The Queen of Patpong (18 page)

In the center of each table is a small golden lamp with a pale pink shade, and Kwan thinks the light makes Fon look younger and softer, her cute face restored to the freshness it probably had when she was sixteen. Waiters in white shirts and black slacks stand idly by; it’s early still, and only a few of the tables are occupied. She and Fon have walked just a few blocks from the noise and glare of Patpong, but it could be a hundred miles. This is a different Bangkok. And then she knows why the room seems familiar: It makes her feels like she’s in one of the television programs she watched in the village. She’s at the edge of the life in which people have things.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she says.

Fon says, “You can. You have to.” She starts to light her cigarette, but a waiter is suddenly there with a lighter outstretched. Fon nods and smiles thanks as though it happens every day and says, “You’re never going to make enough money to send some home until you start going with customers.”

Kwan waits, her eyes on the tablecloth, until the waiter is gone. “It doesn’t . . . bother you, talking about that in front of . . . I don’t know, people like him?”

Fon laughs. “He knows what we do. How else could a couple of girls dressed in jeans and T-shirts afford a place like this?”

Kwan thinks,
What
you
do,
but doesn’t say it. What she says is, “Why are we here? We’ve never gone anywhere like this.”

“It’s your Bangkok birthday,” Fon says. “Today, for the first time, you look like you belong here.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Kwan says. “For all of it. For Tra-La, for dinner, for everything.”

“Really.” Fon picks up the small crystal ashtray and hefts it, as though surprised at its weight. “With money you earn from what?”

Kwan says, “I should tell Nana I want some of what the mama-san paid her.”

“She’s spent it by now,” Fon says. “She sold you. I wasn’t sure you realized it.”

“But she helped me, too. My
father
was going to sell me. And it would have been a lot worse than the bar.”

Fon pours the last of the wine, hoists the glass, and eyes Kwan through it. “She wouldn’t have lifted a finger if there hadn’t been something in it for her. She’d have let them grab you without even thinking about it. Nana doesn’t do favors.”

Kwan pulls back her newly cut hair. “She’s not so bad.” She turns her head to display the earrings. “She gave me these.”

Fon picks up the little lamp and tilts the shade so she can see more clearly. Then she puts it down again and says, “Real sapphires? Real gold?”

“Sure,” Kwan says. “Why?”

Through a mouthful of smoke, Fon says, “Because they’re turning your earlobes green.”

Chapter 15
Whether She’s Done It Yet or Not

W
e’re late,” Kwan says as she and Fon thread their way through the Patpong crowd. Their progress is slower than usual because they’re holding hands. In the village Kwan had always envied the girls who were good enough friends to hold hands as they walked, and now, for the first time, she has someone whose hand she can hold. Even here, on this street, it’s a comfortable feeling.

“We want to be late.” Fon slows their pace and then stops, anchoring Kwan beside her. “Take it easy,” she says. “I want to do this right.”

“Do what?” But Fon’s not listening. They’re four or five meters up the street from the Candy Cane, and Fon’s leaning forward, watching the two overage schoolgirls who control the curtain across the door. “When I say go, we go fast,” she says. “Understand?”

“Sure. But why?”

“Go,”
Fon says, almost pulling Kwan off her feet. One of the schoolgirls has stepped inside the bar, and the other is facing the other way. Fon drags Kwan to the curtain, throws it open dramatically, and then pushes Kwan in, standing beside her with both arms upraised, demanding attention.

The first girl in the bar to notice them is Oom, dancing as always at the pole nearest the door. She glances at Fon, and then her eyes travel to Kwan’s face, and she looks puzzled, as though she’s never seen her before. Then she stops dancing, and there’s a spark of recognition in her eyes, and for the first time since Kwan met her, Oom smiles broadly. She takes a hand off the pole and gives Kwan a thumbs-up. Kwan feels herself smiling back and hears Fon smother a laugh.

Oom’s gesture draws the eyes of the other women onstage. Some of them stop dancing, too, a couple of them gawking openmouthed. The women who are in Fon’s group grin and nod their heads or repeat the thumbs-up. One of them puts two fingers into her mouth and whistles loudly. The girls in the other group look at Kwan and then through her and return to their dancing, their focus on the customers, most of whom are staring at Kwan. The plump girl pulls the corners of her mouth down sharply and turns her back, then slips her hand under her long hair, and flips it up in Kwan’s direction, a gesture of dismissal. Some of the women who are sitting with men desert their customers and come running. Hands touch Kwan’s hair, a mix of perfumes surrounds her, and two of the girls hug her. Everyone seems to be talking, but they fall silent simultaneously.

The women crowded in front of Kwan part to let the mama-san through. Small as she is, the mama-san is given a wide path, almost enough space to swing her arms on either side. She wears her usual uniform: a plain T-shirt and blue jeans. Her hair is, as always, pulled painfully back, and her face is makeup-free. She seems bent on making herself as drab as possible, in contrast with the primped and painted girls who surround her. She stops a few steps away from Kwan and lets her eyes slide slowly over Kwan’s hair and face. Her expression does not change. Then she leans forward, and for a moment Kwan thinks the mama-san is going to sniff at her.

