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Where Hope Lies

Benjamin Winship


    Pim flared her nostrils and tried hard not to cry. Crying is for worthless babies! The voice of her mom rang in her head. It only made her want to cry more. She kneaded her fingers behind her back and dug her toes into the dirt.
    She looked at the freshly painted red sign posted just before the border crossing. The words were nothing more than a series of half circles and lines to her. She had never learned to read.
    A few minutes ago, she had tried to cross over to Thailand, like she did every day, to beg. Today there was a new guard. When she tried to cross, he demanded money from her. He called it a beggar’s tax. Pim had no money, and she thought the man might be lying. She had tried to run across. He was faster than she was and he hit her with his baton. Then he told her to read the sign. Beggars from Burma have to pay 40 baht to cross over to Thailand.
    So now she stood looking at the sign and trying not to cry. She tried, instead, to reason out the situation with her eight year old brain. Her mom needed the money. If she didn’t get it, she would try and throw Pim into the fire when she came home in the evening. She would throw boiling water on her face and then whip her with long reeds of bamboo. Pim wanted to get the money for her mom, but 40 baht was hardly the amount she would get from a days worth of begging. She’d never be able to get that much unless she was in Thailand, where all the rich white tourists were.
    She walked hopelessly to the side of the bridge overlooking the river that divided the two countries. The border patrol was on the bridge. Maybe she could cross the river without being seen. She looked down at the brown water snaking its way through the foliage. There were more guards walking up and down the banks. They must have hired more to enforce the new beggar’s tax.
    Pim sniffled. She thought of running away from home, but pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. If she didn’t take care of her mother, she was less of a being than the bottom feeding fish. She was nothing. A child could never disrespect her own parent.
    She rested her chin in her hands on the ledge of the bridge and sighed. The sun has just cleared the horizon. It was still morphing from pink-orange to yellow. There were scattered columns of smoke from burning trash climbing up into the sky. Pim wished she could climb into the sky like the smoke and be weightless. She wished it with all her heart, but it only made her body seem heavier.
    A motorcycle exhaust bubbled behind her and died. Pim turned around and saw a young man folding his aviators and stuffing them into the breast pocket of his polo shirt as he dismounted the bike. He had a grim face but Pim felt a natural urge that she ought to trust it as well. He pursed his lips in a slight downward curve and ran his fingers through the timid spikes of his hair.
    He approached her, examining her carefully, unashamedly. Pim turned her head to the side and looked at the ground. She kicked her bare foot back and forth self consciously as he approached. He must have been the same age as her mom – in his late twenties.
    He stopped in front of her and said, “Hey.” She responded by looking at his knees and bowing respectfully. “What’s your mom’s name?” he asked. It was more of a demand than general curiosity. Still, Pim didn’t feel threatened.
    “Kaimook,” she said pulling a stray hair from the wedge of her lips.
    The man nodded, looking back and forth along the road that crossed over the bridge. “I know her,” he said. “You want to make some money for her, no?” Pim’s eyes lit up. She dared to look into the man’s face and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you across the border to a good place.” He reached out his arm and opened his palm to her. She placed her small hand in it and let him clasp it roughly and help her onto the bike.
    He stabbed the key into the ignition and turned it, then he stomped the kick-starter and the bike roared to life. With a slight wave, the man bypassed the guard who had hit Pim only a few minutes ago, and they whizzed over the threshold and into Thailand.
    Pim’s hair flew around her face as they drove. She saw the rows upon rows of vendors under their wide umbrellas. There were noodle shops and jewelers every few meters. She passed by the corner where she usually begged. A boy about her same age had already stolen the spot. They turned a corner and went into an alley. Clumps of older white people trudged along, crimson cheeked and sweating like they always do. Pim imagined what might be in the bunches of bags clutched in their hands.
    The motorcycle halted in front of a tall whitewashed building. The man grabbed Pim by the hand and pulled her off the bike. He opened the seat and pulled out a small bag from the compartment underneath. Then he led her into the building. She could tell, from the few groups of white people eating breakfast in the lobby, that it was a hotel.
