Chapter Text
The patron's house has high walls, guarded gates, and a small garden, right in the middle of Bangkok. It is not a house you would usually arrive at on foot, as Yok does on this late, rainy afternoon, coming from the SkyTrain. Not even these days, when so few can afford their own car. It is not far-fetched to think that the patron's guests typically belong to the small elite that can.
Still, the patron greets Yok at the door by herself. Perfect, steel-grey curls fall on silk-clad shoulders. She leads him through the house. Light and airy rooms. With all the art that hangs on the walls, the house reminds Yok of a gallery.
"Please sit down," says the patron. "I will be right back with some tea." She leaves him.
Being in here is like being in a bubble. No traffic can be heard from outside and the rain falls unheard on the windows. The indoor temperature is perfect, the air conditioning completely silent. Yok is dressed in his usual worn jeans and shirt, and does not fit this perfect room. Or, does he? Like a contrasting detail against it, he, perhaps, makes it even more perfect.
Nevertheless, Yok sits down, leaning back against the grey leather of the sofa. In the stillness of the room, he can hear his right ear ring. It always does, in a quiet space like this.
Yok lets his eyes wander.
He recognises most of the artists whose paintings adorn the walls. Several are friends or acquaintances. One painting is done by an old lover from university. Others are by foreigners, and some are quite well-known. One thing is clear: This patron must be seriously rich.
Then, one painting startles Yok.
In a corner of the room is a portrait of a man, stretched out gracefully on sand, chest naked. His eyes are closed, his face is peaceful. His dust-brown hair is swept from his forehead. The colors of the painting are deep, yet mild. Yok had been experimenting with watercolours there for a while, and they blend together with his pastel chalks. Soft, warm yellow, contrasted by melancholic blue.
The scent of the ocean, and of sunscreen. Drops of melted ice cream, sweet against the tongue. Cheap drinks as the sun goes down. A gentle breeze that cools the air. Hotel sheets.
Sun-warm sand. Sun-warm towels. Sun-warm skin that tastes of salt.
"Here we go."
The return of the patron brings Yok abruptly back to reality. "I see you have found your own work in my collection." She nods towards the painting and smiles, with straight, too-white teeth. "I was always very fond of that one. One of the first pieces I bought, I think. You must have barely been out of college."
"Yeah," says Yok, "I was."
"I always enjoyed the title as well. Mister Policeman . I suppose that was the job the person in the painting had?"
"Kind of," Yok says. "Not any longer." A second passes, and a thought comes to him: "I think. We're not in contact anymore."
The meeting took longer than expected, but now he has gotten himself a commission for the patron's main residence in Chiang Mai. With the commission, he can finally buy a new battery for his motorcycle. Art grants only get him so far.
It is a lovely evening after a day of rain. Yok could go straight back to the SkyTrain, but for what? The meeting has made him restless, and the suddenness of seeing Dan's face again in his own old painting is still prickling in him.
How long has it been? Almost twenty years since they broke up, not for the first time, but for the last. These days, Yok rarely thinks of Dan, except for occasionally, in passing, as a part of the memories of Yok's early twenties.
Their final fight had not been that different from all the others. He could not even remember what it was about. Most of their fights either started with politics and ended up being about their private lives, work or money, or the other way around. It had been a cycle back then, of fighting, breaking up, making up, getting together again.
Yok remembers, though, that there had not been blows exchanged that final time. Only that he had cried until he thought he would never stop.
It had been more out of exhaustion, than a result of conscious decision, that they had not tried again after that time. Yok had thought that they would, maybe. But after five weeks of no contact from either side, he simply deleted Dan's contact information, thinking that if Dan wanted to contact him, he would.
He did not.
The core of their fights about politics was this: Whether the system could be changed from within, as Dan thought (as did White, and Gram), or if it needed to be torn down, if it needed a revolution. The latter was Yok's belief. He had always felt like that, to some extent, but after almost being murdered by the establishment and then spending a year in prison, his dislike and anger at society's injustice had turned into a very personal, raging hatred. As he worked as a mechanic for years before he could live on his art, he had eventually organised and played an important part in the reshaping of Thailand's labour movement. But as excellent as he had been as an informal agitator and strike leader, as clear had it also been to everyone that he could not participate in negotiations, especially not after he got into two fistfights with strikebreakers.
