Windup Stories by Paolo Bacigalupi Page A

himself.” His words still come out like reeds shushing against concrete.
    “Lucky?” Ma laughs. So young. So pleased with himself. “I earn my fate. Isn’t that what you always used to tell me? That luck has nothing to do with success? That men make their own luck?” He laughs again. “And now look at you.”
    Tranh grits his teeth.   “Better men than you have fallen.” Still the awful timid whisper.
    “And better men than you are on the rise.”   Ma’s fingers dart to his wrist. They stroke a wristwatch, a fine chronograph, ancient, gold and diamonds — Rolex. From an earlier time. A different place. A different world. Tranh stares stupidly, like a   hypnotized snake.   He can’t tear his eyes away.
    Ma smiles lazily. “You like it? I found it in an antique shop near Wat Rajapradit. It seemed familiar.”
    Tranh’s anger rises. He starts to reply, then shakes his head and says nothing. Time is passing. He fumbles with his final buttons, pulls on the coat and runs his fingers through the last surviving strands of his lank gray hair. If he had a comb… He grimaces. It is stupid to wish. The clothes are enough. They have to be.
    Ma laughs. “Now you look like a Big Name.”
    Ignore him, says the voice inside Tranh’s head. Tranh pulls his last paltry baht out of his hemp bag — the money he saved by sleeping in the stairwells, and which has now made him so late — and shoves it into his pockets.  
    “You seem rushed. Do you have an appointment somewhere?”
    Tranh shoves past, trying not to flinch as he squeezes around Ma’s bulk.
    Ma calls after him, laughing. “Where are you headed, Mr. Big Name? Mr. Three Prosperities! Do you have some intelligence you’d like to share with the rest of us?”
    Others look up at the shout: hungry yellow card faces, hungry yellow card mouths. Yellow card people as far as the eye can see, and all of them looking at him now. Incident survivors. Men. Women. Children. Knowing him, now. Recognizing his legend. With a change of clothing and a single shout he has risen from obscurity. Their mocking calls pour down like a monsoon rain:
    “Wei! Mr. Three Prosperities! Nice shirt!”
    “Share a smoke, Mr. Big Name!”
    “Where are you going so fast all dressed up?”
    “Getting married?”
    “Getting a tenth wife?”
    “Got a job?”
    “Mr. Big Name! Got a job for me?”
    “Where you going? Maybe we should all follow Old Multinational!”
    Tranh’s neck prickles. He shakes off the fear. Even if they follow it will be too late for them to take advantage. For the first time in half a year, the advantage of skills and knowledge are on his side.   Now there is only time.
     
    He jogs through Bangkok’s morning press as bicycles and cycle rickshaws and spring-wound scooters stream past.   Sweat drenches him. It soaks his good shirt, damps even his jacket. He takes it off and slings it over an arm. His gray hair clings to his egg-bald liver-spotted skull, waterlogged. He pauses every other block to walk and recover his breath as his shins begin to ache and his breath comes in gasps and his old man’s heart hammers in his chest.
    He should spend his baht on a cycle rickshaw but he can’t make himself do it. He is late. But perhaps he is too late? And if he is too late, the extra baht will be wasted and he will starve tonight. But then, what good is a suit soaked with sweat?
    Clothes make the man, he told his sons; the first impression is the most important. Start well, and you start ahead. Of course you can win someone with your skills and your knowledge but people are animals first. Look good. Smell good. Satisfy their first senses. Then when they are well-disposed toward you, make your proposal.
    Isn’t that why he beat Second Son when he came home with a red tattoo of a tiger on his shoulder, as though he was some calorie gangster? Isn’t that why he paid a tooth doctor to twist even his daughters’ teeth with cultured bamboo and rubber curves from Singapore