"Rose stabbed his hand," Miaow says suddenly. "He didn't even pull it back. You know, when you touch something hot, the way you yank your hand back? He didn't do that. He just left the hand there, like he was waiting for her to stab it again." Her voice is higher and younger than usual.
"It was a display," Rafferty said. "It was a macho, four-testicle display. Like that old bullshit about holding your hand over the fire. 'I've got more testosterone in the cleft in my manly chin than you have in your entire body.' "
"It isn't something many men could do," Rose says. "It might be a display, but you should take it seriously, Poke."
"Yeah, Rose?" Rafferty's voice is more truculent than he would like it to be. "What's it supposed to tell me?"
"That you can break his bones but he'll keep coming at you. You're not going to win a fight with Howard, because he won't stop until you're dead."
Rafferty says, "We'll see."
"Poke," Rose begins, but she lets the energy fizzle out and shakes her head.
"So," Rafferty says to Arthit, around the ball of heat in his chest. "Can you talk to immigration?"
"Sure I can," Arthit says. "Whether they'll answer me is another issue. What do you want from them?"
"Confirmation that Howard Horner is his name. A photo, if they keep the ones those cute little cameras take at passport control. What he lists as his occupation. Where his flights originate. How often he comes. Whether he's left."
Miaow says, "Left?"
"We were wrong last night," Rafferty says. "He could find the apartment. But he didn't do any real harm, did he? Assuming that he meant to. You could knock that door over with a blunt remark, but he didn't come in and kill anyone. Maybe that would have been too easy. Or maybe he didn't have time to play with us. Maybe he had to leave the country, go wherever the hell he goes. So he buys a can of paint and he and his jerk friend paint the X on the door just to make us sweat, and then they go and get their plane. Maybe hoping we'll move by the time he gets back and he can have the fun of finding us all over again."
Arthit says, "Maybe he already knew where you lived. Maybe he spotted Rose months ago and followed her here, did a little research, maybe paid a cop. Maybe the meeting in the cafe was part of his game."
Rose says, "And maybe he's down in the street right now, enjoying the fact that he frightened us. Maybe he'll be back tonight. This is what he does. He plays with people before he- Before."
Miaow gets up as though she has somewhere to go and then sits down again.
"I can request all that information from immigration," Arthit says. "They won't have today's records. If he left today, that'll still be in the computers. And I can show that bird's claw around, see if it means anything to anybody," There's a drag of unwillingness in his voice. "And I know this feels serious to you. To all of you. But you're making this guy sound like a maniac."
"A what?" Rose says in Thai.
Arthit translates.
Rose says, "That's what he is, Arthit. A maniac."
Arthit has gone back to the station to start asking questions, and Miaow has retired to her room with her copy of The Tempest to work on her lines and, Rafferty thinks, to get out of whatever room Rose is in. The pressure of the silence in the apartment chases him out of it, and it's almost noon when he comes back up from a short random wander, capped by a stop at the sidewalk restaurant a block away to pick up everyone's favorite food, a gesture that feels futile even before he's paid for it. He finds Rose sitting out on the balcony with the door open behind her, smoking and looking at the city.
He puts the take-out containers on the kitchen counter and goes to the balcony door. "Are you hungry? It's a thousand degrees out here."
"I'm Thai," Rose says without turning. "This is how it is in Thailand."
"That doesn't mean it's not hot."
"So it should be cooler? Has the climate made a mistake?"
"Sorry?"
"It's hot," Rose says. "That's how it is. Life isn't fair sometimes either. That doesn't mean that it's supposed to be or not supposed to be. That's just how it is."
"You don't believe that."
"I do. You'd believe it, too, if you hadn't grown up with all those choices." Her back still to him, she lifts a hand and starts ticking off fingers. " 'Let's see, shall I go to college or run away to Asia and try to find my father? Or write books? Or live here? Or there? Or get married? Or adopt a daughter? Or do it all at once?' "
"That's not what it felt like when it was happening."
