Rattawant Lapcharoensap - Sightseeing - Stories

Anek brought the mouth of the bag to his chin. He took a big, deep breath, pulled his entire body back like it was a slingshot, then blew into the bag, inflating it like a balloon, the loose ends covering half his face, and it made a sound like a quick wind blowing through a sail. The bag grew larger and larger and I was afraid that it might burst, that the thinner would go flying everywhere. Anek looked at me the whole time he blew, his eyes growing wider and wider. He kept blowing and blowing and blowing, and I knew that my brother was blowing for a long time because one of the guys said, “Fucking inhale already, Anek,” but he kept on blowing and blowing and all that time he kept looking at me with those eyes about to pop out of his head. I don’t know what he was trying to tell me then, looking at me like that, but I remember noticing for the first time that he had our mother’s eyes. He finally inhaled, sucked his breath back into his chest, the plastic balloon collapsing in on itself, and then my brother was blinking hard, teetering, like a boxer stunned by a swift and surprising blow, and I knew that whatever it was he had smelled, whatever scent he had just inhaled, it was knocking him off his feet. He handed the bag to one of the other guys and said, “C’mon kid, let’s get out of here,” and I followed my brother out of the dark alley, back into the dimly lit street.

Years later, I’d be in a different alley with friends of my own, and one of the guys, high off a can of spray paint, would absentmindedly light a cigarette after taking a hit and his face would burst into a sheet of blue flames. He ran around the alley wild with panic, running into the sides of the buildings, stumbling and falling and getting back to his feet again, hands flying violently around his burning face as if trying to beat back a swarm of attacking insects. He never made a sound, just ran around that alley with his face on fire in silent terror, the flames catching in his hair and his clothes, looking like some giant ignited match in the shape of a man. For a second, we couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening — some of us laughed, most of us were just stunned — before I managed to chase the boy down, tackle him to the ground, and beat out the flames from his face with my T-shirt. His eyes were wild with terror and we just stared at each other for a moment before he started to weep hysterically, his body shaking under mine, the terrible scent of burnt flesh and singed hair filling the alley. His lashes and eyebrows had been burned cleanly off his face. His eyelids were raw, pink. His face began to swell immediately, large white welts blooming here and there. And he just kept on crying beneath me, calling for his mother and father, blubbering incoherently in the high, desperate voice of a child.

Back at the café, I could tell that the thinner was setting in. Anek kept tilting back in his seat, dilating his eyes. He took a long swig of his rye, poured himself another. I knew we wouldn’t be going home for a while. The same girl who had winked at me earlier walked across the room and sat down at our table. She put her arm around my shoulder. I felt my body tense. She smelled like menthol, like the prickly heat powder Anek and I sprinkled on ourselves to keep cool at night.

“Hi, handsome.”

“Hi.”

I sipped at the last of my cola. Across the room, I noticed the girls looking our way, giggling among themselves.

“That’s my brother,” Anek drawled.

“I know, Anek.”

“He’s a little high,” I said, laughing.

“Looks like it.”

“Yeah.” Anek smiled, slow and lazy. “Just a little.”

“Where are the rest?” she asked me.

“Outside.”

“What about you, handsome? Are you high?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

“Yeah. Of course. Plenty of times.”

She laughed, threw her head far back. Menthol. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to smear her carmine lips with my hands. I reached across the table for Anek’s Krong Thips and lit one.

“You’re adorable,” she said, pinching one of my cheeks. I felt myself blush. “But you shouldn’t be smoking those things at your age.”

“I know,” I said, smiling at her, taking a drag. “Cigarettes are bad.”

“C’mon,” Anek said, getting up abruptly, swaying a little bit. He reached out and grabbed her hand from my shoulder. “C’mon.” He nodded toward the staircase. “Let’s go.”

She stood up, her hand dangling in my brother’s, while I sat between them.

“What about the kid?” she asked, looking down at me.

“Oh, he’ll be fine.”

“Maybe not tonight, Anek. We shouldn’t leave the kid by himself.”

“Hey barf-boy,” Anek said. “You gonna be okay?”

I looked up at my brother. He still had the girl’s hand in his own. I took a long drag of my cigarette.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine, Anek. I’m not a kid anymore.”

Anek smiled as if he found me amusing. I wanted to wipe the smile off his face. I felt angry. I didn’t want to be abandoned. Anek must’ve sensed this because there suddenly seemed something sad about my brother’s smile. He dropped the girl’s hand. He reached out and tapped me lightly on the head.

“Okay, kid. You don’t have to be so tough all the time,” he said finally. He took a deep breath, his voice a little steadier, his eyes a little wider. “Tell you what. I’m just gonna go put some music in the jukebox. Then Nong and I are gonna dance. Then we’re gonna go upstairs for a while. Just a short while. We won’t be long. I promise. Then, if you want, we’ll go home, okay?” But I just took another drag of my cigarette, watched the girls in the corner, tried not to meet my brother’s eyes.

She led him out to the dance floor. They stood by the jukebox and he slipped a few coins into the machine, steadying himself with one hand. A record came on, the sound of high Isan flutes and xylophones and a hand drum striking up the first few bars. Anek clumsily took one of the girl’s hands, hooked an arm around her waist, and they started moving to the music. They stood close, their chins on each other’s shoulders, though perhaps a little too close for the girl, because she leaned away from my brother a few times. But then again, maybe it was because my brother was high, drunk, and they kept losing their balance. They didn’t look like dancers at all after a while; they looked like they were just holding each other up, falling into and out of each other’s body.

I hadn’t recognized the tune at first — I thought it was just another generic upcountry ballad — but then a woman’s falsetto came soaring over the instruments and I remembered that it was an old record of Ma’s, something she and Pa used to listen to in the early afternoon, hours before the endlessly growing mass of garbage burned behind our house. Those days curry and fish in tamarind sauce would be cooking on the stove, the aroma wafting into the house, and I swear that right then, listening to that music, I could smell it on the tip of my nose.

Oh beloved, so sad was my departure …

I looked at Anek and the girl. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old — younger than my brother — but it seemed clear to me now that she was the one holding him up, directing his course, leading him. I wondered how many men she had held up tonight, how many more she would hold in the thousands of nights before her. I wondered whether she was already finding the force of their weight unbearable. I wondered whether I would be adding my weight to that mass one day. She held him close now and he, he pulled away, fell out of sync, though they continued to move across the floor as slowly and languorously as the music in the café.

… I am tired, I am broken, I am lost …