The Merit Birds (5 page)

“It means bad spirits out, good spirits in,” Somchai explained. He hadn't left my side the whole time.

Too bad it didn't work. Bad spirits would follow me everywhere in this country.

Cam

On the Monday after the
baci
I went to school and halfway through homeroom it felt like someone had my guts in a vice. Clutching my stomach, I made it out onto the street without embarrassing myself in front of the ex-pat girls. But there was the little beggar girl again, sitting in front of the school staring into space. She wore a dirty, pink T-shirt with a picture of a blonde princess on it. It was too small for her and I could see her bloated belly sticking out. It was the same thing she'd been wearing the first time I'd seen her. She looked up when I passed by and I thought maybe she recognized me. She held her hands in a
nop
, or prayer position, and dipped her head to greet me. I walked past, trying not to make eye contact so she wouldn't expect anything from me.

There were so many
tuk-tuks
crawling over Vientiane's roads that a driver was stopping for me before I had time to practise in my head how to say the directions to our house in Lao. I tried to tell the driver where I wanted to go, but he looked at me like I was a freak. By the time he figured out what I was trying to say I thought I was going to shit my pants. I climbed into the back of the
tuk-tuk
and slunk down onto the fake red leather. The driver laughed and chattered on about something. I think he was trying to explain why my words were so funny. Somchai told me that the soft, nasally Lao language is tonal, which means the same word can mean different things depending on your tone. Like
mou
can mean “friend” or “pig,” depending on whether the sound comes from your throat or your nose.
See
can mean “will” or “fuck.” When Somchai told me that I started counting how many times a day I tried to say “I will.”

When we pulled up in front of our faded, orange gate I realized that I didn't have any
kip
on me. There were no debit cards or credit cards here, so it was cash or nothing. I tried to tell the driver I didn't have any money and he could come back later to get some, but he didn't understand. He threw his hands up in the air and waited, although he didn't seem that bothered. I looked up the red dirt road of our neighbourhood, hoping I'd see Julia being driven home from work by the office driver. I felt like I was going to pass out. Finally, I spotted Somchai rounding the corner. He smiled as he rode up to us on his creaky, rusty bike.

“I'll pay you back,” I said after I had explained the situation.

“Of course,” he said and went into his home, coming out moments later with the cash.

I unlocked our door and ran to the toilet. At least now I knew how to use it. Afterward, I collapsed into the wicker bed Julia had bought at the market. The rusty ceiling fan creaked irritatingly and sucked at making my room cooler. I couldn't believe it wasn't even hot season yet. The open window let the smell of Meh Mee's frangipani bush in. I heard rats scurrying up in the rafters.

I knew Julia would be gone all day, so I was on my own. Just me and my Lao stomach bug. I passed out and woke up to the sound of someone rattling our front gate.

“Drink this,” Meh Mee said and handed me a plastic bag filled with clear liquid.

“What is it?”

“Nam wan
.
”

I had no energy to ask for a definition. I drank the sweet fluid and stumbled back to my bed.

Next time I woke up dishes were clinking in our outdoor kitchen. It bugged me that I brightened at the thought of my mother being home early. When I looked out of the dusty window above my uncomfortably hard bed I saw Meh Mee stirring something in a blackened pot on our stove. I opened my mouth to call out the window to her, but nothing came out.

Soon Meh Mee was bringing me a bowl of what looked like porridge made from rice.

“Eat,” she said in Lao and waited until I did. We didn't speak as I slowly ate the bland gruel. She just stood there, making sure I ate every last gluey bite. When I finished she took the empty bowl back into the kitchen without a word. The next time I woke up the sun was gone. I heard a chopping sound and looked out my window to see Somchai high up in a coconut tree that stretched from his yard over ours. He hacked madly in the darkness with a shiny machete. Julia still wasn't home, but I didn't feel lonely.

“What freaky Lao sport is that?” I called out to Somchai. I actually had a voice now.

“Meh told me to get you some coconut water. It's good for the belly.”

Somchai shimmied down the tree and slashed open his harvest. He held a young, green coconut up to my cracked lips and I drank noisily.

When Julia came home later that night she felt guilty.

“Honey! Are you okay? You should have called. I told you I've got my cellphone all hooked up now.”

“Meh Mee and Somchai took care of me.”

“I'm so glad.”

“They barely even know me.”

