David Alexander McFarland
The golden calf
"And don't you call people happy
when they possess the beauty and the good?"
I
From the Thai side of the river, the other country looked safe. The river was fast but deep, clean and wide. Smooth high rocks appeared above the water level. "Cambodia," Noi said, pointing across, "te noone," there. Across. A line of trees edged the other bank. Up stream on the tributary behind them was the dam where they had been. A hundred yards downstream on the Mekong River was the big Buddha they had come to see. Everyone went to see Buddha, especially on holy days. American men came out with their girls in the spring on a day off; the girls prayed at the Buddha's feet, taking off their shoes to approach, sliding forward on their knees. The Americans took pictures of everyone, the blank-faced, bald-shaven, old and young men and boys, dark and gold-skinned men and boys in saffron robes standing among the kneeling. The poor people, old poor couples from the countryside who might be fifty years old or ninety, pulling themselves along with thin arms as they clutched flowers to leave with their prayers. Young, rough-looking scarred Thai men with thick gold chain around their necks, wearing black shirts. Only the young girls were bright, scattered among them like bright birds, like parrots and macaws and cranes. Bradford must have seen a hundred of those pictures. Most of the men he knew on the base had them. He had deliberately left his camera behind in his bungalow.
Tep had squeezed them onto the front seat of the Toyota, though Noi had to sit hard against Bradford's left side so Tep could shift for the hills. "Only...maybe five miles," he had said. Noi had said something in Thai. "She says, maybe ten miles," Tep said then. He smiled widely at Bradford, then at Noi. Bradford had smiled too, though he would rather not have smiled at all. Tep was all the time smiling at him, at every American.
At the dam, a mile before the little river opened to the Mekong, they got lunch, half a small chicken and a baseball of sticky rice. "You pay," Noi whispered to him, "you pay for all." At the moment he handed her the money, thirty baht, she turned, and Tep saw. Tep smiled, bowed his head slightly. "Kop kuhn maak," he said, the traditional thank you. Noi said, "When we go to Buddha, no eat, no drink. Do that only nii," pointing down, here.
There had been nothing good to see at the dam. It was a little concrete dam that generated electric power and it had various brown and copper stains over the face of it, with some rusting metalwork around the floodgates. They stayed under the shade of the trees and looked at the water coming through, glanced over the small crowd that moved up and down in a knot over the black road as it came along the stream there. There were no other Americans. It was summer, too hot. Noi had wanted to come, had wanted him to come. No one paid them any mind and after a while, by silent, common consent, they drove on to Buddha.
For the three high feast days of Buddha, the China Gate closed during the day, opening again at six o'clock. The Chinese owner insisted that all his workers go to temple. He would question them after work to be sure. And Noi had insisted on coming out to the big Buddha. "You go," she said, "all GI must go. You go." Tep too she had insisted on. "He see me, he take me, he tell boss." Tep was the second or third man at the China Gate, though he was Thai and not Chinese. Only two of the waitresses were Chinese, daughters. The old man gave each person who worked for him one hundred baht to give to Buddha. Everyone gave in the presence of witnesses, and gave another hundred baht of their own.
At the China Gate Bradford always took the same table. He ate on the long days, drank two small beers on the short days.
No worker in the China Gate had days off. Every day the restaurant was open six o'clock until ten; the long day was open to close, short days ten until seven. The pattern of his evenings had fallen into the long and short patterns of her life. Every other night they went to the movies or to the Sampan Club or to the little parties of her friends -- at those he would be the only American, and all the Thais made a fuss at him, being sure he understood he was to have a good time. Bradford nodded and smiled a great deal at the little parties. The Thai men played blackjack furiously; the women made and everyone ate bits of chicken and drank bottle after bottle of Singha beer, and danced to popular music over the radio. The others made him dance. He had to be in the swaying and snaking around the yard of the compound where Noi and the rest lived, in front of and behind someone, never touching Noi or anyone else. He loved it. When he was drunk enough he thought he heard them saying clearly that he was their friend, that never when he went back to the States would he forget them. He made a great many promises to them, promising to return for this or that important date, always promising to be their friend.
"Tep," she said, "he is my friend. He will take us." If he had liked Tep, it would have been better, but he nodded anyway. "He will do it for me," she said. "We will be all friends."
