Out of the Shadows. Senta Holland

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СКАЧАТЬ black, at night, with a string of huge lights reflected on it. The lights were spooky. They looked as if a big city had settled on the sea at nightfall, or the faraway coastline of the Gulf of Thailand had suddenly closed the gap, but they belonged to the bottom draggers who had already fished the region almost empty. All that was left when you went down to the little beach, dodging the water bottles and broken stones, was empty sand and empty salty sea. The bottom draggers themselves looked like huge spider crabs with bright white eyes at the end of their many feet. They were on the verge of replacing biology. The only animal inhabitants left here were vicious amphibians who could swim and dig through the sand with equal determination and who would cling to human toes and sting.

      The only other animal inhabitants were youthful tourists who had been hoping for an authentic experience and ended up staring at the emptiness, consuming various legal and not-so-legal substances and nursing their bitten feet.

      Up on the hill there were only a few of us, and our huts were far away from each other. I had a stylish veranda with artistically cut logs that still showed the stumps of their erstwhile branches under elegant veneer where I could sit and write. Thousands of ants used that log railing as a highway to circle the hut in endless ceremony. At night, dog sized lizards heaved themselves onto the veranda to survey and hiss at the scenery. Huge cockroaches and hand sized tiger-pattern spiders raced each other round my mosquito net.

      We had electricity for a few hours at night, unless the owner decided to play his special moonlight collection. In that case I had more time to use my laptop but I also had to listen to his music.

      I worked on my project, as I had intended, and with great dedication, considering that each night I had to choose between my laptop and the electric fan.

      Every few days I climbed onto the owner’s four wheel drive truck and went on the hour-long journey on deep red tracks hacked into the virgin jungle and desperately trying to heal themselves with long green creepers, into the island’s only larger village. There the owner went off to look for visitors coming off the ferry, while other hut inhabitants went for a much needed dose of cheese in the Western café.

      I walked down the dusty street and looked for a phone.

      There were no internet terminals in the jungle huts, but the dusty boom town street had them.

      The first time I came down with the jeep I almost didn’t dare to enter. My Nai hadn’t contacted me, not at all, since I had left on the train, but then there were many possibilities or reasons. One of them was of course that he didn’t want to contact me.

      Still, I had proved to myself that I was strong. I had found him. I had realised that he was what I wanted, and more. I had given it my best, I had made it clear to him and to myself. But I had not raised my hopes, and consequently I had not had them dashed.

      So I was telling myself when I went into Mr Hong’s world-wide connection shop and sat down at the ancient computer with the encrusted keyboard that did its best to crank itself up to the speeds required by global communication. The lights on its old curvy screen flickered dangerously.

      I had many other people to look up of course. I decided to start with those others first, and end with them. Looking for a mail from my Nai would have to be sandwiched in between. Safety insulation.

      So many mails never come.

      In my journey on that round-the-world trip, the most common mail I got from a Dom was the first.

      And still I looked out for my Nai’s mail from the corner of my eye.

      What does it matter, the project, the island, the fear, the hope, the lizards on the veranda.

      The only thing that counts is his skin touching mine. And knowing that he is, so finally, so simply, so improbably the one who understands me.

      He was there.

      His mail was already a few days old.

      He had tried several times, he said, but there was no getting through on the phone number I had given him. But he had set up a special account, just for us, just for him and me, if I wanted to write to him. Ever. Or now. Or ever.

      I ran out into the hot street, startling the dying dogs and Mr Hong who had never seen a tourist leave the shop with minutes of airtime still unpaid. The next time I went there he was cautious, as if he suspected me of not really being a tourist. Or carrying some other dark secret.

      He had a good instinct.

      I knew I didn’t have a lot of time left. I had to catch the truck before it went back through the wounded jungle.

      Of course there were no phones. All I could find was a lady in a travel agency who let me use her mobile, at an exorbitant fee.

      It rang. It was the wrong number, no it was the right number.

      He answered.

      I stood in the relentless sun, getting my skull burned.

      My ear filled with sweat.

      He answered.

      What matter the details?

      He answered and his voice was small. He didn’t recognise the number, he said. Of course not! It came from jungle island.

      ‘You are calling,’ he said. Twice. Then he said it again.

      ‘I tried to ring but they said you weren’t there.’

      ‘So I went away. Right now I’m – being blessed. At a temple.’

      He made a little embarrassed laugh.

      ‘And now you are calling.’

      Of course he could not come to the jungle hut. My lizard would never have allowed him in.

      For weeks I stood there in the dusty sun, talking to him on the phone. Yes, there was one. The locals used it and they had made it look as if it was broken. They needed the income from the mobiles.

      But I was such a frequent user, I was given access to the proper phone.

      Then I went back on the truck, squeezed between water bottles.

      ‘I’m going to come and meet you,’ he said. ‘On the other island.’

      He gave me a time.

      I would have gone there straight away. If I ran I could have jumped on the ferry. I could see it from where I stood.

      But it seemed he had a schedule that we both had to follow. It would mean a complicated journey and a tremulous wait on the other island where they had an airport.

      Just like my life.

      I told everyone.

      Well, not about the BDSM, but about the meeting.

      I told the owner, I told my fellow hut residents, I told the ants and the lizard. When the cockroaches raced across my bed before the swift claws and poison of the tiger spider I smiled benevolently.

      I counted the hours, I counted the days.

      I drank coconuts at the airport.

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