Yok had wanted the whole world to burn, so a new one could rise from the ashes. And the world did burn. Floods and unrest in South Asia, reoccurring wildfires in Australia and the Americas, sudden rise of food prices in Europe and long-brewing political tensions finally snapping into riots and war, and several conflicts in Africa and west Asia further fuelled by a lack of water. Since Yok first met Dan, three pandemics had swept over the world and receded. Bangkok's summers turned so hot that the streets lay empty during the day. There were good things too, of course. Marriage equality was now more common than not in the world, there was a cure for HIV, gender equality was generally better, and the changes needed to mitigate the effect of climate change had come with walkable, viable cities, and a re-populated countryside. Yet, the truth remained: The world burned, and it kept burning.
Yok did not, does not, know what to do anymore. Has not known for a very long time.
His fingers drum against his denim-clad hip. Not to any tune. They are drumming because they long to hold a cigarette, the daily one and only. He has not had it yet. Should he have it now? Maybe save it until after dinner, as usual. But he wants it now.
Yok hastens his steps and rounds the corner. For a moment, he feels lost. Then, he realises he has been here before, although it must have been at least eight years ago, before they finished the reconstructions of this part of the city.
When Yok grew up, Bangkok seemed ever-growing, but the population growth plateaued in the last decade, as more people flocked to the north. Still, the city keeps changing. Apartment complexes and office buildings get torn down, built, renovated. Streets change character, trees are cut down or planted. The city is quieter now, when almost all fuel engines are gone from the streets and fewer cars roll against the asphalt.
Bangkok has sunk deeper into the earth; a combination of excessive freshwater outtake and how heavy the city is. The house that Yok grew up in started flooding every rainy season in the 2020s. Now, the area has become uninhabitable and been rebuilt into a wetland.
This change and movement was always part of Bangkok, since Yok was a child; in this, Bangkok remains the same.
He slows down again, starts to take out his pack of cigarettes, but, looking up, he realises that he is outside a school building, and puts them away again. Then, he stops to look.
The school has a mural painted on its wall. It depicts a forest that looks strangely familiar. It is something about the colours. About the way the trees are painted. No people are among the trees, but he knows what he would have expected, had there been any: Familiar smiling faces, like masks, like those so long ago.
The mural looks like UNAR. It looks like Dan.
He stares at it for a moment.
No. It cannot be. It is, of course, because he was just thinking about Dan.
Yok checks the time. After six. So after school hours. Might still be kids in there, though, club activities or something.
No, wait, today is Saturday. But he still looks around to make sure nobody is around to complain before he lights a cigarette after all, and keeps moving.
"So," says Namo, "let me get this straight. This patron has one of your old paintings of Dan?"
Namo and Yok are sitting at their usual table at their usual joint, close to the old shophouse where they have their ateliers. This place can get crowded at the weekend, but tonight is a Thursday right before payday, and thus, there is space between the tables.
"Yeah," says Yok, refilling both of their glasses with beer. "I had forgotten that I sold it."
Namo nods. "You made a lot of paintings of him there for a while."
Yok sighs. "Yeah. Couldn't keep all of them." When he sees the look Namo gives him, he adds: "And now I'm happy about that. It's just weird to run into them so unexpectedly."
"Yeah," says Namo, "I get that." She takes a sip from her beer, watching him intently. "So do you really think that mural was UNAR's, or was your mind playing tricks on you?"
"Can't say. Could be either. I have no idea what Dan is up to these days. It looked legal though. Just a mural for a school building, nothing else."
"Do you ever wonder?" Namo asks, seriously. "What it would have been like, had you stuck together?"
Yok scratches his chin.
"I used to," he admits. "I mean, most likely it would have been awful. But honestly, I have no idea now. It was all so long ago. Did I tell you I ran into him on Silom Soi 4?"