On the drive out, the wind outside of Ubol had been cooler, and the smell of fish drying on tin roofs was gone; the country smells were of green and heat. Noi's smell, sweet. The smell of dust stirred up in the old car and motor oil. The wind made the ends of Noi's long hair lash his forehead and neck. Once in a while she turned to smile at him, wordless against the road and car noise, and for a while she kept her hand close inside his thigh. On the little drive from the dam to the Buddha she had been still, withdrawn, and she buttoned up the neck of her blouse, tied up her hair in the traditional manner of all Thai women -- the ends made a little brush on top over the bright tin clasp. That clasp he had bought her one evening months ago: pressed in it was a dancer. Her fingers were curved back gracefully, terribly long fingernails curving back too...when he touched the clasp, Noi jerked away, into Tep. The car swerved, but Tep caught it quick. He laughed at the two of them. He said something to her, said it fast, laughing again.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Mie bien lie," she said, the traditional answer.
"I was just looking at your hair."
"Mie bien lie." It is nothing.
He was wrong again. The great problem most of the time was remembering not to touch the head of anyone, remembering not to show the bottom of his foot toward anyone, remembering that if he stayed too long at the China Gate the owner would speak to Noi. Remembering too that Tep was her friend. And that he was not her lover.
Noi did carry the pink card, the V.D. card that allowed her in the Wat Sai and the Sampan Club and the other bars. She said she had never slept with a GI. She said she had not slept with any man, even now at age seventeen. It seemed impossible. He believed her and it still seemed impossible. And he was proud of her, and he believed he loved her because of it.
Below the hill of the Buddha, she wanted to buy flowers. He gave her forty baht and she selected three lotus blossoms. "One for you, one for me, one for Tep," she said.
"All right," he said.
"Kop kuhn maak," Tep said to him.
The climb up was short, steep, and he was sweating hard at the top. The worn-down narrow stone steps were crowded with men and women coming down, going up, everyone making chaos by weaving through the slower people. The priests among them never seemed to notice, talking only to each other or head down, watching their feet moving. People coming off the steps at the top forced others to go around them before moving away, before going in to pray and offer their gifts.
"Give something to Buddha," she said to them both.
Tep handed her a single red, hundred baht note. As soon as Noi had it, he walked away. "Mie dii," she said, watching Tep's back, "mie dii."
Bradford gave her a red note. "Yours," he said, and handed her another. "Mine."
"Dii. You are good for Buddha." She smiled the way he loved best. It was the smile which wanted nothing.
At the edge of the stone platform Noi sat to remove her shoes, put them down neatly behind a family row. A few inches at a time she moved forward, sliding with the others, becoming almost lost in them. The Buddha, smiling placidly over them and even beyond the valley, was surrounded by a hundred people moving in and out, people praying and laying flowers in the hands of the priests to array, dropping coins and notes in other hands. Soft mummers of prayers rose up in intervals. He watched the worshipers for a few minutes and then followed those who had finished praying to look out to the east.
Into Cambodia. Toward Vietnam and the war, the world looked serene and cool. Somewhere east, at Ankor Wat, priests and fighting men were being killed at the temples. In the jungles east of here. But the trees were not jungle, not as he had always believed the jungle to be. At the horizon the green became blue, a mist, a sea beyond...it was not hard to imagine that he was at the apex of the world.
Tep found him. "That way your home," he said.
"Chi."
"Maybe you go you home soon?"
"Five more months."
"You not stay more?"
"Maybe. I'm working on it. Maybe. I want to."
"Noi," he said, "she suie maak Thai girl. Many man try. Many GI want her." Tep's crooked teeth seemed worse in the sunlight. He had never stood so close to the man. "She never go with any man," he said.
"I know that."
"Maybe she go with you, make you happy. Chi mie?"
He had dreamed of that. A dozen times he had taken women from the bars, women who looked vaguely similar to Noi, who had the same golden skin color. He made love with them quickly and paid them for the whole night and sent them away. In the dark, after those women left, he thought of Noi and felt ashamed. Because of her, he never let them stay all night. He could only keep them for an hour or two, and then he sent them away even if they offered themselves again. He never told her of the others but she had to know.
"Maybe you marry her, take Noi back States?"
"I don't know." It was the only answer he had found to every question about her, and about himself.
Noi prayed for twenty minutes, and Bradford watched her. Standing in the open sun so long, keeping his eyes on her for so long, made him lightheaded. All the while a little mummer of voices moved with the breeze blowing toward the river. When he saw Noi starting away from the front ranks of worshipers, he sat on the edge of the stone platform near her shoes.
"You pray, mie?"
"No. Mie."
"Mie dii. You not pray to you god. All people must pray."
"Yes." Though he had not attended any church since basic training. He never thought about God or church or duty but how to make this woman love him. "What did you pray for?"
