Lost and Found

The driver watched as the foreign woman crossed the road, a half dozen plastic bags digging into her pale, sweaty arms. He had considered helping her but didn’t trust leaving the tuk-tuk on the side of the busy road. So he carried on, beeping and pausing, half-heartedly looking for fares. It was that calm part of the afternoon when students were still in school and it was too hot for anyone else to be out, save foreigners who seemed to follow their own agendas. He bought a bag of pineapple and parked beneath a cluster of trees in one of the parking lots near the beach.

As he climbed in the back for a short nap, he noticed the brightly coloured backpack. Though he couldn’t say how, he knew it was expensive and immediately recalled the farang he had dropped off nearly an hour ago. He considered going back but had no idea which building she had been heading for.

As if opening a ribbon on an ornate gift, he gingerly opened the zippers that neatly met at the top of the bag and feeling the anxiety of childhood curiosity, peered inside.

The first thing he noticed was a shiny metal container. Pulling it out, he recognized it from many American movies where men kept it in their cars and drank deeply from it when particularly stressed or sad. He unscrewed the cap and smelled the contents which reminded him of earth and smoke. He did not take a drink.

Also inside were several books, some of which appeared to be for children. He felt a sharp pang of fear, thinking of a little boy or girl who may not be read a story this night. But there was something about the woman that made him think she did not have a child.

At the bottom of the bag was a small plastic folder which contained several photographs. He quickly flipped through them, occasionally glancing out the window to make sure no one was watching. He feared he looked like a strange man who peered through windows to watch women sleep. Dropping the objects back into the bag and zipping it shut, he decided the best thing to do was to pick up dinner for the family and go home early.

When he walked in the door, he had the plastic bags of food slung over his right arm and the backpack over his left shoulder. He briefly imagined that this is what the women would have done if she hadn’t left behind her bag. His daughter, Nit, came running from the back room where cartoons screeched and honked.

“Papa! What did you bring me?”

“All your favourites, Little Mouse. Snake liver, duck knees, and water buffalo brains!!”

“Papaaaaa!!” She yelled, pouting and giggling the way only a seven year old can do.

That night, as he put her to bed, he showed her the children’s books with the strange animal in a giant red and white hat. Inside one of the books was a lone creature the size of a child who was visiting strange lands of bright colours, balloons, and fantastical vistas.

“Papa, this book is English. Is this what England is like? Or is it America?”

“I don’t know, Little Mouse. Maybe it’s wherever you want it to be.”

Over the next few weeks, both the driver and his daughter spent hours looking at the books, saving the best for last. The photo album. Here were not drawings or make believe. And though they knew they were real, they might as well have been from a cartoon book. They spent hours discussing the possibilities of the secret kingdoms the photos revealed. A family made of clouds stood before a garden, their white hair, white skin, and bright white smiles glowing amid a blue sky. Nit loved the picture of eight teenagers standing on a hill, a setting sun illuminating the women’s long gowns and the armour of the men’s suits. She imagined a land where children become princesses and princes when they turned 16, so much better than just moving onto a bigger school, with uglier uniforms like here. Other pictures showed hills made of cotton with children in astronaut suits sliding on picnic mats. Perhaps they were in space. And next, a military camp or ghost town, brick houses lined up next to each other square and neatly symmetrical. These dynasties must love playing with blocks. But the fact that there were no shops, no motorbikes, no people around—just smoke coming from the tops of the houses saddened the young girl. “Papa, do you think all the people left because the houses were burning?”

Each night, the girl visited dreamscapes of stone temples with coloured glass, where people made shrines above fires in their homes, where giant chickens were sacred birds on feast days, and kitchens sparkled like silver and diamonds. Before she awoke, she waved good-bye to a prince standing on a hill in the fading sunlight.

Perhaps sensing the power of his daughter’s imagination, he had hidden the other books from the teacher’s bag that he recognized as textbooks of English. If Nit learned English, she could become a CEO in New York, an actress in Hollywood, or a doctor in Australia. Though his selfishness shamed him, he could not shake the premonition that if given a chance, she would flee to the lands of castles and giant houses. This home and this life would become too small.

But just as he often encountered more traffic by trying to take a shortcut, this decision could not bend the line drawn by fate.

“Papa!! You’re not going to believe what happened at school!”

“An elephant taught mathematics.”

“No, silly! SHE is my teacher! She has come for me!!”

“Who, Little Mouse?”

“The woman in the photos. She’s here.”

The next day as his daughter raced towards the school, colourful backpack over her shoulder, he waited for a glance and a smile that never came.