kwan directly into their path.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says one of them, a distinguished-looking man with gray hair, maybe as old as Mr. Pattison. "Fresh fruit. And a big one."

"Virgin girl," Nana says without slowing. "Five hundred dollar."

"I'll go second," the distinguished-looking man says. Seen up close, he's not so distinguished; his lower eyelids have sagged to reveal strips of wet pink flesh, and his nose is a web of spidery red veins. "Get a discount." He reaches for Kwan's hand, but she snatches it away and grabs Nana, practically jumping into her arms, and the man laughs. "Bunny rabbit," he says to one of the other men. "Look at her, scared as shit." To Kwan he says, "Hey, Basketball, which bar?"

"Candy Cane," Nana says, not even turning her head. "Come two day, three day more."

"What's her name?" the man calls after them.

"Not have name yet," Nana says. "Maybe Basketball." And she drags Kwan away from the men, threading through the crowd as though it were a dance she's practiced a thousand times.

Above them are big colored signs like the ones Kwan had seen from the train, but she sounds out the words and reads QUEEN'S CASTLE, KING'S CASTLE, SUPERGIRLS, LAP BAR. Neon silhouettes of naked girls blink hot pink and blue.

"Nana," she says.

"Not now. Just come on."

"But look. They're naked."

"That's upstairs. Don't worry, you're not going to be upstairs."

"Really naked?"

"Don't think about it. You'll never have to do it, unless you want to."