"No! What — really? In a bar?" Namo sounds surprised, almost impressed. "Weirdly enough, I can't really imagine Dan in a gay bar."
Yok shrugs. "I know, but there he was. Under the neon lights…" He grins suggestively.
He jokes, but the memory is one of beauty: Dan unexpectedly there, in a tank top, his handsome shoulders and beautiful face and muscled arms all lightly sheening with a thin layer of sweat, reflecting the moving lights of the dancefloor, blue, green, and purple.
Yok leans forward over the table, making his voice low and dramatic:
"And, there and then, it was like I was in love with him again…" He pauses for effect, piercing Namo with his gaze. "Then the song ended, and the feeling was gone."
Yok and Namo both laugh.
"When was this?" Namo asks.
"Must have been ten, twelve years ago."
"Was that the last time you saw him?"
Yok shakes his head. "No. I saw him once more, soon after that. We passed by each other in the street."
"How was he?"
"We didn't talk. Just nodded hello and kept going."
"It's so strange that it was over twenty years ago that you two first got together," says Namo. "Time…"
"Yeah," Yok agrees. "Time."
They sit quietly for a moment. Yok startles when Namo suddenly slams her hands on the table.
"Gotta go pee," she says and gets up. She points to Yok's almost empty glass. "You want a refill on my way back?"
"Sure. Wait, no. Buy me a soda or something? I was at the boxing club this morning, shouldn't kill the gains with alcohol."
Namo scoffs and rolls her eyes, but nods. "Anything more to eat?"
"If you want more, I'll have some, too."
She shrugs noncommittally and walks off towards the bathrooms.
… specialise?
The movement of hands catches Yok's eye.
I think so. When I started working in palliative care, it honestly wasn't the direction I'd been thinking of. I thought it would be depressing, but it's actually really interesting.
To be honest, death does sound depressing…
The two women laugh together. Yok cannot hear them over the crowd, but he does not need to. They are speaking in sign language; he can eavesdrop with his eyes. Judging from the conversation and their body language, it seems like a first date, or at least an early one. Yok takes a sip from his glass, trying to look without staring.
It's hard when someone is clearly afraid of death. But when people come to us, many of them have accepted it, or at least do so towards the end.
Yeah, I remember when my grandmother passed. About a week before it happened, it was like she was suddenly calm about it…
The other woman, the one who is apparently a nurse, nods, clearly taking in each word.
Yok had lived with his grandparents until his late teens, as they had thought his mother — single, Deaf, and discriminated against on the job market — would be unable to properly care for him. Yok never believed them. When he was old enough to make his own choices, he had chosen to go and live with his mother, and only then really started learning sign language. Yok and his mother had both struggled to get accustomed to living together, but slowly, he had learned. And he, who had up until then known his mother as the single Deaf person in his life, had come to know her friends, a community.
She had only been twenty when she had him, but she had lived a hard life. At forty, she had looked almost fifty. As a child, Yok never heard her laugh openly; the first time was when he had lived with her for a while and came home to his mother and her best friend. His mother's best friend was also Deaf, and, together, the two of them would sit at the kitchen table and mend clothes or peel beans or, one time, giddily, paint their nails; whatever they were doing would go slowly, as they signed almost constantly, so fast that Yok had trouble following their conversation.
For a long time, Yok signed to his mother as if he was speaking, with the same grammar as in spoken Thai. It took additional years, and a brief but intense relationship with a Deaf man, before Yok really took up sign language as a different language with its own grammar. After Yok and the man broke up, Yok was back to mostly only signing with his mother.
When Yok's mother passed five years ago, he had hosted her funeral in sign language. He still has a little bit of contact with his mother's best friend. It is, however, different from using sign language daily. Yet, sometimes, it seeps out: when he is searching for a word in Thai and finds the sign before the spoken word, or when he catches himself throwing occasional signs into his gestures while talking. A language you once knew never dies. It just sleeps inside of you, in a room you rarely enter.
Were you and your grandmother close?
We had a falling out for a while, but when she got closer to death, she started seeing…
Yok misses the last part as Namo puts down a coke in front of him.