"Not to you. It wouldn't. You have no idea how privileged you were. You could choose this or that, and it wouldn't matter much if you chose wrong. 'Uh-oh, better go back and give it another try.' Nobody pulled you out of school at harvest every year so you could help raise the kids and work in the fields. Nobody was waiting for you to earn money so they could keep their house or feed your brothers and sisters."
"Poor little farm girl," he says. "Are you done?"
"I don't know. I don't even know why I started. My own daughter is hiding from me."
"That's not like the heat," Rafferty says. "That's something you can do something about."
"Maybe."
Impatience crests inside him. "Of course it is."
She starts to says something, then shakes her head and says, "Leave me alone."
"Fine." He steps back into the room. "If you get hungry, come in and eat."
She says, "Close the door."
He slides the door closed, with a little more force than required, and stalks down the hall to Miaow's room. She has the frowny face out, just a rectangle of shirt cardboard that features an unhappy-looking, crayon-scrabbled roundhead, traced around a pie tin. The other side, the smiley face, means come in, and this side doesn't. Rafferty hasn't seen either face in almost a year. He thought she'd thrown them away a long time ago.
He hesitates and then knocks.
"Go away," Miaow says.
"That's what everybody says. I'm lonely."
"Ohhhh, phoo. Just a minute."
He waits, and a moment later he hears the door unlock, and Miaow pulls it open about four inches and looks up at him. "What?"
"Are you hungry? I brought back some larb kai, extra spicy."
She pulls her mouth to one side. "What else?"
"Vietnamese spring rolls, the ones you like, that aren't cooked, with mint and shrimp in them."
"Coke?"
Rafferty draws a breath to slow himself down before he replies. "You mean, did I buy Coke or is there some Coke left?"
"I don't know," she says. "I just want Coke."
"Then you'll probably get some. Seems to me you usually get what you want."
"Boy," she says. "Everybody's really awful today."
Rafferty says, "I hadn't noticed."
Chapter 5
Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes
"Full fathom five thy father lies,' " Miaow says. She's mumbling a little, embarrassed to speak the lines in this small apartment living room. In rehearsal at school, when she's on the big stage, she belts it to the back row.
"What's a fathom, Mia?" Mrs. Shin asks. As always, it takes Rafferty a beat to realize that "Mia" is Miaow. His child has been reincarnated while he was busy elsewhere.
"About six feet," Miaow says, with a sideways glance that stops just short of Rafferty, who had asked her what a fathom was in the taxi on the ride across town and then provided the answer. "So he's thirty feet underwater. Pretty deep."
"His bones are becoming what?" Mrs. Shin asks.
"Coral," Miaow says immediately. The corners of her mouth lift as she gets to the line she likes best. "And his eyes are pearls." She waves the words away with her hands. "I mean, 'And those are pearls that were his eyes.' "
"No 'and,' " Rafferty says. Neither of them gives him a glance.
Mrs. Shin leans forward. "Can you envision that, Mia?"
"Yes," Miaow says, her own eyes drifting past Mrs. Shin. "I see white sand with flickery ripple light on it, light c
oming through water, and the king lying there on his back all alone with a gold crown on and pearl eyes, and he's holding one of those sticks with a jewel on the top."
"A scepter?" Rafferty guesses.
"One of those. And he's turning into something sort of fishy. Not fishy, oceany."
"Exactly," Mrs. Shin says. "A 'sea-change.' It's a wonderful speech, isn't it? We're going to give you a special light when you say it."
Miaow's eyes come back to the teacher's. "Special like what?"
"You'll cross all the way downstage, to the edge of the orchestra pit, and you're going to look down as though you're seeing him through the water. We'll have a blue-green spotlight aimed up at you."
"How will you make it watery?" Rafferty asks, interested in spite of his preoccupation with Rose and Horner.
"We'll shine it up through a big round glass baking dish, Pyrex because of the heat, with about three inches of water and food coloring in it, and the kid who's holding it will slosh it around a little."
Miaow says, "Cool," which is one of the many words that's followed her home from school lately.
"I thought of it yesterday," Mrs. Shin says. She picks up her teacup and glances down at it. "A sea change." To Rafferty, she says, "Mia has some of the best lines in the play."
"Yes, and I get to hear them over and over."
"More tea?" Her cup is empty.
