A Five Hundred Baht Note

It was a season and a time to forget. My wife left me for another man because she said I had become "boring." My collie got run over by a student who claimed that he was hurrying to get to an exam. My mother got a cancer diagnosis and was dead two months later. And then, if all this wasn't enough, my company merged with a larger transnational and I was given the choice of either finding another job or taking a lesser position and a substantial pay cut. I decided it was time to reassess my life, and then I thought that perhaps I should get more serious about meditation and also try my hand at writing a novel, a dream I'd had since my college days and a single course in fiction that I liked; and liked even more when the professor said I had-words I'll never forget-"real promise."

I gave two weeks notice and cashed in one of my annuities and took my half of the settlement from the divorce and sold my ten-year-old Camry, and with more than $400,000 sitting in two banks accounts and only odds and ends to put in storage, I still hadn't decided where to go or what to do. Brazil beckoned, but I didn't speak Portuguese and had heard lots of tales about violence and didn't want to live in a big city and, well, just didn't know much about the country other than that it seemed reasonably exotic--but could I find a quiet place to meditate? I was afraid of Africa, or rather of getting some deadly form of malaria, and if not that getting mugged and left for dead and then forced to take a blood transfusion and die from the bad blood. Asia beckoned, and I hadn't heard many reports of violence, but there were so many choices. Vietnam, Cambodia, China, Indonesia, and then Thailand. Yes, Thailand, I thought. A thorough-going Buddhist country and one that get lots of tourists, and maybe I'd even be lucky enough to find a nice Thai woman about my age (forty-three) and start again. Maybe this time have a couple of children and not find myself married to a woman who refused to work and didn't want children and loved Oprah Winfrey and, as I would discover to my chagrin, also loved one of the neighbors because he wasn't as "boring" as me. Meaning, I would hear in one of her mean moments when we were dividing up small mementos, that I wasn't-how did she put it?-"rough and imaginative when it was called for."

So Thailand became my choice, and initially I thought that it would be ideal to find myself somewhere in the north in a small village where I could get some further instruction in Buddhism. I'd been practicing for almost twenty years, but in all honesty with the demands of my job it was pretty much a hit-and-miss affair.    But I am not a person who really will strike out into a new adventure when the moment comes, and for this reason I was highly vulnerable when I found myself beside Ned Stone on the nearly four hour flight from Taipei to Bangkok and we hit it off and he said he was going straight to Pattaya and it was a great place to get introduced to Thailand. And did I want to share a taxi with him? He knew of a good hotel on Soi Diana-the Opey de Place, and there were lots of good restaurants nearby and that's where he was staying. So why not, I thought.

Ned showed me the nightlife and gave me some instructions if I wanted to play with bargirls. It wasn't for me, I told him, and it was about here that he wanted to tell me all that had gone wrong in his married life. And a mess it was, much worse that I'd experienced, I concluded.

At the Opey, Ned took one of the cheaper rooms that fronted on the pool. I decided I wanted something bigger and better, and away from all the hotel traffic, so I paid a bit more and got Room 512, with a small balcony and a view onto the pool. I figured it would give me more quiet and allow me to mediate in my room if I couldn't find a better environment in the short run. I know this sounds like it could hardly be an improvement from the small Georgia town where I grew up and my life unraveled, but I needed a change. If nothing else simply a place to forget all those tragedies. and what-have-you that came all at once.

Ned and I began having lunch together and he took me to Walking Street one night where all the go-go joints are found. And then one afternoon he insisted I go with him to Soi Six and put my eyes, if not more, on all the young women eager to go for an hour or however long you wanted.

Ned's marriage had gone on the rocks about six months before mine went south, and with 100 mg. of Viagra that he took every night he quickly--and for the second time (he has been here three months earlier)-made the best of what he often called "Every Sane Man's Candyland." Like I said, it wasn't for me, and maybe, now that I think about, my ex Shirley had good reason to move on. I can't say I was dead below the belt, but the interest just wasn't there.

