The Merit Birds (2 page)

Seng

The heat hung heavily on Seng's chubby shoulders, like pails of water weighing down the thin body of a villager. Even children moved slowly and the mangy dogs that crept along the red, dusty road wouldn't eat. Seng wiped his brow with the back of his hand and continued to push his bicycle along, plastic knick-knacks dangling perilously but never seeming to fall from the tall, metal pole he had attached to the back of his bike. Normally, the heat didn't bother him so much — he was Lao after all. But today he was bugged. He kept humming that song all the Americans liked, the one about a Barbie girl. It helped him to forget. He wondered what was so special about girls named Barbara. Or why they were made from plastic. He'd find out once he got to America.

Nothing was supposed to bother him. He was the class clown, the fat guy who was always laughing, the one who didn't take life very seriously. He said
boh penyang
— no worries — more often than most Lao people did, and that was a lot, considering it was virtually the national mantra. The signs outside of the tourist cafes read
Welcome to Laos! Boh Penyang!
But the truth was he did have worries. Especially when it came to his little sister, Nok. Something was happening at her work and he had his suspicions. He might be stupid, but he wasn't born yesterday.

The fact that Nok had to work because he, Seng, didn't make enough money made it so much worse. With her brains she should be at school.

I am not a failure
, he tried to tell himself.
I can do more than make people laugh.

An array of goods hung heavy like the heat from his Thai-style bike — spoons, forks, little buckets for bathing, matches, a few combs, children's toys. The plastic wares were balanced just right. Not too unstable in case they fell, but not too sturdy, either. He wanted to attract attention. His head looked tiny compared to the massive balloon of brightly coloured plastic that exploded on the pole behind him. As he cycled along he was part salesman, part circus show. No wonder nobody took him seriously.

Usually the Vietnamese sold this kind of stuff, but Seng and Nok were desperate for money. He had bought the cheap objects a month ago from a Chinese salesman, hoping to make some
kip
. He had to sell something today — just one thing. Something to make it all worthwhile.

A group of backpackers, tall, white, and hairy, pointed at him.

“Check out all the stuff balancing on that guy's bike!”

Seng understood their English, or at least those particular words. He liked to think about the big
baci
he would throw if he had 500
kip
for every time a foreigner said them.

“You like Barbie?” he called out. He knew it made no sense since he didn't actually sell Barbies, but he was okay with that. He wanted to make them laugh. Something about this made him sad, but he wasn't sure why. He should really stop thinking so much. It wasn't good for him. He smiled his wide grin and the
falangs
focused their cameras on his face, deep brown from the sun.

“Cheese!” they said. Seng always thought this was funny because the backpackers usually smelled like cheese, or at least milk or yogurt or some kind of dairy. It was the unmistakable smell of whiteness. Truth was, Seng wanted to smell like cheese. He had tried it once and liked how it filled his belly in a heavy, complete way. It looked so good on those advertisements he saw on Thai television, all melted and creamy. He liked most things he saw on television: microwaves, instant soup mixes, and blonde girls with big boobs. He wanted to go to America someday. He thought about it a lot — walking down the street, free from his plastic merchandise, and on his way to an easy job sitting at a desk in air-conditioning all day long. Biting into a big, fat hamburger with a big, fat white girl beside him. A mind free of thoughts about where to get his next
kip
and most of all, the biggest
baci
at his house that any Lao-American person had ever seen. His oldest sister, Vong, had moved there when she got married. Her Lao-American husband, Chit, had left whatever glitzy American city he lived in to visit Vientiane. He had come to please his aging parents; they wanted him to know his roots, he wanted to know Lao girls. Seng was certain the parents must have been happy when Chit returned with a Lao bride, but Seng and Nok hadn't seen their sister in a while. Still, he was sure Vong would help him get to the land of cheese, white girls, and big
baci
parties.

“Want to buy?” Seng asked the tourists who had taken his picture. He gestured toward all of the plastic on the back of his bike.

“No, thanks,” the tallest one answered.

“So sorry to hear that,” Seng said. Then he brightened. “Barbie's plastic, I sell plastic, it's fantastic!”
Use their song
, he thought.
Brilliant marketing plan
.

The tourists laughed. “You really like that song, eh?”

