gotta go toilet,’ Pepsi said loudly in English, jumping up and down like some kind of pee bunny. Then he shot me a sly look and went across the gym to a door in the wall behind the boxing ring. He opened it like a game show hostess revealing a prize. There was a clean toilet and sink inside.
I felt like crying. And maybe if I’d cried, things would have gone better for me.
But I didn’t cry. I stalked across the gym, grabbed Pepsi by the throat and shoved him against the wall.
‘You wanna fight me, Pepsi?’ I snarled. ‘You think you’re funny? Let’s get in the ring and find out how funny I am.’
He tried to shake me off, but I’m not that easy to shake, not when I’m mad.
‘I not fighting you,’ Pepsi said. ‘You unlucky foreigner, got smelly bottom, I not fighting you.’
If I hadn’t been so mad, ‘got smelly bottom’ would have broken me up laughing. But I don’t back down.
Coat had to pull me off him.
‘You fight in ring, not each other,’ he said. Then he added something more complicated in Thai, to Pepsi, and I wondered what it was, because Pepsi shut up after that.
‘Take a break,’ Coat said to me. The way he said it I knew I’d done wrong, but I’m damned if I know what I was supposed to have done instead.
I peeled off my gloves and followed Pook.
‘You want to stay here?’ she said, softly. ‘Or go back to America?’
I felt about two inches tall. I gulped. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
Why do I always fuck up? Why? Why? Why?
‘Cake sent me a text about you,’ Pook said. ‘I see he was not kidding.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Please let me stay. I’ll be very quiet. I won’t argue.’
‘You must do better. We see how it goes.’ She showed me the corner (literally) I was sleeping in, and the table where everyone ate meals. And where the extra toilet paper was kept.
She showed me the toilet paper twice.
Smart Phone
L ONELY AND ANXIOUS weeks followed the incident with the journalist. Mr. Richard was growing increasingly electric and unpredictable. He was working on the thing he called ‘the final medicine’ in his lab as though his life depended on it, and maybe it did. He had been sickly since the incident with the night orchid extract, and now he looked at Mya assessingly, as though judging her strength. He talked to people all over the world in many languages. He worked in the lab. He slept only fitfully, when he could no longer resist the hushing music of the rains on the roof of the forest house.
He never mentioned the young journalist again, and he didn’t even try to get into the phone. It just sat there, unnoticed amid the mess of vials and papers, even though Johnny stopped by and offered to take it to a hacker he knew in Bangkok. ‘What the journalist found out is immaterial,’ Mr. Richard told Johnny. ‘He’s not coming back.’
Mya couldn’t be sure whether Mr. Richard really didn’t care about the information stored on the phone, or whether he just didn’t trust Johnny. He didn’t seem to trust anyone lately. Something was happening to him. This was not quite visible, but almost. Once when Mr Richard was sleeping she saw a ghostly image of him rise from his body and drift towards her, wavering, until it disintegrated like smoke.
She did not want to share her body with him.
One night she woke to the sound of distant music. It seemed to be coming from the meditation porch. Mya rose and slipped her red dress over her head. As she made her way barefoot through the blotchy, leaf-tossed darkness she realized the sound came from beyond, from the little work room adjacent to the open porch. Mya hesitated. The masks on the walls were shrouded by shadow, but the blue computer light emanating from the laboratory made the stuffed monkey’s glass eyes gleam. A bitter smell came with the light. Mr. Richard must be working again.
The music was a tinny little melody, repeating endlessly.
The mysterious password-protected
I felt like crying. And maybe if I’d cried, things would have gone better for me.
But I didn’t cry. I stalked across the gym, grabbed Pepsi by the throat and shoved him against the wall.
‘You wanna fight me, Pepsi?’ I snarled. ‘You think you’re funny? Let’s get in the ring and find out how funny I am.’
He tried to shake me off, but I’m not that easy to shake, not when I’m mad.
‘I not fighting you,’ Pepsi said. ‘You unlucky foreigner, got smelly bottom, I not fighting you.’
If I hadn’t been so mad, ‘got smelly bottom’ would have broken me up laughing. But I don’t back down.
Coat had to pull me off him.
‘You fight in ring, not each other,’ he said. Then he added something more complicated in Thai, to Pepsi, and I wondered what it was, because Pepsi shut up after that.
‘Take a break,’ Coat said to me. The way he said it I knew I’d done wrong, but I’m damned if I know what I was supposed to have done instead.
I peeled off my gloves and followed Pook.
‘You want to stay here?’ she said, softly. ‘Or go back to America?’
I felt about two inches tall. I gulped. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
Why do I always fuck up? Why? Why? Why?
‘Cake sent me a text about you,’ Pook said. ‘I see he was not kidding.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Please let me stay. I’ll be very quiet. I won’t argue.’
‘You must do better. We see how it goes.’ She showed me the corner (literally) I was sleeping in, and the table where everyone ate meals. And where the extra toilet paper was kept.
She showed me the toilet paper twice.
Smart Phone
L ONELY AND ANXIOUS weeks followed the incident with the journalist. Mr. Richard was growing increasingly electric and unpredictable. He was working on the thing he called ‘the final medicine’ in his lab as though his life depended on it, and maybe it did. He had been sickly since the incident with the night orchid extract, and now he looked at Mya assessingly, as though judging her strength. He talked to people all over the world in many languages. He worked in the lab. He slept only fitfully, when he could no longer resist the hushing music of the rains on the roof of the forest house.
He never mentioned the young journalist again, and he didn’t even try to get into the phone. It just sat there, unnoticed amid the mess of vials and papers, even though Johnny stopped by and offered to take it to a hacker he knew in Bangkok. ‘What the journalist found out is immaterial,’ Mr. Richard told Johnny. ‘He’s not coming back.’
Mya couldn’t be sure whether Mr. Richard really didn’t care about the information stored on the phone, or whether he just didn’t trust Johnny. He didn’t seem to trust anyone lately. Something was happening to him. This was not quite visible, but almost. Once when Mr Richard was sleeping she saw a ghostly image of him rise from his body and drift towards her, wavering, until it disintegrated like smoke.
She did not want to share her body with him.
One night she woke to the sound of distant music. It seemed to be coming from the meditation porch. Mya rose and slipped her red dress over her head. As she made her way barefoot through the blotchy, leaf-tossed darkness she realized the sound came from beyond, from the little work room adjacent to the open porch. Mya hesitated. The masks on the walls were shrouded by shadow, but the blue computer light emanating from the laboratory made the stuffed monkey’s glass eyes gleam. A bitter smell came with the light. Mr. Richard must be working again.
The music was a tinny little melody, repeating endlessly.
The mysterious password-protected
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