But what she does is say, “Take off those earrings.”

Kwan removes the earrings Nana had given her, and the mama-san holds out a long, thin hand for Kwan to drop them into. When she does, the mama-san waves past her, and Kwan turns to see one of the women at the door tug aside the curtain. The mama-san pulls back her arms and throws the earrings over the heads of the clump of girls and into the street. One of the door girls starts to go after them, turns to check the mama-san, and finds herself impaled on the sharp end of a glare. She resumes her place beside the door and lets the crowd of shoppers and barhoppers crush the earrings underfoot.

Kwan feels a sudden sting on the inside of her elbow. The mama-san has snapped the sensitive skin there with her index finger, and she’s curled the finger beneath her thumb to do it again, but when Kwan turns, she lowers her hand and stares up into Kwan’s eyes. As tiny as she is, her gaze has an almost physical weight to it. Without moving closer or raising her voice, she says, “You.”

Kwan leans forward, trying to hear her over the noise of the club. The mama-san says, “You will
not
embarrass me. Do you understand?” She lifts her chin in warning, and then she steps aside and looks back to where someone is standing at the edge of the group of dancers, a short, fat, pig-faced man in the brown uniform of a police captain. The uniform is wrinkled and dirt-mottled, the necktie pulled to one side, and the shirt patched with sweat. It balloons out over his pants, trapping rolls of fat. The mama-san raises her eyebrows inquiringly, and the captain studies Kwan’s face, and then, slowly, he nods.

Fon says, very softly, “I think you’re in business.”

“BUT YOU WILL,”
the mama-san says. They’re alone in the room the girls use to change in, just a space behind the stage with little square lockers set into one wall. Kwan stands with her back to the lockers, which are to the right of the door. The bar’s main speakers hang on the other side of the wall, and she can feel the bass thumping against her rump and shoulders. The mama-san sits upright, spine vertical, at the edge of a blue plastic chair. A doorway with no door in it leads to the men’s room, which stinks of piss. Men come in at irregular intervals, some of them staggering, use the urinals, and leave. Most of them take long looks at Kwan on their way out.

“I won’t,” Kwan says.

The mama-san doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Nana told me you were a virgin. Did she lie?”

Kwan feels herself blush, but there’s also a bright tingle of anger. “No.”

“Did you lie to her?”

“Of course not.”

The mama-san hears Kwan’s tone and lifts an eyebrow. “Good. He’s expecting a virgin. If he doesn’t get one, he’ll tell me.”

“Then find him one.”

“I have. You.”

Kwan feels the pounding of her heart above the bass line. “I’m not even dancing yet.”

The mama-san nods as though she’s finally gotten the argument she was expecting. “You will be. Not until he’s finished with you, because he won’t want to share you with anyone until he’s tired of you. That’s if you take care of him right, of course.”

Kwan summons her one piece of ammunition. “Nana said I didn’t have to go with anyone unless I—”

The mama-san says, “Ssssssssss,” and shakes her head sharply. “Don’t talk to me about
Nana.
Is Nana your boss? Is Nana in this room?”

“No,” Kwan says. She’s searching for words, but they’re jumbled and meaningless. They seem to flit past her eyes, disappearing before she can read them. She grabs onto four: “But she promised me.” She breaks off as Oom comes in, damp with sweat, and looks at the two of them questioningly.

“Who promised who?” Oom says. “And what was the promise?”

The mama-san flicks a hand toward the bar area and says to Oom, “Sit out there. We’re talking.”

Oom takes a plastic chair, puts it against the wall, and stands beside it, one hand on the back. “I don’t sit out there.”

The mama-san’s head comes forward like a snake’s. “No, you don’t, and don’t think we haven’t noticed. Nobody’s buying you drinks, you’re not getting taken out. No commissions, no bar fines. We’re making no money off you. What good are you?”

Oom lifts her hair and fans the back of her neck. “I bring men in.”

“So will she,” the mama-san says, tilting her face toward Kwan. “And she won’t be as picky as you are.”

“I’m not picky,” Oom says mildly. “I’m in love. And you just hate that, don’t you? You’ve never loved anybody in your life. You don’t even have a cat.”

“Love,”
the mama-san says. “Love is a stocking full of drink receipts. Love is money in the bank. Love is having a nice place to live, one that’s all yours, that nobody can take away.”

“Listen to this,” Oom says to Kwan. “Wouldn’t it be awful to end up like her?”

Kwan says, “She wants me to go with that fat policeman.”

“This is not a three-way conversation,” the mama-san says.

To Kwan’s surprise, Oom says, “So? Do it. He’s okay. Half the time he can’t even manage it.”

“But—” Kwan says. “I can’t, I mean, I’ve never even . . . I’ve never been with a man.”

“Ahh,” Oom says. She picks up the chair and turns it around and straddles it, her arms folded over the back. “I should have known you were a virgin,” she says. “You give it off like perfume. So this is about your hymen, isn’t it?”

Kwan says, “I—”

“You get a lot of use out of your hymen?” Oom asks.

“What?”