"No thanks. It's great, but I'm topped up." Rafferty loathes tea but has forced down two cups to be polite. He has drunk more tea in the six weeks he's been condensing The Tempest with Mrs. Shin than in his entire life before they met.
"More Coke, Mia?"
"No." Miaow feels the force of Rafferty's glance and corrects herself. "No thanks."
"It's a surprise to see Mia, but I'm glad you brought her," Mrs. Shin says, standing and bending down to pick up her teacup. This is one of their regular Sunday rewrite meetings, where Rafferty proposes ways to condense and simplify and Mrs. Shin thinks of something better. His first inclination was to cancel today's session, but it gave him a chance to get out of the apartment. When he'd invited Miaow, hoping to help her shake her mood, she'd actually jumped into the air. He'd meant the invitation to demonstrate that life was going on in spite of everything, but to Miaow it was mainly about getting away from Rose for a while.
"She wouldn't let me come without her," he says truthfully.
"Well, I'm happy she's here. She's a lucky girl, having a father who's a famous writer."
"Huh," Miaow says.
Rafferty says, "Not so famous."
As always, they're seated on the beige carpet in Mrs. Shin's living room, around a little black-lacquered table, inset with mother-of-pearl, that's about ten inches high and is almost the only piece of furniture in the room. Floor sitting is a trial for Rafferty, but Miaow can stay cross-legged forever, just one more benefit, he thinks, of being ten, or maybe eleven, years old.
Mrs. Shin goes to the counter that divides the kitchen from the living room and puts her cup in front of an electric hot-water pot. "I don't know about you," she says as hot water streams into the cup, "but I feel as though I've been through a sort of sea change myself, little bits of me getting less Korean and more Thai every year."
"How many years have you been here?"
"Twelve." She picks up the cup and inhales the fragrance, a brisk, trim, short-haired woman in her late thirties or early forties, wearing a brightly striped blouse in hard-candy hues, tucked into fawn-colored slacks. "And you?"
"Six," he says. "I'm becoming Thai by marriage."
"That's a good way to do it," Mrs. Shin says. "Twenty-four-hour tutoring. And you're becoming Thai through fatherhood, too, of course."
"That goes without saying," Rafferty says.
Miaow says, "Does not."
"When I first got here," Mrs. Shin says, "I was only supposed to stay a year, and for the first three or four weeks I thought I wouldn't make it. I hated it. Everything was so different from Korea. Bangkok felt like a mess-more than a mess, it felt like complete chaos. The traffic, the heat, the noise, the dirt." She shakes her head. "And I was dripping sweat, waking up with a headache from the exhaust, and wondering why everybody smiled all the time. I was suspicious. What did they want from me? After eight or nine days, I noticed that the muscles in my cheeks ached a little because I was smiling back at everybody. So that was the beginning of my sea change-sore cheek muscles."
"Mine was a keen awareness that my teeth weren't very good."
"Your teeth are fine," she says without a glance. It's a very Thai response. She sips her tea and looks down at Miaow. "And the people, they… Well, from a Korean perspective the Thais are a little… haphazard."
"We are?" Miaow says.
"From a Korean perspective." Mrs. Shin emphasizes the words. "Koreans tend to be highly organized. We're planners and list makers. Not particularly spontaneous, unless we've been drinking, and then we're too spontaneous. The Thais, on the other hand, sort of flow." She sees the confusion in Miaow's face and laughs. "Don't worry, I'm not saying anything bad about the Thais. It's actually about me, and it has to do with the play." She crosses the small room again, barefoot, as are Rafferty and Miaow. One of the things Rafferty loves about Asia is how close everyone is to being barefoot all the time. When the two of them came into the apartment, they kicked off their shoes beside a plumb-straight line of Mrs. Shin's, just inside the door, and the backs of all the shoes were flattened, stepped on repeatedly to make them easier to slip on and off. After all his years in Asia, the sight still cheers him.
"As a Korean, I didn't think the Thais measured up to me," she says, sitting down on her heels in a posture Rafferty has never been able to attain. "And now here I am, twelve years later, slowly turning Thai and delighted about it. And it makes me think about Caliban."
