by Alisa Smith
“Sorry it ain’t so comfortable,” Frederick said. His blurry form resolved, though at first I could only focus on details, like his gold cufflinks in the shape of anchors. I hadn’t seen them before, nor the blue-striped dress shirt he wore to replace the white one he’d stripped off for my bandage. He looked dapper. “Bastards sliced up my cushions even though I told them where the money was,” he said. “Crooks got no morals these days.”
“I’m glad you let them go.”
“Hope I judged right. Specially that one that molested you. But he was just a kid acting tough. Their fight left them when I killed the head man. That was enough for me. Not every thief deserves to be shot, does he?”
I started to shake my head, but a thousand shards of pain sparked behind my eyes and stopped me short. I reached toward my neck, but Frederick grabbed my arm.
“Don’t touch it. I did a couple stitches, teensy weensy. Used alcohol to sterilize it, and it’s bandaged up real nice.”
“Will I have a scar?”
“Not with my pretty work. Anyway, it’s right below the chin, so you’d never see it.”
I told myself to calm down about the scar business. I was lucky to be alive. I sat up and the room wobbled, so I grabbed the table to steady myself.
“I gave you a shot of morphine,” he said.
So that explained it. I felt strangely good, and warm, as though wrapped in a silk sheet. Everything in the snug little room looked appealing.
“You got to rest a few days, so I’ll need more supplies,” Frederick said. “Closest port is Sattahip.”
I remembered a symbol marked on our map. “Isn’t that a naval base?”
“Before the Japanese came, it was. Don’t know how much is going on there now.”
It was possible that Miss Maggie would suspect I was headed to Siam. She could have discovered a Russian cable about Link through her other agents. It was best not to linger near a base where there might be intelligence officers posted. The Siamese would be keen to cooperate with America now.
“What about Indo-China?” I asked.
“Kampot isn’t too far away. Old French city, a pretty good size.”
I was not happy to have more delays when I was so close to Bangkok, but it seemed the safer option. There would be other foreigners and we would not stand out so much—the French even had African soldiers, I’d heard. “Let’s go there. But just for one night.”
“One night?” he said doubtfully, but didn’t argue.
Satisfied, I lay back down on the padded bench. “Let me know how much it costs to repair the boat, and I’ll send you the money as soon as I can.”
“No need. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll be glad to get back home to work on her, and Bill will pay for it.”
Bill, I thought, and closed my eyes. If he wanted to see me, I would refuse him.
* * *
TOO WEAK TO stand, I sat on deck while we sailed for Kampot, the lever-action rifle weighing on my lap as I scanned the waters and plumbed my soul. No wonder Miss Maggie hadn’t used me as a field agent. I hadn’t done anything right when we were robbed by those pirates, short of not dying. I had to prove myself more resourceful in everything that might come next. Once I left this boat, I had no one else to depend on.
I wished Frederick had told me about the gun he had hidden. I could have grabbed it with lightning speed and dealt with those pirates before Frederick even knew they were aboard. With the muzzle I traced the arc of a large white bird flying by. No, that would be bad luck. It was the first thing I’d seen in the Gulf of Siam—my welcome committee. I put the gun back in my lap. It was heavy anyhow. I needed to save my strength for real dangers.
In Kampot, I stayed sleeping in my tiny bedroom in the ship’s bow. I peeked out the porthole a couple of times, but all I could see were the masts of other ships in the marina. Sometimes I heard the hollow drumbeat of footsteps on the wooden dock, and once two Frenchmen drifted by, speaking of the weather. It was hot, just as they said, and my brow was coated in sweat. I went back to sleep. It was right, anyhow, that my first experience on land should be in Siam.
Sailing north again, Frederick kept his distance from the islands, avoiding coves and tricky shorelines. Able to stand now, I continued my watch on deck with the rifle, certain I could at least hit the broad side of a boat. But all was quiet and we made it without mishap to Bang Saray just after sundown. Frederick let the anchor chain loose and it whirred over the roller, splashing into the sea. Once the ship was steady he lowered the dinghy, his muscles straining at the winch. He unfurled the rope ladder down the side of the Quarlo and gestured for me to go first. I grabbed the gunwales to steady myself in the dinghy. Frederick followed gracefully, barely rocking it as he climbed aboard.