"They'll come out with the squid," she says.
"Nice."
Sitting down, Namo asks: "Did you know that Eugene and Gram's oldest kid started high school this year?"
Yok almost spits out his coke. "No! You're kidding!"
"I know! It's weird, right?"
"So weird."
"I remember when they had him."
"Yeah. Feels like yesterday, doesn't it?" Yok does something that is equal parts sigh and giggle.
His fingers find their way to his temple, flattening the hair there and then pushing it up again. His hair is still almost completely black, but his hairline seems to creep higher each year. He should get a haircut. He keeps his hair shorter now.
"Time," he says again.
When Yok and Dan had run into each other at that bar and said hi, how are you , a question had hung unasked between them: whether to use the opportunity to rekindle the old fire, to blow on the embers to see what sparks.
Back in the days when Dan and Yok were good, sex was messy and playful. Often toeing the line of a scuffle, unafraid. An arm twisted around a back, tug and shove, hands stuck roughly down pants. Teeth knocking together as they kissed each other laughing.
There were also hard times. When they had to touch each other carefully, so as not to break anything. Trying, instead, to mend, to find each other. After their fights, or on evenings after bad days, or on the days after the nights when Yok woke up covered in sweat, haunted again by nightmares of an enclosed, unknown, unseen space, the smell of fear stuck in his nostrils. The handcuffs, that Yok had once fantasised about putting into use in a sexual context with Dan, only came out once — put on and then immediately taken off, as they were both caught off-guard by Yok's sudden panic.
Sometimes, Yok could not stand being touched. Sometimes, he could not stand not being touched.
It is different now, for Yok. What would it have been like if they had gone home together that night? Yok had no idea. After a short, polite conversation — as polite as it gets when you have to shout into each other's ears — the two of them had parted ways, again, without as much as a hug.
The next time Yok goes to see the patron, he actually does arrive by car. The down payment for the commission was enough for Yok to buy that new battery for his e-moto, but with all he has to carry, he takes a taxi instead. His work is still fully analogue, as it has been from the start. That is expensive, but also sought after, especially after the surge of machine-generated images in the 2020s. And this art is heavy, impractical; a lot to carry. Besides, the day is hot.
Their meeting is shorter this time. The patron likes his sketches. They have agreed that he will use one of them as the base for the painting, and then incorporate some elements from the other two. But , said the patron, I like your style. I respect your artistry. Trust your judgement; I do. It seems true with this one, not like the ones that promise him artistic liberty, but then end up trying to micromanage him.
A staff member of the patron's household helps Yok carry his things to the taxi, and Yok thanks him.
For a moment, Yok considers prompting the car to take the route past the school with the mural. To look at it again. But, why would he, really? He just gives his address, and the car rolls.
In all Yok's memories, Dan is young. As is Yok, in his memories.
Dan must have aged, too.
If he is alive?
The question comes to Yok like a bubble that surfaces from dark water. Yok knows well how uncomfortable people can simply disappear.
Still, it seems unlikely. Somehow he would have known it. Would have felt it.
"Yok! My man!"
"I bet you were surprised! Are you happy I called?"
"No. I was so disappointed." On the other end of the line, Gram laughs. "Of course I was! How are you these days, my friend?"
"Good, good."
"Staying fit?"
"You know the boys down at the boxing club. They would kill me if I didn't. I mean that literally."
They both laugh.
"What about you, Gram, you doing good?"
"I am indeed! Great, actually."
Gram's voice sounds like he is smiling. Yok knows that broad smile, that easy friendliness; it has never faded.
"Yeah? And Eugene?"
"Eugene is… she's alright." But there is concern in Gram's voice. "A bit stressed about her job and all. But she'll be fine."
"Oh, right. The new show? Things going wrong?"
"Better now, I think, it's just that the workshopping with the dancers took forever. But they'll be ready in time for the premiere."
"I should buy a ticket for that."
" Buy a ticket? You should come for free, of course." Yok can hear how Gram speaks off the phone: "Right, Gene? We've got one of the free tickets left for Yok?" He comes back. "She says yes, she'd love that. And hello."
