Bonheur

Bonheur
One hundred miles southeast of Bangkok, near the small fishing village of Ban Phe, the Rayong
River tears through a golden sandy beach and dumps its muddy contents into the clear blue
water of the Gulf of Thailand. This discordant stream surges far out into the offing before
dissipating in an uneasy truce with the inexhaustible ocean.

Above this thin golden strip of beach, above the shadows of the gulls darting across the sand,
above the high green trees lining the beach, and above the gulls themselves dipping gracefully
in and out of the wind, the sun was a fiery lion roaring its sheer yellow brilliance.

Among all of this green and blue and gold, an American rode his rented scooter along the red
dirt road parallel to the beach, throwing up a terrible amount of dust in his wake. He had been
there almost two weeks and he looked upon the beach in all its dazzling brilliance with a
growing familiarity. And then something unfamiliar appeared. A girl, a blonde girl, an
exceptionally beautiful blonde girl, standing ankle deep in the lapping surf.

The American slammed on his handbrake dangerously and the scooter shuddered to a stop. He
whirled back around and stared in disbelief. He blinked. He shook his head. He took off his
sunglasses and after each maneuver he checked again and still the vision remained. He leapt
off his bike leaving the keys in the ignition and stumbled down the beach's slight decline like a
madman. As he neared he raised his hand and shouted, “Hello!” maniacally.

She was catching seashells with her toes when he appeared. She looked up, shocked, and
eyed him skeptically. “Hello.”

He stopped dead. She was beautiful. Ash-gold curls radiated from around her head and poured
down past the fine curvature of her neck and shoulders. She looked back at him from dark blue
eyes set atop pink healthy cheeks and pink moist lips. The sun formed a kind of halo behind her
and shot golden shafts of light which leapt from wavetip to wavetip and poured her around her
brown shapely limbs until she seemed ensconced in a kind of shimmering cocoon.

He heard an unfamiliar accent. “Are you American?” he asked.

She shook her head and her curls tossed sparks from the sun. “French,” she answered.

“I’m American,” he said, casting his eyes downward lest he should appear to be bragging.

She nodded her head but said nothing. Just looked back at him expectantly with her dark blue
almost violet eyes.

He introduced himself. “What’s your name?” He spoke slowly and clearly as if addressing a
child.

“Annoy me,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Annoy me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The shock was apparent in his face.

“No, no,” she pointed to herself. “Am Noimie.”

“Noimie,” he repeated slowly. “Noimie, it’s nice to meet you.” They shook hands and he smiled,
flashing his big American teeth.

They spent the rest of the afternoon beneath the roaring sun, leaping, diving, swimming in the
glimmering surf. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was a joy to watch. She moved with the
same easy grace as the sunlight slipping through the leaves of the trees, and splaying sparks of
color throughout the shadows spread upon the sand.

As the sun began to turn red and sink beneath the turquoise sea, he drove her to her hostel
across from the pier and the ferry to Koi Samet in Ban Phe proper. They made plans to meet in
a few hours.

“Au revoir,” he said unsurely, more as a question as she began to walk away.

She smiled assuringly. “Yes,” she said, “good.”

That evening, after the sun dove beneath the ocean and darkness snuffed out the vibrant colors
of day, the American drove his scooter through the dim streets of Ban Phe, dodging
three-legged dogs and loose chickens, back to Noemi’s hostel.

She was waiting by the street dressed in a light blue tank top with white baggy pants flapping in
the breeze. She had her glorious hair pulled back loosely behind her, and the day on the beach
had left her bronze skin glowing in a beautiful way that contrasted with the delicate pink of her
cheeks and lips. After brief pleasantries, she hopped on the back of the scooter, wrapped her
arms around him, and began directing him down the main street of Banpe, past the pier, past
the main beach, and out of the town proper, with only the moonlight streaming through the
towering trees illuminating the darkened road. She had read on the internet of a restaurant
owned by a Frenchman, and she wished to try it.

After half a dozen misdirections and asking at two separate shops, they found it tucked back
under the huge pine trees and squatting on the beach. It was an unexpected gem, all polished
bamboo and teak. The moonlight skipped off the phosphorescent waves and ran across the
beach into the restaurant and reflected brightly off the wooden tables and chairs and bars. The
tables themselves sank into the sand, as if they were carved out of the trees. The ocean lapped
gently at the shore, a mere dozen yards from the dining area, and out in the darkened ocean,
Koh Samet sat hunched like the shell of some giant half-submerged turtle.

“C’est belle!” Noemi exclaimed.

They were seated at one of the gleaming bamboo tables in the empty restaurant, and the staff,
two Thai girls, immediately set about making a fuss over them, repeatedly tossing the word suai,
beautiful, in Noemi’s direction. They ordered two Beer Changs, the national beer, which came in
large green bottles with golden labels covered in gilded elephants. They were served with a
bucket of ice and two small glasses. The American prepared two iced beers. They clinked their
glasses and toasted in French.

