The Merit Birds (6 page)

Seng

Seng remembered the story their mom used to tell them. The one about the pregnant woman sacrificing herself. Meh's eyes would grow wide and her voice would soften to a suspenseful whisper as she described in detail how the woman had flung herself into the deep hole hundreds of years ago, when
Si Muang
temple was being built. Meh wasn't trying to scare them, she was trying to teach them a lesson. About sacrifice. Or was it about the temple and why it was so great? Seng realized that perhaps he hadn't got the lesson. He was sure it was a good one — something that he was supposed to remember his whole life. Nok would know what the lesson was supposed to be. She was always brave when Meh told it; she would laugh as he ran and hid underneath the sleeping mat they shared on the floor. That story always gave him the shivers. Especially the part about the temple pillar being lowered on top of the woman while she was still alive. She sacrificed herself, and her baby, to become city guardian of Vientiane. Her spirit was supposed to bring the temple good luck. If you went to pay her homage and asked an old Buddha image to make your dreams come true they surely would. At least that's how Meh always ended the story. Maybe she only did to make him feel better.

“I saw you coming out of
Si Muang
temple today,” Nok said over dinner as she rolled sticky rice in her hand. She smiled knowingly. “Are you dreaming for something to happen?”

“Why?” Seng was embarrassed. He scratched the back of his neck. He didn't want her to know how much he thought about leaving Laos. If he could make it to America, people would know he was someone more than a fat peddler of plastic.

“You must have gone to ask for good luck with something.”

“How about your work today?” Seng tried to push the topic of conversation off of him. He didn't want to tell Nok anything until he had good news from Vong. Surely their big sister would come through and help him get to America. It was the least she could do.

“Let's not talk about work. It's over, big brother. Focus on your food. You like the fish?”

Now Nok looked like the one feeling uneasy. She was always that way about her work.
Maybe it's because she shouldn't be working
, thought Seng. With her brains she should be studying. After all, she was still sneaking into sociology lectures at Dong Dok University even though she had been caught and told that only those paying tuition could attend. She should be studying at a good university, like an American one. He'd find a way to make it happen. He'd ask his best friend, Khamdeng, to help him contact their older sister.

“Do you think I could send an e-mail to Vong next time you work at your brother's shop?” he asked Khamdeng when they met on the riverbank after dinner. Khamdeng had an older brother who just opened up an Internet café, one of many that sprung from the tourist industry.

Khamdeng laughed as he eyed Seng scratching the back of his neck. “You're excited.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Can we stop now?”

“You always scratch your neck like that when you're excited or nervous about something.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't! I was just scratching a mosquito.” Seng suddenly took his eyes off his friend and let his hand drop from his neck down into his lap. Three foreign girls walked by. Seng couldn't take his eyes off them. One had long, blonde hair shining down her back, sky-blue eyes, and a face as sweet as vanilla
kalem.
She walked slowly, her eyes wide, scanning everything around her — the river, the farmers' wives selling vegetables, the bald monks floating by in their orange robes. She was like a child seeing something for the first time.

He tapped Khamdeng on his chest.

“You help me get to America, brother, and I'll introduce you to a girl like that.”

Suddenly, the girl seemed to notice them, crouching along the riverbank. Seng sat up tall. Maybe she would come over and talk to them. He looked at Khamdeng and winked.

His friend laughed.

“Cheese!” Seng called out.

The girl's eyes paused on him for a second, but then went back to their scanning, as if she hadn't heard him. As if he was merely scenery to be observed and not the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

“You don't know anything about girls,” Khamdeng said.

“We'll see what you say when I bring my American girlfriend back here to visit. Are you going to help me write the e-mail or what?”

Khamdeng reached over and playfully slapped Seng on the back of the head. “You have to ask? I'm your friend, stupid. Friends don't say no to a request for help.”

“But it has to be in English so Vong sees that I would be a great help to have in America.”

“Okay, I did pretty well in English class. Better than you, anyway.” He threw a pebble into the Mekong. “Do you have an e-mail account?”

“No.”

“Okay, no problem. We can use mine.”

“Do you know her e-mail address?”

