Flesh
The shop is dimly lit, curious for inviting patronage. I point at the bottle of water; the proprietress hurries up from behind a desk in the rusty corner and says “twenty five baht!” She is heavily made up, her powdered face like dessicated salt flats about to splinter into cracked plates. “No, yii sip baht,” I say. She nods her head in quick accession but scrambles to recover a different bottle from the freezer depths than the one originally drawn. Seeing that it is still 1.5 litres, I reach into my pocket for money. She hesitates for a moment, then offers me the sucky-sucky gesture and points to the desolate back room. I shake my head concealing all incredulity and smile as I pay. She returns a rueful, obsequious smile, as if to say, “No, I didn’t think so … you’re too young for such things … actually I was only kidding about that …”
The episode reminds me of Winston’s encounter with the prostitute in 1984. Under the grim light bulb she is revealed to be a sorry old woman; makeup thickly applied cannot change the reality of shrivelled and sagging skin. He is repulsed, but goes ahead with the deed because he is too sexually frustrated. Besides, his actions seem to have a fatalistic quality, as if motions once started must move to completion, choice merely a myth. Winston’s condition is full of pathos. I am saddened too that this woman who could be my mother – she is fifty at least – has offered up her services to me. Likely of her free will. But it seems a kind of grovelling submission of an elder, who especially in an asian society I would expect to have superior status. The whole scene just feels wrong.
I discover that not only is the bottle sold to me missing a plastic seal, the tamper guard has clearly been broken. Refilled with what water? I return to the shop and say so in English; amazingly, as if expecting my return, the woman understands immediately. She goes out back and returns with another bottle, tamper guard in place, still no plastic seal. I notice now a gray, myopic woman lounging in a chair near the rear. She is unmoved by the spectacle. I must exude reluctance, for the woman immediately grasps that she must give me the real deal, no more silly tricks. She scurries to an unopened carton of bottled water stacked on top of the refrigerator and begins tearing at the packing as if it were a hateful thing. Finally she passes a tightly sealed bottle to me, and, satisfied, I move out to the street and the night.