BRASSIERE


The river emptied into the Gulf of Thailand and muddied the turquoise waters into a sullen blue. Next door, a headland prevented debris from escaping, the flotsam and jetsam from the river and the Sea. Seashells mingled with bits of toothbrushes and other plastics, and a single flip flop awaited, forlorn, the return of its partner.

We arrived late, by starlight and by tuk tuk. The resort was isolated, bordering a national park to the south and the ocean to the east. No road led inland to the resort and so the tuk tuk was forced to take the beach, and then a running start through soft, thick sand to make the driveway.

It was after 9 PM and we were hungry. We dined on curry, to the roar of the ocean and the whisper of a seashell chandelier. Drawn by the citronella scent that was supposed to repel them, mosquitoes of the malarial tropics dined on us.

The structures were designed with the white and cobalt Mediterranean in mind. The decor was nautical and provocative French lounge music played in the lobby. Articles of feminine clothing — dresses, bikini tops, a black lace camisole — hung on the walls. In our room, a pretty dress with a floral pattern had been left behind by the previous visitor.

I would tell the staff later.

By the beach, there was an bleached stucco bar where you could order food, coffee and drinks. Everything was dressed in flowers and seashells. Seashells lost their tenants and were transformed into butter, jam, and sugar trays. “Water for Boil” was written on a shell in black marker and hung with a string of coral-colored beads around an old plastic water bottle beside the instant tea kettle.

There was a second outdoor bar that was unused. The words painted there on the back wall were concealed by a large wooden shelf. I was able to glean a few: Fisherman, Daughter, King.

I would ask the staff later.

Across the water, one of the nearby islands was home to a small structure. “A Spirit House”, said Ava, the manager with the Barbarella ponytail. I wanted to ask her more but she had already walked away, her hips swaying rhythmically as she navigated the uneven lawn in platform espadrilles.

Spirit houses were everywhere in Thailand. Some were lovingly maintained — with gifts of juice boxes, flowers and incense — and some reminded me of abandoned Midwestern farmhouses — with cars that no longer ran. The Spirit House on the island was good-sized and framed in a protective metal scaffolding that looked to be permanent.

Our days were relaxed and without excess activity. Like the thoughts you entertain after giving birth to your first child — “That was nothing. I’ll have another one!” — you think, having weaned yourself off of Imodium — “That was nothing. I’ll visit that charming place, over there, again.”

I set “Water for Boil” to boil a while longer.

The dress, pink and pretty and with a thigh high slit, was irresistible. I tried it on, felt guilty for trying another guest’s dress on, and straightaway put it back on the hanger in the closet.

I would tell the staff tomorrow.

Sleep came like a freight train. I awoke in the dark and to the feeling that someone, a woman, was outside our Villa. Was I awake or asleep? I was very definitely awake. My boyfriend slumbered on. The resident dog began to bark furiously, right outside our door, and the sense of her presence faded.

I told myself sensible things in order to fall asleep again in the depths of that dark, solemn night. “I was just dreaming.” “I’m just tired from the long train ride.” “Is Imodium a hallucinogenic?”

In the morning, with the bravado that sunlight and an ocean view brings, I ordered coffee and information from the young server. She was 7 months pregnant with her first, and was always running too fast from one task to another.

My Thai consisted of “thank you” and counting from “1 to 10” (while forgetting “6” and “7”). Her English wasn’t much better. Linguistically, neither of us was prepared for a discussion of local history. She ran off to find Ava, careening off-balance but righting herself in the end.

“What’s the history of the resort?” I asked.

“Did you read the story? It’s just a silly story villagers believe,” she said before taking a call.

I returned to the story on the wall. Mosquitoes returned to a bloody excavation of my calves, reopening the same feeding tubes from last night. The first sentence was obscured by the shelf. I peered from up high and looked from down low. I made out:

“…daughter who was desired by many men. Her father promised to give his daughter to two different kings. Later they both came to ask for the fisherman’s daughter. The fisherman did not know what to do. So he tore his daughter’s body into pieces and threw them out to Sea…”

Chills ran up my spine. I had tried someone else’s dress on. I read.

“…Her breast fell into the sea in front of the beach. Villagers nearby felt sorry for her and they built her a Spirit House where people come to give her brassieres. Fishermen believe that giving her a brassiere will bring them good luck.”

I didn’t sleep well for the rest of our stay. The dog barked at nothing and strange shadows showed up in my photos. As we were packing to leave, I remembered my fuchia-and-black bikini top, still drying on the towel rack in the bathroom.

“I’m sorry I tried your dress on,” I whispered, and I left it there for her.

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