Our second night in Pattaya, after we'd had a nice fish meal on nearby Soi Eight, Ned and I walked the beach side of Beach Road all the way to Walking Street. He pointed out what the girls with big smiles were after and how much they wanted and he said he'd tried one and would probably be back for another one on an afternoon when he wanted a quickie. None of this, as I said, interested me, but I did see some real possibilities for meditation on the beach, imagining that an ideal time would be in the half hour or so before sunset.

And so it came to be. Three days later I found myself with a towel, and in shorts and a T-skirt and wearing thongs, walking to Beach Road and finding a spot that was pretty sparse, most of the sunbathers and swimmers and such having called it a day by this time. I couldn't have asked for more. I wasn't at all bothered by what I'd learned Pattaya was really all about, one gigantic brothel for men from the West. I could, I imagined, even in this environment go about rebuilding my life. If I wanted to hear stories about what went on in the bars and go-go clubs all I had to do was ask Ned as he was eager to give me as many details as I could tolerate.

Ned stayed at the Opey nearly two weeks, and we continued to see each for lunch or dinner most days, if he didn't have a girl that he was staying with or she came early at his request. He liked to keep one no more than two days at a time and then find someone new. I could understand his rationale based on stories he was telling me, though I'm not sure it would have suited my needs had I been so inclined.

By the first part of the second week of my stay at the Opey-I would be there for nine weeks altogether-I had found a routine. I would get up about seven and have a big breakfast and then return to my room and start writing by eight or so, no later than eight-thirty. I set myself the goal of writing for three hours in the morning, and another three hours in the afternoon, all with the aim of seeing if I could get five or six good pages that, with light editing, I could keep.

Toward the end of the third week, and now into a routine at the beach late in the afternoon, I had an unusual experience. I had been meditating for twenty minutes or so when I felt a hand on my neck. It was soft and feathery, and after touching me on each shoulder, I could feel two fingers drawing a jagged line from one shoulder to the other. For some reason, I did not visibly react, nor did I make any attempt to turn and see who was doing this to me. I assumed it might be one of the small children that sometimes ran loose. Fairly consistently, I'd seen a couple of Thai families, and one Japanese or Korean family-I couldn't be sure which-at the beach at this time of the day. I gave the frolicking kids little notice, and they ignored me, which is what I preferred. I had come to meditate, not engage in small talk or be sociable.

The person who drew the jagged lines on me with two fingers-this I was sure of-did this two or three times and then stopped. I thought that perhaps she or he would soon begin again, but nothing happened, and after a long minute or so I turned, out of curiosity, to see who had been doing this to me. Teasing or being playful, I thought. But when I turned no one was there. I looked up and down the beach and saw only one couple in beach chairs. They were older, and I was sure it could not have been one of them.

I thought no more about the experience that night or the following day on my walk to the beach for further meditation. My mind was on the novel and some difficulties I was having with a fictional rendition of how my mother met my father. This time I was meditating for a mere five minutes or so when once again, and without any noise on the approach of the person, I felt those fingers on my back. Now they were dancing, moving quickly one moment, then slowing, as if to a musical tune. I wanted to turn and see who it was but something told me not to do so. I don't know whether I wanted the person to say something before I saw his or her face, or whether I simply liked the mystery of it all. And wonderment about where it would go from here. The fact is, I was mesmerized by this unwanted but suddenly welcome intrusion into that time of the day when I was trying desperately to repair my broken life.

On this particular day, the mystery person continued this finger dance across my shoulder for what I would guess was no more than three or four minutes. Then, suddenly, it stopped. I heard some breathing for the first time, and then the single word, the question: Good? I could not tell whether I had heard the voice of a man or a woman, or a child.

Good, I said. Yes, very good.

The fingers continued working their mysterious magic. Slowly, rapidly, tenderly, shoulder to shoulder. Then, unexpectedly, she said, Bye, bye. And followed with: Tomorrow I maybe see you. I was sure, certain beyond all doubt that it was the voice of a female. But whether young, or middle-aged, or old I could not tell.

Please come, I said.

If you no try see me.

I won't, I promise.

She said nothing more, and then I heard only the hint of a slight shuffling of feet in sand.

As much as I wanted to, I resisted the temptation to turn and see what she looked like. The sky was still a brilliant orange, now changing to purple, and I concentrated on the colors; and tried, though fruitlessly, to return to a meditative state.

