Tropical Storm

‘Wherever you walk you will always be an alien. You will always feel the need to run. If you sit still, you will become restless. The only place you will be content is a train that rumbles endlessly.’
A girl called Stine Kaiding, whom I believed to be very wise, told me this in the early days of my career. Later I discovered that she had learned many such phrases to seduce people.
She told me that I should accept this. She said there was no point in denying it.
‘Your free will is your weapon. You will achieve greatness by believing in yourself. You should never be afraid to dance alone.’

At the time I was inspired by this. I repeated the words to myself on long bus journeys in foreign lands and on short train journeys through tunnels in London. It gave focus to my solidarity.
Perhaps Stine was wise for those words succeeded in holding me for five days until she left, and for seven years after.

Neon. Neon. Neon. People.
Beep! Beep!
Tuk-Tuk, Sir?

I detested Khao Sahn Road. I was here for two days trying to write an article for a British travel magazine. From those first harassed steps to my hotel, I knew that I would not – I could not write here, my thoughts would not make sense. I would absorb and make notes. Really I was too old for this.
I sat in a video-bar feeling self-conscious. I should have been participating, but it was too much effort. I was tired and giddy from the disorientating hours in the air, and from the lost hours.
That is why I sat alone, as close to a corner as I could manage. English voices buzzed around, tainted by myriad accents. Tired travellers at a cross-roads in a trip were hidden amongst 19 year old wannabes en-route to Australia or spending a month on the beach trail around Koh Samui or Krabi. No ‘cross-roads’ was poor. Bangkok was always Asia’s crossroads. I doodled listlessly. Sometimes on these trips I could feel so lonely. It was work but somehow it seemed like work should be pleasure all of the time. I didn’t even utter a word when I ordered the bottle of Singha beer – my hand signals seemed to suffice. Repeatedly raising the bottle to my lips, I did not taste. I held it to justify my presence in the bar.

There were three English lads in front of me. I studied them. They were drunk, edgy, and overly confident – they thought they were travelling. They were in here surrounded by other Europeans, who seemed less crass, but equally lagerred on the formaldehyde brew.
After a few moments I became aware that I, too, was being studied. A boldly attractive brunette held me in her stare. Her eyes hung low - her head tilted – it was not a forced stare. More just a constant look, which held me dazzled in its muted brilliance. I looked back unashamedly. I was in no mood to play ‘shy’. Before, I had been deceived by confident eyes. Besides I was here to research laddish pre-university Brits. I did not want distractions. Having almost finished my beer from short nervous sips, I looked down and started making notes.
I made an effort to encapsulate the bar in adjectives.
Transient. Cramped. Unemotional. Cluttered. Unnerving.
I looked up.
Still she was staring, her eyes holding the same low slung glare.
I wanted her just to ignore me, to go away. I was not here for this.
She walked over to my table. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘You don’t belong, here.’
My eyes tunnelled into her, astounded by her audacity.
‘You are like me. This’, she motioned across the room, ‘is too simple for you.’
I broke my silence.
‘You’re here to complicate it?’
She laughed.
I could not tell if she meant to sound sarcastic. I knew something strange had happened. It is very easy for an author to sound wise. I should have been prepared. At some point in the past two minutes I had fallen in love. I knew it then. I had glimpsed forever.
It was her everything.
It really did feel like I had known her for so long – and how many times had I written words like that? How well should I have understood that fleeting feeling based in nothing but malleable emotions. But, nevertheless, I knew that this woman had power over me, that I wanted to spend so much time with her that my life until now had been wasted. The remaining time was too short. I knew these clichés intimately. I also knew that clichéd love is so much sweeter than inspired love.

So we talked. She talked at me. I talked at her. Then, after a few minutes of intense conversing something very bizarre happened.
I asked her name.
This in itself was not strange. I had become entranced talking to her - forgetting to ask her name was a mistake I could forgive myself for.
‘Stine. Stine Kaiding.’ She answered with an innocent smile.
‘I’m sorry’, I stuttered.
‘Schteen-err.’ She enunciated the name more clearly.
I believe in fate. This was too strange. More so as I realised how similar to Stine in my book she was. Dark hair. Enchanting eyes. She was about my height – five eight. A beguiling face that seemed to say something every time you looked at it.
She was a fraud. It was clear. She had recognised me and was impersonating a fictional character.
I stared straight back at her.
‘I’m Rik. Rik Warren.’
I expected her to smile, to give in, or to show some sign acknowledging the game we were playing. Instead her face slipped into a thoughtful, then confused portrait.
‘Rik. That’s good. It’s familiar. Have we met before?’
She was very convincing. If she ever were to lie to me, she would manage it so successfully.

