Mr. Bones (23 page)

Osier, hearing
crupted,
disbelieved him, and said, “That's a theory, but what's the proof?”

“My friend is the proof,” Fred said, and sensing defiance in Osier, he seemed pained. “Hundreds of guys here are the proof.” He lowered his head and spoke in a whisper, “Some of these girls here, let me tell you, they're not really girls. They're dudes.”

This obvious warning by Fred had only made him more defiant. Larry had not said anything, but Osier had noticed that while seeming to avoid him, Larry was ever more watchful.

 

He could only call Song in the late afternoon. Song said she was in her room. He had no reason to doubt her.

He said, “I miss you.”

“I miss you.”

This echo worried him. Did she mean it as much as he did? He felt with such a person that they were only pretending to speak the same language.

“I want to see you.”

“I want to see you.”

I'm insane, he thought. But he didn't have the power to stop, because the worst of it was that she was stronger than he; she was dominant. She didn't need him, she could find the money from someone else. And she was a freak of nature, a kind of unicorn: he'd never find anyone like her.

He had never seen her room. He wanted to see her in it, to know her better. He waited for night to fall, then took a taxi to the address she had dictated to him. The room was in an old building smelling of fish sauce and hot cooking oil. But it was swept, it was tidy. What struck him about the room itself was the enormous calendar, the portrait of the king bordered in yellow for the royal jubilee, and the shrine in the corner, an image of Buddha, a flickering candle, some blossoms in a dish, a pair of amulets laid out side by side, and between them a slender tube of ivory chased in silver.

He was glad for the darkness, for the rattly air conditioner, because its noise killed conversation.

Song pulled the blinds and led him by the hand, like a child, into the bathroom. Dressed in a bathrobe and standing just outside the stall, she gave him a shower. Afterward she dried him and put him to bed. While he waited, buffeted by the air conditioner, it seemed to him that he was not in a room at all but another dark tunnel, being propelled toward its end and unable to do anything but allow himself to be tumbled.

Song had taken her shower, and in semidarkness she lay beside him and held him. She was the protector, she was active, while he lay safe, thinking, I am flesh, I am insane, I am happy, hold me.

“Magic knife,” he said, touching her.

But she hadn't heard.

That became the pattern of their meetings: her room, the separate showers, the drawn blinds, the roaring air conditioner; and the pattern turned into a ritual without words. As a ritual, everything was allowable, and later he never thought about what had happened, having left everything in the dark: life with the lights out.

 

5

 

His floating dream-like indecisive life away from the precision of work matched the city with its smothering heat. The clasp of humidity and the gutter smell gagged him, and yet his mood swelled him with buoyancy. This, with the whole hot city pressed on his eyes, blurring everything around him, made him feel like someone bumping forward under water.

He stopped his diary, stopped sketching anything except market stalls and boats on the river, or the pepper pots of Buddhist stupas and the daggers of temple finials. He did not dare to draw any people for fear of being reminded how different he was from everyone else. Abandoning the diary and doing fewer drawings, he shook off the spell he'd cast on himself in his sketching.

That perplexed, oversimplified cartoon figure he drew to represent himself, wearing glasses, a startled question mark over his head, trying to make sense of Bangkok, no longer appeared on the pages of what was now a cluttered sketchpad. He could not bear to depict his confusion. He wanted to be a blank page. Ceasing to account for his days, he clouded his memory—memory, the useless ballast that gave the slow passage of his aging a heaviness that dragged him down. He was renewed each day by not remembering, stewing in a pleasurable anticipation of seeing Song, savoring the foretaste of desire, a creaminess of vanilla on her skin.

Now he knew why he had spent so many nights at the railway station. That waiting had been an evasion of this settled mood of acceptance. In a discarding frame of mind, flipping through the pages of his pictorial diary, he found a sketch he had made early on of the man-woman who'd demanded money from him. It had been done weeks before she'd accosted him, when he'd seen her as just another of the station's loiterers. He'd drawn her as a fussed and fretting creature, bird-like with her beaky nose, in a Gypsy skirt with a bright shawl. He had not seen her distress or the spittle on her lips. The sketch was colorful, even merciful. He let it stand.

