Sightseeing Read Online Free

think I don’t know,” she says finally. “I saw you, luk. I saw you on your motorcycle with that farang slut in her bikini.”
    I laugh and tell her I have hair mousse of my own. But Ma’s still yelling at me when I go to the pen to fetch Clint Eastwood.
    â€œRemember whose son you are,” she says through the day’s last light, standing in the office doorway with her arms akimbo. “Remember who raised you all these years.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about, Ma?”
    â€œWhy do you insist, luk, on chasing after these farangs?”
    â€œYou’re being silly, Ma. It’s just love. It’s not a crime.”
    â€œI don’t think,” Ma says, “that I’m the silly one here, luk. I’m not the one taking my pet pig out to dinner just because some farang thinks it’s cute.”
    I make my way down the beach with Clint Eastwood toward the lights of the restaurant. It’s an outdoor establishment with low candlelit tables set in the sand and a large pit that the bare-chested chefs use to grill the day’s catch. The restaurant’s quitepopular with the farangs. Wind at their backs, sand at their feet, night sky above, eating by the light of the moon and the stars. It’s romantic, I suppose. Although I’m hesitant to spend so much money on what Ma calls second-rate seafood in a third-rate atmosphere, Lizzie suggested we meet there for dinner tonight, so who am I to argue with love’s demands?
    When we get to the restaurant, Lizzie’s seated at one of the tables, candlelight flickering on her face. Clint Eastwood races ahead and nuzzles his snout in her lap, but Lizzie’s face doesn’t light up the way it did this morning. The other customers turn around in their seats to look at Clint Eastwood, and Lizzie seems embarrassed to be the object of his affections.
    â€œHi,” she says when I get to the table, lighting a cigarette.
    I kiss one of her hands, sit down beside her. I tell Clint Eastwood to stay. He lies down on his belly in the sand, head resting between his stubby feet. The sun is setting behind us, rays flickering across the plane of the sea, and I think I’m starting to understand why farangs come such a long way to get to the Island, why they travel so far to come to my home.
    â€œBeautiful evening,” I say, fingering the knot of my tie.
    Lizzie nods absentmindedly.
    â€œIs there something wrong?” I finally ask, after the waiter takes our order in English. “Have I done anything to offend you?”
    Lizzie sighs, stubs out her cigarette in the bamboo ashtray.
    â€œNothing’s wrong,” she says. “Nothing at all.”
    But when our food arrives, Lizzie barely touches it. She keeps passing Clint Eastwood pieces of her sautéed prawns. Clint Eastwood gobbles them up gratefully. At least he’s enjoying the meal, I think. On weekend nights, I often bring Clint Eastwood to this restaurant, after the tables have been stowed away, and he usually has to fight with the strays that descend on the beach for leftovers farangs leave in their wake: crab shells, fish bones, prawn husks.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” I say. “You’re not happy.”
    She lights another cigarette, blows a cloud of smoke.
    â€œHunter’s here,” she says finally, looking out at the darkening ocean.
    â€œYour ex-boyfriend?”
    â€œNo,” she says. “My boyfriend. He’s here.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œDon’t turn around. He’s sitting right behind us with his friends.”
    At that moment, a large farang swoops into the empty seat across the table from us. He’s dressed in a white undershirt and a pair of surfer’s shorts. His nose is caked with sunscreen. His chest is pink from too much sun. There’s a Buddha dangling from his neck. He looks like a deranged clown.
    He reaches over and grabs a piece of stuffed squid from my