Sightseeing (7 page)

This was the first and only secret I would keep from Wichu. I prayed for him when I got home from the bar, just as I'd promised.
I prayed as I hadn't prayed since I was a child. I don't know if Wichu prayed for me, too, but as I lay in bed waiting for sleep I hoped that he'd save all his prayers for himself.

The next morning I arrive at Wichu's house at the appointed hour. His mother fusses with his hair and his cuffs at the front door. She's wearing a phathung pulled over her breasts, her shoulders caked with menthol powder, her hair wet and jet-black from her morning bath. Wichu wears the outfit she bought specifically for the occasion: a neatly pressed white button-down; crisp, black polyester slacks; a new pair of brown Bata loafers, buffed bright with Kiwi shoe polish. She's even borrowed a gold watch from a friend who hawks them to farangs on Soi Cowboy; it hangs loosely from Wichu's wrist like a bangle, glinting in the weak morning light. She believes that the less Wichu looks like a day-laborer's son—something he'd in fact been until the day-laborer died before Wichu could commit him to memory—the less the draft board will be inclined to put a red ticket in his hand when he reaches into the lottery urn. A red ticket means losing her youngest son to two years of duty, just as she lost her eldest, Khamron, who'd been drafted though he drank a whole bottle of fish sauce, who arrived at the lottery violently ill, and who came home eighteen months later from the Burmese border with a vacant look in his eyes, a letter of commendation and honorable discharge, and a flower of shrapnel buried in his right leg slowly poisoning his bloodstream.

Wichu's mother eyes me curiously when I arrive. I'm wearing tattered blue jeans, a white T-shirt, rubber slippers. I
haven't showered. I haven't even brushed my teeth. For a moment, I am afraid she will say something, ask about my relaxed appearance. I am afraid she has found me out and will wonder aloud to Wichu. So I look at Wichu instead. He's clearly hungover, embarrassed by his mother's fussing.

Ma, he says. We'll be late.

She relents, puts her hands in her lap and looks at them sheepishly, as if afraid they'll spring to life again on their own. Wichu leans down and kisses his mother on the cheek.

Gotta go, he says. See you later, Ma.

His mother kisses him back. And then she kisses me. She is a small woman; she has to grab my forearm, pull me down to her, and teeter on her toes just to peck me on the cheek. This is not the first time she has kissed me as she has kissed her own sons. Years later I will remember her kiss on that draft day morning, the scent of menthol wafting from her shoulders, the way her wet hair sprinkled my cheek, and I will feel like I'm falling from some great and excruciating height and the feeling will refuse to leave me for days.

You two take care of each other now, she says. I'm taking a half-day, Wichu, so I'll be along to the temple by noon. Don't pick without me, you hear? Wait until I get there. Tell them you want your mother there to witness it. Think
black,
Wichu. That's what we want. Black, black, black, black, black.

And then she goes back inside the house, as if she cannot bear to watch us leave. My own parents, in the meantime, are sleeping soundly in their beds, three houses away.

When Wichu and I arrive at the temple, there's a crowd of boys lined up inside the open-air pavilion. I'd never seen so many boys be so silent together. We join them there, seat ourselves at the end of the snaking line. Sparrows skitter in the rafters. The ceiling fans whir above us. A few boys eye us silently before turning their attention back to the stage at the front of the pavilion, where military personnel walk back and forth like stagehands preparing for a play. A banner hangs over the stage in the requisite tricolor: PRAVET DISTRICT DRAFT LOTTERY, it announces in bold script. FOR NATION. FOR RELIGION. FOR MONARCHY. Wichu asks me if I'm nervous. I tell him that I am. Wichu says he's not nervous at all. It's strange, he says, I'm feeling calm right now. Relaxed. What will happen will happen.

The pavilion has been roped off. Relatives station themselves along the ropes on straw mats and blankets, waving and smiling to their sons, their nephews, their boyfriends, their grandsons, their fathers in some cases. They fan themselves with the day's paper, eat and drink out of tin canteens. Most of the boys do not acknowledge them, though a few send back weak, assuring smiles. Here and there, men in fatigues walk along the lines, ask the boys questions and jot down notes onto their clipboards. Soft upcountry music has been piped into the pavilion. Wichu taps his fingers absentmindedly to the rhythm. He wants to be a drummer. We've been planning to start a rock 'n' roll band.