"I not tell." She slipped on her shoes, stretched out her legs. But as she stood she said, "I pray for me. I want some thing...I want some thing no happen to me. You will understand Thai woman not be --" She stopped, then said, "Kuhn heen, mie?"
"No."
"I pray for be free."
It was in his mouth: he was about to open his lips and use the little speech he had stored against a moment when she seemed open to it; he had his lips open when Noi said, "Mie," and Tep stepped up to them. "Dii, mie?"
"Yes," he said. It was in his mouth and had turned sour.
"Bie," Tep said, go, and Noi said, "Chi, bie."
It was after four o'clock and it would be a rush for them to be on time.
II
The first day he had come she had waited for him in the Butterfly Bar. She told everyone about him, about how he was a good man, good for Thai people, how he never insulted anyone, not even a samlar driver. He shook hands with those who offered, bowed with his fingertips to his forehead in the traditional manner to the rest. "Everyone must see you," she said, "everyone must know you come here to see me. So no trouble. Everyone know you, dii maak."
"All right."
"Always come here," Noi said fervently, "so everyone see you."
To the side of the Butterfly Bar was a narrow gateway formed by white-painted concrete pillars. From the street the gateway was hard to see, since the bar jutted almost to the dirt walkway and the street. If he came to see her in the morning of his day off, he used the gate. In the evening he came through the bar, always having a beer. The Butterfly was a Thai bar: no girl needed the pink V.D. card to enter it. These men could not afford those women. They were taxi drivers and cooks from the open air food stalls around, shopkeepers and a few who wore the standard uniform of national service. Five dollars, one hundred baht, a single red note. These men could afford that perhaps one time in a year. Yes, the American men were rich, and Bradford knew it. Half the time one of the men who knew him bought his beer; it was their pleasure to buy a rich man a beer. Then he would buy the man another beer or a little bottle of Mekong whiskey. He was always the only American in the Butterfly Bar; Bradford was always careful to be quiet around them, to always be sober. When his beer was finished, he said his thank you as best he could and went through the back doorway into the open compound.
Noi had moved here a month ago, saying she had fought with the old landlord. "He tell me, 'Come in my house.' I say I no can do. He say, 'I tell my wife you come in.' So I change bungalow."
"All right," he had said, "dii," and had given her a little money to make the move. For the taxi to haul her things. For some small presents to the friends she was leaving behind and for the friends helping her. "It is custom," she said.
As in every compound, the bungalows were arranged in a semicircle from the gate. Every house was in view. None of them were painted, but ones nearest the gate had long ago turned grey from the rainy seasons. A dozen small children, naked from the waist down, constantly ran among the houses, screaming and shouting. In the evenings the men sat under their bungalows in the dark, cool breezes, drinking and waiting to eat, talking among themselves as the women cooked and talked shouted from one house to the next. Occasionally one of the men would dance to the tinny radio music in the dust in front of his house. The women laughed. The men roared with their whiskey and applauded. The women brought their men a bowl of rice and dried fish or chicken or water buffalo and odd vegetables, then went away to eat alone or with the children or with another of the women.
No Americans lived here. They would not dare. It was outside the areas they had taken.
As he passed their bungalows, the noises from each one stopped, started up again but softer behind him. They took the time to recognize him. Her rich American. He was barely safe from them.
"Always come here," Noi said fervently, "so everyone see you."
"Chi," he said, so that everyone knows I am safe.
In another week his extension came through.
He waited to tell her: tomorrow was payday and he had cashed a check ahead of time at the NCO Club for enough money to take them out to what he called the Gardens. Tables there were set over a lawn, dim lanterns hung between the trees, and because of the little slope every table had a good view of the river and the boats coming upstream and down. Only drinks were served before dark. For the last day of the water festival she had brought him here. After a while the lanterns were shut off and the only light came from the thousands of candles going downstream on small round and boat-shaped floats, golden and silver light reflecting back from the black, moonless water. New ones being lit and set loose from hired boats with offerings of rice and cakes and money for the spring and the eventual harvest. Hundreds more coming downstream from every hamlet and village and Ubol. There had been no finer evening in his life.
He waited to tell her. Because she was busy with her tables the night before and the old Chinese owner had glared at him, then at her, and she had motioned for him to leave.
He waited to tell her because he had never been good at keeping secrets. She could read his moods and she would ask him, "What is it?" and he would tell. To keep his secrets required more control than he had.
He wanted to tell her because he had it sweet in his mouth and it was in danger of spoiling.
In the Butterfly Bar, a familiar man bought him a beer. Kop kuhn maak, Bradford said, and even the beer was sweet.
