Nowhere Girl (9 page)

27

Chaluay drops me off in Siam Square and leaves me there to walk up and down the streets, explore the shops, or do whatever I like with my afternoon. As her bike roars out of sight, my shoulders tighten. There is business to be done today. I must learn about airplane travel.

Straightening the strap of my pouch, I look around me. And then I gulp and nearly stumble.

For the first time since arriving in Bangkok, I am alone. People around me talk, laugh, push, jostle. They speak into small mobile phones and they squawk at their children. They look coyly at boys or girls near them. They move fluidly through this dance of life without giving it a second thought. And here I stand, stuck on the side with my dancing shoes still in hand. It is not that I don't know the right moves—I don't even hear the same music.

With a deep breath, I center my mind on what matters: learning about travel to America. One step at a time. I set to work exploring my surroundings, looking for clues that will point me to the right path.

But where to begin? Down the street as far as I can see, and on side streets in every direction, so many different shops clatter out a noisy jumble of objects: T-shirts with big cartoon faces of monkeys and frogs; radios pumping out music loud enough to make my teeth rattle as I walk by; televisions so thin and shiny I would watch them even if the screens were dark and empty; and everywhere, food and drinks and sweets of all types. All the bright colors promise so many new discoveries, but how can people take all this in at once? There are
things
everywhere—more than I could ever need, more than I can even imagine. It is simply too much. I fight a desire to cover my eyes and ears and retreat into a dark doorway, to seek out some small moment of quiet.

But I will myself to be strong. I push past the stalls and the awnings; I turn away from the flashing signs; I step out of the way of bustling shoppers with loud voices and overflowing bags. Some of these people might know where to find what I am looking for, but it is beyond me to approach them and ask for help. It is all I can do to keep my eyes facing forward and to keep on moving. And with every new shop, in every new window I keep looking for the right sign.

I don't find it. But I do see something else. A neat store window, with no blinking lights or yelling merchants. The display is full of books. And one in particular catches my eye. As I step inside, a perky shopgirl eyes me hungrily, starts to chatter about sales and prices. But I shake my head.

“Please,” I say, bringing my hands together in a
wai
. “I would just like to see that book in the window.”

She nods and leans over to pull it out for me.

Cinderella
.

My eyes fill as I run my fingers over the smooth binding, feel the crisp pages. It's not the same book I read nearly every day as a child. The pictures are different and there are no gold curlicues on the cover. But it's the same story, the story I know by heart. The poor orphaned girl who grows up to become a princess. Who finds her happily ever after.

It feels like a bit of home out here in this busy, smelly city. I pull out some of the
baht
Isra gave me and pay the shopgirl, as Kiet showed me in the 7-Eleven. And as I step back out into the street with the book tucked snugly into my bag, my head feels suddenly clear, my step strong, my mind focused.

I am here on a mission, and I won't stop until I find what I am seeking.

This thought sustains me while I walk up one street and down the next. And finally, when I'm starting to wonder if perhaps such a place doesn't exist at all, I see it. A tiny shop, squeezed in between two tall, gaudy buildings. The window, hardly wider than a rush mat, is bare except for a hand-lettered sign that says simply:
TRAVEL.

At last.

I push through the door and a bell tinkles. Inside the shop, it's even hotter and more humid than it was out on the street. But what space there is has been transformed into a global paradise. Posters cover every wall, bright glossy images with captions like:
EXPLORE ECUADOR! BALI IS A TROPICAL DREAM!
And, most wonderfully:
SEE AMERICA TODAY!

The America poster shows dry rugged mountains of reddish stone and smiling people wearing jeans and sunglasses. I slide over to it almost without realizing I've moved. I trace one finger along the border. Is this what Brookline, Massachusetts, looks like?

At a sound behind me I turn.

“Hello, young woman,” says a man behind the counter. His flat nose makes him look like he's wearing a mask, but his eyes are kind. He speaks to me in English, and I smile at the way people assume I am a
farang
. And why shouldn't they?

I leave the poster and move to the counter, replying in Thai. “I would like some information about traveling to America.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You are alone?”

“Yes.”

He frowns, and his nose flattens even further. But he turns toward a gray computer, much like the one Chief Warden Kanya had in her office. “Where in America?” he asks me.

“I want to go to Brookline, Massachusetts.” Saying the words out loud sends a tremor through me. It's a thrill of joy, of possibility, but also of sadness, because it's a part of Mama that she turned her back on, and I may never know why.

“Brookline?” says the man. Then, “Massachusetts. Boston?”

I think about this. Mama spent a full week teaching me all the American states and their capitals, but it was such a chore that I made no effort to remember them afterward. But those two names sound right together. “Yes,” I say, then add: “I need to travel very soon. In a few days.”

“You know that will be more expensive, yes? Do you have money to pay for this ticket?” His look is cautious, like he's not sure what to make of me, like he's trying to be nice but thinks deep down maybe I'm just playing a joke on him.

