The Queen of Patpong (11 page)

Kwan’s mother has pulled the two best chairs away from the table for the teacher and the
farang
to sit on and has claimed the edge of the bed for herself. She looks up at Kwan and, with her eyes, indicates the high metal stool that’s been positioned in the middle of the room. Kwan goes and sits on it as Mr. Pattison and Teacher Suttikul take their seats. Perched there, halfway between them and her mother, she feels like the pile of small money that her father and his drunken friends play cards for, sitting all day on the raised wooden platform outside, next to the street. She catches a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror hanging beside the door, averts her eyes from the geometrical schoolgirl chop that cuts her straight hair off just below her ears, making her neck look even longer than it is, and ducks her head apologetically, with no clear idea of what she’s apologizing for.

“Thank you for letting us come,” Teacher Suttikul says.

“Don’t thank her.” Kwan’s father comes into the room, rubbing his chest as though it stings. “If you’ve got to thank somebody, thank me.” He takes a small, inadvertent jog to the right but stops himself before it turns into a lurch, raking the visitors with his eyes to see whether they noticed it. Both of them are looking at Kwan, whose gaze is fixed on her lap, her spine as curved as a cello. Her father goes to the bed, waves his wife to move down although there’s plenty of room, and sits heavily.

Teacher Suttikul smiles so appreciatively he might have spouted poetry. “We want to talk about Kwan,” she says. “You know, you have a very smart daughter.”

“So what?” her father says. He’s at the near edge of very drunk, and his consonants are approximate. “She’s a girl.”

“There are lots of good jobs for girls these days. She’ll earn plenty of money if she stays in school.”

“What good does that do anybody? If she makes money, it’ll go to her husband’s parents, not us.” He lifts his chin toward Kwan, not even bothering to look at her. “If she can ever find anybody to marry her.”

Teacher Suttikul keeps the smile in place, although her eyes have gotten smaller, an expression that has chilled many classrooms full of children. “She’ll always take care of you. And I know she can get a good job. Someday she’ll—”

“Someday,” her father says heavily, as though the words are in a foreign language. “
Some
day. My children need food now. The roof needs to be fixed before the rain comes. We need money now.”

The words ricochet back and forth, past Kwan, who ducks her head and tries to sink farther into the stool, which is high enough to make her almost as tall as she is standing up. Nana’s earring feels so hot in her hand that she wouldn’t be surprised if its glow were visible through her skin.

“Now,” her father repeats, as though the word were an unfamiliar one.

“We’re
talking
about now,” Teacher Suttikul says. She has locked eyes with Kwan’s father, and she holds his gaze for a moment before politely dropping her own. “Mr. Pattison can tell you what he wants to do.” She adds, as an afterthought, “For you, I mean. What he can do for you.”

“The money in the scholarship fund comes from people all over the world,” Mr. Pattison says, very much with the air of a person who is beginning something that could go on for a while. His Thai is slow and badly pronounced but correct, and he speaks like someone who is unused to being interrupted. “They give us money so we can help promising students stay in school—”

“While their families starve,” her father says.

Mr. Pattison puts up a hand, and the gesture startles Kwan’s father so much that he stops talking. “We understand that families need money,” Mr. Pattison says with weighty geniality. “We know they want their children to begin to work as soon as possible.” A slow blink. “So they can help the family.”

“It’s their duty,” Kwan’s father says, jumping into the pause and holding tight to the edge of the bed as though he’s expecting to launch himself into an argument. “We’ve taken care of her her whole life.”

Pattison nods. “Of course you have. But we also know that in the long run it’s better for children to be educated, so they can make even more money.”

“That’s for sons,” Kwan’s father says. “Weren’t you listening? Daughters leave. They take care of their husband’s—”

“If you’ll let me,” Mr. Pattison says without raising his voice, “I’ll tell you how Kwan can start bringing money into the house right now.”

Kwan’s father rubs the bristles on his chin with the backs of his fingers, then nods to Mr. Pattison to continue.

“What we do,” he says, “is give small amounts of money to the families while the children are still in school, in exchange for them letting them continue—”

“Stork? Money for Stork?”

“For Kwan,” Teacher Suttikul says in a voice that could snip tin.

