Paul Theroux - Mr. Bones - Twenty Stories

He felt it was blasphemous to resent having to attend, yet he wanted it to be over with, so that he could see Song and resume what he now saw as his real life.

Osier knelt and prayed for things to go right for him. He asked God to understand. Yet God knew he had come under protest. Osier would not have been surprised to see the lovely domed ceiling crack to pieces and fall on his head — or something worse — for his hypocrisy.

The priest, a Thai, or perhaps an Indian, murmured the prayers, soothing Osier with their familiarity. But at one point, turning to face the mostly farang congregation, he hesitated in his delivery. At the same time there came a moment of traffic roar. The front door of the church had been opened and shut.

Glancing back, Osier saw Song making her way up the center aisle. When their eyes met, Song pressed her hands together in veneration, as though in a temple, and took a seat in the pew just across the aisle from him.

Osier’s heart raced. He struggled to breathe. Even in her best dress, a silk shawl over her hair, and wearing high heels, Song looked out of place — the dress a bit too red, the shawl revealing her lustrous hair, the high heels noticeably too high.

“Let us pray,” the priest said.

The congregation knelt. Song followed their example, her eyes cast down. Osier was burning with shame and indecision. His hands had gone clammy. What if she stood up and screamed at him?

Utterly at peace, without a clue, Missy DeFranza, kneeling between Osier and Fred, said her prayers. Osier pretended to pray, and as he did, he lifted his head and saw that Song was staring at him. Her gaze was unreadable. Osier tried to convey his helplessness to her in a meaningful shrug, but she was unmoved. And when she sat, she seemed like a bright-feathered and flamboyant bird, conspicuous in scarlet, with silken plumage, too beautiful to be praying.

The priest mounted the pulpit and gave a sermon, full of pauses, its theme the parable of the Publican and the Pharisee. And when, after that, the priest led the prayers, Osier could hear Song in a clacking voice declaiming a prayer in Thai, and it sounded like blasphemy. Osier, terrified, tried to anticipate what Song’s next move might be and how he might counter it. If she lunged at him, should he wrap her in his arms and drag her from the church? If she began shouting, denouncing him, ought he to hurry away?

But he saw, almost with disbelief, that Song was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. And the priest at that moment was leading a benediction.

Had Fred seen any of this? Osier thought of making a run for it, just ducking out. But when the priest announced a hymn, and the people stood, holding hymnals, Osier looked across the aisle and saw that Song was no longer there.

This was worse. He endured the service to the end, then filed out with the others, squinting as the sun blinded him, and shielding himself, preparing to be accosted. But she had gone.

“Lunch,” Fred said.

“Not for me,” Osier said. He was choked with nausea.

“There’s a great noodle place right near here on the river.”

“I’ll buy,” Missy said. “I’m on expenses.”

“I could use a drink,” Osier said, and followed them, looking around for Song.

In the restaurant, digging at his noodles, Fred said, “Know where you find some awesome Christians? Korea.” Because he said Kree - ah, Osier felt it was untrue. “That Mass did me a power of good.” And, as though boasting, unashamed, he added, “I’ve done some terrible things in my life. Wicked things.”

“It’s all good,” Missy said.

“No,” Fred said. “It’s mortal sin, pure and simple.” He was looking at a ladyboy who was sitting with an older farang. “She’s not a woman, sentimental and afraid. She’s a man.”

Osier said, “What’s your point?”

“She’ll do what a man does,” Fred said.

Osier, not eating, sipping at a glass of lemonade, suddenly stood up and said he’d just remembered that he had something urgent to do. He hurried out and took a taxi to Song’s. His knocking roused the neighbor in the next apartment. She poked her head out and made Osier understand through hand gestures that Song had gone out.

He went to Siamese Nights, almost empty in the Sunday-afternoon somnolence, a trickle of music, a few girls at tables. He sat to calm himself, then left without drinking. He walked along the hectic sidewalk in the direction of his hotel, and at a wide intersection he saw he was lost. He stood among a row of parked motorcycles and called Joyce. She did not answer. This was not surprising. It was three o’clock in the morning in Owls Head. One of the motorcyclists agreed to take him to his hotel. And so the weekend ended in silence and humiliation.

Monday was no better — repeated calls, no answer. Tuesday — no answer. And this was the week of the quarterly audit. He had never been busier, and the numbers didn’t tally. On one of those nights in his hotel room, walking quickly to the door, he caught sight of a figure in the full-length mirror. He saw that it was not him in his green short-sleeved shirt but a beaky woman in a sari, hands upraised to plead, lipstick on her mouth, a slash wound on her cheek, a comb jammed into her hair, imploring him. He was startled at first, then sad, seeing this sister abandoned to ridicule. He called Song again and got no answer.

In the cafeteria, Fred and Larry sat together. Osier was sure they had been talking about him. To discourage their gossiping, he sat with them.

Larry said, “You look like you’ve had some bad news.”

Such bluntness always put Osier on the defensive. He began to protest.

“Just pulling your leg,” Larry said. But Osier was sure that Fred had said something.

That night, the Wednesday, Osier went to Siamese Nights. He saw Song sitting in a booth with an older man, Indian possibly, or Arab. Osier did not hesitate. He snatched Song’s arm and lifted her, and before the startled man could react, he dragged her out of the club and pushed her into a taxi.

“I love you,” he said.

She sulked at the words. She said, “You a bad man. You lie to me. You take you wife to church.”

“That wasn’t my wife. I love you.”

To prove it, he took her to his hotel. He had brought her there before for a drink — she even seemed to have an understanding with the doorman and the lobby staff, something in the oblique way they acknowledged her, familiarly, as an equal, not deferential. But this was a more conspicuous visit. He needed her to know that he was not ashamed.

In the bar, he ordered her a lemonade, and a beer for himself.

Song was looking over his shoulder. “That man.”

Fred, leaving the bar, his back turned, but unmistakably Fred.

“You friend,” she said.

“Not my friend.”

“You boss?”

For simplicity — how could he explain? — he said yes, and as he said it, she looked again in the direction of the door. Osier didn’t dare to look. He assumed that Fred was lingering, because Song was still watching, her head moving slightly.

“Maybe you boss see you.”

“I don’t care,” he said, but a catch in his throat made him think that he did care.

“I go home.”

“No. Come to my room.”

This he knew was reckless, but he was determined to show her that he was not like any other man she’d met, not like anyone else who’d said, “I love you,” and pawed her. He needed to be serious, even solemn, to reassure her. He had sworn as much to her mother.

He drew her to the bed and held her, both of them clothed, and said, “Tell me about your mother’s farm.”

“In the village,” she said. “Grow rice, have chicken…”