‘Or maybe not. But I think you know that.’

I then took my passport from my pocket and placed it on the table.

‘James Horsham. Honestly. And you?’

Now she looked very confused.

‘Rik? John? Why are you playing games?’ She produced a Danish passport. She opened the back page. Momentarily I was held by the classically open face that stared out at me. Then my eyes dropped to the name. Clear, Courier-typeface-letters spelt out:
Stine Lise Kaiding.
My eyes focused, then re-focused.
Stine Lise Kaiding.
It was not identical. It was too similar to make any sense.
I glanced up; she was looking at me; concerned.
‘The photo is not that bad. Is it?’ she joked hopefully.
‘No. It’s just … I think I knew you… perhaps in a previous life.’

A waitress appeared. She looked at my beer. I looked at Stine, then replied,
‘No! The bill, please.’
‘Very confident, James. Or Rik ? Do I not get to decide if I want another drink.’
‘I’m only doing what you want.’
I caught her eyes for perhaps 5 seconds of silence then stood up and handed 15 Baht in change to the waitress.

I looked back at Stine, as I walked away.
‘Come on, then.’
She smiled.
Then she followed.
We walked past a few bars – about fifty metres, then up an alley. I was staying in the Top Guest-house - a luxurious room which not only had concrete walls reaching all the way to the ceiling, but also had a small balcony and an en-suite toilet and tap.
I opened the door for her. She entered, surveyed the small room, then turned to me,
‘So? Why have you brought me here?’
‘I didn’t bring you here. You followed me.’
She started to say something. I spun around, crossing the two metres of floor between us. I put my hand behind her head, pulling hers lips towards mine. She allowed herself to be kissed, participating submissively, then stopping, not drawing back, not acknowledging the moment of passion, simply following my lead.
I took her hand, led her to the bed, then sat on the edge, giving her hand a gentle tug to indicate she should sit. She did.
Already, I thought I knew her.

The daylight made me wince when I opened the shutters. Almost immediately I realised it was an over-reaction. The pollution and tropical humidity stopped the light from ever reaching intensity. I walked across the balcony – only slightly aware of my nudity – to the toilet and took a long relaxing piss. I felt triumphant. She was gorgeous. She was the ideal woman I would create. Then I remembered the unnerving bombshell. She was truthfully the reality of a fictional character that I had created. And I could not explain how that were possible.
I turned - her hands were on my hips. She pushed me aside and sat down on the toilet. I heard the dribble of water squirting onto the water at the base of the toilet.
‘I think it is too early to leave bed,’ she said. Reaching back, she took a sheet of toilet paper – I always furnished my hotel rooms with the luxuries – then pressed down the toilet flush. She then stood and again pushed past me. I followed.
She was lying on the bed. On her side. I lay down next to her.

‘So you’re going to fuck me again?’
She was not asking a question as much as challenging me. I liked the ploy.
I turned her over and straddled her.
‘It’s what you want.’

That evening we sat in a restaurant. I had insisted that we go out. We both were looking at menus. It was obvious that Stine had no interest in the food.
‘You don’t want to be doing this.’
It was strange how we seemed to talk in statements, not questions. We told the other what they wanted. We seemed to know – and to get a kick out of being able to read each other precisely.
‘Uh? Doing what? You haven’t enjoyed the past 24 hours?’
‘No. I mean sitting in a restaurant, eating. Seeing other people.’
‘No, well we don’t always do what we want to. You wanted to eat out.’
‘This works a lot better if we eat.’
I called the waitress over and ordered two Pad Thais and a large bottle of water.
‘You are so kind looking after me,’ Stine said dryly, she did not need to put sarcasm into her voice.