“Wish I had your sea legs,” I said, trying my best to be jaunty. I didn’t feel very good.
“All these years living on a boat, I tip over walking on land now,” he said, and started to row. The night sky was clear and his face shone with sweat in the moonlight as we drew near the shore. Strange fishing craft, high-bowed, were resting on sand that glowed blue-white under the half moon. Nets hung over bamboo frames. There was no sign of motion. The dinghy jolted as we hit the sand and I let out a quiet Oof.
“Best leave your shoes on. Could be stingrays,” Frederick said.
I must have looked alarmed.
“Shuffle your feet and if you touch one it’ll just swim away. They don’t mean to hurt anybody.” He held my arm as I got out of the boat and I lowered my feet gingerly into the water until they reached the sandy bottom.
“Good luck, Lena.”
“Thanks for bringing me here. I hope I’ll see you again.”
“Oh, you will.”
Though the ocean resisted me, I hurried through the dark, shallow water, shuffling as he advised and wishing I could see my feet. My neck throbbed but I tried to ignore it. I paused over Frederick’s parting words, wondering if he thought I’d need his help later. But I wouldn’t be able to reach him until he was back in Hawaii, and by then it would be too late. A jolt seared through my leg and I froze. Had I already stepped on a stingray? I shuffled my feet, but I didn’t feel any creature down there. Staring into the water, I saw a ghostly blob glowing near the surface, tendrils streaming. Jellyfish. There had been jellyfish in the waters off British Columbia, though I’d never heard of anyone stung by them. I kept moving toward shore, my leg electric but still functioning.
I was relieved when I made it to the soft sand on the beach, and I couldn’t resist turning to watch Frederick’s dinghy getting smaller as he rowed away. Losing my old friend for a second time reminded me of how alone I was in the world. I took a deep breath. Bill sent him. Bill planned everything. Bill wanted to see me, and Link most likely did not. Could Bill protect him from the Russians until I arrived? I put my palm to my forehead: I had a headache, dull and throbbing, and my thoughts stalled like confused soldiers doubting orders. I needed to get my bearings and leave the exposed beach. A gap in the trees showed a road cutting inland, which I had expected from the map, so I took the hard-packed dirt track. I wasn’t sure if I was walking straight. I felt unsteady, like I was still on the boat.
It was strange to think I was in a foreign country for the first time in my life. America did not count. Being from Canada, it was familiar to me the first time I went there. With Bill. I pushed the thought of him aside. I was in the Far East, land of pagodas and opium dreams, or at least that’s what people said. So far, Siam seemed humbler than the legend. Passing stilted huts, I heard faint snuffling barnyard sounds—the strangely peaceful sleep of animals doomed to die. The village was timeless, like agrarian life from a history book, though the hot, humid air and palm trees told me I was not in old England. I wondered what the Siamese people would be like. Hopefully those bandits were not representative. Feeling thirsty, I paused at a well with a wooden bucket and dipper beside the road, but decided the water would not be safe to drink. I’d wait until I was on the train and buy some bottled
spring water or cola. The train. I would soon be in Bangkok. Would I be the person I needed to be when I saw Link? I probably had only one chance at forgiveness. I wished I knew what I’d say.
I sneezed and stopped in alarm to listen into the dark, but nothing stirred and I carried on, trying to walk more carefully so the dust didn’t fly up from the road and give me away. The farming village was behind me now and the air was better, laced with the scent of tropical flowers. Soon the railway tracks shone silver ahead of me, cutting across the dirt road. Stopping at the last stand of trees, I leaned against one to steady myself. The bark was strangely smooth under my hand and I found myself caressing it gently. The pleasant sensation vanished the moment I realized there were people nearby, though there was no station at this remote spot. About twenty feet away stood two peasants, a father and son I guessed, beside the rail line. They were very thin and wore no shirt or shoes. Their clothing was as strange to me as encountering men wrapped only in a bath towel. They cut short their quiet talking, but they did not try to look at me. I suppose the war had trained them to hide their curiosity from strangers. Had they cooperated happily with the Japanese or chafed under their yoke? Probably the latter. Poor people had only their sweat to offer, or their beautiful daughters. They gained nothing under any regime.
