by Tom Rachman
“The ones I deal with are harmless enough,” his friend replied. “Stupid, but harmless.”
“They eat raw fish, God help us. Can’t trust a race that fails to cook its food. And why do these Orientals persist with the chopstick? Has no one apprised them of the fork?”
“The Thais use a spoon and a fork,” a younger man interposed.
“Because the Thais are a likable breed. They even provide their lasses for our delectation,” he noted, slapping the behind of one of the bargirls among them; she gave a plastic smile. “What gets my goat,” he continued, “is that we gave the Japs a bloody nose during the war, and what happens during the peace? They get rich off us! Selling us awful cars and cameras and who-knows-what-else. All these Orientals do is steal ideas. Not an original thought among them. Everything’s made in Hong Kong, but what’s invented there? Nothing!”
“To be fair, Jeremy, the Chinese did invent things.”
“Name one.”
“Well, paper.”
“Nonsense. That was Gutenberg, wasn’t it?”
“And gunpowder.”
“The Germans did that, surely.”
“I heard the Chinese actually invented the fork.”
“What in heaven’s name are you going on about, Giles? A man invents a fork, he hardly uses a chopstick, does he? Even the Chinaman cannot seriously claim that sticks are an improvement over the fork.” He turned sharply, noticing Tooly listening. “Well, well. What are you doing there?”
She darted away, pushing past more bodies, popping out among a group of toughs practicing fight moves on one another. The leader, a stocky Filipino with a mullet, wraparound shades, and Muay Thai shorts, demonstrated punches. “Should be a straight line. Use your shoulder to block the jab, then load up on the counter. Catch him on the button and it’s good night.” His disciples nodded. One of them, tired of being ignored, dropped to the floor and did pushups, before collapsing and looking up to see who’d noticed.
Tooly continued, finding herself before the upright piano, its lid covered with empty plastic cups. A middle-aged man in a creased pin-striped suit, mole on the side of his nose, sat at the piano stool, right hand stuffed in the jacket pocket.
“Are you going to play?” Tooly asked.
The question stirred only half his face, the left rising in a smile, the right side limp. He offered his left hand, which she shook, unsure how to grip it, so squeezed his fingers lightly. “No one would hear my playing over this awful heavy-metal music,” he said.
“I can hear.”
He looked upon her, distracted and worried. His eyes welled up; he nodded. Then his left hand went flat on the keys as if calming a horse and—quite suddenly—it leaped, striking a chord, then another, his good arm jumping between treble and bass in a high-speed dialogue till he leaned back, eyes closed, and played so softly that she perceived nothing, only black-and-whites depressed and rising.
A Japanese man in dark suit, dark tie, dark glasses watched with much seriousness. “Vely difficur,” he pronounced. “Vely difficur piece.” Accompanying him was a Caucasian woman with bulging breasts. Tooly looked at these. The pianist interpreted her grimace as a response to his playing and nodded. “That’s a melancholy part, isn’t it.”
The Japanese man and his escort departed for the bar, and the pianist gazed at Tooly. “You remind me of someone I loved very much,” he said, and kissed her on the lips. Revolted, Tooly leaped back, spun around, and ran, banging into strangers, wiping off her mouth, the book bag swinging as she hurried, looking for some way to discharge this repulsive sensation.
A teenage girl stood there, plucking at her black T-shirt to hide her figure. “Hey,” she said.
“Hi,” Tooly answered.
“Want to check out the medicine cabinet with me?”
“Okay.”