That night, I could barely sleep. All I thought about was the very slow passing of time, and how I wanted to be back on the beach, seated in the lotus position, those fingers dancing on my shoulder, wondering where she would go next, wondering if I would ask her questions or dare to turn and see who was doing this to me. Wondering even more, with great anxiety as the morning unfolded and I simply could bear to sit and write a word, whether she would come.

I had allowed myself to believe that she would be there within the first five minutes of my having taken up my customary position on the beach. But she didn't show. Ten, then fifteen minutes went by, and I could barely contain my anxiety. My muscles felt as tense as I could remember, and as I waited I craved a drink of something strong. Everything I had so carefully avoided since my arrival in Pattaya.

Then I felt a soft hand on my right shoulder, and she whispered, I am back. Good?

Good, I said, happy, eager to say more. But I did not. I wanted whatever this was to unfold slowly, fearful that were I to rush, to push, she would disappear and all would be lost. But where was this to go? What did I want from it? I had, at this moment, no idea, and my only desire was that this odd relationship, unlike anything I had heard of or experienced, not stop.

She came for the next five days in a row, including a Saturday and a Sunday, days on which I did not expect to see her, and days on which there were a lot more people on the beach where I was now fitfully trying to meditate. It was becoming increasingly difficult, because rather than try to empty my mind and find peace, and a release from the tension of trying to write a novel, I now could think of little more than when she might arrive. And how long I would be able to resist turning to see what she looked like.

I did, slowly, and not without hesitation, brave some questions. But I gained little, and with each question I feared I might be closer to pushing her away, losing what was becoming increasingly important to me.

One day after she had moved her hands lightly and lovingly over my upper back, and I got the sense that she was now kneeling, I ventured this question: Can you tell me your name?

Not today. Another day.

Do you want to know my name?

Not today. Another day.

It was two more days before I ventured more questions. The first was: Would you tell me how old you are?

I do and maybe you no like me.

It will not matter. I am not-remembering some of the things that Ned had said to me about the men who chased after the women in the bars and clubs-a man who wants a young girl.

I still no tell you.

The following week, and after she had been with me for more than ten minutes, she said, You want something drink?

If you do, I said.

No, only for you. Let me get.

A Coke, orange, anything then.

She left and returned shortly, and she said, Close your eye, no see my hand.

I did, and she placed a can of Coke in the sand beside my right leg, and said, Okay open your eye. I did and she added, Okay Coke with you?

Thank you, I said, and took a 100 baht note from a bag to my right. I put it around behind me and said, For the Coke, thank you.

No, me no take. For you from me. She put the note on top of my right shoulder and gave it a slight flick with a finger and it floated down and between my legs.

I felt bad, like I might have insulted her. And for a long moment I could hear my heart pounding, anxious that I had crossed some unspoken divide and it would cost me.

And sure enough, this was exactly what I thought the following day, and the two more days after that. She did not come, and I stayed longer than usual waiting for her. Each day I returned to my room, slept poorly, and got out of bed late. It was impossible trying to write anything, or even revise what I thought was decent. I told myself that this was silly, I knew nothing about her, and were I to have seen her I might find her sufficiently unattractive to not want to see her again. I could also feel some anger, and I wanted to direct it at her, and mainly, I told myself, because on the days after she had come as I so hoped she would, I could not write a word. I paced about, I went to the pool bar and ordered food and ate more than I usually do, and for what seemed like an hour or more I would just sit on the bed with the laptop on my legs and stare at the screen. Your fault! Your fault! I heard myself saying again and again.

On the fourth day, more or less resigned to never seeing this mysterious girl or woman again, I showed up late to my usual spot. In fact, I stopped along the way and went out of my way to put myself between two bargirls in a beer bar and start up a conversation. I bought them both drinks, and a beer for myself, and I had half a mind to take one of them back to the hotel and see what might happen-uncertain, since it had been so long, that I would be able to perform.

I don't exactly know what stopped me. Maybe it was the tattoos on one, and the overly aggressive hands of the other one that turned me off, or simply got me to conclude: Wait. Not yet. Have you learned nothing from all the practice, all this mediation, that you have done?