I would rather have been alone, but it wasn’t like I could hide from the locals much longer. I planned to take a third-class carriage where at least there would not be any foreigners. They were the ones I was worried about. It seemed unlikely Miss Maggie would recruit native Siamese agents, because she’d have to give away too much of her game to unpredictable outsiders.
With the father and son here, at least I didn’t have to figure out how to hail the train. Even the effort of lifting my arm above my head seemed like too much. I had a vision of myself standing helplessly like a deer in the path of the train, being mowed down. As though conjured by my grim thoughts, in the distance a train whistled—eerie in every land known to God and sounding like a warning. It was earlier than I expected, but the only schedule Frederick could obtain in Kampot was from before the war. The father and son waved madly and the train slowed on its approach, the front light glaring, a single yellow beam illuminating the smoke of the old steam engine as it came to a halt with a giant’s sigh. A man in a conductor’s uniform hung by one arm out the door, returning their wave. The boy picked up a large wooden signboard with a white X painted on it, and dragged it away so it was no longer facing the track. So that was how they signalled the train. I moved quickly out of the trees and approached the family while the conductor lowered the stairs and dropped a small footstool onto the ground. The father nudged me ahead and the conductor took my arm to help me up. The attention was alarming, but they seemed like good people. Were they not surprised to see a white woman in this remote spot? I supposed I might be a familiar creature to them, since in Bangkok there must be British people passing through, or would have been before the war. The locals might be used to seeing them on the trains. The conductor gestured to me to stay put while he pulled up the stool and the stairs. I focused on his uniform, because it was the same uniform as anywhere in the world. It helped me feel I wasn’t dreaming all this. I was dizzy though the train was not moving—yet somehow, it tipped around me like water sloshing in a bath. I gripped the railing in the gangway. As the train started up the conductor took my arm again, uttering short syllables I could not understand, and tugged me in the opposite direction from where the father and son had disappeared. I tried hard not to lean on him. That would surely seem strange.
In the locomotive, I was surprised but relieved when he settled me beside the engineer. I needed to sit down. The conductor was speaking to me, and I finally realized what he was saying was in English with a thick accent. “VIP,” he said again, smiling. I almost wanted to cry at this act of kindness after so many days at sea and the treatment I’d received at the pirates’ hands. “Bangkok?” I asked.
The conductor said something I couldn’t understand but he was still smiling, so I took it as a yes and handed him some unfamiliar Siamese bills. He pressed several back into my hand, indicating I had paid too much. Perhaps the pirates were not Siamese—I could not reconcile the differences between them otherwise.
“Cap koon ka,” I said, thank you, as the grammar book had spelled phonetically in English. He stared at me blankly. Apparently, I had to work on my pronunciation. Then he bowed and left.
I sat feeling a little awkward beside the engineer, thinking that conversation must be expected. Realistically though, how could it be, when I was so obviously a foreigner? Soon I decided that the engineer was content to stare out the front window into the night, watching for stray animals, I supposed. He sounded the whistle any time a dirt road intersected the tracks, warning farmers of his passing. In between the blasts I nodded off, but somehow the noise always woke me from a dream in which I was with the gang and we planned to rob a train. We had never done that. It seemed like a bad idea, because once the heist was over you would be trapped on a train. Every time I thought that panicked thought I made an effort to keep my heavy eyelids open, but it was impossible to stay awake.
A cup sat on the dashboard, and the driver pulled a small, square tablet from it. He popped it into his mouth, chewed for a long time, and spit a stream of dark juice out the window. It must be some kind of tobacco, I thought. He held out the cup to me, but I smiled and shook my head to decline it. VIP, I sighed to myself. I had begun to worry that all this attention was making my arrival in Siam memorable, to be recounted to any curious police officer. On the bright side, being in the engine car limited my contact with the rest of the passengers, who would have given me a good stare while I sat with them. I reminded myself that staying invisible was not the same as not being seen. It mattered more who was doing the seeing. Anyone curious about the comings and goings of foreigners would monitor the upscale hotels and restaurants, the first-class trains and ocean liners.
