Brett ran a finger down Jo’s naked belly.
“Jo’s so paranoid – I can’t believe what he did a while back.”
“What did he do?” Noi reached for the cut straw in Brett’s hand and handed it to Jo. Light had been seeping through the Venetian blinds, slowly, and now it cast spears on Brett’s cream carpet. “Fucking hell – he turned my place upside down. I don’t think you should smoke base anymore, Jo. He’s been convinced, for the past few weeks that the police are after him – why the hell would they be following you around, man?”
Jo scooped up white powder from a small Ziploc bag and ‘bumped’ it, holding the cocaine to his nose and snorting it from the straw. Quick. Efficient. He passed it to Noi, and she did the same.
“Fucking hell, he taped all the curtains together and stuffed these pillows under the door. Then, he turned the volume on the music down to about two decibels.” He looked at Jo. “We didn’t notice anything until you switched off all the lights and were like ‘Shut the fuck up, assholes, they are listening behind the door – do you want to get me arrested or something?’ We all cracked up like hell. I shoved a few Zanax down your throat to knock you out until the morning.”
Brett bumped a couple, too, and then reached over to have a sip at his regular – Blue label and soda. “Damn, that guy would be so much fun to freak out.” He winked at Noi. Seeing a streak of white powder on the black sheets, she casually picked it up with her fingertip, rubbing it absent-mindedly on her gums. “Good girl – not wasting any.”
Noi smiled, “I learned from the best.”
Jo and Noi were the regulars, and they often brought along other friends. They came, crashed and went to work as they pleased, helping themselves to Brett’s vast array of drugs and bringing their own to add to the collection. Noi had never tried cocaine before meeting Jo, just a few months ago on board a flight from
She’d called her mother, and told her she’d found a new investment in
“Jo lives right across from me, you know, Noi, but this dope-head hasn’t been home for longer than you’ve been here.” Brett got up, moving to the window. Raising the blinds so that the tops of neighboring towers were visible over the hazy layers of
The two of them had taken to inviting Noi around whenever they found each other’s company too ingrown. She was a new body to explore, and was still fresh enough to cocaine and free-base to be blatantly egotistical and irrational, which greatly amused the pair.
Noi tried ‘Special K’ for the first time two nights ago. She’d decided to sit on Brett’s balcony’s rail and dangle her feet off the heights, to watch the buildings turn into stacks of cars. Brett had rushed out, pulling her back onto the balcony. “Bloody hell, if you want to kill yourself, don’t do it from my fucking balcony. No more K for you.” He prepared her a line on a hot plate. “Here, snort this and sober up.”
Jo and Brett had been watching each other in silence for some time, and Noi took this to be her cue to get dressed and leave the apartment. It was a week before she came back to
Brett dipped a straw into a bag and jerked it at Noi’s nose. “Bump.” She obeyed. Brett moved to her, swaying unstably, his breath heavy with alcohol. She didn’t say anything as he bit at her breasts through her uniform. He’d soon torn them off and was kissing her bare body urgently. Taken by the raw emotion of the moment, Noi tugged at his clothes, strewing them on the marble kitchen floor. As Brett climaxed, a wail, not of delight, but of despair, passed through his lips. The sun set, and Noi, unnerved by his raw emotion, held his head to her chest as he sobbed.
Jo had been holed up in his apartment, smoking base alone for two weeks when Brett took the initiative to go and check up on him. He could hear the clang of cutlery from inside as he stood outside the door. Jo opened the door, pointing a huge butcher knife at his face, as though he didn’t recognize Brett. He’d stared at him for about a minute, while Brett stood frozen, unsure how to react. Then, he threw the knife aside, sending it smashing into a fruit bowl, before jumping onto the balcony and hurling himself over the railing. On the wooden kitchen counter were several photos of Jo standing on his balcony. Each one was pinned down by a knife.
fon @ 4:28 am link to post * *
A demographic analogy:
At night the pyramids
Lit by floodlights
Reassure the busy whirlwinds of sand
Mirroring the curve of Orion’s Belt
Themselves as unbuckled by time
Ghosts of children
Never born
Corrode away the top
Corrode away the sides
Until
All that is left is a pyramid again
Grotesquely upside-down
The summit in the sand
Has pierced my grandfather’s heart
My grandfather has firm hands, but they are soft and gentle. These hands taught me to drive a nail through a block of wood. They taught me to shakily wield a paintbrush, dripping in black paint. That paint-brush coloured rain-shelters for my three dogs. His hands painted loving scenes of idyllic
I called my grandfather yesterday. He was happy to hear his grand-daughter tell him of her future. My dad speaks briefly to him, loudly, because grand-father doesn’t like to use his hearing aid.