    The man made another wave, this time to the receptionist, who nodded in response. He took Pim into the elevator and pressed a button. The doors closed and they waited. Pim’s stomach turned as she felt the metal box carry them upward. Finally, there was a ding and the doors slid open.
    The man pulled Pim through a winding maze of hallways filled with doors that all looked the same. She couldn’t imagine how anyone was able to find their way in a place like this. The carpet tickled her bare feet as they moved and the AC gave her goose bumps. She wondered how she would be making money here, and how much she would make.
    Finally the man stopped at a door and knocked. Almost as soon as he did, a tall white man opened it. He had a bathrobe wrapped around his gaunt frame. Pim noticed white hairs poking out from the folds around his chest. The man’s face was starting to wrinkle around the edges, like a rotten mango. His eyes gleamed blue.
    He looked at Pim and smiled greedily. The man let go of Pim’s hand and shoved her into the white man’s room. A crumpled wad of money exchanged hands. “I’ll be back later,” said the man. “If you make the white man happy, you can have this.” He held up a 100 baht bill. It was hardly a fraction of the money in his hand. Pim nodded slightly. She was beginning to feel very afraid. She didn’t want the man from the motorcycle to leave. She wanted to go back to Burma. She wanted her mother.
    The man pulled a pair of metal handcuffs out of his bag and passed them to the white man. He winked and clicked his tongue and then he was gone.
    The white man pushed the door shut and said nothing. He just looked at Pim and smiled as if that was all he meant to do. Pim’s pupils clung to her toes. The white man jingled the cuffs in his hand and knelt down next to her. He lowered his head to catch her eyes but she turned her head to avoid him further. He flipped the edge of the cuff open and clipped it around her wrist. Then he lifted it up and clasped it to the foot of the bed.
    With her hand bound, Pim couldn’t stand up straight; she could either crouch or sit. She tucked her knees underneath herself and settled her bottom against her bare heels. The man was still staring at her. It gave her the urge to rearrange her shirt at the collar. She shifted it closer to her neck to hide her collarbones. Then she pulled the edges of her skirt down to cover more of her legs.
    The man squatted down in front of her. He leaned his head so close to hers that she could smell the sour beer on his breath. Wild curls of black sprawled out of his nostrils. He raised his puffs of eyebrows and flashed his yellow teeth.
    She cringed against the bedside with her raised wrist hanging limp in the metal cuff. The man flung his hand across her face. Pain flared into her cheek as the salty taste of blood spread across her tongue. A tear leaked down her cheek. It was hot and thick, like her mother’s disappointment.
    “Take off your clothes,” the white man demanded in English. His voice was like sandpaper against cold steel. She couldn’t understand him so he did it for her...

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    A thick crust stuck Pim’s eyelids together. She tried to open them but they wouldn’t budge. She moved her uncuffed hand and rubbed away the grime from each lid until they would open. She couldn’t remember how long she had been crying. She must have fallen asleep.
    The room was dim, with only the last rays of sunlight fluttering through the glass. Pim shifted her legs. Pain shot up through her abdomen. Flashes of memory, associated with the pain, bounced through her brain wildly.
    Without looking, she timidly reached her hand down and placed it gently on the inflamed skin between her legs. The pain roared again, like the heat of a bonfire burning inside of her. She thought she might not be able to walk.
    There was a knock on the door. As soon as it happened, Pim realized that it had been a knock that had awoken her in the first place. A chortle came from the bed and the white man slumped up. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up like a gorilla who only just realized it could stand. He dragged his wrinkled form over to the door and pulled it open.
    There was the motorcycle driver. His aviators were still on. He smiled. The two of them talked in roaring voices that Pim couldn’t understand. She just sat in the corner, with her hand still stuck in the cuff, and waited quietly.
    Finally, the man came in and unlocked her cuff. Pim went to the edge of the room, under the window where the man had tossed her clothes earlier. She gathered up her shirt, skirt and underpants, and pulled them on. Then she walked over to the man with the aviators. She hugged the wall, staying as far from the white man as possible.
