Sightseeing Read Online Free Page B

to run around the beach advertising ourselves as the Island’s Miraculous Monkey Boys. We made loincloths out of Uncle Mongkhon’s straw heap and an old T-shirt Ma used as a rag. For a small fee, we’d climb up trees and fetch coconuts for farangs, who would ooh and aah at how nimble we were. A product of our Island environment, they’d say, as if it was due to something in the water and not the fact that we’d spent hours practicing in Surachai’s backyard. For added effect, we’d make monkey noises when we climbed, which always made them laugh. They would often be impressed, too, by my facility with the English language. In one version of the speech I gave before every performance, I played the part of an American boy shipwrecked on the Island as an infant. With both parents dead, I was raised in the jungle by a family of gibbons. Though we’ve long outgrown what Ma calls “that idiot stunt,” Surachai still comesdown from the mountain occasionally to climb a tree on the beach. He’ll just sit there staring at the ocean for hours. It’s meditative, he told me once. And the view is one-of-a-kind.
    â€œYou look terrible,” he says now. “Something happen with that farang girl?”
    I call Clint Eastwood over. I tell the pig to stay. I take off my leather shoes, my knitted socks, and—because I don’t want to ruin them—the button-down shirt and the silk tie, leaving them all at the bottom of the trunk before joining Surachai on an adjacent branch. As I climb, the night air warm against my skin, I’m reminded of how pleasurable this used to be—hoisting myself up by my bare feet and fingertips—and I’m surprised by how easy it still is.
    When I settle myself into the tree, I start to tell Surachai everything, including the episode on the elephant. As I talk, Surachai snakes his way out onto one of the branches and drops a mango for Clint Eastwood down below.
    â€œAt least you’re having sex,” Surachai says. “At least you’re doing it. Some of us just get to sit in a mango tree and think about it.”
    I laugh.
    â€œI don’t suppose,” Surachai says, “you loved this girl?”
    I shrug.
    â€œYou’re a mystery to me, phuan,” Surachai says, climbing higher now into the branches. “I’ve known you all these years, and that’s the one thing I’ll never be able to understand—why you keep falling for these farang girls. It’s likeyou’re crazy for heartache. Plenty of nice Thai girls around. Girls without plane tickets.”
    â€œI know. I don’t think they like me, though. Something about the way I look. I don’t think my nose is flat enough.”
    â€œThat may be true. But they don’t like me either, okay? And I’ve got the flattest nose on the Island.”
    We sit silently for a while, perched in that mango tree like a couple of sloths, listening to the leaves rustling around us. I climb up to where Surachai is sitting. Through the thicket, I see Clint Eastwood jogging out to meet a group of farangs making their way down the beach. I call out to him, tell him to stay, but my pig’s not listening to me.
    It’s Hunter and his friends, laughing, slapping each other’s backs, tackling each other to the sand. Lizzie’s walking with them silently, head down, trying to ignore their antics. When she sees Clint Eastwood racing up to meet her, she looks to see if I’m around. But she can’t see us from where she’s standing. She can’t see us at all.
    â€œIt’s that fucking pig again!” Hunter yells.
    They all laugh, make rude little pig noises, jab him with their feet. Clint Eastwood panics. He squeals. He starts to run. The American boys give chase, try to tackle him to the ground. Lizzie tells them to leave the pig alone, but the boys aren’t listening. Clint Eastwood is fast. He’s making a fool of