“He’s coming to your graduation party tomorrow,” says my father.
My father walks briskly up the pine stairs, his eyebrows furrowed with worry. Later on, I speak to his sister. She’s drunk – her small graphic design enterprise ruined by larger companies. She and her husband now take solace in state-funded wine. She sobs – “Your grandfather has cancer”.
I want to look after my grandfather and hold those hands that held me as I cried many years before. My dad is shocked at my proposal. I wonder for a moment if it could be that he doesn’t know yet, but the look on his face isn’t one of question or surprise. His eyes are deep and sad.
My grandfather was born on a farm in rural
The country was as much crafted out of envy as ideal. The Finns are deeply jealous, and jealousy inspires violence. The people of the nation inflict pain on themselves before their neighbours. My aunt once related a story to me about her own mother.
“After your father’s and my mother died of cancer when I was 21, I began to search through her past. One thing that always struck me was the photos – countless black and white photos of her holding three little children and beaming. I didn’t know who those children were. And I hardly ever saw her smile all my life. She was always so cold to me, and so cold to your father, too. She never was much of a mother. She never neglected us, but she was never really there. Finding those photos shocked me. I didn’t recognise her as my mother in those photos. Your father doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know.
“I searched through the old town records to find any other family she might have had – see, she never really spoke of her past, and we didn’t think to ask. But she had a brother.
“When she married your grandfather, her brother had been married for some years and had three small children. One was five, the other three, and the youngest not yet two. His wife had been her classmate in school. Now, the family lived only two kilometres away, and regularly visited each other.
“Bad things happened when she became pregnant with your father. Her brother started seeing a mistress. A dark gypsy woman. Somehow, in his mind, he found it acceptable to live within the family. His wife was not able to accept this, and, grabbing her two older children (the youngest was asleep in the crib), she set off running to your grandfather’s house.
“It was the middle of winter, and she couldn’t run very fast through the deep snow. Her husband had time to find a rifle, drink several shots of vodka, hitch a horse to a sleigh and set off following her. She hadn’t even gone half-way when he caught up with his wife and two screaming children. He shot them all there, loaded them into the sleigh, and rode back home. There, he went upstairs to his youngest son’s room and shot him, asleep peacefully in the crib. After that, he took the whole family out to a barn in the middle of the field, and finally, shot himself, too.”
Now, my grandfather’s hands are spotted with age but still soft. In his old age, nobody looks after him but his old wife. He’s a simple country man, unwilling to lock himself into the confines of the old-age provisions, desperately short of rooms and nurses, set up by the government. Even so, there is no space for a proud old man who will not ask for help, or admit that he is sick. A nurse comes once a fortnight to deliver medication.
“Your grandfather hasn’t told anyone of his condition. He expects none of his relatives to look after him, and he doesn’t want to impose himself on anyone in the family,” my father says. “But everybody knows.”
Only one year ago, he taught me the Finnish tango. He didn’t let go even when my feet collapsed beneath. He comes to my graduation party and mutters an excuse to leave shortly, rushing his goodbyes and hurrying to the car, irate. I worry that he won’t make the long drive home safely.
Time passes. A whirlwind happens before my eyes. Social change happens, unhindered, yet I don’t dare say anything. Nobody says anything, when the change trickles through, one grain at a time. I watch it change, yet still, I wake up surprised at the change.
When I call him, he can not hear my words. He thanks me for calling after he’s managed to identify who I am only after I have repeatedly shouted my name into the phone (he still refuses to use his hearing aid) and clicks the phone down. I wonder if he simply didn’t hear me and wanted an end to the conversation.
Sometimes I speak with my grandmother, who has become quite forgetful, and complains of back and ankle pains. The nurse still comes only once a fortnight. It’s been three years since anyone in the family has seen them, and they don’t want visitors.
My grandfather’s name means “Hope”. I hold his soft hands in mine again. They are cold.