I mediated, and found a modicum of calm and release from the novel that was not progressing very well at all, in fact so poorly that I was having doubts that I had it in me to stay with such a big project. As best I could, I forced myself to the conclusion that the woman or girl that had brought this small measure of mystery and excitement into my life would never appear again. Perhaps she had just wanted to be playful with me and was a tourist in town for a week or so and I would never see her or hear from her again.

I felt surprisingly calm as I returned to my room, walking slowly and, for the first time in a week or so, thinking about spending some time in the pool before dinner. I had no idea what I would do for dinner, or even what I wanted to eat-if anything.

About two blocks from the Opey, and after I'd crossed Second Road, I got this strange feeling that a young girl was following me. I turned around and this girl not twenty paces behind me smiled, as if she knew me. About half a block from the hotel, I turned again, and she was still there, and this time when I turned and she smiled I canted my head and twisted my mouth, as if to say: Yes? What is it you want? I immediately thought of all that Ned had told me and how the girls would even hustle you on the street, the freelancers, and at just about any hour-or so he had said.

She kept walking toward me, slowly and deliberately, and when she got to me she said, rather innocently I thought then and later, I see you on the beach. I wonder you do what?

She was dressed in a simple pink blouse and clean blue jeans, without frills as many of the local girls and prostitutes preferred. She was wearing tasteful leather sandals, and I noticed that her toe nails, and those on her hands, were trimmed short and were unpainted. She was on the dark side, and had her hair in a simple ponytail. I would not have described her as attractive, but as simply above average. And though the word may seem inappropriate given where I was, she struck me as innocent, and I would have guessed that she was not a bargirl or one that worked in one of the go-go clubs on Walking Street.

Having taken her measure, as best I could in the brief moments before and after her question, I said, I go to the beach to mediate.

You Buddhist like me? she said.

No, not really. It is just my way to relax and find a little inner peace.

Peace? Inner peace? she said, puzzled, definitely not understanding what I meant.

To feel better, I said, smiling, in response to her smile, and the fact that she had moved a step or two closer. Making me think at this point that she was one of the local prostitutes after all.

What you do when not at beach? she said.

I write. I am working on a novel. A long story.

Oh. Good, yes?

It is not so good right now.

Oh, I sorry. Maybe better tomorrow?

What do you really want? I said, defensively, eager to have her tell me what Ned had warned me about. That with my question she would say something like: You want spend nice time with me? I treat you well.

But instead she said, Only interest what you do. I see you so much on beach. Sorry I ask. I go now. Bye.

And before I could decide what to say, or apologize for the tone of my voice and the impression I might've left, she was gone.

In the pool that evening before dinner, the girl I'd met on the street and briefly chatted with-whose age I now judged to be somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-six or twenty-eight-came to mind several times. I did not feel any sexual attraction for her, but I did sense that she was not what I had assumed, and in fact was up to no more than the questions she asked. She did not come to mind again that evening when I had a steak dinner and an ice tea, nor did I give more than a passing thought to her in the morning and as I got into my meditation session that afternoon.

I did not, by this time, expect that I would ever hear from the mystery girl again, but less than ten minutes into my meditation, I once again felt the familiar fingers on my shoulders. I was stopped cold, and I felt a light shiver run through my body. A shiver not of fear but of delight, a small happiness, and one now that I did not want to end.

You drink today again? she said. I get you Coke, you like? Make you feel better.

Yes, I would like that.

Okay, I come back soon.

And she did, and put the Coke right where she had put the first one. Thank you, I said. Thanks very much. I remembered the mistake I'd make in trying to pay her, and I would not make it again.

Her hands were intense this time, and for the first time that I could remember I thought she was actually massaging my shoulders. And then I was sure when she moved into my middle back and I could feel some pressure. Presently, she said, You feel better now?

Yes, I said, leaning forward, hoping she would apply more pressure, and go yet lower on my back and use the fullness of her hands. She did not, and in fact backed away after a brief spell. She then pulled her hands off me and said, Me must go now.

I blurted out, Can I see you another time? Maybe elsewhere?

She did not respond. I heard a light shuffling in the sand, and I knew she was gone again. I felt crestfallen, as if again I had gone just a bit too far, spoiled what was being given freely but within a set of rules that I did not understand.

