Rattawant Lapcharoensap - Sightseeing - Stories

This is how we count the days. June: the Germans come to the Island — football cleats, big T-shirts, thick tongues — speaking like spitting. July: the Italians, the French, the British, the Americans. The Italians like pad thai, its affinity with spaghetti. They like light fabrics, sunglasses, leather sandals. The French like plump girls, rambutans, disco music, baring their breasts. The British are here to work on their pasty complexions, their penchant for hashish. Americans are the fattest, the stingiest of the bunch. They may pretend to like pad thai or grilled prawns or the occasional curry, but twice a week they need their culinary comforts, their hamburgers and their pizzas. They’re also the worst drunks. Never get too close to a drunk American. August brings the Japanese. Stay close to them. Never underestimate the power of the yen. Everything’s cheap with imperial monies in hand and they’re too polite to bargain. By the end of August, when the monsoon starts to blow, they’re all consorting, slapping each other’s backs, slipping each other drugs, sleeping with each other, sipping their liquor under the pink lights of the Island’s bars. By September they’ve all deserted, leaving the Island to the Aussies and the Chinese, who are so omnipresent one need not mention them at all.

Ma says, “Pussy and elephants. That’s all these people want.” She always says this in August, at the season’s peak, when she’s tired of farangs running all over the Island, tired of finding used condoms in the motel’s rooms, tired of guests complaining to her in five languages. She turns to me and says, “You give them history, temples, pagodas, traditional dance, floating markets, seafood curry, tapioca desserts, silk-weaving cooperatives, but all they really want is to ride some hulking gray beast like a bunch of wildmen and to pant over girls and to lie there half-dead getting skin cancer on the beach during the time in between.”

We’re having a late lunch, watching television in the motel office. The Island Network is showing Rambo: First Blood Part II again. Sylvester Stallone, dubbed in Thai, mows down an entire VC regiment with a bow and arrow. I tell Ma I’ve just met a girl. “It might be love,” I say. “It might be real love, Ma. Like Romeo and Juliet love.”

Ma turns off the television just as John Rambo flies a chopper to safety.

She tells me it’s just my hormones. She sighs and says, “Oh no, not again. Don’t be so naïve,” she says. “I didn’t raise you to be stupid. Are you bonking one of the guests? You better not be bonking one of the guests. Because if you are, if you’re bonking one of the guests, we’re going to have to bleed the pig. Remember, luk, we have an agreement.”

I tell her she’s being xenophobic. I tell her things are different this time. But Ma just licks her lips and says once more that if I’m bonking one of the guests, I can look forward to eating Clint Eastwood curry in the near future. Ma’s always talking about killing my pig. And though I know she’s just teasing, she says it with such zeal and a peculiar glint in her eyes that I run out to the pen to check on the swine.

I knew it was love when Clint Eastwood sniffed her crotch earlier that morning and the girl didn’t scream or jump out of the sand or swat the pig like some of the other girls do. She merely lay there, snout in crotch, smiling that angelic smile, like it was the most natural thing in the world, running a hand over the fuzz of Clint Eastwood’s head like he was some pink and docile dog, and said, giggling, “Why hello, oh my, what a nice surprise, you’re quite a beast, aren’t you?”

I’d been combing the motel beachfront for trash when I looked up from my morning chore and noticed Clint Eastwood sniffing his new friend. An American: Her Budweiser bikini told me so. I apologized from a distance, called the pig over, but the girl said it was okay, it was fine, the pig could stay as long as he liked. She called me over and said I could do the same.

I told her the pig’s name.

“That’s adorable,” she said, laughing.

“He’s the best,” I said. “Dirty Harry. Fistful of Dollars. The Outlaw Josey Wales. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

“He’s a very good actor.”

“Yes. Mister Eastwood is a first-class thespian.”

Clint Eastwood trotted into the ocean for his morning bath then, leaving us alone, side-by-side in the sand. I looked to make sure Ma wasn’t watching me from the office window. I explained how Clint Eastwood loves the ocean at low tide, the wet sand like a three-kilometer trough of mud. The girl sat up on her elbows, watched the pig, a waterlogged copy of The Portrait of a Lady at her side. She’d just gone for a swim and the beads of water on her navel seemed so close that for a moment I thought I might faint if I did not look away.

“I’m Elizabeth. Lizzie.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Elizabeth,” I said. “I like your bikini.”

She threw back her head and laughed. I admired the shine of her tiny, perfectly even rows of teeth, the gleam of that soft, rose-colored tongue quivering between them like the meat of some magnificent mussel.

“Oh my,” she said, closing that mouth, gesturing with her chin. “I think your pig is drowning.”

Clint Eastwood was rolling around where the ocean meets the sand, chasing receding waves, running away from oncoming ones. It’s a game he plays every morning, scampering back and forth across the water’s edge, and he snorted happily every time the waves knocked him into the foam.

“He’s not drowning,” I said. “He’s swimming.”

“I didn’t know pigs could swim.”

“Clint Eastwood can.”

She smiled, a close-mouthed grin, admiring my pig at play, and I would’ve given anything in the world to see her tongue again, to reach out and sink my fingers into the hollows of her collarbone, to stare at that damp, beautiful navel all day long.

“I have an idea, Miss Elizabeth,” I said, getting up, brushing the sand from the seat of my shorts. “This may seem rather presumptuous, but would you like to go for an elephant ride with me today?”

Ma doesn’t want me bonking a farang because once, long ago, she had bonked a farang herself, against the wishes of her own parents, and all she got for her trouble was a broken heart and me in return. The farang was a man known to me only as Sergeant Marshall Henderson. I remember the Sergeant well, if only because he insisted I call him by his military rank.

“Not Daddy,” I remember him saying in English, my first and only language at the time. “Sergeant. Sergeant Henderson. Sergeant Marshall. Remember you’re a soldier now, boy. A spy for Uncle Sam’s army.”

And during those early years — before he went back to America, promising to send for us — the Sergeant and I would go on imaginary missions together, navigating our way through the thicket of farangs lazing on the beach.

“Private,” he’d yell after me. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, Private. This place gives me the creeps. We should radio for reinforcements. It could be an ambush.”

“Let ’em come, Sergeant! We can take ’em!” I would squeal, crawling through the sand with a large stick in hand, eyes trained on the enemy. “Those gooks’ll be sorry they ever showed their ugly faces.”