“I don't think that matters here.” She smoothed my bedsheets.

“They barely even know me and they took care of me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, and I'm your mother and I didn't take care of you. That's what you're trying to say, right, Cameron?” She looked annoyed and bored at the same time. “Look, let's not start this again. How about I take you for a Lao massage tomorrow? I tried one the other day and they're amazing. It will make you feel like a million bucks.” She was using her distraction technique again.

“I don't like strangers feeling me up.”

“Don't be silly, honey. It's part of Lao culture. ”

Of course I followed her to the massage house the next day. We climbed out of a
tuk-tuk
in front of an old two-storey French villa with yellow paint peeling from its sides.
FA NGUM MASSAGE
was the only thing written in English on the homemade wooden sign out front. A family stared at us as they drove past on one rickety bicycle. The mom sat behind the dad with a preschooler on her lap and both of her legs politely hanging to one side. A baby was balanced on the crossbar. No one wore helmets.

“Foreigner! Foreigner! Big-nosed foreigner!” the little boy laughed as he pointed to me.

I stood a bit closer to Julia. I really didn't want to go inside, but I felt like a geek at a party who didn't have anyone to talk to. I didn't want to hang out by myself. Begrudgingly, I followed her into the massage house. When the girl at the front desk handed us pajamas, I wanted to take off. This was stupid. The girl led us upstairs and pointed for us to put our feet in warm, soapy water. Masseuses knelt by our feet and began to scrub harshly. I could see the muscles in their brown arms flexing as they worked, and was amazed at the strength of their slender bodies. My masseuse's shiny, black hair fell all around and tickled my shin as she bent over my feet to dry them with a rough towel. When she looked up and motioned for me to stand I noticed her silky, cinnamon skin and deer-like eyes. Crap. I was wearing peppermint-striped pajamas that were way too short and I had a hot girl rubbing the butt-ugly calluses on my feet.

I followed the girl's glossy hair into a room with mattresses covering the floor. She motioned for me to lie down and drew a curtain around us. I was worried I was going to get a hard-on and the flimsy pajamas would do nothing to hide me. She knelt at my feet and began to massage them rhythmically, first the soles, then the tops, then around my ankles. I knew by the way she yanked each toe that she wasn't someone to mess with. There was a strength and power to her willowy beauty. Such a turn-on. As she worked, it was as if she was kneading frustration out of me. She worked away at the bitterness built up in my muscles. The rhythm of her movements and the calm music made me feel so relaxed. So this was Lao people's secret to being chilled out all the time. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew she was rocking me awake. She smiled in a way that made me wonder if I had done something embarrassing while I was asleep. I rubbed my face to check for drool. She led me to some couches where Julia was sipping from a teacup. My brain was so blissed out it couldn't think of any Lao words to thank her or ask her name.

“So? Did you enjoy it?” Julia pulled me out of my daze.

“Yeah, I did,” I said absent-mindedly, and looked around to see if the girl was still in the room. She was gone.

Nok

Nok hunched over the mortar and pestle, grinding healing herbs to use on clients. The smell of the crushed plants reminded her of when she'd had to go to the hospital with dengue fever when she was little. As her temperature shot into the cloudy sky of Vientiane's rainy season, her big sister covered her forehead with cold cloths and brought her bowls of rice porridge. The feeling made her cozy, remembering how Vong had cared for her.

Nok had refused to go to the doctor, because she understood even at a young age that they couldn't afford the fee. But her headaches grew sharper, like glass smashing on a cement floor, and she crouched in a dark corner away from the brightness of the sun and the noise of the village. Vong insisted she see a doctor and convinced the head of their village to help her pay for the cost of the initial visit. She'd ended up lying listless for a week in the hospital. Vong did everything she could to pay for it; she sold spicy papaya salad at a roadside shop all day and worked the night shift at the garment factory sewing T-shirts with Western brand names. During her breaks she would come to the hospital to bring Nok some
kanom
and sweet, warm soy milk.

Now Vong had been gone for three years already. Nok was thirteen when she left, Seng was seventeen. Old enough for a couple of orphans to take care of themselves. Nok was so happy for her sister when she said she was marrying a North American and moving away. All the way across the ocean, she said. Vong's future was set. But Nok hungered for her like she did for their mother. Their family of five had been whittled down to two — just her and Seng.