Kwan’s father purses his mouth. “Small amounts. How small?”

Mr. Pattison licks his lips and looks at Teacher Suttikul. Teacher Suttikul says, “Kwan is seventeen. She needs to go to school for one and a half years more—”

“And then what?” her father says.

“Then she can go to college,” Teacher Suttikul says, and despite the sheer impossibility of it, Kwan’s heart leaps at the word “college.” She holds herself absolutely still, trying not to betray her reaction.

“And I can die of old age,” her father says.

Before she can stop herself, Kwan says, “It won’t be old age.”

“You see,” her father says to the teacher. He looks almost pleased. “She’s probably good when she’s at school, probably got a sweet mouth, but here she’s just another sharp edge. Just looking for a slap.”

“Thirty-six thousand baht a year,” Teacher Suttikul says. She glances at Mr. Pattison and says, “About nine hundred dollars U.S.”

Kwan’s father sits back. Her mother stares at the teacher as though gold dust has just poured from her mouth. Out on the deck, there’s a little ripple of words from the brothers and sisters. This is more than the whole family earns in a year.

“Okay,” her father says. He licks his lips. “Give it to me.” He actually stretches out his hand, but he leans too far forward and his wife has to grasp his shoulders to keep him from falling off the bed. He shrugs her off indignantly. “Now.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Mr. Pattison says. He smiles, but not broadly. “We have to make a piece of paper that says you promise that Kwan will stay in school, and then we give some of the money every month to Teacher Suttikul, and she gives it to you if Kwan’s been in class. By the end of the year, you’ll have the whole nine hundred.”

Her father has screwed up his face, trying to see the numbers. “So in a month . . .”

“About three thousand baht.”

“Three thousand baht? Are you joking?” Kwan’s father lifts both hands and slaps them down on his thighs. “No more talking.” He leans forward as if to rise, and his wife reaches for him, just in case.

But before he can push himself up, Teacher Suttikul says, “That’s more money than she could earn in most jobs.”

“Tomorrow,” her father says. “Tomorrow I can get—” He stops talking, although his lips move for a moment. Then he shakes his head and tries to get up.

“How much?” the teacher asks. Her mouth is all muscle. “Thirty thousand baht? Forty? And for what?”

“Sixty,” her father says, with the satisfaction of someone playing a trump. “For working in Bangkok. And then she’ll be sending more money home right away. Sixty is just to start. A lot better than a few thousand a month, and nothing more coming in, while she learns things girls don’t need to know.”

“And what job would that be?” the teacher asks.

Kwan’s father shows her the back of his hand, flapping it in her direction in a way that’s nothing short of scornful, certainly nothing like the respect Kwan believes a teacher is owed. Her spine folded forward, her chin practically touching her chest, Kwan has reached her limit. She can’t endure another moment of humiliation—her teacher, whom she has worked so hard to impress, being insulted like this. She raises her head, glares at her father, and puts a foot down to stand.

Teacher Suttikul’s voice almost takes the skin off her back. “Kwan. You stay right there.”

Kwan turns to her and is startled by the fury in her teacher’s face. She sinks down on the stool again, and for the first time she feels a lifting in the center of her chest. Something good may happen here after all.

“I asked what job you were thinking of,” Teacher Suttikul says. Her tone is sinuous as a snake. “Sixty thousand baht is a lot of money. For what? Waitressing? Down in Bangkok, you said?”

Her father swallows, clears his throat, and pats his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Something like that.”

“Sixty thousand baht.” The teacher settles back in her chair. “For a waitress.”

“It’s a good restaurant.” He’s already arguing.

“For a village girl, still dusty, just down from the paddies. Someone who’s never even
eaten
in a good restaurant.”

“So what? You think waitresses eat in nice places? With gold plates and, and ice cream, and lace on the table? They eat noodles in the street, like everyone else.”

“What I think is that waitresses in good restaurants come from city families. I think they get the job because somebody knows somebody who knows somebody—”

“That’s me,” Kwan’s father says. He stops and makes her wait as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, extracts one between his index and middle fingers, tweezers style, and lights up. “I know somebody.”

“Who?”

He regards her, blinking through a cloud of smoke. “What?”