By Fon Krairiksh (a.k.a. Valisa Sipila)
12/04/05
fon @ 11:35 pm link to post * *
Grandmother – you came to me in a dream like a black and white photo. You were young and balanced a frilly parasol on your slim frame. You wore the three white smears of wedlock on your forehead. The wreath that would later join you to my grandfather hung precariously from one finger. You beamed proudly in your long white dress, a smiling bride-to-be. But – then, dropping the holy circle from your hand, you hid your face behind your umbrella as you wiped away an errant tear.
Ever conscious of causing wrinkles in your wedding dress, you smoothed the sides of your gown as you knelt down, hiding your face behind the parasol. It became the short pedestal on which you and my grandfather rested your praying hands. Both of you wore that jasmine wreath around your heads, connected by the rope that would bind you to each other. With a shaky hand, you fixed your short curled hair.
Your mother was a princess of the north. His father was the closest advisor to the king, following a centuries-old succession of the oldest sons in the family. When the king poured the holy water on your hands, from a large shell with platinum ornamentation, everyone bowed their heads to the ground in respect. The first king of Thailand had named the family you now belonged to. The name means “long reaching good fortune”. You were breathing hard, nervous, your face a solemn rock.
Grandmother. I want to know if the last years of life provided you with the solace you lacked in life. I remember looking at your perplexed face, wondering whether you may have been happier not remembering your life. You were a bitter, scowling woman when I was a child. When you no longer remembered any of us, you beamed. You held my brother’s first-born son, instinctively clutching him to your self, and looking at him in wonder. You looked at the baby, looked around the room, and back at your great-grandson, your eyes as wide in awe as his.
Not long before your last child was born, your husband began keeping several mistresses. He squandered his fortune, as well as yours, on buying them houses and cars. The weight of your royal pride, and the responsibility of keeping up appearances for your husband – the younger brother of the of the king’s personal advisor – kept your mouth firmly clasped. It could not be the role of any woman to question her husband’s actions. It was your duty to support, in silence, your husband’s decisions. My mother’s first husband had a similar belief in patriarchy, but nobody said anything when she walked away. All but one of your four daughters left their first husbands. The oldest never got remarried. The sisters are known to their generation as strong-willed women.
You gave the engagement rings of your own design to my mother to keep. They are made of the finest strands of platinum, and she promised me that I could use them when I am ready. The strands weave around each other like the Milky Way, studded with a hundred fine diamonds. As the years of your unhappy marriage passed, you comforted yourself creating hundreds of necklaces, brooches, rings, bracelets, now treasured by your fourteen granddaughters.
The family whispered of your reclusive nature, and the anger of your middle age. My brother lived in your care for several years, and they say that is why he has never been able to become gentle. Two cousins lived with you almost all their lives, and that is why – they say – that they were never married. My half-American cousin dug a hole into your life and called you a sick, twisted woman, torturing yourself by keeping yourself in a cell of your own creation.
Yes, grandmother, you were cruel, even to me, the very youngest of your grandchildren. But you always stayed up nights to make sure the freezer was well stocked with custard-apple coconut ice cream. You scolded me for being disrespectful, but then handed my mother a 500 baht note to spend on me.
During the final five years of silence, when your husband’s body had degenerated, and his children to longer allowed him beer, you had your revenge. Your worries fell away from you, one at a time, with every passing day. First, seeing your children and grandchildren much older than you last remembered them confused you. Then, you became childishly elated at any person you could remember. You smiled when your nursemaid tickled you, and enjoyed the simple joys of a healthy body.
Your husband retained all his senses, and witnessed the plague of his own body. He alone bears the burden of his expensive infidelity. Where he once would have silenced you, he now sees you happily silent. He has been sitting beside your quiet smile for the past five years in the meager house his dwindling funds and the family can afford him. He cries for sweets, for beer, and his nursemaid sternly shakes her head.
Grandmother – you have given to me until your final morning. You passed away suddenly in the shower, smiling at the flow of water around your body. You collapsed into the arms of the nurse, your spirit leaving you in an instant. At that moment, I was swinging my body from the rail of a balcony to a rooftop. Thank-you for catching me then.
I didn’t cry when the monks chanted for your safe journey into the next life. I didn’t cry as I threw the cane lily onto the flames. They eluded me still as your urn sunk into the Chao-Phraya River.
This is why: In that black and white dream, you took my hand tenderly, and told me not to.
fon @ 1:28 am link to post * *