I finished my mediation, actually staying a little longer than usual, and then took my usual route back to the hotel. I thought I might get a snack, take a short nap, perhaps relax in the pool again, and then later go out for something more to eat.

Just before getting to Second Road, I thought I saw the girl that had followed me the day before. She was just ahead of me. I have no idea where she came from, and at first the only clues that I was right were the simple ponytail and the blue jeans and what I though were the same sandals. I followed her for half a block or so, and as I was doing so I quickened my pace, as eager to dispel my hunch as I was to do-I don't know what.

I had cut the distance between us to about ten feet or so when she stopped and turned, and said, smiling, Hi. You member me?

Of course. And how are you today?

Me talk with you again, okay?

It was at this point, that I thought I recognized the voice. But where had I heard it. In the restaurant last night? Or was it the maid's voice? Or was it…? No, it couldn't be, I thought.

But I wasn't sure, and I gambled by saying, You want to have a drink with me by the pool at the hotel?

That all? she said.

I was tempted to hear Ned's voice, but I resisted, and I said, Yes, that is all. Just one drink.

Okay, then. If that all.

We sat by the long edge of the pool and Wararat-she had now told me her name, and I had given her mine-seemed genuinely interested in what I thought I was doing with the novel. And this took me into what had brought me to Thailand, which she listened to with obvious interest, but with my having to repeat myself or say the same thing in other words because of her poor command of English.

I offered to buy Wararat another drink and something to eat, but she refused, saying she had to go to see her sister. Would you like to walk on Walking Street with me later for a short time? I said.

No sure, she said. I call you later can come, okay.

I gave her the hotel number and that of my room. I told her to call before eight if she wanted to go or could not go, and to my surprise she called before seven and said that she would meet me near the pool when I wanted her to be there.

We walked around for about an hour, and though I made no effort to hold her hand or touch her, she kept turning and looking up at me-she was about seven or eight inches shorter. I didn't know how to read what she might be saying with these smiling glances, and then brief stares, but after we got some ice creams and I began to feel a little uncomfortable and said I wanted to go, she said, You take me to baht bus now?

Yes, if you don't mind.

As soon as we started walking in the direction of the baht bus, she took my left hand and squeezed it, then looked for my eyes and said, Me see you again?

I guess, I said.

Good, she said. Then I see you again. She was now holding tight to my hand, and when we got to where all the baht buses go up Second Road, I gave her twenty baht and as I did so she got up on her toes and kissed me on the lips. I see you tomorrow then, same time, okay?

I wasn't sure what to make of all this, and I again had her figured for one of the thousands of girls who were only after money, in exchange of course for sex.

The mystery girl didn't show the following day, but Wararat appeared at almost the identical place she had the previous day. Now she was wearing a tasteful light purple dress that came to her knees, and the same sandals. This was the first time I'd seen her with her hair down. She was wearing a light lipstick that went nicely with the dress. She was much more attractive than I'd originally thought.

I took her out to a Thai restaurant and most of the conversation, I regret to say, was about the past I was trying to put behind me. I tried once or twice to ask her questions about her family but she was vague, and obviously not eager to reveal much. I was feeling more comfortable with her, and so much so that as we were finished dinner I said, Would you like to come to my room and watch some TV?

She hesitated, and by the look on her face I expected her to say no. But she said, Okay, but no sex. You promise?

I promise, I said.

She wanted to get under the covers and said so as I got some soft drinks from the small in-room refrigerator and turned on the TV. She undressed down to her bra and panties, and I took off everything except my underpants. She made it clear right away that she wanted to cuddle and put one of her legs over mine. But as she did so, she kissed me on the cheek and said, You promise, right?

I didn't say anything and she repeated the question.

I promise, I said. My mind was telling that it wouldn't take much to get me to break the promise.

She stayed for about two hours, then said she had to go. We embraced at the door and there was a long lingering kiss, and as she turned to leave she said, I see tomorrow for this?

Strange as it might seem, we carried on this way for over a week, the only difference from one night to the next was that either before or after our cuddling time watching TV we would go for something to eat. Every night, at some point, she would come forth with the same: You promise no sex, right? And she would need to clearly hear my affirmative answer.