“Who do you know?”

“What does that—” Kwan’s father’s face is suddenly deep red. “What does that have to do with you? Who do you think you are, coming in here and asking questions like this?”

“I think I’m Kwan’s teacher. That means I’m in charge of her welfare.”

“You just stop there.” Kwan’s father is standing, wobbling a little, but standing. “Stork is my daughter, not yours. She’ll plow fields if I want her to, she’ll wash floors, she’ll shovel buffalo shit. She’ll go where I want and do what I want. Did you bring her into the world? Have you worked all your life to feed her, even though she eats like an ox? Have you given her a roof and a place to sleep? Here’s what you can do, you and your
farang
boyfriend. You can get out of my house, that’s what you can do. And you can keep going. Kwan’s out of school right now. You won’t see her again. I don’t want to see
you
again.” He stamps toward the door, trailing smoke like a locomotive. At the door he wheels and says, “You have to get up before you leave. Come on, up, up,
up.
”

“You can leave if you want,” Teacher Suttikul says, waving him out. “We’ll keep talking.”

“You should stay,” Mr. Pattison says.

Kwan’s father grabs the doorjamb on both sides. “This is
my house
—”

“My
job,
” Teacher Suttikul says, and her words cut through his. Although she has not raised her voice, there is a glittering edge to it. “My job says that I have to tell the police when a girl is taken out of school before she’s eighteen. If she’s not in school and I report it, they have to go looking for her. This is the first place they’ll come. If they don’t find her, there can be trouble.”

Kwan’s father says, “Police?” and fails to hear Kwan ask the same question at the same time.

“Some people,” Kwan’s teacher says, eyes wide, “actually sell their daughters. Into prostitution, I mean. They can get quite a lot of money, I’m told.”

Kwan’s father starts to say something, darts his tongue into the corner of his mouth, and says, “You don’t—”

“Of course not,” Teacher Suttikul says. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? But it happens. And there are laws against it now. It’s not like it used to be. I’ve known families, close to here, who sold their daughters and got caught, and the police took all the money away—fifty, sixty thousand baht—put the father in jail, and then sent the girl home. Good for nothing by then, of course, not even a dowry. Ruined. Nobody would marry her. And then the father had to buy his way out of jail
and
pay the gangsters back. Took them years.”

Kwan’s mother lets out a quiet moan. Kwan feels like she’s been nailed to the stool.
Sold?
There’s a thin, high mosquito whine in her ears, and the room seems to tilt a little.
Ruined?

It’s growing dark outside.

“May I light a lamp?” Teacher Suttikul asks, indicating the kerosene lantern on the table. “We can all see each other better.”

Kwan’s father shakes his head, then nods. To the kids clustered around him, he says, “What’s wrong with all of you? Go somewhere. Do something. Clean under the house.” He flaps his hands at them. “Go on, go on.” They back up a couple of feet.

“Thank you,” Teacher Suttikul says. She reaches into her old straw purse and brings out a disposable lighter, removes the lamp’s chimney, and lights the wick. It catches and sends up a thin, dark thread of smoke. “Needs trimming,” Teacher Suttikul says, replacing the chimney. The light, shining directly beneath her chin, emphasizes her broad, strong cheekbones but leaves her eyes in shadow. “There,” she says, resuming her seat as though nothing has happened. “Isn’t that better?”

Nobody says anything. “What I think,” she continues, “is that you should forget about Bangkok. It’s probably not a real offer. They’ll find a way to cheat you, and then they’ll make her”—her eyes flick to Kwan—“
wait
on
people for free. What could she do? Alone, miles from home. What could you do? The people who run . . . mmm, restaurants can be very rough. Instead, permit us to give you money to let Kwan stay in school.” She glances questioningly at Mr. Pattison, who nods about a quarter of an inch. “You’ve got a lot of children to feed,” she says. “We’ll offer you something special. Forty thousand baht, and since you need money now, we’ll pay you the extra four thousand when you sign. So that’ll be seven thousand baht, and then three thousand a month for eleven more months.”

“Ten thousand,” her father says.

Teacher Suttikul shakes her head. “If we give you ten when you sign, you won’t get anything for the last month.”