"Okay, great. I'd love that, too. And say hello back. How's work for you, then?"
"Oh, you know. Same old. I mean, it's painful sometimes." His voice sounds more serious now. "But you can't let it get to you, or you can't be in this line of work."
Yok hooks his left hand around the doorframe, twisting his torso to stretch out his stiff shoulder.
"Do you still feel like you make a difference?" he asks. "As a labour rights lawyer?"
"Hell yeah. Every day. Well, not when we lose, I guess. But at least then I know we tried our best."
Yok switches the phone to his other hand, then somewhat roughly massages his shoulder. He hesitates before he says:
"I wish I could say the same."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I mean, I do address social issues in my art, but… I'm not sure it makes a difference. Sometimes I feel like it is just for rich people to hang it up as some kind of sign. Look, I care about the world. But do they, really?"
"I mean, having your art could maybe remind them to actually care."
"Wouldn't that be something." Honestly, he doubts it.
"Well, then, are you active in anything these days?" asks Gram.
"Like, activism?" A vague feeling of shame, Yok's voice turns quieter: "No."
"Hmm."
"I guess I… there was so much with my mom there for a while. When she was sick, and then when she passed. And I think… I mean. I've been feeling a little… lost, honestly. Trying to make the world better. It's hard to know how right now. There's so much to do."
Gram sighs. "There is. But you're just one person, Yok. We can't solve everything. You can just contribute to one little piece of the puzzle. Just figure out which piece and get back on it."
"I guess you're right. It's frustrating, that's all."
"Maybe don't get back to burning houses down and stuff, though. No matter how frustrated you get." Gram is joking, Yok can tell, but there is an underlying sharpness to his voice. They both went to prison. They both swore to never go back.
Yok laughs. "I'm too old for that now."
"Good, good."
It's quiet for a few seconds, not uncomfortably. Then, Yok says:
"Namo said that Bomb started high school this year."
"Yeah!" Gram's voice sounds happy. "Isn't that mad? They grow up so fast. One day you're holding them in your arms, and the next, their voice breaks."
"Fucking mad."
"Yeah… Oh, by the way, speaking of old times. I guess I should have told you this, but it slipped my mind. I ran into Dan a couple of weeks ago. Dan as in your ex."
Yok's face prickles. "What?" He barely gets the word out.
"It was completely unexpected. We met him when we picked up Bomb one day. Turns out Dan's a teacher at Bomb's school."
"A teacher? What does he teach?" A number of options roll through Yok's head. "Physical education? Art?"
"Social science, mate. He said he did a painting job for the school though. You haven't talked to him then?"
"I haven't, no. Haven't seen him in a decade. Where…"
That mural. Those trees. Yok's voice strains in his throat when he continues:
"What high school is it?"
School is long over for the day, and the gates are closed. What would Yok gain by coming here? What did he think he would find?
Does he even want to meet Dan? If he did, what would he even say to him? Small talk seems stupid. And the questions he has, that have come to him during the last few weeks, are not ones he can ask Dan now.
Do you think of me sometimes?
The forest — UNAR's forest — Dan's forest — looks mysterious and dark in the dim light from the street lanterns. Like somewhere you get lost.
Do you think of me sometimes, when you pass by the old place where you cried and I held you tight for the first time?
For a moment, Yok gets a feeling that those smiling faces are hiding behind the trees. It makes his hair stand on end.
Do you think of me sometimes, when you touch yourself? Do you picture my face when you come?
Yok puts his helmet back on and pulls down the visor.
Do you think of me sometimes, when a motorcycle passes by, one of the right kind, the ones we had back then, when you smell its fumes, when you hear its roar, when someone rides it past, wild and young and unafraid, as I once was?
He pushes the button to start the motorcycle — well, the e-moto; it is electric, as almost all are now — and for the first time in at least half a decade, the longing for the roar and purr of a real engine really stings him.
Do you think of me sometimes, when you see fire? When you feel its heat against your skin?
At least the electric motors accelerate fast.
He drives off.
