Sea Of Sorrows

The gunshot had caused someone to call the cops. At the first sound of the wailing siren, the onlookers melted away into the crowded street. The four thugs, probably not wanting to explain how they got injured, helped each other clear out. Meanwhile, someone from the crowd ran in to snatch the knife and gun.

I grabbed the girl’s hand, leading her away. A block down the street, I turned her back toward the approaching police cars.

“Just walk slow and casual,” I whispered.

She nodded, but I felt her hand trembling in mine.

The people in the street were slow to clear a path for the policemen. When the cops reached the place where the fight had taken place, they found only a small smear of blood from the guy’s broken nose. Even the gun’s magazine and the cartridge I’d ejected were gone, as was the empty shell casing from the bullet that was fired.

The four policemen asked questions, but the bystanders just shook their heads and said they hadn’t heard or seen anything.

We walked past the policemen, pretending to be curious onlookers. At a sidewalk café, I pulled out a chair for her. She slumped into it, shaking from the ordeal.

I touched her arm, below the purple bruise. “Is it okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you. That mans would have kill you.” She rubbed her arm.

I smiled. “They don’t know street fighting.”

A waitress came to our table.

“Cha yen?” I asked the girl.

She nodded.

I ordered two of the sweet iced teas with milk. The waitress hurried away.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. How are you called?”

“Saxon. And you?”

“I am Siskit.”

“You’re not working the street?”

“No. I wait for sister.”

The waitress brought our drinks. We sipped.

“This is very good,” I said.

“I like the sugar and milk.”

I nodded.

“My sister works the street.”

“You come every night to wait for her?”

“Yes, but late only Saturday night. We have Sunday off, so we sleep late morning.”

“You live together?”

She drank her tea. “We share apartment in Song Wat road.”

“On the river?”

“Yes. It is nice view of water, and boat, too.”

After Siskit calmed down from her ordeal, she carried on a very good conversation.

“I work in export office, Monday to Saturday,” she said.

“Where did you learn English?”

“In my school we had choice of French or English. Prija and I still hate the French, as our parents always did.”

“Prija?”

“My sister.”

We talked about Bangkok, Thailand in the old days when it was called Siam, and the shipping business she was involved in.

The crowds thinned out after 4 a.m.

“I must go now, so—” I was interrupted.

“What are you doing with him?”

She came from behind, startling me. I spilled the last of my drink in my lap.

“He was—”

She grabbed Siskit’s arm, turning it for a look at the purple bruise. “He did this to you?” She spoke in Thai, almost shouting.

“Prija, he—”

“You stupid fucking American old geezer!” she shouted in English. “You think you just can come to our home country, hurt our girls, then buy them coffee and shit to make better?”

Thinking she was about to come at me, I stood and backed away.

Siskit caught her wrist, holding her back. “Stop it, Prija. He didn’t do it.” They both spoke in Thai.

“Who, then?” She glared at me. “If not this American old bastard.”

Siskit told her about the men who’d tried to drag her away. Prija narrowed her eyes on me as her sister told the story. Her face softened a little, but not much. Her eyes, like glowing dark embers, started to cool.