As they went, the teenager introduced herself as Reena and fussed over Tooly (“You’re so cuuuuuuuuute!”), downing a shot of tequila along the way. Reena was from Cleveland, which she described as “the most suck-ass part of Planet Earth. Like when you drive to the airport in a normal city? How it looks out the window? With nothing there? Not even kidding—that’s like the whole of where I’m from. Yeah, I know.” She was sixteen, fast-talking and gum-chewing, with a faint bleached mustache. Everywhere they went, she showily asked strangers if they had any pills, and chatted to Tooly as if each familiar name in her own life were universally known. “Derrick is twenty-eight, but it’s so weird—we practically have the same birthday.” She talked about his kissing skills, how the food in Thailand made her gag, especially fried locusts, which Derrick ate to freak her out. All the while, Reena gave Tooly aggressive hugs, stroking her hair like a doll, issuing a stream-of-consciousness account of her drug-taking: “… shrooms with my dad at his place in Maine, and smoked coke once off the end of a Marlboro, and, like …” Up her right arm, she had drawn the logos of her favorite bands in blue ballpoint: Mötley Crüe, Voivod, W.A.S.P.
“Are you left-handed?” Tooly asked.
“Oh, my God, how did you know that? Do you like know me? From another life?”
“There was a left-handed boy at my old school who put answers on his right arm to cheat, and he was left-handed, so I thought—”
“You are smart. You are so smart. You are smart.”
Her headbanger boyfriend, Derrick, appeared, taking the chewing gum from Reena’s mouth and sticking it in his own, his horsey front teeth exposed. “Buy me a beer,” he told her, not registering Tooly. The slogan on his T-shirt read, NO ONE LIKES ME & I DON’T CARE. “Hey, buy me a fucking beer.”
“Buy it your fucking self,” Reena answered, eyes alive.
Tooly slipped into the crowd and upstairs, hunting for Sarah. She was at a loss where to situate herself, so lingered by the card table where that old man, Humphrey, sat before the chessboard. His attention was now on a book, which he drew close to his nose, then thrust far away, then drew close again, so she imagined its print changing size as he read. He turned the page with force: a wisp of his hair leaped, then fell. She rested her bag on the floor and sat atop it. He noticed her, yet only adjusted the cover to block her from view: whichever direction she shifted, so did the book.
“Gurul,” he said finally, plucking out his toilet-paper earplugs, wincing at the din. The word seemed to be a foreign language, so she pretended not to hear. “Gurul,” he repeated. This time she understood. He was calling her: “Girl.” He placed the book facedown on the card table, toppling a bishop and a king, which rolled off the table and bounced on the floor. “You think you can win me?”
“Win you at what?”
“What this looks like? Water ski?”
“Are you good?” she asked, edging closer.
“I am high-quality chess athlete. Top ten.”
“Top ten in the world?”
“If not galaxy.”
“What are the rules again?” she asked. “The horses do something, don’t they?”
“Horses go jump.”
“Uhm, is that a good book?”
He considered its cover splayed on the chessboard—Spinoza’s Ethics—as if he’d forgotten what occupied him a minute earlier. “Average to good.”
“What happens in it?”
“Some bits, you have ethics. Some bits, not so much ethics.”
“I like what it’s called,” she said, putting her finger on the word “Spinoza.” She looked back at the crowd. “Do you know all these people?”
He closed his heavy eyelids with disdain, opened them slowly. “These people? They are trivial beings. Not intellectuals. Almost zero of them. Imagine what Samuel Johnson or John Stuart Mill will say if they see situation like this!”
Since Tooly had met neither of those people, she struggled to imagine their reactions.
“But is good to meet fellow intellectual,” he continued. “I celebrate occasion with small drink. Unfortunate, I am impossibility to move.”
“Why?”
“Be
cause I find myself in sitting position. Might I ask of you one glass tonic water, one glass wodka? This makes two glasses. Separate glasses. Not mix up. You can do? If you don’t want, is okay.”
She proceeded downstairs. Jaime was so busy that he barely noticed her seeking his attention. A Thai ladyboy, also waiting, smiled as Tooly nosed around the bottles. “Okay, sweetie pie?”
“I’m supposed to get tonic water and ‘what-something.’ ”
“The tonic water is—I just saw it. Look, it’s there.”
Tooly went behind the bar and poured herself a plastic cup of tonic water, drawing a glance from Jaime, who nearly said something but was occupied.
“There’s nothing called ‘what-something,’ honey,” the ladyboy said. “You go check.”
