Platoon. Jimi Hendrix, dope, and rifle barrels.
I sought out the smell of grass to complete the connection, and found it through the stench of a hot gutter and sticky tarmac. I think it came from above – a balcony full of braided hair and dirty T–shirts, leaning on the guard-rail, enjoying the scene below.
A brown hand flashed out and caught hold of me. A Thai trader sitting by his stall, a slim man with acne scars, was gripping my arm. I looked towards Étienne. He hadn’t seen, was still walking down the road. I lost him behind bobbing heads and tanned necks.
The man began stroking my forearm with his free hand, smoothly and swiftly, not loosening his grip. I frowned and tried to pull away. He pulled me back, taking my hand towards his thigh. My fingers clenched to a fist and my knuckles pressed against his skin. People pushed past me on the pavement, knocking me with their shoulders. One caught my eye and smiled. The man stopped stroking my arm and started stroking my leg.
I looked at him. His face was passive and unreadable and his gaze was levelled at my waist. He gave my leg a final caress, turning his wrist so his thumb slipped briefly under the material of my shorts. Then he released my arm, patted me on the behind, and turned back to his stall.
I jogged after Étienne – he was standing on the pavement twenty yards ahead with his hands on his hips. As I approached he raised his eyebrows. I frowned and we continued walking.
At the guest-house the silent heroin addict sat in his usual seat. When he saw us he drew a line with his finger over each wrist. ‘Sad, huh?’ I tried to say, but my lips were sticky and barely opened. The sound that came from my throat was a sigh.
∨ The Beach ∧
6
Françoise
Étienne gazed at the map for five minutes without speaking. Then he said, ‘Wait,’ and darted out of my room. I heard him rummaging around next door, then he came back holding a guidebook. ‘There.’ He pointed to an open page. ‘These are the islands in the map. A national marine park west of Ko Samui and Ko Pha-Ngan.’
‘Ko Samui?’
‘Yes. Look. All the islands have protection. Tourists cannot visit, you see?’
I couldn’t. The guidebook was written in French, but I nodded anyway.
Étienne paused, reading, then continued. ‘Ah. Tourists can go to…’ He took the map and pointed to one of the bigger islands in the small archipelago, three islands down from where X marked the beach.’…this one. Ko Phelong. Tourists can go to Ko Phelong on a special guided tour from Ko Samui, but…but they can only stay one night. And they cannot leave the island.’
‘So this beach is in a national park?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are people supposed to get there?’
‘They cannot get there. It is a national park.’
I leant back on the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘That’s that sorted then. The map is bullshit.’
Étienne shook his head. ‘No. Not bullshit. Really, why did the man give it to you? He went to so much trouble. See the little waves.’
‘He called himself Daffy Duck. He was mad.’
‘I do not think so. Listen.’ Étienne picked up his guidebook and began a halting translation.
‘The most adventurous travellers are…exploring the islands beyond Ko Samui to find…to find, ah, tranquillity, and Ko Pha-Ngan is a favourite…destination. But even Ko Pha-Ngan is…’ He paused. ‘OK, Richard. This says travellers try new islands beyond Ko Pha-Ngan because Ko Pha-Ngan is now the same as Ko Samui.’
‘The same?’
‘Spoiled. Too many tourists. But look, this book is three years old. Now maybe some travellers feel these islands past Ko Pha-Ngan are also spoiled. So they find a completely new island, in the national park.’
‘But they aren’t allowed in the national park.’
Étienne raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Exactly! This is why they go there. Because there will be no other tourists.’
‘The Thai authorities would just get rid of them.’
‘Look how many islands are there. How could they be found? Maybe if they hear a boat they can hide, and the only way to find them is if you know they are there – and we do. We have this.’ He slid the map across the bed at me. ‘You know, Richard, I think I want to find this beach.’
I smiled.
‘Really,’ said Étienne. ‘You can believe me. I do.’
♦
I did believe him. He had a look in his eye that I recognized. In my early adolescence I went through a stage of mild delinquency, along with two of my friends, Sean and Danny. During the early hours of the morning, weekends only because we had school to think of, we would patrol the streets around our area, smashing things. ‘Hot Bottle’ was the favourite game. It involved nicking empty milk bottles from people’s doorsteps. We would throw the bottles high into the air and try to catch them. Most of the fun came when bottles were dropped, seeing the silvery explosion of glass, feeling the shards flick against our jeans. Running from the scene of the crime was an extra kick, ideally with the shouts of enraged adults ringing in our ears.
The look I recognized in Étienne’s eyes came from one particular experience when we graduated from smashing milk bottles to smashing a car. We’d been sitting in my kitchen, playfully discussing the idea, when Sean said, ‘Let’s just do it.’ He said it casually, but his eyes said he was serious. Through them I could see he’d already moved beyond thoughts of practicality and consequence, and was hearing the sound of the windscreen folding in.
Étienne, I imagined, was hearing the sound of the surf on this hidden beach, or hiding from the marine-park wardens as he made his way to the island. The effect on me was the same as when Sean said, ‘Let’s just do it.’ Abstract thoughts suddenly flipped into thoughts about reality. Following the path of the map had become something that could happen.
♦
‘I think,’ I said, ‘we could probably hire a fisherman to take us to the island.’
Étienne nodded. ‘Yes. It might be difficult to get there, but not impossible.’
‘We’d have to go to Ko Samui first.’
‘Or Ko Pha-Ngan.’
‘Or maybe we could even do it from Surat Thani.’
‘Or Ko Phelong.’
‘We’d have to ask around a little…’
‘But there would be someone to take us.’
‘Yes…’
At that moment Françoise appeared, having returned from the police station.
If Étienne was the one who turned the idea of finding the beach into a possibility, it was Françoise who made it happen. The odd thing was, she did it almost accidentally, simply by taking it for granted that we were going to try.
I didn’t want to seem impressed by her prettiness, so when she stuck her head round the door, I looked up, said ‘Hi,’ then went back to studying the map.
Étienne shifted over on my bed and patted the space he had made: Françoise stayed in the doorway. ‘I did not wait for you,’ he said, presumably speaking in English for my sake. ‘I met Richard.’ She didn’t follow the language lead and began rattling away in French. I couldn’t follow their conversation past recognizing the odd word, including my own name, but the speed and forcefulness of the exchange made me think that either she was pissed off that he’d left without her, or she was just keen to fill him in on what had happened at the police station.