“No.”

“You need that. We can't send anything without it.”

“So sorry to hear that.”

“Do you know how to type?”

“No.”

Khamdeng cracked up. “Still the class clown.”

Seng laughed, too, even though he didn't find it so funny. He'd never used e-mail before. How was he supposed to know you needed an address?

He remembered Vong had written something about e-mail at the bottom of a card she'd sent last Lao New Year. That night after dinner he asked Nok to see the card again. He brought it to Khamdeng and he had been right — her e-mail address was written at the bottom.
An auspicious sign
, he thought.

It took them hours to craft the first message. When they were finished they sat back in the flimsy, plastic Internet café chairs and high-fived each other. Seng knew Vong would not be able to ignore the brilliance of his message:

Dear Vong,

I am young brother Seng. Three years ago you marry and you go to America. I want to join with you. Here in Vientiane selling plastic goods all day long nobody buy. No kip. Vietnamese job. Better for me come to you. I cook you nice cheese hamburgers and I invite you to big baci party (at your house). Please help me come to America. I am waiting your answer.

Little sister Nok has good health and is still smart but she so serious now like old woman.

Loving brother,

Seng

Seng made Khamdeng check for a message from Vong every day.

“Anything?”

“Not yet.”

“So sorry to hear that.” Seng looked down at his feet. “Are you sure you sent it?” he looked up hopefully.

“Yep, sure.”

“You typed it out exactly like I said it?”

“You were there, dummy. Didn't you see me type it out like you said it? Maybe she doesn't check e-mail that often.”

“Yeah, that must be it. Let's write another one.”

“Okay, but stop scratching your neck.”

“I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

Dear Vong,

One month ago I am writing you e-mail. I ask you help me to America. You not write back I am waiting you. Maybe now you got baby and you are busy. Or maybe easy job in office and cheese hamburgers make you lazy. Please I am waiting your message.

Nok is still okay but she is not laughing my jokes like before.

Loving brother,

Seng

When Nok asked Seng why he wanted to see Vong's New Year card again, Seng just said that he liked the picture on the front. He didn't want to tell her it was so he could make sure they had Vong's e-mail address right. The card showed people skating, which he knew about because he'd seen it on TV.
RIDEAU CANAL, OTTAWA
was written underneath it. He didn't know where that was, but he was sure he had seen it in an American movie once.

America. Just the name made him feel excited. The land of the free, the home of movie actors with flawless faces; McDonald's, KFC, and all the other fast-food restaurants the communist party didn't allow in Laos; blue jeans; baseball hats and dollars. He wondered how it would be for Nok if he were to leave. Would she miss him? He didn't want to ask her. He was afraid of her blunt response. Besides, he didn't want to say anything until he knew for sure that he was going. He'd send for her as soon as he got there. Vong could pay for her to go to an American university.

Dear Vong,

Another month has gone. You are getting my e-mail? Please let me know you receive or not.

Nok is fine smiling more now. I think I know why. Nana told me falang boy coming to her often.

Loving brother,

Seng

Cam

I ripped open the doors of the massage house. “I can't believe it! Nok? Come check this out.”

Some of the other masseuses giggled and were probably glad they didn't have to massage me. By now everyone knew who I was coming to see.

“
Sabaidee
, Cam,” Nok said, looking up — perhaps brightly — from the Virginia Woolf book she was reading between customers. Her shiny, black hair flowed long and loose down the back of a pink T-shirt that clung sexily to her lean waist. I wanted to kiss her.

“Get this! I was walking along the street when a dog ran up to me, cocked his leg, and pissed all over my foot. Pissed all over my foot! The bastard picked me out of a crowd and peed on me!”

I was surprised I was cracking up. I was missing a game today because of the fight. Mr. Rose wouldn't even let me practise. Apparently the Thai guard was in hospital with injuries from our brawl.

“It's serious, Cam,” Mr. Rose had said.

“He started it.”

“You think that matters?”