There was no way Miss Maggie could have traced me here. My sailing with Frederick was private and undocumented. He knew not to turn on the radio because I told him the transmission could be located. But she’s always one step ahead. I brushed the thought away as I fell into another unsettled doze, rocked to sleep by the hypnotic rhythm of the train.
* * *
“BANGKOK,” THE CONDUCTOR yelled. I yawned and stared out the window into the morning. We had already entered the long outdoor canopy of the railway station. Waving goodbye to the engineer, I walked through the car to the gangway, lurched toward the railing, and grabbed it to steady myself. Though the conductor clearly wanted me to exit first, in the place of honour, I waited until the crowds started down the stairs, my sweaty hand slipping on the metal bar. The air was hot even at this early hour, and I missed the breeze through the train window. I stayed in the middle of a tightly packed group and hoped that the chaos in the station would obscure me from any watching eyes. Looking at my arm where it was nearly pressed against another, I was conscious of how pale I was compared to the Siamese women, and how different my clothes were. They had sarongs and wraps of cloth around their chest that exposed one shoulder, and some had their black hair cut short, in little pompadours. My blond hair shone like a lighthouse among them. I paused and let the local people flow around me. The next platform over had an express train arriving from Butterworth, the sign read in English. I smiled. I didn’t know where that was, but it looked so solid, the blocky English letters, among the scribbles of Siamese. I fell in with hale fellows speaking in British accents alongside pretty women twirling parasols. I felt suddenly shabby as I looked at my dirty clothes and shoes. I made myself walk in a straight line to the end of the platform, looking for a washroom to freshen up in. I joined a line of women leading to an anonymous doorway. I hadn’t had a proper look at myself since Mercie Gordon’s hair salon, back in Honolulu. Frederick only had a small shaving mirror on the Quarlo. Waiting to move ahead, I leaned against the wall. The white paint was surprising
ly cool and clean, and I felt badly when I raised my head and saw I had left a dirty smear. When I finally got near the front, I saw that inside each wooden cubicle there was only a filthy hole in the ground. Liquid sloshed on the floors and the smell nearly made me retch. I left the lineup with my hand over my mouth. There were first-class trains, so there must be first-class bathrooms somewhere. I drifted with the crowds through the double doors into the station proper, where English signs pointed up a staircase toward a restaurant catering to foreigners. My feet were heavy and it felt very high, but I made it to the second floor where there was a well-lit powder room with an attendant. I handed her a Siamese bill and she looked delighted. How much had I paid her? I’d better get a grip on the exchange rate so I was not remembered as “that generous lady.” Keeping my face averted from the Englishwomen standing at the counter, I went into a stall and sat on the modern toilet seat, my head in my hands, resting until I heard them leave. At the counter, I took a white towel from a basket and brushed my dress. The towel turned orange from the dust, but my clothes still weren’t what you would call clean. Staring in the mirror I was shocked to see what I looked like. My skin was waxy. I’d avoided a tan by wearing a hat or hiding in the shade on the ship, but now I was beyond pale. I rinsed my face under cold water and raised my chin to examine my wound. Blood had soaked through the dressing. I looked a mess. Gingerly, I peeled up the surgical tape and was startled by the deep red gash with three black x’s sewn over it. I pressed the tape down again. I didn’t have anything to replace the bloody bandage, so I would have to keep my chin down to avoid drawing attention to myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JANUARY 14, 1946
BILL HAD TOLD me with perfect confidence that Lena would arrive today on the train originating from Sattahip, most likely on the first local at eight o’clock. I’d pay a deal of money to find out how he knew such a thing. Could the two of them be in touch? I chewed absently on a hangnail. No, that wasn’t possible. Bill said she never even answered his telegram when he invited her here. Lured, more like, with that Link Hughes. Who we still had not found. This was a problem, and Bill had left me standing alone in the dung pile. Somehow I’d have to distract Lena from any demands to see Hughes.