He waited until twilight to come out the back door. In the compound a dog barked through the wailing radio music. A woman shouted from a window, another answered. A man walking past him stopped, looked at him and started off in another direction. Lights were on in Noi's bungalow.
As always he took off his shoes at the stairs. Her radio was playing the customary thin female voice. Shadows moved across the windows and he heard voices underneath the music. A man's voice. Tep's voice. Noi's voice answering. At the top of the stairs he watched through the opened door, which did not give him a view of the living space, only the little hallway which separated the bathroom from the rest of the house. Once, twice, and once again he started to call out, and twice he started to knock on the door frame. The radio was turned off and the light, too.
Bradford had been standing in the dark long enough to see Noi when she stopped in the hallway: he saw that she had on her blue silk dress, the one she had bought especially for going out. It was tight across her shoulders, across her small breasts, tight around her hips. He could see Tep behind her looking at him, hands possessively on Noi's shoulders, the look on his face impassive. Bradford looked at them again, then went down the stairs to find his shoes. At the gate he took a taxi cruising by rather than the samlars who kept offering themselves.
In the Sampan Club the beer tasted bitter, so he ordered the little bottle of Mekong. At his Incoming Briefing everyone had been warned against drinking the local whiskey; it contained, everyone was told, traces of formaldehyde. "You can never tell how much any bottle will have in it," the captain had said, but Bradford drank it and the way it burned satisfied him. In a very little time he was drunk and that was what he remembered until morning.
In the morning heat of his room he drank lukewarm instant coffee and, after a while, he began to feel better. He had left the windows closed against the insects, and now the heat made everything hot to the touch. Another cup of coffee and watching out the window, the curtains pulled back for what little wind he could get, watching the dark-skinned housegirl beginning her rounds to each of the bungalows, the children in the dirt, made him nearly whole again. The day was starting as any day of the Thai summer: bright on this side of the house in the mornings and hot, but it would be unbearable in a few hours. He turned up the speed on the ceiling fan. In a little while the coffee wore off, so he slept again, until middle afternoon. He did not dream.
By four o'clock the day's heat had broken. He made coffee again, with heated water. He sent the house girl to the food stall at the end of the street for fried rice. Anything else would be too spicy on his stomach.
When Noi came, the sun was falling behind a line of trees and houses and the light turning gold as it does early in the evening. She was still in her red uniform dress of the China Gate. Her samlar came through the gate, the driver whirling around in front of the bungalow when she pointed to his. The turn and the stopping made a dust storm for a moment. What with the taxis and samlars, it was always so in the compound.
"I am sorry about last night," she said. "Tep come. I forget."
"It's all right. Mie bien lie."
"You not understand. You no can come my bungalow now. He say mie."
"Tep said so?"
"Chi, he say so. He say you not come no more."
"Why?"
"You are American GI, he say. You can have all. You are a rich man. You can do all you want. But not all now, he say. Not can have me," she said, tapping her chest with a finger.
"You don't have to listen to him, Noi."
"Chi." She let her face fall. "I listen to him now." Pulling her head up, she said, looking directly, almost fiercely at him, "Tep stay with me now."
"For how long now?" In last night's moment of seeing her, having seen the little horror of her forgetfulness move over her face, he knew all of it, had seen it all time and again until the Mekong had killed it. His question came only from curiosity.
"One month, no more. At Buddha I pray for him and I pray too for you. I pray for me more because you want me, but Tep, he want me now for long time. It is now two years. He know me long time, long time before you. My mamasan, she say to me Go with Tep, and I must do what she say. I can do no more now. It is Thai custom. I stay with Tep."
"Yes," he said.
Noi slumped, sagged a little inside her uniform. For a moment he saw the end of her, when her skin would be turned dark and leathery, her glossy black hair cut short, unkempt, turned gray. Her small breasts would sag to her waist from constant use. Her teeth would fall out, she would chew the betel nut for the constant pain. At forty she would look as any old woman on the baht bus going to and from the market, either bone thin or oily fat but either one wasted.
"There is no freedom for Thai girl," she said. "I have to do all..."
Noi turned and signaled for one of the samlars waiting at the gate for them to go somewhere. It came and she haggled for the price, agreed on saam baht to take her back to the China Gate.
In the next year he caught VD twice. At the end of his tour, his friends from the shop took him unexpectedly to the China Gate. He asked for Noi, but she and Tep had gone away months before. No one knew where, and no one cared. At the Wat Sai Club that night he found a dark girl who smiled constantly and looked nothing like Noi.
©2005 by David Alexander McFarland