“Most popular song in America,” Seng answered proudly. They would not be able to deny that he knew a lot about their culture.

“I've never even heard of that song,” one of the girls said.

“It's that cheesy song from a few years ago,” another answered. “Guess it takes a while for radio hits to make it to Vientiane.” Seng's heart sank. He had to do something to lighten the mood; otherwise, these tourists would never buy anything.

“Cheese!” he suddenly exclaimed. He posed as if someone was going to take his picture again. They all laughed. “So you will buy? Nice comb to brush your chest hair?”

Seng didn't know much about chest hair. Lao guys didn't have it. Surely it would need some grooming?

The group of backpackers exploded into laughter.

“No, thanks, bud,” one of the guys laughed and put a hand on Seng's shoulder.

“So sorry to hear that,” Seng said, and pushed down on his pedal so he could move away from them. He suddenly felt embarrassed.

He dodged
tuk-tuks
as he pedaled by the Morning Market. Always a showman, he rang his bike's bell for children on their lunch break, their white-and-blue school uniforms overtaking the city's sandy streets like ants on food. They reminded him of his school days. As he and his sisters left for school each morning their mother would slip money into their pockets, her round face filled with pride. Of the three, he was the only one who hadn't lived up to that pride. Nok was always at the top of her class and Vong — well. Vong was in America! What more could be said of her success? But here he was, still trying to make a life for himself.

Girls thought he was too goofy. In school he could make them all laugh, but no one wanted a pudgy clown for a boyfriend. They wanted the smart guys with big muscles. Seng hated schoolwork, especially English. While everybody practised “Have a nice day” and idioms (or was it
idiots
? He never remembered), he sat silent. He felt like an idiom. The only reason he went to English class was to please his mother.

He could remember clearly the day she was taken for political re-education. Even at a young age he had known it was coming. Other employees of King Savang Vatthana had been taken years before, in the months after the communists took the king himself. To this day Seng wondered what his parents had done to keep the communists away from their door for so long. He remembered the heavy, rainy season sky on the day his mother and father were stolen in Luang Prabang, the town where he was born. Lush mountains shrouded in mist. A banging on the door. The greenish beige of the communist officer's uniform. The smell of the cigarette smoke he blew in Pa's face. The peaceful sound of the gong vibrating down from the mountaintop temple, in stark contrast with the chaos that was happening in the town beneath. Luang Prabang, home of the royal family and countless golden temple roofs stretching up to the cool, northern sky, faced the communists' irritation more than other Lao towns. Communists aren't big fans of royalty or religion, and Luang Prabang had plenty of both.

“Take care of each other,” Meh had said, her smile doing nothing to hide her fear. “Your father and I will be back.”

Seng had been five years old. He never saw them again. Every once in a while he would think he spotted his mother in the crowds at the boat festival, or crouched along the side of the road at dawn, offering alms to monks wrapped in orange robes. He remembered how she liked to put a bit of sticky rice in the monks' bowls. Sometimes a banana or some
kip
. Of course it was never his mother whom he spotted, but it didn't stop him from imagining how it might be to meet her once more. She would take him into her arms and sniff his cheek the way Lao parents did to show affection. After the shock of meeting again wore off, her questions would come. “What have you made of your life, son?” And he would have nothing to answer.

Nothing.

Seng rode his bike home slowly. He hadn't sold a single thing. From the road he could hear Nok in the front yard, sifting rice. She looked so serious.

“Good day at work?” he asked. She nodded without looking at him; she was preoccupied and he was glad. She wouldn't ask him about his sales for the day.

“Don't worry, little sister. Someday I'll take you to America. You won't have to work so hard, and you can go to any university you want.”

He knew what her wistful little smile meant. She thought he was a goof like everyone else.

“No, seriously. Vong will bring us there someday.”

“Did you write her the e-mail you said you were going to?” Nok asked. He thought he could see something different in her eyes. A heaviness. Her job was definitely getting to her — but why?

“Seng, you're not listening.” Nok drew him out of his thoughts. Nothing about the girl was phony, not even her words, although sometimes Seng wished they were. She had a way of making her sentences as direct as an arrow. He, on the other hand, had no problem with phoniness. He hadn't written a letter since high school, but would never admit that he didn't know how to write one. Especially one that was going to be sent to America. On a computer.