Yok works on the painting. Goes to eat with Namo, sometimes to drink. Sometimes Namo's girlfriend joins them, sometimes other friends of theirs. Yok brings coffee to the atelier when Namo is tired, and Namo brings coffee to the atelier when Yok is tired.
Yok meets men sometimes. It is pleasure. It is touch. It is a habit, not a bad one. Brief but nice exchanges. Does not need to be more.
Yok goes to the premiere of the dance performance that Eugene has choreographed, and it is so beautiful that he weeps. In the dark of the theatre, Gram squeezes Yok's knee and says nothing. They know each other. When Yok tells Eugene how much he enjoyed her work, he can tell she knows he means it.
Yok goes to the Thai boxing club three days a week. Four sometimes, or even five, when he gets stuck in his work, or when he is crowded by his own thoughts. "Don't hold back," he tells whoever he is training with, and takes kick after kick.
The pain is distant, less important than the blow, than the moment. He has been training for over twenty-five years, and has learned to be careful with the hard, or fragile, or important parts — teeth, eyes, knees, shins — the parts that must not get shattered. The large muscles can take a beating, though. After all these years, he still gets surprised sometimes when he finds the bruises in the shower.
He likes the way the training sessions get his heart pumping, tire him out, until his body is eventually shaking, sweat dripping. It empties his head, helps him sleep soundly at night.
Yok's work with the painting goes smoothly. There are some hiccups here and there, but he knows his own work well by now, knows his process. Working late into the night some days, and others for just a few hours, trusting himself to finish it as they have agreed. And he does.
The patron is pleased when Yok leaves the finished painting at her place, along with a couple of the first sketches as a bonus. He gets paid as agreed. And then, when he leaves her place, he realises how hungry he is. That happens sometimes, when he has finished something big.
Normally, he would ask Namo if she would want to meet up with him to eat, but she is out of town for work. Instead, he locates a noodle place a few blocks away, close enough to walk. He orders noodles with clear broth and pork-and-soy meatballs. He has had this type of noodle soup a thousand times before, but is still hit by how delicious it tastes. Or, maybe, it is just that hunger is the best spice. He concentrates on the food.
It is not Dan's face that Yok sees first, but his hand, fingertips touching lightly upon the edge of the rickety plastic table. Elegantly shaped fingers, but broad, blunt nails. A thin coat of hair climbs down his wrist, and dusts the first digits of his fingers. Yok recognises him immediately.
"Hi, Yok."
Yok chews, swallows, and looks up.
"Hi, phi."
Dan is a little heavier, filling out his black t-shirt nicely. His arms are hairier, his eyebrows bushier. Fine lines strike his face as he smiles, somewhat uncertainly.
Dan is fucking handsome.
"I, uh…" Dan starts, shifting from one foot to the other, "I saw you sitting here, so I thought I would say hi."
"Well," Yok says, and a quiet huff of a giggle splits his mouth open in a grin as he adds, again: "Hi." And then, he surprises himself by nodding towards the chair opposite him, and asking: "Have you eaten?"
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Dan's eyes flicker towards the chair.
"Well… no. But I can't stay. I'm kind of late, already, actually. But, um, I've been thinking about you lately." Yok stares up at him, and the crooked smile that briefly passes over Dan's face is equal parts apologetic and amused. "Well," he continues, "you and your mother."
Yok does not understand, so he listens. Dan's face turns serious again:
"And then — I don't know if he told you, but I ran into Gram, and, well, I have been hoping I'd be able to get hold of you. There's this girl in one of my classes…" Dan checks the time on his wristwatch, and swears under his breath. "I really do need to leave. Could I contact you about this? Sorry, I know it's a bit sudden." That smile again. " Very sudden."
"Okay," Yok says, fishing his phone out from his pocket. Dan touches it with his; the screen lights up. Contact information exchanged.
Just like that.
"Thanks." Dan pockets his phone and nods. "Well. I'll be in touch, then." He gives the restaurant manager a quick wai as he walks towards the door, and lifts his hand towards Yok in a goodbye. "Enjoy your dinner."
The door swings open. A bell rings. Dan is gone.