Page 4 of Tropical Vice
Kit hadn’t intended to answer his questions. He rarely did. Most people filled the café with too much voice, too much wanting. But this one had kept it spare. Careful. And when Kit warned him about Geng, Blake had smiled, genuinely. It had been a dry joke, but something in Kit had sparked when he responded so carefully.
He should have felt cautious. Or annoyed. Another foreigner looking for some curated escape, some hidden corner to photograph and name. But this one hadn’t brought a camera. And hadn’t tried to name anything. He seemed like he didn’t quite know why he was here.
Kit’s fingers brushed the ring on the counter again.
When the door opened an hour later, he didn’t mean to look up. But he did. And he couldn’t explain the disappointment he felt when it wasn’t him.
TWO
THE ITINERARY
Blake rose at six, having slept without dreams. The shutters, left unlatched, clattered against the wall as the breeze rolled in off the valley. It smelt of damp bark and petrol, faint traces from the mechanic’s shop across the road. He stood and pressed the window closed, letting the catch click into place.
For a moment he remained there, staring through the pane at the loose clouds curling above the ridge. Would Sai Fa be open by now? No, it would be too early. Would Kit already be up then, wakened by the barks and yaps of the dogs asking for breakfast?
Blake shook his head. Then he turned sharply, retrieved his phone from the floor beside the mattress, and opened the itinerary.
The first item read:Breakfast at 7:15 – Khao Jee and iced tea.
He did not bother to dress properly, only pulled a long shirt over his vest, combed his fingers once through his hair, and shoved the canvas folder into the side pocket of his bag.
The walk to the street was steep. He kept one hand to the wall and moved quickly, almost habitually, his steps tightening as the path leveled out and opened toward the town’s main road. Hedid not glance to the left, where he knew the alley to Sai Fa stood, where that soft green door would likely still be closed.
At the corner stall, a woman in a red visor slid a plate of grilled bread across the counter. Blake handed over his coins and sat down on the plastic stool without speaking. The tea came cold, sugary, and bitter all at once, and the bread left char behind his teeth.
While finishing his drink, he took out the folder. Inside were maps, handwritten notes from Leon, press references, translation keys, interview names. He flipped through them absently, then paused, went back, and stared at the first page.
He had drawn a square there, shaded with pen, the size of a thumbnail. Beneath it, he had written: “Back entrance, through the kitchen. Smells like vinegar and rice flour.”
Blake shut the folder.
By eight he was at the river, crossing the walkway to the far side where the market was just opening. The itinerary led him to a craft shop meant to sell antique paper, but the woman inside told him the seller had moved away last month. She pointed at a boy stacking shelves across the corridor.
“He knows who took the collection,” she said, without standing. The boy looked up when Blake approached, then turned and called through the rear curtain. A man came out, shirtless, with a silver chain resting against his collarbone.
Blake introduced himself, but the man only asked, “You the writer?”
He nodded.
“You want the goods or the owner?”
“I want to see what’s left of his collection.”
The man shrugged and led him to a glass cabinet where old paperbacks leaned on each other like drunkards. A copy ofLove in the Time of Choleralay open, its spine torn. Blake lookedwithout touching. From within an old cabinet, he brought out what Blake wanted.
“You were with the boy from Sai Fa,” the man said casually, arms crossed after handing them over.
Blake looked up.
The man smiled. “He doesn’t talk much, but everyone knows him. You’re not the first to ask.”
“I didn’t ask about him.”
“Sure,” the man said, turning back to the curtain. “But people notice things.”
The itinerary brought Blake next to a weaving center south of the main intersection. There, a group of elderly women sat beneath a corrugated roof, dipping thread into shallow vats and drawing it out again like it were silk from a spider’s gut.
He wrote a few notes. The photographer was meant to meet him here, but she had texted a delay from the next province. He stayed until noon, though he had seen enough within thirty minutes. The notes turned restless, abbreviated, and then ceased altogether.