“I could write it in English if you want.” Nok had aced high school, and could have gone to Dong Dok, Laos's only university. But when she'd graduated there had been no money; she had taken a course on traditional Lao massage instead.

“If I want to write a letter, I'll write one,” Seng said and shrugged. He was supposed to be the older sibling after all. He didn't need his little sister taking care of him all the time. “I'll make it there someday,” he promised, “and once I do I'll send for you and we'll be living the easy life together. Maybe you'll even find a rich, American boyfriend.”

She rolled her eyes playfully and he laughed. She didn't think much about boyfriends and Seng thought that was bizarre, given how many times Lao people ask if you're married. It was a common greeting, like “Where are you going?” or
“Boh penyang.”
It was one of those things people just said without thinking. Seng guessed Americans didn't say words just to say them. They were too smart for that.

Nok

Nok led her next client into the dim room, the familiar smell of menthol and camphor at her nose. Usually her clients were not that interested in her — only in her services. But this one watched her intently. She showed him to a mattress on the floor and drew a curtain around him. When she returned he was sitting up, wearing the pajamas the house provided with
FA NGUM MASSAGE
stitched on the chest pocket. She motioned for him to lie down and he nodded with a grin. As she began to work on him she wondered where he was from — England, America, Australia. They were all in Vientiane now.

The
falang
kept his eyes open. Her clients didn't often look at her. When she snapped a toe joint his face winced.

“Your toe hurts?” she asked.

He nodded and sat up.

“You speak English?” he asked, obviously surprised.

She nodded.

“You must be well educated for someone in your —” he paused, searching for the right word “— profession, I guess I'll call it.”

“It
is
a profession,” she said bluntly. “And a tradition.”

He said he was a development worker from France, an employee with one of the international non-governmental organizations that dotted Vientiane. The government had permitted international NGOs — not local ones — to come back to Laos in the early nineties, and since then Vientiane had changed. Signs were painted in English and restaurants selling pizza, sandwiches, and French fries poked their heads from Vientiane's fertile soil, like the frog that always startled her when he popped his head out of her shower drain — uninvited, yet somewhat amusing once she became accustomed to him. Her clientele changed from tired Vientiane workers to chubby foreigners with big noses and blue veins showing through their thin, white skin. To Nok, development meant more foreign food and more clientele.

The Frenchman told her he'd just moved to Laos after years of working for a NGO in Thailand. He quizzed Nok about Vientiane: where was the best hospital? Where could he go for a good beer? She was proud of her country and had fun answering his questions. As his hour gradually expired, his grin grew wider. She thought it was weird, but she politely returned his smile and finished her work on his back before moving onto massaging his head. His pale eyes examined her. She smiled inside as she remembered her sister, Vong, telling her that if she were naughty, a
falang
with empty, blue eyes would eat her.

“Is there a place in here that's more private?” he asked. She was annoyed by the interruption; her memories of her sister were becoming more distant.

“No, why?”

The
falang
chuckled, “I guess I'm used to the more private spaces they have in Thailand.”

Foreigners were strange. They wanted more privacy for something that she used to do openly with Vong — first thing in the morning when bones were stiff, or as they waited for the rice to cook after a long day of work. But at the same time foreigners walked through Vientiane streets with tiny skirts or no shirts covering their hairy chests.

“I guess any place is good for it,” the foreigner said.

She always massaged Vong inside their tiny house. They would joke and eat spicy papaya salad with their fingers afterward. Nok ached for that.

The foreigner disturbed her memories again — this time by the words of his body. She could sense that he was uncomfortable about something so she smiled to relax him. But with a sudden jerk, the foreigner's soggy mouth was on hers. He forcefully grabbed at her breasts. She could smell his musky body odour and taste the beer he had drunk on her mouth. Her stomach lurched. She screamed and pushed him away, but he lunged toward her again. He was short but thick, with strong, broad shoulders. She hated how scared she was and how powerless she felt. Would he do the same thing in his own country? Her heart boomed with a mix of rage and fear as she heaved him off her again. A salty taste rose in her mouth. Her entire body trembled.

“You bitch!” he spat. “I thought —” He scrambled for his clothes. Nok stared into his pale, empty eyes, and needed to throw up.