    He grabbed her roughly by the wrist and pulled her out into the hallway. As they made there way back into the labyrinth of doors and carpet, Pim glanced back and saw the white man one last time. He was standing naked in the doorway, wrapped loosely in white skin with that horrible red slug dangling between his legs. He winked at her and the door slid shut.
    “You’re lucky,” said the man as he pressed the button for the elevator. “The white man said you made him happy.” Pim was looking at the floor still. “White men are hard to please, you know?” He knelt down next to her and pressed a slice of money into her hand. “You did well,” he whispered.
    She didn’t want to look at him. She clutched the money in her hand and thought about her mother. Her mother needed the money and that was all that mattered. Her mother had told her a thousand times that they wouldn’t survive unless Pim could bring her money.
    “I’m coming, mother,” she said in an inaudible whisper.
    They stepped into the elevator and slid down to ground level. The man dragged her out into the parking lot, picked her up and set her on the seat. She could hardly move on her own because of the pain. He climbed on and started the bike.
    They pulled onto the street and zipped through the thin street crowded with vendors and shoppers. Bats darted here and there overhead, catching mosquitoes as they flew. The thick sweet smell of pork hung over the alleys as people prepared for dinner.
    Pim’s stomach growled. They sped past the hanging arch that separated the two countries. She was home. There were the street kids, kicking a smashed can back and forth. She knew their names. There was the guard from that morning, looking stern, daring anyone to try and cross without a pass.
    The bike slowed, and before anything else could happen, Pim jumped off. Despite the searing pain between her legs, she ran. She flung her legs out in front of herself as fast as she could, letting them carry her all the way to the small interwoven hut on stilts that she called home.
    Pim pushed the door open slowly and poked her head through. Her mother was there. A man was standing behind her and they both turned to look at Pim. Her mother’s eyes locked on to her with the intensity of fury. The man was thin and slouched. There was a black tuft of hair hanging from his chin.
    Pim’s mother grabbed her by the hair and pulled her in. “You’re lucky we don’t have a fire tonight,” she said twisting her ear, “Or I’d throw you in it.” She pulled her into the center of the room, alternating between yanking her ear and handfuls of her long black hair. “You’re lucky the water has already gone cold, or I’d throw it on your face.” She shoved Pim into the ground. Then she picked up the bamboo switch and whipped it across Pim’s legs several times. Immediately, red strips of skin puffed up where it had struck. Pim dropped the money at her mother’s feet and pressed her trembling hands against her legs to calm the sting. She skittered into the corner like a cockroach avoiding danger and settled herself against a pillow. Her mother gave the money to the man who in turn gave her a small plastic pouch. Then he shoved the money in his pocket and left.
    Pim’s mother turned to her, eyes bulging, and said, “next time I’ll tell Natachai to just keep you. You’re worthless!” Her voice was cold and indifferent, almost uncaring.
    Pim could only assume that Natachai was the man on the motorcycle with the aviators. She rolled over and tried not to cry. She imagined that she was a ribbon of smoke: purified remains of burnt trash. She puffed up effortlessly into the serenity of a rising dawn and drifted away, to a beautiful city hidden in the mountains.
    Her mom took something from a bag on the floor. The last rays of sunlight glistened against it for a second, and Pim saw that it was a needle.
    “What will we eat?” she asked her mom.
    “Hush,” was the distracted reply. Her mom clicked a lighter to life underneath a spoon. “It’s bedtime. Maybe tomorrow, if you bring enough money, we’ll be able to eat.”
    Pim tried to position herself so that there was a minimum of pain in her genitals, but there was no comfort to be found. She wanted to cry but in front of her mother she didn’t dare. A rubber strip snapped taught against her mother’s arm. Pim watched her dip the needle into her skin, press the plunger and sigh. She flopped down against the other pillow, in the middle of the floor.
    Pim blinked a few times. She was sure the pain would never go away. It kept surging up through her body like grime wedged under her skin. Despite her best efforts, a tear escaped from between her eyelids and rolled down her cheek. It was dark now, though, and her mother couldn’t see.
    She was still hungry. Maybe tomorrow she would be able to get more money. She had no choice but to rest her hope on that. Another tear dripped down her cheek. She wiped it away with resolve. “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

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