‘You’re called Stine. You come from Copenhagen. You enjoy sex. You are 24 years old. I think that is all I know about you.’
Stine looked at me, inhaling on a cigarette. She didn’t say anything or even acknowledge that I had spoken for several seconds, then,
‘Is there something you would like to know?’
That was frustrating.
The food arrived.
‘OK. I will ask you three questions. You can ask me three questions. We will eat. Then we will go back.’
‘You are so English. So arrogant. I don’t have questions. You can tell me yours.’
I had prepared questions. They were from my first novel. In the novel I knew how Stine answered them.
‘Ok. One: What is your greatest fear ?’ I held out my hand as she tried to speak,
‘Two: What is the saddest moment of your life ? And three, Would you ever kill someone?’
Stine leaned back and laughed.
‘Rik! You are so ‘up’ yourself. They are questions?’
She laughed again, then, ‘OK. I’ll play along. One. Being Powerless. Two, my saddest moment: Still waiting for that one. And what was three… ah yes, killing. Of course I would. So no more questions.’
I searched her eyes. ‘I think you mock me – would you like to go back now?’
‘With you?’
I smiled, gesturing with my hand that she could leave.
And she did.

I’m fairly certain that it was not a coincidence that I met Stine on the day I was due to leave. That she was leaving too and on the same train was probably inevitable. I was travelling south to see an old friend in Penang for a few days. She was headed for a tan on Koh Phi Phi. Our romance was suddenly extended. We would both catch the overnight express to Hat Yai, where we would stay a night. Then I would catch a bus to Penang, she to Krabi.

The morning three and half days from when I had met Stine was hot and hazy and noisy. It was like every other morning in Bangkok that I could remember.

We took our bags in a taxi to Hualamphong station. I was cold hard and persistent and managed to pay the fare shown on the meter. In the station we hastily exchanged our bags for a chit at the left-luggage office. We then fought through a mass of ticket agents spontaneously ejaculating from the swell of passengers, residents and thieves.
I bought us two first class tickets on the 5pm train. I had never travelled first class in Thailand and thrilled at the prospect – a cabin to ourselves enclosed in our own air-conditioned world rumbling through the moist tropical forests of the Malay peninsula.

There are no attractions close to the railway station and neither Stine nor I had the inclination or confidence to venture more than a few kilometres in the 5 hours we had to kill. We opted for some shopping and a long lunch. Sim City – one of Bangkok’s ‘finest shopping centres’ was only 3 blocks away.
From experience I resisted the temptation to walk, and insisted that we catch a bus. 40 minutes later we arrived, having travelled about four kilometres along a road that was barely four centimetres on my bus map. It was already 1pm. Lunch seemed like it would be the very thing.
The food court was, as with everything in Bangkok, hot, noisy and smelly. I joked to Stine,
‘Perhaps Bangkok could be an adjective to describe a combination of hot noisy and smelly.’
She laughed.
‘For me Bangkok might mean many things. Hot perhaps. Passionate definitely…’
She turned urgently and kissed me.
‘Actually, I feel quite Bangkok at the moment.’

It was later. Smoke twisted into the battered sponge that was the Bangkok sky. A cigarette flashed white in strobes of lightning. Stine’s body juddered as she absorbed the waves of thunder.
Our cabin was in coach 16. She stood on the footplate of the front carriage, carriage 20, of the stationary train as it patiently waited for the remaining carriages and for an engine to lead it out of the tortured city. I didn’t care if coach 16 never came. I could live in this storm forever.

‘Ah. You are impressed.’
I was.
‘Of course.’ I replied.
I took her cigarette and inhaled. For every moment that I needed to contrast the overwhelming power of nature, I needed a cigarette to massage my mind to the speed of the tropics.
‘Hat Yai is down there’, I pointed along the railway lines, ‘All of those lines become one single straight track all the way down the peninsular to Singapore.’
I had travelled the route twice before. I loved it. There were contrasts that I could not comprehend until they were reality - the oppression of Bangkok, the desperate loveliness of the Karst south towards Hua Hin, the lush exoticism of the Malaysian jungle. All topped off with a smattering of colonial cities.
‘I cannot see it.’ Stine puffed as she spoke. ‘I think I can see our bed arriving.’
A dim yellow light was gradually getting bigger until it became apparent that it was attached to a carriage. It seemed hard to believe that it was real. I could not imagine where it might have come from – it seemed impossible to imagine that anything existed beyond the lashing sheets of rain that obscured the rest of the world.

Still later, Stine was tugging my hand. She opened the small wooden door to our compartment.
Inside, she sat down on the bottom bunk, claiming it. I put my bag on the top bunk.
‘Rik, you have many good ideas. Bags on top. People on bottom.’
She smiled and moved herself into the corner to emphasise a space left for me.
‘It is dark. It must be time for bed.’