Putting all his earlier life aside, not thinking of Maine, concentrating on the present—himself and Song—he was happy. He still called Joyce every day, or she called him. Song said, “Who?” because the calls were so frequent. He never said, “My wife.” He denied he had a wife—he told himself he was sparing Joyce the indignity of mentioning her.

“Boss,” he said. Song knew the word well.

Joyce was satisfied with the plainest details of his life in Bangkok. The more mundane details pleased her most; she understood them best, stories of power cuts at the plant, heavy traffic, a tummyache. Joyce was like an old forgiving friend, a link with another life, a different narrative. He could not tell her how happy he was. Where would he begin? She and her mother were consumed by ill health; they didn't complain; for every ailment there was a remedy, yet this speculation occupied the whole of their lives. Any mention of his happiness, his luck, his good health, would be a violation of their self-absorption.

He'd never believed he could be this happy. He had assumed he'd finish here, hang it up, go home, persist, try not to die. But this was life itself, and he had always felt he'd lived on the periphery. Now he knew he was isolated in his happiness. The others at the plant seemed to know. Strangers did not wish him well, and he sensed that Fred begrudged him. One evening, saying, “I want to show you something,” Fred had tried to reopen the cautioning conversation. He took Osier to a bar. He did not talk to the girls. The bar was on the same
soi
as Siamese Nights. It was as though he was demonstrating his superior self-control.

“Some people come here and take things so seriously,” Fred said. “They see poor people and want to give them money. They see little orphan kids and want to try to rescue them. They even fall in love. Bottom line, collateral damage.”

And with
clatteral,
like a slickness on his lapping tongue, Fred leaned across the table, seeming to peer into him, trying to determine if Osier had been touched by what he'd conjectured.

Osier said, “And some people come here and make generalizations. Most people do.”

“Life can be so simple,” Fred said, talking over him. “Just be a tourist. You can have a hell of a time here if you don't take it seriously.”

Osier said, “You can have an even better time if you do take it seriously.”

“You Catholic?”

“Fallen away, pretty much. But if I'm anything, I suppose . . .” He didn't finish the sentence.

“Me too. What about church?”

The mention of church in this bar, the girls leering from a banquette, offended Osier as much as mentioning Joyce's name here. He knew they were talking about Song without saying so, and that Fred was pained by the subject.

Fred left him there. He hadn't been specific, but Osier knew that someone must have seen him with Song. And everyone talked.

Osier walked to Siamese Nights and met Song, and while they were sitting, holding hands, Joyce called to tell him that spring had come to Owls Head, the snow had started to melt. After he hung up, Song stared, the obvious question on her face.

“Boss,” Osier said in a burdened voice.

“Boss,” Song replied, more lightly, but eyeing him.

One afternoon Song called to say that she'd meet him after work at the plant. She had a surprise. She'd never come to the plant before. She was calling from a taxi on her red phone.

She remained in the taxi, parked next to the security fence, away from the guard in the security box at the gate, but even so, Osier knew that she'd been seen. She wasn't being indiscreet—showing up like this proved that she cared for him. She didn't go to bars anymore. She saw him most evenings, and on weekends he stayed at her apartment, marveling at the completeness of his new life. Still, she seemed suspicious, as though wishing to know him better, perhaps wondering whether he was withholding a secret.

“My mudda come,” she said when Osier got into the taxi.

Her mother was at the apartment, cooking. Song wanted to prepare him for it—the old woman was staying for a week.

But she was not an old woman. She was probably younger than Osier, only mannish and careworn from a hard life.

“She have a farm.”

She was no more than fifty or so, which meant that Song was younger than he'd guessed. The woman was faded, with a deeply lined face, sad eyes, and a laborer's coarse hands. He saw that Song was a refinement of her mother.