“À la tienne.”

The menu consisted of several Thai staples, stir-fried rice, fried prawns and salted fish, spicy
shrimp soup, and a French option, beef steak with au poivre sauce, French fries, and a salad
with balsamic vinegar. They ordered two steaks, and the waitresses, smiling, bowing, retreated
into the kitchen. No sooner had they disappeared than the proprietor materialized, as if
summoned by black magic.

He was in his late thirties, very tan, with thinning blond hair and arms covered in tattoos, which
ran up his shoulders and onto his neck. He reeked of prison. He introduced himself as Jacques
and proceeded to shower them with attention, none of it directed toward the American. Entirely
in French, he regaled them with the history of the restaurant, the development of Ban Phe and
Koh Samet as a tourist destination, and his own personal history as well- as far as the American
could surmise. Of course, he couldn’t be sure of all that he said, but just glanced back and forth
between Jacques and Noimie with that stupid look one has when not understanding a language.

The food came shortly, and Jacques excused himself, retreating to the bar where he fixed
himself a drink, never taking his yellow eyes off Noemi, like some big cat receding back into tall
grass.

“So he’s French,” the American observed astutely.

“No.” Noemi shook her head. “Algiers.”

The American nodded. He had certainly heard the word before, but he had no idea where it
geographically existed or what kind of people lived there, other than dirty criminals who
obviously just came crawling out of prison and were scheming with beady yellow eyes over what
was rightfully his. He desperately racked his brain for something knowledgeable or informed to
say. Nothing came.

They ate. Over dinner, she told him about herself. She had recently graduated university and
was one month into a year-long circumnavigation of the world. She started in Paris and took the
train through Russia, stopping in St. Petersburg and Moscow, to the steppes of Mongolia. There
she stayed a week with a Mongolian family, living in their ger, riding horses bareback, shooting
bow and arrows, and hunting with falcons. She showed him a series of pictures on her phone.
She then continued on the train through China, visiting the Great Wall- more pictures- and into
Thailand. She planned to fly to Australia from Bangkok in a few days and was just returning
from a stay on Koh Samet. She had been accompanied by a girlfriend from university up until
last week when the girlfriend rushed home to Lyon because of an emergency with a boyfriend.
Noemi decided to carry on alone.

“After all, I have no boyfriend,” she said between bites of steak au poivre.

All throughout dinner, really from the moment he had seen her materializing from the surf like
some blonde Venus, the American had, of course, been considering the best ways to seduce
her. He had seen no opening and was beginning to lose hope. She wasn’t cold exactly, but
austere perhaps. She gave no sign, no flirtatious look, no lingering smile, no casually placed
hand that she had any interest in him beyond a platonic dinner companion, a way to pass a
lonely evening. Her admission to being single was the most encouraging sign yet.

He tried to be charming. “Would you like a boyfriend?”

She bit down on her bright pink lips as if she was deeply considering it.

“Oui,” she decided at last.

His heart leapt. “We?

She nodded. “Oui,” she repeated again.

“We could be,” he motioned back and forth between them.

Her blue eyes widened in fright.

Dinner was finished. The Thai girls cleaned up the plates and brought more beer and ice. The
Algerian criminal pounced upon them as if he had been waiting, which of course he had.
He carried on again interminably in French before snapping his fingers toward the kitchen,
prompting one of the Thai girls to emerge carrying a small platter of what appeared to be an
extremely small piece of white cake.

“Dessert,” Jacques announced, lowering himself to speak in English.

“Oh.” Noemi brought her hands together in delight. “Brie, merci beaucoup,” she said to Jacques.
As they ate the cheese, Noemi continued to coo appreciatively and murmured, “Très délicieux.”
The American found the cheese to taste like dank yogurt, but he tried to mimic her appreciation
so as to ingratiate himself.

After dessert was finished, Jacques returned with his endless bonjours and mercis. The
American was desperate to extract Noemi from the hostile environment. He attempted to pay
the bill, but Noemi insisted upon splitting it, which he interpreted as another negative sign.
As they finished their drinks, the American suggested a walk along the beach. From their seats,
they could see the darkened ocean breaking in platinum waves and the stars shining brightly
overhead. Noemi agreed, and they said goodbye to a suddenly sullen Jacques, who gloomily
watched them kick off their sandals and take them in their hands before strolling off down the
beach.

