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Great Writing - Home > Stories > The Orchid
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Shorts
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| The Orchid | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 26 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Steve, Witzl, this is your fault. Bizarrely, much of this was inspired by a Johhny Morris monologue (complete with characters' voices) of his time in Thailand. Peter sat back in the chair, took a draught from his Bud and watched the nightlife streaming past his pavement table. He loved Bangkok. He couldn’t understand how some crew would spend a lie-over insulated in the Holiday Inn, eating burgers and watching Hollywood 3D’s. How could they, when a cab-ride away there was this alien world, different from anywhere else on the planet? The western world had assaulted Bangkok, thrown wave upon wave of commercials and franchises and tourists at it, but it took it all. It absorbed them, twisted them round and made them quintessentially Thai. Put-puts with the latest cold fusion engines swerved amongst the pedestrians, decorated with gaudy bunting, Hindu gods stuck precariously on the front, looking as though prayer alone held them together. Men and womnen alike wore cloned Paris fashions, cut from Thai silk and mixed with traditional sarongs. American top ten songs were translated into Thai, the rock drums competing with xylophones. Burgers with satay sauce. And Peter loved it all. Nowadays the opportunities for lie-overs here were rare. Since the new strato-liners could cover so much distance so quickly, tourists would not stop en route to Melbourne or Hong Kong. If people wanted to holiday in Thailand, they’d fly direct to the tourist islands. A pity. Peter never tired of it, and each lie-over would seek out a new district. Tonight he was near the docks. Few respectable tourists came here. The nearest Starbucks was a put-put ride away. He watched the traffic of people weave to and fro. Thai men in work clothes, maybe from the docks, maybe fishermen. Sailors, some in uniform, some out, but all with the slight roll of the fresh ashore. Thai women carrying Lord-knows-what in impossibly large bundles. Others in silks, looking like china dolls. Street sellers occasionally stopped at his table, but he would cheerfully wave them on. He wasn’t in the market for dodgy comms or suspect MP players, but he didn’t mind them trying. Why shout or hide inside the sweltering bars, as some of the other Westerners did? It all added to the experience. An artificially beautiful woman sat down beside him. She was dressed in a tight silk mini-dress. Her nails were at least five centimetres long, each with an intricate painting on. Her face so made up Peter felt that he could peel it off complete. Around her throat she wore a tell-tale scarf. “American? I like Yankees.” Peter shook his head. “English. No money.” She pouted. “You got money for beer? You like good time?” “Sorry, butterfly, I don’t want a good time.” “No good time? But you buy me beer, yes?” Peter laughed. He was persistent, he’d give him that. “No. You buy me beer.” “You no gentleman.” “You no lady,” retorted Peter, grinning. The butterfly shrugged. “OK. You want good time with girl? I get.” Peter shook his head. “No, I’m just here for the beer.” “OK.” The lady-boy shrugged again then flowed from the table with more feminine grace than came naturally to a woman. No harm, no foul. Peter admired the elegance with which he moved down the street, in the same way he would admire a dancer. Two tables down an English merchant sailor, half in his cups, chatted to another of the street butterflies. He must have known that the creature in front of him was a transvestite, but still he flirted. “That’s a nice dress. Where’d you get it? Oh, made it yourself? There’s a clever girl. It’s quite naughty though, isn’t it, with that slit there. Are you a naughty girl?” Peter shook his head. The sailor was probably happily hetro, but the alcohol, the setting and the confusing signals were scrambling his thoughts. At any other time or place if a boy had come on to him he’d have used his fists without thinking. But here, with a ‘girl’ beautiful beyond his experience, he would end up tomorrow penniless and hungover. Orchids, that’s what they were. Those highly specialised flowers that looked like a particular female bee. Whose perfume mimicked the bee’s pheromones. And the male bee would have no choice. Did the bee feel cheated afterwards, Peter wondered? Did he know at the time, but could not help himself? Another woman sat down next to Peter. This time there was no hidden Adam’s Apple. Nor was there a mass of makeup, unusual for a Thai woman. At least, the sort of woman that would sit uninvited at a stranger’s table. She was remarkably beautiful, Peter had to admit, but it was a natural look. She looked at Peter and smiled. “You sailor?” Peter shook his head. “Businessman?” “Pilot,” answered Peter. It impressed people, being a pilot, though God knew why. Nowadays it was all computerised and automated. She nodded. “A pilot. Very good. Me like pilot.” Peter nodded, smiling, then turned his attention back to the crowds. Her speech was stereotypical, put on for the tourists. She probably had a degree in English. “You here long time?” she asked. “I’m sorry, love, but I’m just here for a beer. I don’t even have the cash to buy you a drink.” It was a white lie, and besides, the bar would accept his credit chip. But Peter didn’t like to be rude. He was the guest here. She shook her head. “Me no drink. Bad girl drink. Me good girl.” I bet you’re a fantastic girl he thought silently. Still, it was refreshing not to be expected to pay bourbon prices for the watered-down coke the street girls drank. She leant towards Peter. “Lots bad girl here. Lots bad boy. You no buy them drink. You keep money safe,” she said in a stage whisper. Her perfume was… different. The other women wore litres of cheap, powerful scent to counter the smells of the food and urine and stale fish that pervaded the street. Hers was understated, subtle, and yet… She was smiling at him, her pupils widening as he met her gaze. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Peter found himself wondering what it tasted like. She rested her hand on his arm. Her touch was light, her fingertips caressing the inside of his wrist. Peter felt himself stirring. She was a professional. She did this all night long. But the way she was looking at him, her body language… Peter felt that she wasn’t acting at all. That this time, she really was attracted to him. She leant closer, the subtle perfume wafting through his nose and into his brain, her breathe tickling his ear as she whispered, “You want go hotel?” Peter nodded, too choked to trust himself to speak. He went to rise, but her hand on his wrist stopped him. “5000 Baht,” she whispered coyly. Peter took out his credit chip. She slid back a fold of skin on her wrist and placed the chip in the slot underneath. A green LED flashed and she gave it back. She slid the fold back over the dull metal and the join disappeared. She rose, and unable to help himself, Peter followed.
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