Her thoughts were broken by the front door of the massage house opening. She overheard a foreigner asking for her and her heart skipped. But it wasn't the foreigner with the pale, mean eyes. He had been in her nightmares every night since the assault. Thankfully, it was the grumpy
falang
in the basketball shirt. The one who had fallen asleep. He was pointing her out to Nana. He seemed harmless enough, but why did he need her to massage him again? She didn't trust white guys now.

Nana looked at her imploringly. They needed the business. Not wanting her friend to lose face, Nok nodded that she would do it. She plunged her capable fingers deeply into the
falang
's flesh. She worked his long body — pounding the bottoms of his feet, manipulating the muscle of his calves, stretching out the tightness of his legs. With each pinch she released some of the resentment that coursed through her tendons. By the time she reached his face her bitterness had begun to fade. As she massaged his cheekbones she noticed the smattering of freckles across his fine nose. There was something sweet and exotic about them. Lao guys didn't have freckles. When she finished, the foreigner sat up, blinked his eyes, and in bad Lao asked her name. She answered, and in order to be polite asked him his name.

“Do you like doing that?” Cam asked.

Nok thought for a moment. No one had ever asked her that before. She did think a lot about how life would be different if she could've gone to university instead of going to work right away.

“It reminds me of my sister, because I used to massage her in the evenings before we slept. So yes, I guess I like it,” she said.

“Hey, your English is good.” The
falang
looked happy about this.

“Thanks. I studied a lot.”

“I'm new here,” he said.

“You all are,” Nok answered and stood up to leave.

Cam

“Cam, I'm so glad you're getting into Lao culture,” Julia said when my visits to
Fa Ngum Massage
grew more frequent. But Somchai figured it out pretty quickly.

“Meet a beautiful
poosao
?” he asked one evening when I got back from the massage house. I just grinned and passed the basketball to him harder.

I could tell Nana was trying to hide a smile each time I requested Nok to be my masseuse, but I noticed how Nok's body would stiffen when Nana led me to her. Was that a good sign? I didn't think so.

We began to talk about a lot of things after each massage. I asked about her parents and she said they went to political retraining camp. She said it was like a school where the Lao government sends people to learn about communism.

“When are they going to be done?”

Nok just shrugged.

I surprised myself by beginning to talk about my dad. The last time I'd said his name I was seven years old. I'd been waiting all morning for him to pick me up and take me fishing. Kneeling on the couch, my nose pressed against the window, I waited for his car to pull into Julia's driveway.

“Great day for fishing!” she had said brightly as she'd opened the curtains that morning. But she was growing increasingly agitated. I could tell by the spastic way she cleaned the kitchen, folded the laundry, tried to keep busy.

I watched as our neighbour across the street pulled out of her driveway and came back some time later with a trunk full of groceries. I saw Matthew from down the street practising how to ride without training wheels. His dad held on to the back of his bike seat and ran beside him over and over again, just like I'd seen other parents do. Parents except for mine; I still needed training wheels.

My father had called me two weeks earlier and promised this would be the day. We would catch a lake trout big enough for dinner, he said. I hadn't seen him in a year and a half. He was going to be amazed at how tall I'd grown.

“Maybe you should call him?” I said to Julia. “See if he's still coming.”

But by this time, Julia's forced cheeriness had fizzled. “I'm not calling that bastard.”

I whined at her to call him, but she just went back to her frenetic housework. I tried screaming and she ignored me. I pounded on her chest with clenched, seven-year-old fists. She left the room and I frantically grasped at whatever I could and chucked it until it smashed. A Royal Doulton figurine that was my grandma's. A crystal sugar bowl Julia only used when company came. I liked that I was in charge of how they broke, how I had produced the razor-sharp glass shards myself.

Julia came back into the room but didn't say a word. She had seen these kinds of tantrums before. The counsellor had instructed her not to react when they happened, to stay calm, keep cool. He (or was it she? I had seen so many counsellors by age seven I can't remember) told me to count to ten, take deep breaths, think of something that made me feel good. But he didn't know how good it made me feel to see my mother's cherished belongings smash against her expertly wallpapered wall.

She picked me up, and, with my arms thrashing viciously, carried me into my room. That was before I was stronger than her. Later, she would have to just leave the house. It was the only thing she could do.

