Sea Of Sorrows. Charley BrindleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
The waitress brought our drinks. We sipped.
“This is very good,” I said.
“I like the sugar and milk.”
I nodded.
“My sister works the street.”
“You come every night to wait for her?”
“Yes, but late only Saturday night. We have Sunday off, so we sleep late morning.”
“You live together?”
She drank her tea. “We share apartment in Song Wat road.”
“On the river?”
“Yes. It is nice view of water, and boat, too.”
After Siskit calmed down from her ordeal, she carried on a very good conversation.
“I work in export office, Monday to Saturday,” she said.
“Where did you learn English?”
“In my school we had choice of French or English. Prija and I still hate the French, as our parents always did.”
“Prija?”
“My sister.”
We talked about Bangkok, Thailand in the old days when it was called Siam, and the shipping business she was involved in.
The crowds thinned out after 4 a.m.
“I must go now, so—” I was interrupted.
“What are you doing with him?”
She came from behind, startling me. I spilled the last of my drink in my lap.
“He was—”
She grabbed Siskit’s arm, turning it for a look at the purple bruise. “He did this to you?” She spoke in Thai, almost shouting.
“Prija, he—”
“You stupid fucking American old geezer!” she shouted in English. “You think you just can come to our home country, hurt our girls, then buy them coffee and shit to make better?”
Thinking she was about to come at me, I stood and backed away.
Siskit caught her wrist, holding her back. “Stop it, Prija. He didn’t do it.” They both spoke in Thai.
“Who, then?” She glared at me. “If not this American old bastard.”
Siskit told her about the men who’d tried to drag her away. Prija narrowed her eyes on me as her sister told the story. Her face softened a little, but not much. Her eyes, like glowing dark embers, started to cool.
Prija was a very pretty brunette with a shapely petit figure accentuated by her tight tan skirt. Without the scowl, her face was more pubescent than the countenance of a young woman.
Siskit stood and reached for my hand. “I thank you for that you did. Them mens would want to hurt me so much.”
“Yeah.” Prija flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “Thanks. Sit now.” She took the other chair next to Siskit.
“It was only four men.” I spoke in their language, smiling at Siskit. “Not six. And just one gun.” I sat and watched Prija’s face.
It took her a moment to respond. “You call that Thai?”
“You speak our language so well,” Siskit said. “Where did you learn?”
“Here.” I nodded toward the street, where the daytime vendors were beginning to filter in. “In Ladprao.”
“Do you live here?”
“No. I’m just a visiting American old bastard.”
“You came to find nice young girl,” Prija said, “to have fucking fun time you can’t get in your own fucking country.” Her eyes flared, ready to burn if I got too close.
I stood and shoved my chair back, then took money from my pocket, peeled off some 100-baht bills, and dropped them on the table.
“Ratri swasdi, Siskit (Goodnight, Siskit).”
“That’s too much for two teas,” Prija said in Thai. “You have change coming.”
“Keep it.” I stared at her for a moment, then turned to leave. “You need it more than I do.”
I smiled as I walked away.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Chapter Two
Most of the girls take Sunday off, so I didn’t bother going to Ladprao.
In the early afternoon, I took a tuc-tuc to Rattanakosin, the Old City. It lies in the center of Bangkok, on the banks of the Chao Phraya River. The area is filled with beautiful old buildings from Thailand’s rich past, when the country was called Siam.
I boarded an excursion boat to cruise down the river. At a table on the fantail, I ordered a bottle of red wine and light meal of phat kaphrao, stir-fried chicken with basil and chili.
While I enjoyed the leisurely meal and lazy cruise, I typed notes on my iPad. It was impossible to write anything meaningful, but I recorded my thoughts as they were brought out by the passing scenery.
There’s something evocative about drifting through a landscape; your imagination latches onto visions and turns them into flights of adventure.
A colorful ninth-century palace brings to mind a captive princess longing for the freedom of my passing boat.
An old man in a skiff, tossing a net into the murky water. I imagined him to be a spy, keeping watch on the palace.
A young man and girl strolling along the river-walk, hand in hand, reminded me of another couple, fifty years gone.
So easy to slip back into that fantasy world, where all things were possible. It would be only a short separation, I told her, then we’d be together for the rest of our lives. We spent many evenings strolling and building the dreamy framework of our future.
But the war had different plans for us. A sea of sorrows awaited.
A blast on the ship’s whistle brought me back to the harsh present as the boat nosed into the dock.
* * * * *
Wednesday night, 1 a.m., I was back on the street.
I saw Prija leaning against a wall, chatting with one of the other girls. They wore tight micro-skirts and tube tops. As they talked, they glanced at their phones, occasionally clicking out a message, but always keeping an eye on the passing men.
I crossed the street, wanting to avoid her. Actually, I didn’t want to avoid her; just avoid talking to her.
As I watched from a doorway, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurried to cut a man from the heard. I don’t know what she saw, but she definitely wanted him. He was a well-dressed Thai, of middle age. Maybe a businessman.
The negotiations took only a minute. He gave her some money, then she took his hand to pull him toward a door leading to a series of small, dingy rooms.
I turned away. I don’t know why that tiny drama bothered me. I knew before I left the hotel what she’d be doing.
So why come to watch?
Three blocks away, I crossed the street and started back. At the little sidewalk café where Siskit and I had talked last Saturday night, I ordered tea, then turned on my iPad.
As I began to write, I was surprised by the flow-groove that opened before me.
Sometimes when I work, all I do is type. Most of it is trashed the next day when I edit the story, but other times I fall into a trance where the typing becomes writing. It might