Kwan waits, her eyes on the tablecloth, until the waiter is gone. "It doesn't… bother you, talking about that in front of… I don't know, people like him?"
Fon laughs. "He knows what we do. How else could a couple of girls dressed in jeans and T-shirts afford a place like this?"
Kwan thinks, What you do, but doesn't say it. What she says is, "Why are we here? We've never gone anywhere like this."
"It's your Bangkok birthday," Fon says. "Today, for the first time, you look like you belong here."
"I'll pay you back," Kwan says. "For all of it. For Tra-La, for dinner, for everything."
"Really." Fon picks up the small crystal ashtray and hefts it, as though surprised at its weight. "With money you earn from what?"
Kwan says, "I should tell Nana I want some of what the mama-san paid her."
"She's spent it by now," Fon says. "She sold you. I wasn't sure you realized it."
"But she helped me, too. My father was going to sell me. And it would have been a lot worse than the bar."
Fon pours the last of the wine, hoists the glass, and eyes Kwan through it. "She wouldn't have lifted a finger if there hadn't been something in it for her. She'd have let them grab you without even thinking about it. Nana doesn't do favors."
Kwan pulls back her newly cut hair. "She's not so bad." She turns her head to display the earrings. "She gave me these."
Fon picks up the little lamp and tilts the shade so she can see more clearly. Then she puts it down again and says, "Real sapphires? Real gold?"
"Sure," Kwan says. "Why?"
Through a mouthful of smoke, Fon says, "Because they're turning your earlobes green."
Chapter 15
"We're late," Kwan says as she and Fon thread their way through the Patpong crowd. Their progress is slower than usual because they're holding hands. In the village Kwan had always envied the girls who were good enough friends to hold hands as they walked, and now, for the first time, she has someone whose hand she can hold. Even here, on this street, it's a comfortable feeling.
"We want to be late." Fon slows their pace and then stops, anchoring Kwan beside her. "Take it easy," she says. "I want to do this right."
"Do what?" But Fon's not listening. They're four or five meters up the street from the Candy Cane, and Fon's leaning forward, watching the two overage schoolgirls who control the curtain across the door. "When I say go, we go fast," she says. "Understand?"
"Sure. But why?"
"Go," Fon says, almost pulling Kwan off her feet. One of the schoolgirls has stepped inside the bar, and the other is facing the other way. Fon drags Kwan to the curtain, throws it open dramatically, and then pushes Kwan in, standing beside her with both arms upraised, demanding attention.
The first girl in the bar to notice them is Oom, dancing as always at the pole nearest the door. She glances at Fon, and then her eyes travel to Kwan's face, and she looks puzzled, as though she's never seen her before. Then she stops dancing, and there's a spark of recognition in her eyes, and for the first time since Kwan met her, Oom smiles broadly. She takes a hand off the pole and gives Kwan a thumbs-up. Kwan feels herself smiling back and hears Fon smother a laugh.
Oom's gesture draws the eyes of the other women onstage. Some of them stop dancing, too, a couple of them gawking openmouthed. The women who are in Fon's group grin and nod their heads or repeat the thumbs-up. One of them puts two fingers into her mouth and whistles loudly. The girls in the other group look at Kwan and then through her and return to their dancing, their focus on the customers, most of whom are staring at Kwan. The plump girl pulls the corners of her mouth down sharply and turns her back, then slips her hand under her long hair, and flips it up in Kwan's direction, a gesture of dismissal. Some of the women who are sitting with men desert their customers and come running. Hands touch Kwan's hair, a mix of perfumes surrounds her, and two of the girls hug her. Everyone seems to be talking, but they fall silent simultaneously.
The women crowded in front of Kwan part to let the mama-san through. Small as she is, the mama-san is given a wide path, almost enough space to swing her arms on either side. She wears her usual uniform: a plain T-shirt and blue jeans. Her hair is, as always, pulled painfully back, and her face is makeup-free. She seems bent on making herself as drab as possible, in contrast with the primped and painted girls who surround her. She stops a few steps away from Kwan and lets her eyes slide slowly over Kwan's hair and face. Her expression does not change. Then she leans forward, and for a moment Kwan thinks the mama-san is going to sniff at her.
But what she does is say, "Take off those earrings."
Kwan removes the earrings Nana had given her, and the mama-san holds out a long, thin hand for Kwan to drop them into. When she does, the mama-san waves past her, and Kwan turns to see one of the women at the door tug aside the curtain. The mama-san pulls back her arms and throws the earrings over the heads of the clump of girls and into the street. One of the door girls starts to go after them, turns to check the mama-san, and finds herself impaled on the sharp end of a glare. She resumes her place beside the door and lets the crowd of shoppers and barhoppers crush the earrings underfoot.
Kwan feels a sudden sting on the inside of her elbow. The mama-san has snapped the sensitive skin there with her index finger, and she's curled the finger beneath her thumb to do it again, but when Kwan turns, she lowers her hand and stares up into Kwan's eyes. As tiny as she is, her gaze has an almost physical weight to it. Without moving closer or raising her voice, she says, "You."
Kwan leans forward, trying to hear her over the noise of the club. The mama-san says, "You will not embarrass me. Do you understand?" She lifts her chin in warning, and then she steps aside and looks back to where someone is standing at the edge of the group of dancers, a short, fat, pig-faced man in the brown uniform of a police captain. The uniform is wrinkled and dirt-mottled, the necktie pulled to one side, and the shirt patched with sweat. It balloons out over his pants, trapping rolls of fat. The mama-san raises her eyebrows inquiringly, and the captain studies Kwan's face, and then, slowly, he nods.
Fon says, very softly, "I think you're in business."
"But you will," the mama-san says. They're alone in the room the girls use to change in, just a space behind the stage with little square lockers set into one wall. Kwan stands with her back to the lockers, which are to the right of the door. The bar's main speakers hang on the other side of the wall, and she can feel the bass thumping against her rump and shoulders. The mama-san sits upright, spine vertical, at the edge of a blue plastic chair. A doorway with no door in it leads to the men's room, which stinks of piss. Men come in at irregular intervals, some of them staggering, use the urinals, and leave. Most of them take long looks at Kwan on their way out.
"I won't," Kwan says.
The mama-san doesn't acknowledge the remark. "Nana told me you were a virgin. Did she lie?"
Kwan feels herself blush, but there's also a bright tingle of anger. "No."
"Did you lie to her?"
"Of course not."
The mama-san hears Kwan's tone and lifts an eyebrow. "Good. He's expecting a virgin. If he doesn't get one, he'll tell me."
"Then find him one."
"I have. You."
Kwan feels the pounding of her heart above the bass line. "I'm not even dancing yet."
The mama-san nods as though she's finally gotten the argument she was expecting. "You will be. Not until he's finished with you, because he won't want to share you with anyone until he's tired of you. That's if you take care of him right, of course."