Rattawant Lapcharoensap - Sightseeing - Stories

“People like winners,” Mama said again.

“I heard you the first time, Saiya.”

“Give it up,” Mama said, collecting our plates. “It’s a lost cause. That boy’s making a fool of you and he’s taking all our money. It’s probably his father’s idea, that’s what I think. Big Jui arranged to have that Filipino boy sent over, didn’t he? He’s probably laughing at you now, Wichian.”

I looked at Papa. I thought I saw his face darken, a light shadow pass over his features, and I wondered if this had always happened, if — in my ignorance — I’d always missed the severity of Papa’s features whenever he was confronted with Big Jui’s name.

“That man,” Papa said, “has nothing to do with this, Saiya. It’s between me and the boy.”

“Sure,” Mama said. “Whatever you say, Wichian.”

“Besides,” Papa said, “I’m going to win next week. You just watch. Once I’m through training the cocks, they’ll mince those Filipino purebreds.”

“Well, good luck to you, Wichian,” Mama said, shaking her head. “Have fun trying. But before you teach your chickens how to dodge a speeding bullet, let me remind you that you’ve lost twelve thousand now. In case you haven’t heard, nobody’s betting against that Filipino boy.”

“You just watch,” Papa said grimly to Mama. “Have a little faith in my chickens.”

XIII

We rarely saw Papa that week. He’d come home from the factory and retire immediately to the chicken house. I’d occasionally watch Papa go through his routine: massaging the cocks’ thighs, bathing them, purifying the feed, sharpening the spurs, making sure they received the proper amount of sun. If Papa was teaching the chickens fear, I couldn’t see how. They were getting the usual treatment, the kind of impeccable care that — according to Mama — would end a lot of suffering if the town’s women and children were treated the same.

Sunday drew near. I didn’t see Little Jui; again, I had begun to dread the outside world after our last encounter. Open air made me nervous. In my mind, the Range Rover loomed around every corner. Noon invited me out several times, but I told her I needed to help Mama with the lingerie. I rushed headlong between home and school, taking the long way along the small path reserved for dirt bikes and water buffaloes that ran through the rubber grove. Better the strays, I thought, than Little Jui and his goons. I considered telling Mama about Little Jui’s advances, but she had become unflappably morose — complaining at all times about Papa, about the chickens, about Miss Mayuree — and I didn’t want to aggravate her mood. Besides, I didn’t know if Little Jui’s menace would have real consequences or if it was simply designed to frighten me and, as a result, Papa as well. Many hours were spent considering the possibilities, none innocent, while Papa tended to his chickens outside my bedroom window. I started having strange, barbaric dreams.

Friday morning, after he’d run the cocks, Papa was out in the yard with what looked like a black kitchen radio in his hands. Two chickens flapped around the yard before him, sparring without their spurs, lurching at one another, their bodies clashing in the air as a bright bursting of color. I went to help Mama with breakfast. She turned to me and said, “The insanity, Ladda. Just look at him.”

I looked. I realized then that the kitchen radio Papa held in his hands was actually the radio for a remote-control car. I realized, too, that there weren’t two cocks in the yard at all — there was only one. The other was a rubber chicken attached to the roof of the remote-control car. Papa’d painted plumage on the decoy’s synthetic body, splotches of green and ochre and yellow and white. It was a childish paint job: on closer look, the decoy looked more like a clown than a gamecock. Nonetheless, Papa tried to chase the cock with the contraption. Unfazed, the cock kept launching at his rubber compatriot, toppling it over, Papa cursing each time before righting the car once more, only to have the chicken knock the contraption down again, the car’s wheels whizzing wildly in the air, jerking the fake chicken with its momentum so that it wiggled with artificial life. On and on it went, and with each blow the cock landed on his rubber opponent, he seemed to gather courage rather than fear, though that courage soon turned to irritation: The cock didn’t even bother to leap into the air to deliver his blows anymore, he just charged absent-mindedly before turning his attention elsewhere as Papa prepared the contraption again. The cock knew as Papa knew as Mama and I knew that a rubber chicken attached to a remote-control car was nothing to be afraid of. I realized then the extent of my father’s desperation. Papa, I understood now, didn’t know what he was doing.

“Wow,” I said to Mama. “That’s interesting.”

“I’ve seen it all,” Mama muttered, shaking her head. Papa tried a few more times. The cock rushed doggedly at the contraption, pecked curiously at the overturned toy car.

Then Papa dashed the controls to the ground and smashed them with a few violent stomps. The box shattered into tiny black pieces, springs and coils and wires and plastic parts scattering across the yard. Thinking it might be feed, the cock waddled over and inspected the pieces strewn around Papa’s feet.

“Oh God,” Mama said. “Go calm him down, Ladda. He’s not coming to breakfast like that.”

Before I could step off the porch, however, Papa’s anger had moved on from the remote control to the cock itself. He kicked it. The cock leapt into the air. Papa lunged at the creature with his hands; I thought he would wring its neck right then and there. But the cock leapt defiantly back into Papa’s face. Papa fell, surprised by the cock’s retaliation, and the cock jumped feetfirst into my father’s face again, tried to sink its sharpened talons into Papa’s cheeks, mad clucks like tiny screams echoing in the morning. Papa tried to shove the cock off his face, batted it with his hands, but the cock kept leaping toward him, a relentless flurry of feathers.

I cried out for Papa, ran toward him, but he didn’t hear me. After a short struggle, he managed to grab the cock by the neck and bash its body against the ground. I thought Papa would sever the cock’s head from its body with his bashing, but then he gathered the creature into his arms and held it to his chest with its beak facing forward, its wings trapped between his knees — the safest position (I’d been told for as long as I could remember) to handle a gamecock. The chicken thrashed violently for a moment before settling down, its chest heaving in Papa’s grip, its head skittering to and fro.

“Stupid,” I heard Papa mumble when I approached. I didn’t know if he was talking to the chicken or to himself. “Papa,” I said. “Are you okay?” He turned to me suddenly, eyes wide as if in a trance. He’d never looked at me like that before. I was afraid Papa would turn his rage on me now. I stepped back. He wasn’t Papa anymore; he’d become somebody else. He looked crazed. The cock had left a few light gashes on his face. Blood rose to the skin’s surface like war paint. With that chicken fussing between his knees, Papa looked like one of the wildmen in a documentary about the Amazon I’d seen years ago, when we bought our first color set from his winnings. But then Papa came back to himself. The madness left his eyes. He smiled at me sheepishly.

“Here,” he said, holding out the creature with both hands. “Take the chicken,” he said, as if he’d been waiting all morning for me to do the task. I gathered the creature into my arms, trapped its body between my knees. The cock began to purr, its body vibrating delicately against my thighs. I thought I could feel its tiny chicken heart fluttering beneath the skin. On the other side of the yard, the remote-control car lay on its side like a toy some fickle child had abandoned. Papa wiped his face with his shirt, light streaks of blood dotting the fabric. The gashes were superficial. He squatted before me.