In my room I overturned the oak dresser Julia had bought after the divorce. I punched a hole in the wall — the third one in two months. My mother wouldn't even bother repairing it. When I was finished I lay on my bed. Now there was space. Now the deep breaths could come. Now I felt calm. But now my father would definitely not come. He would never come again. Who would want to spend time with an angry kid like me?

I couldn't believe I was telling Nok all this crap. I'd never talked with a girl about stuff like that before. I'd never talked to
anyone
like that before. I liked the way she just seemed to accept everything. She didn't try to make it better, she just listened. There was nothing fake about her. I don't even think she wore makeup.

“Do you want to come to my basketball game tomorrow night? We're playing a team from Thailand. They're supposed to be tough to beat.”

“No,” she said bluntly.

“Why not?”' I asked, trying not to sound too desperate. She didn't answer.

The next night, I was still wondering “why not.” I wasn't focused on the game. Also, Julia said she was going to come watch, but hadn't shown up. I kept checking the sidelines for her.

“Cam, where's your mind today? You gotta wake up out there,” Mr. Rose said. “We've got to be ready for the tourney in Thailand.”

Mr. Rose had figured me out a bit, and knew to back off when it was obvious that I was pissed. I was starting to like how he coached — firm and smart. Our team was getting pretty good. The first time I went to a practice I was disappointed. The team seemed like a pile of barf from different countries, speaking different languages, playing different styles. But we'd started to really come together.

I was trying hard to concentrate when I was fouled by the Thai team's star guard. He'd had it out for me since the beginning of the game. I could tell by the way his intense, dark eyes focused on me. I knew he was trying to distract me. But I wasn't going to let him screw up my game. I had learned a couple things in Laos. Being chilled out had its benefits. Still, the game was getting intense. Tied at forty-three apiece by half time. I soon became lost in it.

It was moments like these that made me love basketball. I loved how it could make me forget. Forget my past, my insecurities, even forget myself. During times like these the only thing I thought about was the game. The only thing I heard was the heavy breathing and grunts of the players around me and the squeak of shoes on the polished court. I was simply me. But when the Thai guard fouled me again, he took me out of that space. I hated him for it, but I told myself to be calm. I scanned the perimeter of the court, but Julia still wasn't there and the game was almost over. The Thai guard started shoving me whenever he was in arm's reach.

“What's your problem?” I asked the next time we were close.

“So you're the hotshot new guard.” His breathy voice was thick with adrenaline.

I met his taunting eyes.

“Not much,” he said, and spat on the floor.

Breathe, Cam.

Don't let it get to you.

I wondered if the words were mine, or one of my counsellors'. Shit, now my concentration was really broken. Where the hell was Julia, anyway? Maybe with Gary, the principal, again, or maybe her friends from work. Whoever it was, they were obviously more important than me.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The play started again and suddenly I was running up the court on a fast break. This was my chance to show what I could do. To live up to my reputation as a star ball player. My heart pumped up in my ears and my endorphins soared. I didn't take my eyes off the hoop. I was just about to take a shot when the Thai jerk tripped me. I landed on the gleaming, wooden floor with a hard thud. My teeth cut into my lip like a little kid who fell while learning to walk.

“Forget it, Cam,” Mr. Rose yelled. “Forget it!”

I tried. I lay on the floor counting to ten. Then I counted backwards. Then I even counted in Lao. I thought about what Somchai would do in this situation. He'd somehow find it funny. But through my sweat-stinging eyes I saw the Thai guard hovering over me, laughing.

“I heard you're good at ball and your mother is a whore,” he said in between heavy breaths.

My teeth clenched together.

“I know the first part isn't true.” He laughed. “Maybe you could give your mother my number and I'll see about the second part.”

All of my attempts to keep it together took off like a flock of birds that had just heard the shot of a hunter's gun. I jumped up and grabbed his throat.

“Cam, stop!”

He punched my face. I lunged at him viciously, carelessly, like an animal about to rip open its prey. I heard a girl shriek and saw scarlet red on the floor. I inhaled the metallic smell of fresh blood. Mr. Rose and the ref were grasping at us, desperately trying to pull us apart. But I didn't care. I saw fear in his eyes and I liked it. I was in control of the destruction. I punched his face over and over again. I would let him have it. In my mind, I heard Julia's fragile, crystal sugar bowl smashing and crashing to the floor.