I pull my eyebrows together. Reaching into my bag, I grab the pouch containing my dollars. I push down a tickle of worry; of course there will be enough! Pulling open the zipper, I dump the stack of money out onto the counter. It falls into place with a soft
thump,
and out of the upside-down pouch, something else falls, too. A small key on a red plastic key ring.

Over at the computer, the man freezes in place. His nose twitches and he leans down, looking furtively from side to side as if he's afraid the walls might be spying on us. “Foolish girl, what do you think you're doing?” he snaps. He crams the bills back into the pouch, shutting the zipper with an angry hiss. “Do you know how much money you have here?”

My cheeks burn and I shake my head.

“A lot. Too much. You should not be carrying this money around and you certainly shouldn't be displaying it in public.”

I know my lip is trembling, and he must see it too because his eyes soften. He presses the pouch into my hand. “Not everyone in this city will be honest and treat you well. You be very careful with that money. All right?”

I nod and stuff the pouch back into my bag.

“What's this?” he asks.

The little silver key is still on the counter. I pick it up and look carefully at the plastic keychain. There is a label with writing on it, faded and smudged but just barely visible:
BK Storage #391

“You have left your luggage here? BK Storage?” It's a place he is apparently familiar with. And I have no idea what he is talking about. “They are good people—it is run by a foreigner, in fact. A little unconventional, but they provide a fine service. And they are honest. Do you know how to get back there?”

I shake my head, so he pulls out a sheet of notepaper and draws me a simple map with directions. Then he talks more about tickets and reservations and scheduling and asks me if I want to pay for my fare now and tells me how easy it is to take care of, right here with no difficulties. He talks and talks, but after a while I don't hear a word he says because my mind is raging and storming and shrieking with emotion, because—because—

There was a key in Mama's money bag. A key to a storage locker.

A key, maybe, to understanding my past.

How can I buy my ticket without first knowing what secrets, what treasures, what information awaits me there? I might find something that turns my plans completely around, something that changes everything.

I thank the man for his time and tell him I cannot buy the ticket yet, tell him I will be back. Then, crushing my key tight in my hand, I push through the door and head back out into the rain.

After walking a few minutes, I finally slow my mind enough to think clearly and duck under an awning to study the scribbled map. BK Storage is on Rama IV, not too far from Siam Square, but it's getting dark now and the idea of exploring at night is too alarming. And what if I were late to meet Chaluay? I'm not certain she would wait for me, and I have no way to find her apartment alone.

I think for a moment how easy it would be for Chaluay to drive me to the storage place, if I had the courage to ask her. With her knowledge of the side streets and short cuts, we could probably be there in minutes.

I think of her smile, her eager look this morning. And again I think: she could become a friend. But this errand is part of my secret past. I cannot bring Chaluay here without telling her everything about myself.

And that is something I'm not willing to do.

No, this step is mine to take alone. I will not share it with her.

28

The rain pours down in sheets as I stand on the busy sidewalk, waiting for Chaluay. People push past me, cowering under bright umbrellas, under raincoats, under open newspapers or plastic shopping bags. But what do I care for rain? I, who have spent my life so sheltered, love this new way of knowing the elements. I smile and tilt my head back, close my eyes to the sky, and let the torrent do its worst.

It might be minutes or hours later, but finally Chaluay beeps her horn and I open my eyes and see her. I smile and she motions for me to come.

We ride back to her apartment in silence. I'm still lost in my day's discoveries, anticipating all that tomorrow might bring. As I crawl into my bed and drift off to sleep, I resolve that first thing in the morning I will ask Chaluay to drop me off near BK Storage. I will find my secret mystery.

But Chaluay has other plans.

I am woken in the still-dark of early morning, her rough hands shaking me out of a dream of keys swirling in a cloud of black exhaust smoke, of locked boxes opening only to reveal another locked box inside, endlessly opening while bringing me no closer to an answer or to understanding.

All of this dispels as my eyes flick open to see Chaluay's face, so close to mine in the near-darkness. I move away and rub crusts from my eyes. “What time is it?” I ask. “What's the matter?”

“Wake up!” Chaluay's voice quivers with excitement. “We will be late!”

I tilt my watch toward the little bar of light cast on the floor by the outside streetlight. Now I understand why there is a big rock in the middle of my chest and silk stitching on my eyelids. “It's not even four in the morning! What are you talking about?”

“The river,” she crows. “Remember? I told you I'd take you. Haven't you heard of the floating markets? That is where we will go. To see the river and to have a fine morning meal! It's quite a way out of the city, but it is an experience you should not miss.”

I groan and try to roll over, but Chaluay has our day planned and will not let me spoil it. She chatters and chatters until I finally sit upright, wobbling slightly. There will be no more sleep for me this morning. I throw off my covers and shuffle toward the washroom and into the day.

We arrive at the river just before five o'clock. It's not raining yet, but the sky is inky black and the water looks like a giant mud puddle, hungry and slurping and smelling strongly of sewage. I shiver, wishing I were still curled up on my warm mat, wishing I were anywhere but here.