Rafferty says, "Ah," and Miaow says, "Why?"
"We don't like Caliban. We're not supposed to. Shakespeare doesn't like him. Caliban is the only non-European on the island, except for Ariel, who's clearly an upper-class spirit, almost English. But Caliban… well, Caliban is definitely not English, and Prospero treats him like a dog."
Miaow says, "And he's…" She falters and puts both hands on the table.
"He's what?" Mrs. Shin asks.
Miaow shakes her head. "I'm not smart like you."
"You're one of the smartest children I've ever known," Mrs. Shin says.
Miaow's mouth opens at the praise and stays open. She looks as if she's just been hit on the head.
"So what is it?" Mrs. Shin prompts. "What else is Caliban?"
Miaow grabs a breath and plunges in. "He's the only one who doesn't get off."
Rafferty says, "By 'get off,' you mean-"
"Nobody forgives him. Prospero forgives everybody, even after they tried to kill him and his daughter. He sets Ariel free. But nobody forgives Caliban."
Rafferty and Mrs. Shin sit there looking at Miaow. Then Mrs. Shin says, "Miaow, I am so happy you're in this play."
Miaow says, "Really?" She's blushing.
"Really, totally, completely, one hundred percent, absolutely. But why doesn't Prospero forgive Caliban?"
"He tried to fool around with Miranda," Miaow answers. "She says so herself."
"Actually," Mrs. Shin says, "I think we may take that speech away from Miranda."
Miaow starts to smile but whisks the expression out of sight. She's deeply envious of Siri Lindstrom, the Scandinavian-goddess-in-waiting who's playing the magician's daughter and who gets all the production's beautiful gowns. Behind the envy, Rafferty thinks, Miaow is half in love with Siri. If Miaow had her most secret wish, she'd be blond, blue-eyed, willowy, and named Siri Lindstrom.
"But Siri loves it," Miaow says piously. "It's the only time Miranda says anything interesting."
"She's got lots of scenes," Mrs. Shin says.
"Yeah, but they're all sappy." Miaow clasps her hands together in front of her chest. " 'Oh, Ferdinand, Ferdinand.' "
"Si
ri will be fine, Mia," Mrs. Shin says. "Every play needs a love story."
"I'd rather whoosh around doing magic," Miaow says.
"Well, you've got the right part. And look at you. You figured out, all by yourself, what the play is really about." Mrs. Shin sits back on her heels, looking pleased.
"What?" Miaow asks, as though she suspects a quiz. "What's it about?"
"Forgiveness. It's about the healing power of forgiveness. And do you know why I think Prospero doesn't forgive Caliban at the end of the play? Because Prospero doesn't understand Caliban."
Howard Horner's face flashes into Rafferty's mind. "That's a very liberal attitude."
"Well, I believe it. I believe it's impossible to hate anyone you understand. Don't you feel the same way?"
Rafferty's pause is all the cue Mrs. Shin needs. "Well, perhaps not. But I'm the director and you're the condenser, so you have to help me make this work."
Rafferty says, "At the end. We could do something at the end. After everybody's gone, maybe Caliban becomes more human."
Mrs. Shin has a habit of squinting at nothing when she's thinking about the stage. "Could be. Let's ponder it." She sticks out her lower lip, completely unaware she's doing it, and then she turns to Miaow. "I've got something for you."
"For me?"
"And it solves a problem. A problem with Ariel. Mia, think about the stage direction in the play just before you do the 'Full fathom five' speech. The one that says 'Enter Ariel, invisible.' Have you wondered how we're going to do that?"
"Well, sure," Miaow says. "I mean, how can the audience see me if I'm invisible? And if they can see me, how do they know I'm invisible?"
"That's the problem," Mrs. Shin says. "Let me show you how we're going to solve it." She pushes herself back on her haunches and rises effortlessly with a grace that Rafferty, whose legs have gone numb, can only envy. "Maybe I thought of this because you're so bright. I'll be right back."
She goes past the kitchen and into the hallway to the rear of the apartment, and Miaow leans over to Rafferty and says, "I know who you were thinking about. When she said about understanding the people you-"
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