After a few moments of walking, the restaurant receded into a small glowing dot down the
beach, and the world became very dark. The cloud-shrouded moon glowed above, and the
scattered green lights of the fishing boats shone far out to sea. Koh Samet hunched in the water
like a black behemoth, slightly darker than the sea, which rolled endlessly to the shore and
broke into a phosphorescent surf. He looked at Noimie while she discussed her plans for the
South American leg of her journey. Her delicate pink lips formed the words while her blonde
curls whipped wildly in the breeze pouring in off the sea. He found himself filled with a terrible
longing. She was so beautiful it was painful to look at. He looked back forward and settled on a
desperate gambit. He took her by the hand. In a gentle but expert manner, she disentangled her
hand from his, and as she did, she pointed out to the sky and cried out.

He looked up and saw what appeared to be several giant stars hovering over the black sea,
large and enormous, and dwarfing the endless smaller stars studding the sky in the background.
He quickly realized they were merely paper balloons illuminated with candles. A small group
visible in the moonlight down the beach was releasing them.

They walked up to the group. It was half a dozen Swiss, or Swedes, or Scandinavians, or Slavs,
or something, with a few Thai guides. They were celebrating and releasing balloons on the
stretch of beach behind their hotel. It was one of the Swedes’ birthdays.

They invited Noemi and the American to join them and to release a balloon as well, and
instructed them to make a wish as they did. They both lit candles, placed them in the balloons,
and released them into the night sky. They watched the glowing orbs climb higher and higher,
growing smaller and dimmer, until they were indistinguishable from their celestial cousins in the
heavens.

“What did you wish for?” he asked her.

“I wish for safe and exciting rest of trip. And you?”

“I can’t tell you,” he smiled. “Then it won’t come true.”

It was decidedly less abstract.

The Swedes had a bottle of liquor and were drinking from little plastic cups. They offered cups to
Noimie and the American. It tasted very strongly of black licorice. The American marveled
internally at the Europeans’ penchant for liquors that tasted of black licorice.

They shared a drink, and then another, and then one more. The Swedes were very merry and
kept shouting “Proost!” and “Gefeliciteerd!” between rounds.

Soon, the American felt quite drunk. He and Noimie had to beg off to get their leave from the
increasingly cheerful Swedes. They left them in the moonlight, shooting fireworks and drinking
their liquor amid calls of goodbye.

“Au revoir,” Noemi called.

“Tot ziens!” one of them shouted.

“Bye!” another added, raising his cup.

They walked back along the beach toward the restaurant, the sounding tide on their left now.
The American could feel the night slipping away and any chance he might have to possess the
gorgeous creature beside him. He pulled her toward him until they faced each other, and he
looked directly into her eyes, her lovely violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“Noimie,” he began, unsure of what to say next.

She looked right back at him, not in the least bit surprised, but as if she had expected this all
along. She placed her hands on his chest, not pushing him away, but definitely discouraging him
from coming in for a kiss.

“Is not right,” she said, staying within the circuit of his arm and keeping their bodies together, but
throwing her head back, seemingly to bask in the stars and skies above them. “It is boner.”
He didn’t trust his ears. “Boner?”

“Yes,” she repeated. “It is boner.”

He was excited by this turn of the conversation. “What is boner?”

“Boner is…” She bit her lip, searching for the right word. “Boner is a penis.”

His heart began to race. “Yes, Noimie.” He pulled her closer. “Boner is a penis.”
His anticipation began to overwhelm him.

She looked suddenly startled and repeated slowly, enunciating as best she could.
“Bonheur is ’appiness.”

He repeated back to her, “Boner is happiness.”

And once more, before comprehension dawned on him, “Bonheur is happiness.”

He released his grip from around her waist and collapsed down in the sand and began to laugh.
He threw his head back and laughed until the stars in the sky began to swim around him. He
laughed until he began sucking for breath in deep desperate grasps, as if he was inhaling down
those stars, swallowing down the rolling sea, choking down the entire universe, and he could
feel it all tickle down his constricting throat, and he began to cough and sputter until he spewed
it all back up, and everything all at once glowed with absurd hilarity all around him.

Noimie, with confusion etched across her beautiful face, looked down at him.
“Is okay? I say something wrong?”

With tears in his eyes, he said, “No, Noimie, you didn’t say anything wrong. You’re right.
Bonheur is happiness.”

He dropped her off soon after in front of her hostel. They said their goodbyes and shared a
chaste hug, and she kissed him on both cheeks, in that European way that means nothing at all.
They shared social media and made plans to meet again- in Paris, New York, in Buenos Aires.
Of course, they never did. They messaged each other- seldomly, and then rarely, and then
never at all. She gave a final little wave before closing her door and taking her beauty with her.
And the American drove back to his hotel through the dark, quiet streets of Ban Phe with only
the glow of the pale moon lighting his way, dodging three-legged dogs and wayward chickens,
drunk with the wind in his eyes, not seeing much of anything at all.