Chaluay parks her bike, and as we get nearer I can see that the river is full of winking lights. The water is afloat with so many tiny boats, and now the stench of sewage is overpowered by a whirlwind of delicious smells. In each boat I can see crates and crates of food. One boat holds ripe fruits; another, deep green vegetables; still another holds a small cookstove and an old woman stirring noodles in a precariously tilting pot. It is a floating food market, just as Chaluay said. The water all around is still big and wild and unfriendly, but I shut my eyes and breathe in the spicy smells.

Suddenly I am ravenously hungry. Chaluay tosses a few
baht
into the hand of a man standing at the ready with a small boat and she jumps in, calling out to me to join her. I shake my head and draw back. The food tempts me, but I will not go near that watery black mass. The very thought of it turns my bones to liquid.

Chaluay shrugs and I watch as she is maneuvered through the watery aisles, past other boats filled with silk and carved trinkets and silver jewelry. In a few minutes she returns with two plates of fish and rice. I thank her for her generosity and fall onto the best meal I have had since arriving in Bangkok.

As I eat, I turn my body so that the river runs behind me. It's bad enough to know it is there without keeping it in my sight every moment. Chaluay pauses, plastic fork halfway to her mouth, and looks at me.

“Did you buy many fancy things while shopping yesterday?”

I stare at her. Fancy things? What kind of person does she think I am? But of course, I realize, she doesn't know the real me. I've made sure of that. I frown at this fake persona I'm creating, and feel a second's desperate wish to tell her the whole truth. But what a crazy thought! She would just pity me, label me, maybe even shun me. With effort, I shrug and try for a secretive smile. And this fake smile makes me remember the day's real joy. I can't tell her about finding the key, but the other subject is safe. “I found a travel store.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, a wonderful place—filled with posters from so many countries of the world!” I suddenly realize how eager I sound. How naive. I take a deep breath and slow my speech. “Not that it's anything special, of course, traveling around the world. On airplanes and—things like that.” It's harder than I thought to show real enthusiasm while trying to be someone you are not. Obviously I need more practice at this. “Anyway, the man told me about a plane that goes to just the right place. It will take me home. And he said the money I have will be more than sufficient for the ticket.”

I look at her expectantly, but she must not realize what a big deal this is. She is looking at me with a little frown, wrinkles creasing in between her eyes. After a minute I start to feel uncomfortable, but then she shrugs and brushes a few specks of rice off her lap. “That is good news. Well, when you are finished we should go back up the river a ways. There is something I want to show you.”

I almost sigh with relief. Something happened a moment ago, and I am not sure what it was. Did she suspect me of keeping secrets from her? I'm glad to move on to safer subjects.

Even if the subject we are moving toward is the least safe thing I know.

Chaluay starts up her motorbike and we ride back into the city, then park near a bank of the Chao Phraya. The water roars louder here, and there is no way to walk right along the river's edge. Where could Chaluay be taking me? We approach the water, and I shift my position so that she walks nearest the bank. I want as much distance as possible from the rushing waves.

And then up ahead I see a fancy stone dock, with a fine-looking boat resting nearby. It is a busy area, with many people coming and going. The boat's motor roars loudly in the early-morning air. Up over the river, the sky is beginning to lighten. It will soon be dawn, but for now the shadows still hang thick around us. I try to keep my mind away from the menacing water and on the possibilities ahead. Keys and locks. Mysteries explained. Soon. Just as soon as the sun rises and the workday begins.

“See there?” says Chaluay, dragging me back to reality. And the river. Shuddering a little, I follow the direction of her pointing finger. A man stands on the dock, bending in close to every person who approaches him. He takes some small thing they each put in his hand, then allows them to move past him, climbing over a narrow platform onto the boat.

Chaluay inches closer and I follow, warily. “Get ready,” she says.

“Ready for what?” I ask. There is an awful clenching in my stomach, as I start to get a sense of what she has planned. Something I am sure I will hate.

She replies with a smile and a toss of her head. “A new experience, I'm sure. It will be good for you. Just be ready—and when I say the word, follow me. You need to be
fast
.”

“Wait,” I say, and grab Chaluay's arm. “I don't—”

But right then, a large group of people approach the man on the dock. They cluster around so that I cannot see him at all anymore. And Chaluay begins to move. “
Now
!” she hisses. She darts forward, and I follow her until we are very near the boat.

“What?” I say, panting.

“The ticket man will be distracted for another minute. We can slip on the ferry and no one will ever know. But you have to
move
!”

“I don't— I won't—” Terror steals my words and paralyzes my legs.

But Chaluay grabs my arm and yanks me firmly onto the platform. “You have to come across,” she says. “If they catch us now, they will arrest us. Do you want to go to prison?”

Chaluay has said the magic word. My legs turn into a blur of motion, and before I know it we have slipped across the platform and onto the unexpectedly wobbly deck of the boat.

“Quick,” she says, and we duck down a dark flight of stairs just as the beaming sun peeps over the far horizon and floods the deck in a scarlet spotlight.