Nok muttered timidly, “He has a wife.”
“So what?” The fortune-teller shrugged. “His wife, obviously, is no longer of interest to him. Since she has allowed this to happen, she must be a worthless woman – he will leave her and never remember her again. He has simply had no reason to think about it, but now – now there is you and what you are carrying in your womb!”
That very night, Nok leapt into action. She had kept Brevich’s business card, but this turned out to be of little use. Two of her emails were returned – having failed to make their way through Ivan’s company’s spam filter, which was a mystery to Nok. The next day, she rang his office, but this also led nowhere. Ivan’s foreign contacts were limited to Germany, and, knowing German well, his secretary hardly spoke any English. She failed to understand Nok’s accent and did not delve into the situation further, instead simply choosing to hang up. Nok called again – with the same result. Then, after a short period of reflection, she took the most improbable decision: to fly to Moscow, find Ivan there and talk to him face to face.
If Nok had discussed this with others, they would have undoubtedly dissuaded her, and the trip would never have happened. Journeying so far on her own, and especially to cold and unfriendly Russia, would have been unthinkable to any of her friends. But there was no one to advise her; her girlfriends remained in the dark. She hadn’t said a word to her parents either – the news of her pregnancy would have been a great blow to them, an indelible and shameful stain. Of course, her father would have immediately searched for some local groom or other and paid him for his silence to save the family’s honor. This was the last thing Nok wanted, so she made up a story about going on vacation to Singapore, took all her savings from the bank and set off into the unknown.
Nok landed at Sheremetyevo airport late at night at the end of a windy, damp March. Her cheap hotel room was terrible and barely fit for habitation. All morning she felt sick, could eat nothing and didn’t even know where or what people ate in this strange country. It was cold outside; sleet and snow were falling. Nok asked the elderly concierge to call her a taxi, barely managing to explain herself to him. The taxi driver circled the back streets for an hour before finally bringing her to the required address and asking for a completely absurd fare. Nok was unable to argue; then, having paid him off, she went into the building and showed Brevich’s business card to a gloomy guard with a crumpled face. There was some confusion, and she was told he was not in but would be back later. She sat on the couch next to the reception desk – frightened, tired and feeling completely out of place in this impersonal office foyer.
Things hadn’t been easy for Ivan either after his return from Bangkok – the same emptiness oppressed him from all sides and showed little sign of abating. Nevertheless, he did not entertain any doubts about the finality of their breakup. Brevich was adamant there was no way the relationship could survive them living in different parts of the world.
He returned to his usual Russian life, plunged into his work and drank heavily. A couple of times, he tried to let off steam with expensive prostitutes, but this only left him with a feeling of disgust and an even greater yearning. Then he took a sudden and unexpected step – he left his wife and initiated divorce proceedings. All her attempts to get an explanation were unsuccessful – Ivan avoided any contact.
In the days’ bustle and commotion, he almost succeeded in erasing Nok from his head, but during the drunken evenings, the memories returned irrepressibly. He surrendered – to them and to his thoughts – wandered gloomily through the rooms of his rented apartment, went to the window and looked at the Moscow night sky that was so different from Bangkok’s. For half an hour, for an hour, he just stood there, frozen, then poured himself another whiskey and sat down at his computer. He searched through forums and blogs on the web, looked for stories similar to his own, hoping for healing and to sober up. Desperately, he wanted to be sure he had done the right thing by breaking up with Nok forever and not building castles in the air. But, as if in spite, what he found was quite the opposite: other people’s castles seemed to be standing firm. Thai girlfriends were not ideal, notable neither for their sophistication, intellectual refinement nor any special kind of mystery – qualities more likely to be found in Russians. But at the same time, they possessed a very powerful source of feminine integrity – something that everyone seeks but almost none find. A quality not easy to describe and explain, not immediately noticeable, but once perceived, unmistakable – and, according to the accounts on the web, Thai women had it in abundance. And, Brevich now understood, there was much of it in Nok too – as there was much of Nok in each moment they had spent together. No, she did not push herself forward or intrude and she was not talkative; she simply offered her entire being to him – intending it only for him, thus forming a strong sense of belonging between them. It was a kind of generosity he had never encountered before – and for her it was as natural as breathing… Brevich recalled his past, his two former wives, one fiancée and a dozen long-term mistresses. They had all liked to stress how they had given him their all! At the time, it had seemed to him they really had offered him a lot; now those words only elicited a sarcastic sneer.
He also read about the other side of Thai women, about their vengeful cunning, their fury in an argument, the infantile superficiality of their views and their inability to plan ahead. All this, for some reason, did not negate their surprising appeal, which was deeper and broader than everyday life, money, domestic squabbles and every commonplace sentimental dream. There was some invisible, inexplicable humanity in relationships with them, capable of providing protection from disappointments and spiritual wounds, like a guardian angel. It was probably an illusion but an alluring one nonetheless. Others had tried to describe it awkwardly, and Brevich had attempted to analyze it himself – but to no avail. These were subtle matters that evaded verbalization. All that remained was bitterness and a sense that he had refused to see something immeasurably important through to the end…
Ivan cursed, frowned and drank even more. Then he began to look for stories of a different kind, as if searching for a remedy. With a wry grin, he read the revelations of sex tourists, types like Lothar – about their amorous “triumphs” bought with money, about the deceptions and artifice, infidelity and cunning lies of the semiliterate bar “fairies.” It was sobering; little by little Brevich seemed to get back onto the road to recovery. Sometimes he even thought about whether he should get himself an Asian-looking “sugar baby” – for example, a Tartar or a Buryat – to accelerate the healing process. It was at this very moment that Nok appeared in Moscow.
Brevich arrived at the office within an hour and a half – almost running into the building without looking around. Nodding to the guards, he headed for the elevators, but the receptionist called to him, pointed to the sofa and said uncertainly, “Over there…” Ivan froze to the spot, then walked slowly up to Nok, who stood up to meet him. “Why are you here?” he asked. Nok replied, “I’m going to have your baby.” They looked at each other silently for a few seconds, then Ivan canceled all his meetings, put her in the car and took her home.
Removing her shoes in the corridor, Nok leaned against the wall and whispered, “My energy is spent.” He gently helped her undress, carried her to the bedroom and laid her on his bed. She immediately fell asleep; Brevich sat for a while next to the bed, leaving her on only a few occasions to fix himself a drink. But the alcohol had no effect on him; now, with Nok by his side, he felt completely sober. And he was soberly aware that these were the best minutes of his forty-six-year-old life.