“I mean, when was the last time you did anything with it? Do you take it for little walks? Talk with it at night? Buy it cute hats? Introduce it to your friends?”

The mama-san leans back in her chair for the first time. Kwan looks from her to Oom, and Oom returns the look with a faint smile.

Oom says, “No? Then you’re saving it? Is anyone paying you interest?”

Kwan has to say something, so she says, “I don’t think this is funny.”

Oom shrugs. “It’s not funny, and it’s not
not
funny either. It’s just how things are here, and here is where you’ve wound up. But your hymen. Let’s face it. It’s pretty much useless, isn’t it? Like your appendix.” She twists a finger through her hair and pulls a long lock forward to check the ends, apparently giving it all her attention. “But there’s a big difference between your hymen and your appendix. Do you know what it is?”

The mama-san makes a chirping sound that might be a laugh.

Kwan says, “No.”

“You have to pay someone to remove your appendix,” Oom says. “But someone will pay
you
to remove your hymen.” She glances over at the mama-san. “He
is
going to pay, isn’t he?”

“You’re joking,” the mama-san says. “He’s never paid for a girl in his life. We’ll have to pay her.”

Oom fans the hair to check for split ends. “How much?”

The mama-san says, “Three-fifty.”

“Not enough,” Oom says. “Should be five at least.”

“Five what?” Kwan says.

“Five hundred dollars,” Oom says. She lets the hair fall back into place.

“
We’re
paying her,” the mama-san says. “That means no commission to us. She’ll wind up with the same amount of money. If he paid five, we’d take a hundred fifty.”

“I know,” Oom says. “It’s the principle of it.”

“I don’t care how much it is,” Kwan says, but Oom raises a hand.

“Of course you care how much it is. What do you think this is
about,
if it’s not money? You’re only going to be able to sell this once, and then you won’t have it anymore. Losing your virginity is not a career. It’s a onetime sale, and you should get every penny you can.”

“I mean, I mean . . . I don’t think I can—”

“Oh, grow up,” Oom says. “You’re here. You’ve left behind everything you know and everybody you know, just to come down here. As though this is the . . . the ocean, right? You’ve left your village and come to the ocean. And the only reason to go to the ocean, the only reason anyone goes to the ocean, is to get in the water, but you, you’re afraid.” She wraps her arms around herself and does a mock shudder. “It’s too
cold.
It’s too
rough.
You want to dip your toe in and give a little scream and pull it out again and have everyone tell you how brave you are, and then next time maybe you’ll go in all the way up to your ankles and get splashed a little, and we’ll all applaud and probably buy you dinner. Or we would if we really cared, which we don’t. But, see, the
point
is that you’ve only got two choices. Go back home—” She stops and turns her head a bit to the right with her eyes on Kwan. “Is there some reason you can’t go home?”

Kwan hesitates. “Yes.”

“Then you’re stuck at the ocean, aren’t you? And the only thing to do is dive in.”

Kwan says, “You’re not diving in.”

Oom laughs, and the mama-san joins in with that odd chirping sound. “I’ve been in so long my fingers are wrinkled,” Oom says. “I’ve gone all the way to the bottom and brought back pearls. I’m so wet I’m half fish. It’s just
now
I’m not doing it. Because I’ve told someone I won’t. Because he pays me not to.”

“Lots of girls are getting paid,” the mama-san says. “They do their jobs.”

“They’re not in love. I am. And he loves
me,
and if you say one thing about that, I’ll walk out of here right now, and tomorrow I’ll be bringing customers into the Kit-Kat.”

“All right, all right.”

“This is not a stupid girl,” Oom says, nodding toward Kwan. “And look at her. She’s the most beautiful girl to come in here since I did. She’s valuable. You don’t want to lose her. You should explain the situation to her instead of pounding her over the head.”

“Whose side are you on?” Kwan asks.

“You’re thinking about this all wrong,” Oom says. “There aren’t any sides in here, despite the cliques Fon and those other idiots form. Now you’re my friend, now you’re not. I liked you yesterday, but I hate you today. There are really only two sides: us and the customers. It’s us against the customers. They come in and sit down and pretend they’re interesting and different in some way from every other man in the room, and we pretend they are, too, and we take their money. As much of it as we can get. And we should be helping each other, not competing. That’s why I come back here between sets, that’s why I don’t sit with customers or let them buy me drinks. I want them to pick a girl. I’m not going with them, so they should choose somebody else. I just get out of the way.”

“That’s a new excuse,” the mama-san says.

“Explain it to her.” Oom stands up. “Or don’t, it’s up to you. But
you,
” she says to Kwan, “you have to get into the water or go home. And this could be a good deal for you.” She moves to the door that leads back to the bar.

The mama-san says to Oom, “Don’t tell me you’re actually going out there to smile at someone, maybe sell a couple of drinks.”

“No,” Oom says. “I have to pee.” To Kwan she says, “Just stop wringing your hands.” And then she’s gone.

Kwan tries again. “Nana told me I could
decide
whether to go with—”

“And you can,” the mama-san says. She puts both hands out, palms up. “After this.” She shifts impatiently in her chair. “Sit down,” she says.