When eight o'clock arrives we all stand up and sing the national anthem, followed by the king's. A monk leads us in prayer. Some of the boys murmur the words. Others furrow their brows intently, close their eyes, and chant loudly along with the monk's drone, as if the volume of their prayers this morning might matter a great deal. Wichu and I clasp our hands and stare blankly ahead; we've already prayed the night before. Afterward, there's a loud and nervous silence. A middle-aged man in a uniform darker than the others, dozens of colorful insignias pinned to his shoulders and his breast pockets, walks up to the podium. He looks over us as one looks at one's prized possessions. He's a four-star general, a promotion away from field marshal. We've all seen him on television. He talks into the static-ridden microphone about duty, security, sacrifice, the glory of our great nation, the monarchy's uncompromising integrity, the freedom we all take for granted. Some of the relatives clap during his speech. Some cheer loudly. Most of us just stare. The papers say the general plans to run for a seat in parliament next year; he waves to the relatives when his speech is over, as if practicing the part, bows to the other military personnel onstage. A younger man walks up to the podium when the general leaves. He informs us that registration will now begin.

There are hundreds of us, perhaps even a thousand. The sun has risen high above the mango grove at the edge of the temple when Wichu and I finally get to the registration table. There, a young woman in a tight-fitting military uniform asks
us questions. We produce the required documents for her: birth certificates, proofs of residency, identification cards, driver's licenses. Wichu's mother has prepared a whole dossier of other documents and he hands the folder to the woman now: elementary school report cards, doctors' notes about his asthma, letters of recommendation from the owners of the houses she cleans, Khamron's honorable discharge, even his father's certificate of death from the hospital. Wichu's mother believes that—if given to the right person—these documents might send Wichu home. I notice Wichu shaking imperceptibly when he hands over the folder. The woman looks over the documents, flipping through them quickly. When she's done, she looks at Wichu like he's diseased. What is this? she asks impatiently. Wichu shrugs. The woman hands the folder back to him. She tells us both to seat ourselves at the end of another line for the physical exam.

We wait a couple more hours in the physical examination line. The pavilion air has become unbearably hot. More relatives arrive, station themselves by the ropes; it is as if they've come together for a picnic or a boxing match. Wichu seems shaken by the encounter with the woman. I try to make small talk, but he just nods and smiles at me demurely.

The boys line up eight at a time at the front of the line. They take off their shirts for the doctors on duty. They look at their feet while the doctors put cold stethoscopes to their chests, examine their ears, teeth, nostrils, check for scoliosis, measure their height, weight, wingspan, waist, chest—their
bodies reduced to so many numbers. The doctors' assistants take notes on their clipboards. Some of the waiting boys jeer and laugh when the fat kids take off their shirts.

Every so often, a doctor gestures to one of the men in fatigues and a boy is told to put on his shirt and go home. When this happens, there is always a bright burst of cheering and clapping among some of the relatives.

A kratoey with heavy makeup wearing a red blouse arrives at the front of the line. When he takes off his blouse, everybody—all the boys waiting in line and all the relatives behind the ropes—laugh and clap and point, even the officers watching from the stage. The kratoey smiles defiantly, his painted face strange on his dark, skinny torso, before bowing to the crowd flamboyantly. I recognize him. The kratoey is a boy named Kitty that Wichu and I knew in high school. Although it is well-known that some boys will arrive at the lottery in drag to try to evade the process, Kitty is not a draft day kratoey. When Kitty passes the physical exam and gets sent to the next line, there is laughter and applause again, and Kitty blows kisses at us all. When the commotion dies down, I hear a boy sitting in front of us say to his friend that we're all fucked now if that kratoey can pass his physical. The friend grunts and tells the story of his uncle, who had chopped off the tip of his pinky finger to avoid the draft thirty years ago.

He cut it off, the boy says. And they drafted him anyway. Told him he didn't need a pinky to pull a trigger.