Seeing Nok seemed to soften it all. I thought maybe she looked glad to see me too. My foot reeked, but for some reason it was hilarious. Obviously I still had a long way to go to quell my temper, but perhaps the laid-back Lao way was rubbing off on me after all. Maybe I was finally beginning to understand this place a bit. Like the importance of peace in the everyday moments. Little things — like someone cutting you off in traffic, or shoving you on the basketball court, or even a dog pissing on your foot — didn't bother people here. They lived by the saying
boh penyang
— “no worries.” They saved their energy for telling jokes and helping out friends or family. It seemed kind of simple, yet profound at the same time. Weird how a poor country like Laos can be so rich.

I stopped feeling so peaceful when I saw Nok's face fall. Had she heard about the game?

“That is very bad luck,” she said solemnly.

“No kidding! It's kind of funny, though.”

“No, Cam. It's a really bad omen.” She looked down at the ground.

“What do you mean?” I chuckled nervously.

“It means something bad is going to happen. You must go to the temple. Make some merit and the monk will bless you. After that, the bad luck will be gone.”

“Make merit?” I asked.

“So you can be reborn in heaven.”

“Kind of like a points system?”

“Maybe. It's for your karma,” she said.

“You mean, so I won't come back as a donkey?”

She burst into laughter.

“Karma isn't about punishment; it's about learning all you can in this life so you don't repeat the same mistakes in your next.”

“Right, but in my next life I already know not to wear flip-flops that dogs like to piss on.”

“Cam!” she tried to look exasperated, but I saw her little amused smile.

I didn't want to belittle Buddhism or her culture, but there was no way I was going to a temple to tell a monk that some dog took a piss on my flip-flops. We didn't say anything, but I did notice that Nok washed my feet twice before massaging them.

As she kneaded my body, I thought about what she'd said. Back home, death was hidden — in the dark, tinted windows of a hearse, in the thick, drawn curtains of a funeral home. Here in Laos, death was in your face: the smoke from a funeral pyre, chickens being readied for supper, a goat hit by a car. It freaked me out a bit, made me think about things.

“Will you show me what to do at the temple?” I asked when the massage was over. Nok hesitated.

“No.”

“Why?”

“It's not a good idea for me to be seen around town with you,” she said.

“But why?”

“People will think things.”

“Is that why you didn't want to come to my game?”

“Yes.”

She handed me a cup of sweet jasmine tea. I looked her in the eyes and was struck by how badly I wanted to be with her. All the time. She was something real in my life. Solid. She was truly there, not just pretending to be there. And those full, silky lips. Damn.

Nok looked away from me and started to fold towels hurriedly. Suddenly she stopped.

“Look, if something horrible happens to you, it will be on my conscience. I finish work at five o'clock. Meet me here.”

My heart flipped like an acrobat at Vientiane's Russian circus.

Nok was agitated when I met her later that afternoon. She abruptly motioned for me to get on the back of the motorbike she had borrowed from Nana. A girl who rides a motorbike. They're all over the place in Vientiane, but Nok looked extra sexy straddling the black leather seat.

“Are you sure you're okay with this?” I asked, but she already had the engine running.

Her smell, musky and real, joined the breeze whipping at my face as we zoomed down a leafy boulevard. I wanted to wrap my arms around her or lay my hands on top of her thighs so I could feel them tightening and relaxing as she worked the gears. But as we made our way through town, I began to understand her hesitation. Adults leading their cows back home, talking on cellphones, or picking up children after school, all snuck a stare as we scooted by. Some children pointed and called for their friends to have a look. An elderly woman clicked her tongue as she walked across the intersection where we had stopped for a red light. I began to hope the temple wasn't too far.

We pulled up to the front gate of
Wat Sokpaluang
, gaudy and garish with bright yellow-and-red paint peeling off every which way, and fake gold tiles glittering in the harsh sun. I wished I had my sunglasses. I'm sure I looked really cool, squinting like a rat that's just crawled out of its hole.

“Why is everyone looking?” I asked. Even the novice monks couldn't take their eyes off us. “Don't foreigners come to this temple?”

“They think I'm a Thai girl with her client,” Nok said frankly, standing taller. She turned and walked into the temple like a dignitary about to make a speech.

“Nok,” I touched her shoulder as I followed her. “You don't have to do this.”