Tooly returned upstairs, and found Humphrey shifting chess pieces in animated debate with himself. He glimpsed her approaching; his eyes warmed. “I think you not come back.”
“What was the second thing?”
“First thing, tonic water. Second thing, wodka.”
“What is ‘what-kuh’?”
“What is wodka? Is like water, but with consequences.”
“Consequences?”
“I mean detrimental.” He stressed the first syllable: DET-rimental. “For high-quality chess athlete, wodka is highly detrimental.”
She held still, bewildered.
“Don’t worry. Is okay. Sit.” From the storage room behind him, he found a spare folding chair and set it up for her on the other side of the card table. She sat, but found herself too far, her arms unable to reach the chessboard. With mock grumbles, he dragged the chair (with her in it) until her chest touched the table. She tucked one leg under her backside, which raised her, her other leg dangling, shoe tip above the floor, sight line over a forest of chess pieces.
“What your name is?”
“Tooly.”
He asked again. She repeated her answer.
He clapped his thigh, laughing uproariously. “Most ridiculous name I hear in entire life! I would not believe it, if I do not hear it with my own eyes!”
“What’s your name?”
“Humphrey Ostropoler.”
“That sounds like the name of an elephant,” she said, though this made her think of the nail board used to hunt elephants, which made her think of Sarah, which made her worry, which reminded her of Paul.
“You think Humphrey Ostropoler sounds like name of Asian elephant,” he asked, “or African elephant?”
“The one with big ears.”
“All elephants have big ears. This is why they are elephants not mices. So,” he said, setting up the pieces, “you think you can win me at chess?”
“Humphrey Ostropoler, did you see Sarah? I can’t find her. I think I’m supposed to go home soon. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
“Don’t worry. You wait few minutes and she will find you. I keep eyes on you. Make sure nobody bother you. Is okay?”
She nodded, studying the pieces. “Where are you from, Humphrey Ostropoler?”
“From Soviet Union.”
She looked up, knowing only terrifying things of that country. She’d never met anyone from there, a place she imagined surrounded by a tall curtain, behind which were wrinkled villains stroking nuclear bombs able to blow up the world nine times over. “Do you like it there?”
“Is no-good country. You must stand in line for buying cabbage.”
“I don’t like cabbage.”
“Me also. So imagine, you in line two hours and this is what you get. No-good country. Now we play.” With precision, he adjusted each piece to the center of its square. “I tell you, Miss Tooly, you are going to wish very much—very much—that you bring me not only one wodka, but maybe seven. Because, as top-quality chess athlete, I beat you left, right, and center. I not show mercy because you are small-sized person. Game of chess is not …” But he couldn’t find words for what it wasn’t, so resumed: “I am top-ten chess athlete and you are, I predict, maybe only top fifty. For this, Miss Tooly, I give you three cheating opportunities.”
“How do you mean?”
“When you make mistake move, you can take it back. Three times you can. Also, because I am good-heart man, I tell you rules first.”
At each of her turns, she took many minutes, wanting to pose a hundred questions yet remaining silent and stuck. She twisted her hair into two ropes, clutching them, sucking a loose strand.
“You eat own hair—I never see such sneak tactic like this! Not even Spassky-Fischer tactics.” Nevertheless, he let her take her time and nodded sagely as she pondered her options, as if to confirm the wisdom of her cogitation.
“These pointy ones,” she asked finally, “can they jump two squares?”
“Pointy ones go like this.” He demonstrated. “For examples, this square here. I know you already think of this because it threatens bishop at K4. Or maybe you prefer castling to control center?”
After a respectful wait, she pushed a timid pawn.
“This move is detrimental. I take your queen again.”
“Can I have a cheating opportunity?”
“Is cheating opportunity number nine.”
She counted in her head. “Eight,” she said, then chose another move, equally disastrous.
“You are swimming on thin ice.”
She moved again.
“Now you are skating on hot water.”