Wichu and I finally arrive at the front of the line. I wonder if I will be sent home now, if this is what the navy lieutenant meant when he told my father that everything would be arranged. But the doctor examines me like all the other boys. We get sent to the next line, take our seats before the stage. We watch the woman who'd registered us set up the lottery urn. We sit and wait for the rest of the boys to be examined. It's early afternoon now. The doctors pack up their bags, bid the officers good-bye. A man walks to the podium. We're to take an hour break for lunch before the lottery begins.

Wichu's mother has arrived. She gestures to Wichu. Wichu walks over to her. She's wearing her housecleaning uniform. She waves at me, smiles, and I return the courtesy. I watch Wichu kiss her on the cheek, watch her fuss over his hair and his shirt again. She's brought us lunch, and Wichu carries the canteen back to our seats. As we eat, Wichu asks me if my parents are coming. I tell him no. I tell him that my parents are too nervous; I tell him they can't bear to watch. The truth, of course, is that my parents have gone to Chatuchak to buy birds-of-paradise for my mother's garden. Wichu nods. The lunch his mother has prepared—pork fried rice and green eggplant curry—tastes bitter and metallic in my mouth. But I am famished and devour it anyway. All the other boys are eating as well. Soon, the air is a potent admixture of home-cooked dishes. The sparrows in the rafters flutter down to peck at food spilled on the pavilion floor.

After we finish eating, Wichu and I share a jasmine tea. As I'm taking a swig, an officer—a balding, middle-aged man with a gut like a melon and a toothpick between his teeth—taps me on the shoulder. He smells strongly of whiskey and nicotine and cologne. A dark map of sweat soaks his shirtfront.

He asks me if I am who I am. I nod. He asks me to come with him. Wichu looks panicked. He asks the officer if there's a problem, but the officer just adjusts his toothpick, moves it to the other side of his mouth, and says:

No problem, son. Nothing to worry about. Your friend's in good hands.

I do not look at Wichu as the officer talks. When I get up to follow the officer, Wichu taps me on the forearm. He smiles and asks me if I'll be okay. I pause for a moment, standing, peering down into my friend's face, not quite understanding his question.

I realize then that Wichu knows. Of course he knows. He was here, at this temple, outside of the pavilion with his mother, when Khamron got drafted years ago. He was here when the wealthier boys got taken out of the line. He was here when those same boys came back an hour later, took their places at the end of the lottery line, and—when their turns came—drew black card after black card after black card. Wichu had told me all about it the night of his brother's draft. Although I had only half listened to him at the time, the memory of his voice comes back to me now in all its anger.

Hey, he says again, still smiling. You gonna be okay?

I understand then that he's not really asking about my well-being. He's asking for penitence. He's asking for an explanation. He's asking me why I didn't tell him beforehand. The officer clears his throat impatiently beside me. I muster a smile, though I feel nauseated. I tell Wichu to save me my place in line.

I follow the officer out of the pavilion, across the temple grounds toward the monks' quarters. I walk head down, try not to look at the relatives when I walk past, though I feel all their eyes on my back. The officer offers me a cigarette. Though I desperately want one I tell him that I do not smoke. When we arrive at the monks' quarters, there's a small crowd of boys sitting there, smiling and laughing and talking exuberantly. I take my place among them. Years later I will wonder if I could've said something to the officer, told him Wichu's name. But that draft day morning I just sit down on the teakwood floor, filled with relief even as I feel dizzy with dread, thinking of Wichu's smiling face, of him asking me, his voice a frightening monotone, if I was going to be okay.

The lottery begins. All the boys in the monks' quarters fall silent. We listen to a booming voice in the pavilion announce each boy's name one by one over the speakers, followed by the color of the ticket drawn.
Sorachai Srijamnong: Red. Kawin Buasap: Red. Surin Na Nakhon: Black. Worawut Chaiyaprasoet: Red.
The crowd is silent with every red, uproarious with each black. I listen for Wichu's name. I look at the
other boys; I wonder if they, too, are listening for their friends' names out in the pavilion.

The officer who escorted me earlier appears. He tells us to go back and seat ourselves at the end of the lottery line. Some of the boys get nervous. They ask him why. This isn't what we'd agreed, says one of the boys. Why don't you send us home already. But the officer tells us not to worry. You pansies, he says, grinning. Relax. Nothing's gonna happen to daddy's little boys.