The American waited in a dark, squarish wicker chair near the resort’s small swimming pool; it was nearly time for his scheduled massage. He had come from his room to wait in this place because he assumed the spa must be somewhere near the pool, and he wanted to spare the staff the trouble of sending someone to his room to fetch him. His “room” was actually a small bungalow on the beachfront, several hundred meters distant from the common area of the resort, down a narrow sandy path, so perhaps he also wanted to save himself from a long awkward walk with a staff person. Etiquette at these kinds of places was always a question – do you walk beside the staff, or behind them? Do you attempt conversation?
No other guests were within sight, and since he had come from his room just for the massage, he didn’t bring a book, magazine, mobile phone or anything else. So he sat staring at the sea, telling himself he enjoyed the idleness – telling himself that in fact he had come here seeking this kind of idleness – when actually he was wishing for his mobile phone. Specifically the solitaire game he was recently in the habit of playing during such pauses between moments of his day. The early afternoon sky was overcast, which plus a light breeze made the day pleasantly warm instead of oppressively hot. The breeze carried alternating aromas of chlorine, the sea, cut grass, a variety of flowers, his sunscreen lotion and his all-natural, citrunella-scented insect repellent.
High in the branches of a tree near the beach, he spotted a torn strand of decorative lights, only a few feet long and frayed at one end. It seemed impossible to him that the water could have risen so high. Maybe the force of the wave had bent the tree over far enough for the lights to have caught some passing debris. Or maybe the torn lights had nothing to do with the tsunami. This part of the world certainly sees its share of typhoons, he thought.
He had waited only a few minutes when one of the staff – a petit woman whom he seemed to see everywhere around the resort, day and night – approached him. Her name was Pang, he believed.
“Excuse me sir,” she said in a voice just above a whisper, “You can go for massage now.”
This was the way they said everything at places like this. You “can,” as if to suggest that even now at the appointed hour, scheduled a day in advance, he might still opt out. To do what else he wondered? Continue to sit here?
He smiled to her as he stood, and she led him fifty paces or so along a walkway of flat stones set into the carpet of short green grass that covered the resort grounds.
Two other women dressed in uniforms similar but not identical to Pang’s waited at the entrance to the spa. One was older, one younger. Mother and daughter, the man thought then reconsidered. They were not so far apart in age. Maybe ten years. Sisters-in-law then, or cousins, or friends whose husbands worked together somewhere. Husbands lost last year perhaps.
Pang made a gentle gesture with her hands, palms out, as if offering him as a gift to the other women. They nodded to her, then him, and led him into the spa as Pang turned to walk away. As they approached a raised area with drawn curtains, the younger woman turned and went off to the left, while the other motioned to an ornate chair.
The man sat and the woman knelt at his feet. The other returned briefly with a tray carrying numerous small bottles, a pitcher and some folded towels, then walked off again. The kneeling woman removed the man’s sandals and used a towel to brush the sand and dust off his feet. Then she slid a small trough of water into place in front of the chair and placed his feet into it. The temperature of the water was nearly identical to that of his feet, so the sensation was not of wetness so much as an oddly uniform and gentle pressure.
She chose one of the bottles from the tray, poured some of its contents into her palm then began to spread it onto his lower legs, starting up near his left calf muscle.
“You tell me OK or too pressure,” she said and looked up at him for confirmation.
The man nodded.
He watched her small, brown, powerful hands as she worked them up and down his left leg, from his calf muscle down to his ankle and back, pressing her fingers in various places. The tendons and muscles in her forearm rippled musically.
A drop of sweat rolled slowly down her temple, and he felt a surge of admiration for her that drifted into thoughts of the distance between them, the utter foreignness of her to him – and vise versa. What did her home look like, he wondered. How far was it from the sea? How much money did she make for this work?
He wondered how many of these massages she gave on a typical day, and he wondered about the other guests she serviced. Did they observe her as closely as he was doing now? Did she remember them, measure them against each other in some way, against some unknown, foreign criteria?
He admired himself for wondering about all of this. He had a sudden awareness of this fact, and admired this awareness too.
What did she think of him? Did she admire him as a wealthy man of the world, or did she see him as an oblivious – or even arrogant – foreigner?
He found himself thinking of the softness of his skin.
Her hands moved down to his heel, then the arch of his foot. She pressed her thumbs in different places, making him wince in pain a few times. She moved to his toes, pulling each one quickly with a snapping motion. She placed his left foot gently back into the trough of warm water and picked up his right foot.
The man cleared his throat and she glanced at him. He gave her a small nod and a polite smile. She returned the same then lowered her gaze back to his foot.
In his head, he was saying something to her. A conversation.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sir?”
“What do you think about while you are doing that?”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“What do you think about while you are massaging a person’s feet?”
She stared blankly at him.
“What are you thinking about now?”
“I don’t understand sir. No thinking sir.”
The man nodded. She went back to work on his foot.
“Let me tell you what I imagine you are thinking about.”
“Sir?”
“Do you have a husband?”
“Yes sir. Married sir.”
“Does your husband work?”
“He fix motorbike sir.”
“Perfect.”
“Sometimes he driver. Sometimes fishing.”
“Yes, that’s perfect. A working man, with dark skin and rough hands no doubt.”
“Sir?”
“What I imagine you are thinking is, this man is already soft. He does not need a massage. His feet are already as soft as a baby’s.”