Rattawant Lapcharoensap - Sightseeing - Stories

“What did I ever do to you?” Noon asked, shaking her head. “When did you start hating me? We used to be friends, remember? Of course I heard about your papa; everybody’s talking about it. I’m not an idiot, you know. I just thought we were having a bit of fun.”

“Sorry,” I said quietly, and I really meant it, for I knew I had been unnecessarily cruel. But the look on Noon’s face told me that all the apologies in the world wouldn’t fix a thing now. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Noon,” I continued nonetheless. “I’m just having a bad day. You should’ve been at my house this morning.”

“Sure,” Noon said. One of the boys on the basketball court called out her name. Noon waved back.

“See you around,” she said suddenly, getting up. “Hey,” I called after her. I didn’t want to be left alone. I was afraid Little Jui would see me, confront me again, this time with that Filipino boy beside him. “I said I was sorry, Noon. And you’re right. He is kind of cute.”

Noon kicked her bikestand, turned around to face me. “Maybe we can be friends again someday,” she said. “But you have to play nice, Ladda.”

“Noon, I said I was—”

“Whatever,” she said, getting on her bike. “Later.”

I wanted to leap from my seat and tear the ringlets from her scalp. But instead I just watched her bike toward the basketball court, her long hair waving behind her. In front of the teashop, Little Jui was still spinning his yarn for the men; he limped around now in what was an imitation either of Papa’s cocks or of Papa himself. The men laughed, which only encouraged Little Jui; he seemed like a toddler pleased by adult approval. I noticed that Ramon had disappeared while Noon and I were talking. I panicked. Because Noon was right — the boy did smile at me — and I was afraid that Ramon was approaching me unseen, that he would startle me with a light touch on the shoulder, a whisper in the ear.

I decided to go home. I started biking through the park toward the main road. As I passed the basketball court, I spotted Ramon there, scurrying for a loose ball. The other boys converged upon him while Noon clapped from the sidelines like an idiot. After a brief struggle, Ramon emerged with the ball. He stood there smiling under the sun, his chest glistening with sweat, the ball nestled in the crook of an arm.

He waved at me.

I looked away, put my head down, pedaled as fast as I could through the park. By the time I got to the main road, I couldn’t tell if the heat in my chest was from the biking, from the hot sun, or from the way that foreigner had waved while Noon and the other boys looked in my direction.

X

When I got home, Miss Mayuree was still on the porch with Mama. Two of her men loaded the lingerie boxes into her sleek blue sedan. Mama smiled, nodded blankly. I went to the chicken house to find Papa. He was doing the weekly cleaning. I went inside and helped him change the water pans and sanitize the coops.

While we cleaned, Papa told me he had a new strategy. There was no way his cocks could outfight those Filipino purebreds, he said; that was his mistake. The purebreds were too large, too strong for that. In the Philippines, those chickens guard houses, attack thieves in the night. Dogs feared them. There wasn’t a Thai chicken that could outfight a Filipino purebred; any self-respecting cockfighter knew that. The only way to beat one, Papa said, was to own one. But we didn’t own any Filipino purebreds, I reminded Papa. We owned nothing but mongrel hatchlings bought from local farmers, cocks born to crow at the sun and strut around the yard.

“Fear,” he said proudly. “That’s the key, Ladda. That’s the solution.”

I squinted at him.

Papa told me that cocks know no fear. If they felt their territory was at stake, they’d probably fight a truck. He needed to teach the chickens fear. He needed to teach them how to dodge. If he could get his cocks to bob and weave like nimble boxers from the murderous advances of the Filipino purebreds, they might have a chance. Papa skipped around the chicken house as if to demonstrate the idea. I thought he’d lost his mind.

“C’mon,” he said, whipping his head, fists swinging at his sides. “Hit me.”

“Papa,” I said.

“Hit me,” he said, smiling playfully. “Give it a try. I’ll be one of the cocks. You be one of the Filipino purebreds.”

“Papa,” I said again, bending down to scoop a pile of droppings with a dustpan, watching them cascade into the garbage bag. But Papa kept hopping around like some crazy. I stared at him with the garbage bag in one hand. Papa started clucking like a chicken then, put fists to armpits and flapped his elbows, bounding wildly around me. I laughed.

“Hit me, hit me, hit me!” he yelled, laughing too. “Give it your best shot, Ladda. Bok-bok! Bok-bok!”

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Wait till I tell Mama about this.”

“C’mon, you Filipino purebred! Give it your best shot!” He reached out with a hand and slapped me jokingly on the side of the head. “Bok-bok! Bok-bok!”

“Papa!”

But Papa just kept on jumping around, reaching out to cuff me again and again. I became exasperated. I suddenly started thinking about the way he’d driven off earlier that day, ignoring my wave, and how he seemed so different now, the same old Papa, like nothing had happened. So I reached out and swung the bag of chicken shit at his face. I trusted Papa to dodge. But the blow hit him squarely on the ear, bursting the bag, chicken shit hailing down all around us.

Papa looked at me stunned. For a second, I was afraid I’d really hurt him. “Nice shot,” he said, grinning sheepishly.

“Let’s hope the cocks are faster, Papa,” I said, relieved by his good humor. “I’m no Filipino purebred, you know. I’m no murderous chicken.”

Papa told Mama about the new strategy over dinner. Mama nodded quietly. Miss Mayuree’s visits always put Mama in a sour, insular mood. This time, Miss Mayuree had upped the monthly quota to a thousand, though without an increase in pay. Work was scarce; Mama had agreed to the new quota.

“I’ve had enough,” Mama said, ignoring Papa. “I’ve had enough of that miserly, harlot widow and her goddamn lingerie.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Papa asked. “About the chickens?”

“Sure,” Mama replied. “You’re teaching your chickens fear.”

“It’s genius,” Papa declared.

“Sure,” Mama said again. “You’re a genius. But I really don’t care if you teach your chickens how to flush a toilet. Because you know what would truly be genius, Wichian? What would truly be genius is if you get us back the eleven thousand on Sunday. This ship is sinking fast.”

XI

I saw Little Jui again the next afternoon. The Range Rover was parked outside the high school. Before I could get to my bike, Dam and Dang stopped me by the barbed-wire fence. “Miss,” Dam said, tapping my shoulder, while his partner stared down at me, gut heaving like some gigantic melon pulsing beneath his shirt. “Come with us.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I tried to walk past them, but Dang nudged me back with a quick hand. “Get your hands off me!” I cried. Some of the students looked in our direction but — seeing Dam and Dang — decided to ignore the scene, resume their after-school chattering.

“No need to make a fuss, miss,” Dam said, raising his pudgy hands as if taking an oath of innocence, and I remembered then that these two were responsible for the bruises on Papa’s face, bruises which were only beginning to heal. “The boss just wants to talk to you,” Dang said. I saw the Range Rover across the street, Little Jui smiling out the back window. Ramon, the Filipino boy, was sitting next to him, staring at me over Little Jui’s shoulder.