Two moves later, it was checkmate. He reached across the board, sandwiched her little hand between his. “Thank you, darlink. Even though I beat pants onto you, you are high-quality intellectual.” He sent her off to fetch his wodka as a prize, writing the word in blockletter printing for her to show the barman, and providing a banknote, too. She declined this, explaining that everything at the bar was free.
At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, worried about leaving her book bag with someone from the Soviet Union. Might he look inside? Actually, he had a good nose to draw. She pushed through the drinks scrum and slipped behind the bar, ticking her stumpy fingernails on the bottles, stopping at Smirnoff. To the amusement of Jaime, who watched but didn’t intervene, she raised it with both hands and poured it into a plastic cup, filling it nearly to the top.
“You paying for that?”
She shook her head.
“What is it with you and Sarah?”
“Did you see her?”
“I saw her when you got here. Then I saw her making out with Venn, but I … what?”
Tooly couldn’t suppress her horror. “You saw her smooching?”
A tipsy woman shouted for Jaime’s attention, and he turned to take the order, noticing too late that Tooly had again walked off without paying.
The plastic cup of vodka was too full to safely carry with one hand, so she held it with both, her mouth to the rim, the liquid burning her lips.
“Is good,” Humphrey said, taking a sip. “Now I help you find her.” He stood from behind the table, smoothed down his tie. “I sit for too long. My leg goes to bed.”
“To sleep?”
“Thank you, small person. At rare time, I am making mistake in English-language speaking, so thanks for accurate fixation. Now we find Sarah. You follow. Stay near. There are trivial beings everywhere.”
Once downstairs, they needed five minutes just to cross the room. Identifying anyone in that crowd was impossible for Tooly, whose height limited her to views of guts and butts. As for Humphrey, he had height but his vision was weak. So they agreed to get Tooly to a higher vantage point: the stepladder. A couple sat on its lower rungs but moved when Humphrey hoisted her up. She climbed the rest of the way, grasping each next rung. He stood at the bottom, keeping it steady, ready to catch her. “Is okay?”
“Yes. But hold it!” she said from the top.
Everyone looked so different up there: Jaime at the bar and the serpentine queue for service; the deejay was going bald; a clownish drunkard slow-danced with a poster of King Bhumibol. The Thais watched
this scene, smoking faster. They revered their monarch, a man known for humility and for playing the jazz saxophone. He was considered the sole blameless public figure in a country of corruption and coups. When the drunkard tongue-kissed his poster, it was too much: a katoey rushed him and a brawl exploded, spreading fast. Bystanders shrieked. Tooly looked down at Humphrey.
From his vantage point, he saw nothing, only heard cries, clothes tearing, the smack of knuckles on flesh. “Come down!” he said. The crowd surged like rough seas. “Down, please!” He raised his arms to catch her, but the crush of people pushed him off balance and toppled the ladder.
The ceiling flew away from Tooly, bodies spinning closer, the floor rushing at her. Her shoulder struck concrete, her head whipped back. As legs trampled around her, she curled up, teeth chattering, thinking how much trouble she was in. A high heel trod on her hand; a shin clipped her in the mouth.
Then someone grabbed her, pulled her upward. She clung to his arm, as the man pushed away the crowd and called out orders, which cut through the frenzied din. Gradually, the panic eased—just a few late shouts and shoves. Even after the man had released her, Tooly clasped his sleeve.
“All right?” he asked, cupping his palm under her chin, thumb across her cheek to her earlobe. His voice and eyes had an odd effect on her, seeming to silence the music that thumped in the background.
She hesitated, unsure how to respond to this stranger, with wild brown hair and mountain-man beard, whiskers parting above his lips as he grinned at her. She looked away, then at him again, realizing only after two glances what was odd about his eyes: one was green, the other black. (That pupil was permanently dilated, she later learned, due to a fistfight in his teens.) “I’m Venn,” he told her. Others sought his attention, called to him. The room still twitched from the spasm of violence. He paid no mind, dealing only with her. “You got a bit of a knock there.”
The back of her head throbbed where it had struck the floor. “It’s okay,” she pretended.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl. You smack your head and not a word. That’s what I like to see.”