“I'm not going to taint my merit by refusing to take you to remove the bad omen.”

“You're willing to do this, for me?”

She looked away. Then she looked me straight in the eyes. “I am,” she said firmly.

A woman at the temple smiled kindly as Nok explained what had happened. She took out skinny, pliable candlesticks and wrapped them like a measuring tape around my head and from my elbow to wrist. We brought the yellow candles to a monk who lit them and let their beeswax drip into a bucket of water filled with yellow and orange flower petals. The monk, draped in a saffron-coloured robe, spoke in Pali. It was the ancient language of Buddhism, Nok said. He tied white strings around our wrists. I was surrounded by beauty — the gentle vibe of the temple, the compassionate brown eyes of the monk, the exotic smell of frangipani, and most of all, Nok. The beauty of this place seemed so pure and genuine. Maybe it really was powerful enough to wipe bad omens away.

As we walked back to the Honda Dream, I asked her if she wanted to go for iced coffee. She looked at me and then laughed.

“Why not? Everyone thinks the worst, anyway,” she said, throwing up her arms.

We sat at a dilapidated riverside café, its bamboo balcony threatening to disintegrate into the mocha-coloured Mekong below. The great river ambled lazily between Laos and Thailand. On the opposite banks I spotted Nong Khai. The prosperous Thai town stared across the river at Vientiane, thumbing its well-off capitalist nose at the communists. Apparently Nong Khai was where the Thai guard lay in hospital, with supposed head injuries from our fight. I tried to push him out of my mind — he had already screwed my life up enough. There were rumours at school that I would be suspended for five games and prevented from playing the big tournament in Thailand.

Nok and I talked about everything. She told me about her dream of becoming a sociology professor, and about her hero, Aung San Suu Kyi, a woman who was fighting for democracy in nearby Myanmar.

“I like smart, strong women,” she said. “Kind of like your mom.”

“Julia? Smart and strong?” I scoffed.

“I see her at the massage house,” Nok said. “I think she's brave for moving to another continent with her teenager.”

I shrugged.

“See the river?” Nok said, pointing to the Mekong below us.

“Yeah.”

“In rainy season when it floods it is powerful and strong, in the dry season it is gentle and calm. It bends and twists. It feeds and bathes us. It acts as our border, so it protects us too. We call it Mother Water.”

I watched fishermen cast their expansive nets into the dusky sky. It didn't take long for a shirtless fisherman in a conical hat to reel in a net filled with flailing catfish.

“You shouldn't be so hard on her, Cam.”

“I'm not hard on her.”

“I don't like the way you talk to her at the massage house.”

I was taken aback. No one had ever said that to me before. During all of the counselling, all of the discussions and debate about how to fix my anger problem, the focus was always on me and my needs. Not hers.

“You know, sometimes I don't like your honesty,” I said, annoyed. “You don't know what it was like growing up with her.” I could hear the anger seeping into my voice. I decided to shut up and try to breathe.

She sat there, saying nothing, completely comfortable with the silence. Finally she said, “Look, Cam, I know what it's like to miss your mother.”

My anger stopped in its tracks. My complaints about Julia never being around seemed small compared to Nok's mom disappearing in a communist political re-education camp.

“We both feel alone in the world sometimes,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes.

I suddenly wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but I didn't know if I should. Would it get her into trouble?

We stayed there long after the happy hour rush — government employees eyeing us curiously as they sipped Beerlao and undid their collars after a day of pushing paper in the various government ministries. We stayed long after the ice cubes in our coffees melted, long after Nok should have been home. Then, when the smoky orange sun finally dipped into the river, she grasped for my hand underneath the table so no one could see. She held it, tightly. Urgently, almost. A tremor climbed up my spine. In that subtle yet strong way we held on to each other. I didn't want to let go.

When I finally got home, Somchai was out in front of his house washing the two shirts he owned in a plastic bucket in the moonlight. He waved me over.

“Heard you were on the back of a Lao girl's bike,” he said.

“Geez, word gets around in this town.”

“You like her?” he asked.

“Yeah. A lot.”

“Be careful, then,” he said, and threw me the ball.