The woman, who was named Wanpen, did not speak English. She was active, eager to please, expressive in her movements, and through Song gave Osier to understand that she was glad to see him. Then, as if to show her gratitude, she labored in the kitchen cubicle, strands of damp hair against her face. She whisked vegetables in a wok and made soup and noodles and spring rolls.

Osier did not spend the night when Song's mother was there, but he visited most evenings after work and was content in this secret nighttime life. He sat and was waited on in a rather formal way, the old woman calling to Song, and Song serving him; and it seemed to him that his life had never been this full. He was surprised when, at one of these meals, he got a call from Joyce.

He kept the call short, while Song whispered to her mother. And when he'd finished, Song said, “Boss.”

“Boss,” he said.

He was not apologetic anymore. He was grateful. Perhaps that was love, the sense that you were reborn, remade anyway, given hope.

 

“I've just been back to the States,” Larry said, one lunchtime that week, taking a seat in front of him, setting his meal tray down. “Saw my wife. My kids. Just what I needed.” This was the same man who had hooted,
Soi Cowboy! Great bars! The girls are hot—they wear boots and Stetsons!
Then he said, “You can go home too, you know.”

Did he regret having taken Osier to the clubs? Maybe he felt he was responsible for whatever Osier was rumored to be doing.

Osier said, “One of these days.”

Relieved, Larry began eating.

Osier could not tell him what was in his heart. He wished he were alone, that he were not part of this enterprise—the hotel, the plant, the company. It was too much like an encumbering family.

Passion had brought him to this point, and in the week of not being able to spend nights with Song, because her mother was there, he could see his life more clearly—not in the hot headlong way he had first felt, blinded by desire, but calmly, studying Song in his mind, and himself with her. It seemed incredible that the consoling softness of someone's skin and the contours of a body could change the course of his life—and so late in his life too, when everything had seemed so circumscribed by the inevitable.

Now—it was odd but not upsetting—nothing was certain. He was happy, he was hopeful, he felt lucky. He was amazed by the completeness of his life.

“She like you,” Song said on her mother's last night. And Wanpen smiled, seeming to understand what was being said. “She ask who you talk to on phone.”

The mother was that shrewd. Osier said, “What did you tell her?”

“I say boss.” She laughed. “She not believe me.”

With feeling and a flutter of helplessness, Osier said, “The boss tells me what to do.”

Song spoke again to her mother, who answered solemnly. Song said, “She trust you.”

Osier felt a burden of responsibility, the woman putting her faith in him.

“She always worry about me,” Song said, and seeing that Osier was thoughtful, she added, “Because I different. I not like other people.”

Osier wanted to say, Maybe I'm not either. Maybe I'm different too. But he said, “Tell her not to worry.”

Repeating this in Thai, Song made her mother smile. The woman pressed her hands together and bowed in gratitude. She was small, sturdy, and seemed unbreakable.

Osier knew he'd made the woman a promise. He had spoken without thinking, yet he meant it. As on those other nights, he thanked the mother and said goodbye without kissing Song, backing up, clumsily chivalrous.

The following night they met at Siamese Nights, Song with a glass of lemonade, Osier with a Singha beer. Song said, “My mudda, she really like you,” and it seemed to mean everything.

“She's a lovely woman. So energetic. You know?” He motioned with his hands. “I imagine your mother in her village, and I see sunshine and green fields and chickens and fruit trees . . .” He described the idyllic landscape he had seen from the train on his one-day trip out of Bangkok, which he'd sketched in his diary.

When he finished, smiling at the thought of what he had described, Song said, “I understand.”

Later, at her apartment, she took charge of him, bathing him, scrubbing him, massaging him, exhausting him, being generous. It seemed that she was rewarding him for being so kind to her mother, but with a lavishness that approached debauchery.

Of course they suspected something at the plant, but they didn't know him, or were less sure of him. He was like a man receding as they watched him, backing away, growing smaller and simpler, blurring in the distance on a long road. Osier liked that. He was strengthened by his secrets. He knew now that a kind of happiness existed that no one could even guess at—unthinkable for these techies who assumed everything was thinkable.