I don't know why I continued this way with Wararat as I did, anymore than in retrospect I can explain why I didn't just turn on the mystery girl at the beach to see who she was. Especially since she continued to come during these same days on which I would be with Wararat at night. Some days she would get me a Coke, other days not. On all of these days her light fingers stayed pretty much on my shoulders. She would say little, and though I was increasingly certain that she was Wararat, I didn't let on.

The sexual frustration was getting to me, and I did not want a girl from one of the beer bars or go-go places on Walking Street to satisfy my needs; it had to be Wararat. And so, on the eighth-or maybe it was the ninth night, partially undressed and cuddled lovingly under the covers with the air conditioning blasting away while watching BBC or something in Thai that she liked, I said to her after a half hour of cuddling, I really would like to make love to you?

No can do, she said, without turning her head, her eyes fixed on the TV. You promise. You promise me.

But don't you want to make love with me?

Yes. But no can do.

Tell me why.

She just shook her head, almost defiantly. And then she said, Want but no can do. You no understand.

For the first time--hard to believe as I write these words almost five years after all this happened--I moved my right hand onto her bared leg. She immediately and firmly grabbed my hand and pushed it away. Then she said, You promise!

I felt small, inconsequential, somehow a victim of a game I could not understand. Nor resist. It was the kind of a game that seemed incomprehensible in Pattaya, of all places! Were Ned there and had I told him about how I had been in bed with a girl for more than a week and did nothing more than hold her and kiss her, he would have laughed and called me utterly mad. Perhaps even a sexpat pervert unlike any he had ever known!

I felt I had no choice with what I did next. A couple of minutes after Wararat said she would not have sex with me, and would not explain why, I picked up my pants and went to the bathroom and fished through the Thai money in my wallet. I found a relatively new 500 baht note, and by design I tore the note near one end, on the long horizontal edge. I got dressed and a few minutes later went back into the room and told Wararat that I wasn't feeling well and she'd have to leave. She agreed to do so without raising an objection or, to my relief, saying anything about my wanting to have sex with her.

When she went to the bathroom to get dressed, I put the torn 500 baht note in the bottom of her purse, certain that soon I would know how this would play itself out.

But I was wrong.

Wararat still wanted to see me and do what we had been doing. She wanted to cuddle and kiss exactly as we had done before, and-assuming she was the same person-she still kept coming to the beach and doing as she had always done.

We carried on this way for another five days, until a Sunday. On this day, the mystery woman-or Wararat?--came to the beach, and she got me a Coke and several shrimp on a stick, at her expense as always, and then, predictably her fingers stopped working their soft magic and she disappeared. By now I was convinced that Wararat had not been offended by the 500 baht note I gave her, which was hardly more than a tip for girl with whom you have had sex, Ned would have told me; and that, well, we'd just continue on with our largely platonic relationship until Wararat broke down and we had sex and moved to a new level. At which point I would finally begin to get some answers about both her reluctance to have sex with me and this peculiar and very obvious need for the emotional warmth I was sure she felt while we cuddled watching TV all these nights.

When I stood up to leave on this Sunday, and reached down to pick up the small bag in which I carried a watch, money and some identification, I saw a 500 baht note partially sticking out of the sand, within inches of where I had sat to meditate. I picked it up and I knew-or thought I knew--exactly what I would find.

Again I was mistaken. It was an old note, and with a small tear-smaller than the one I had made-on the short vertical edge, exactly where I had not torn the note.

That Sunday was the last day I ever saw Wararat. I will never be absolutely certain that these two people to whom I had become so oddly attached were one and the same person. Nor, as I now find myself back on familiar ground in Hazelhurst, Georgia, and with a new and lovely American wife and a daughter on the way, can I explain my own utterly strange behavior during those several weeks in Pattaya. I still cannot decide if I want to know any more than I do about Wararat, and that person at the beach if she wasn't Wararat. In quiet moments, while enjoying a martini before dinner, I often think that some of the finest experiences in life are mysterious, nay ineffable.

Korski 

© Korski. All rights reserved by the author.

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