Page 2 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

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.

He did 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 of Love in the Time of Cholera lay open, its spine torn. Blake looked without 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.

By the time he reached the bamboo restaurant marked for lunch, he no longer felt hungry. The heat had settled in full, and the air between buildings had grown close, sour with ferment and fuel. He ordered cold noodles and ate two bites before pushing the bowl away.

Across the courtyard, a family with three children sat around a single phone. The father scrolled slowly while the mother wiped sweat from her brow with a crumpled napkin. One of the boys held a bag of pork crisps, chewing loudly with his mouth open. The sound grated, but Blake stayed where he was.

When he stood, he saw the outline of the café in his mind again, the plants strung above the doorway, the slope of the roof tiles, Chili curled up just to the left of the fan. He shook his head, more a twitch than gesture, and went on foot toward the bridge.

He did not mean to return by the Sai Fa alley. He told himself it simply happened that way. His feet followed a quieter street, then another, until the red tin shutters of the tailor’s shop came into view. The alley pressed beyond it, damp and cool in the shade. Blake paused at the entrance.

The café door was ajar.

He walked past it. Slowly, deliberately, but with his eyes straight ahead.

The rustling of someone inside was faint.

It could have been anything, a broom, a chair being moved, someone wiping the inside of a glass.

He crossed the alley and turned the corner, but the sound had already rooted itself in his hearing, and he could not undo the silence that followed.

He made no further itinerary stops that day.

Instead, he returned to the room and lay with the fan clicking above him. At intervals it stopped, then restarted, with the delay between clicks growing longer each time. He watched the shadows move across the ceiling until the outlines blurred together.

The afternoon brought rain, fine and cold, blowing in from the north.

He stood at the window and watched the corner of the roof across the street where a dog took shelter beneath the eaves.

It had one ear downturned, and its tail curled in a full arc to its flank.

He could not tell if it was one of the same dogs from the café.

Blake took up the folder again. He laid it flat on the floor and arranged the pages by region, not by time.

There was nothing particularly useful in doing so, but he felt a sense of progress once the maps had been stacked and the reference notes clipped in pairs.

He wrote two new headings. Neither would make the article. He did not care.

The rain stopped eventually, leaving behind a quiet world softened at the edges—pavement slick with silver, leaves heavy with drops, and the faint scent of wet earth rising like a memory. By seven, he had showered, dressed, and gone out again.

He walked without direction, passing the shuttered post office, the quiet dispensary, and the municipal court building with its rust-stained flagpole. A man was sweeping the front steps. He did not look up.

Blake returned to the villa at nine.

On the table near his bed, he placed the folder, his phone, and a ceramic dish he had bought from the market and forgotten to wrap. Beside it lay the business card from Sai Fa, though he had no memory of taking it, and did not know when it had been tucked into the outer pouch of his bag.

The fan stopped clicking.

The rain returned, more intense this time.

It deepened into a harder rhythm, steady and tireless on the corrugated roof.

Blake sat on the edge of the bed. He did not undress.

The edges of his shirt had dried stiff from the afternoon’s sweat, and when he moved, they pulled against the backs of his arms.

Outside, someone called a name in the street. The voice was young, carried on the water in a quick, sliding tone, and was gone.

Blake lay back. His phone glowed once—probably another text from Leon—then dimmed. He did not look. His arms remained at his sides, hands open, his eyes tracing the slow path of condensation down the window glass.

Somewhere near the square, music began, muted by distance. He could not make out the tune, only the rhythm, which repeated. Then it stopped.

A dog barked in the distance. Blake tilted his head toward the sound. The villa had no clock. His phone lay face-down on the bed, untouched. He could write the report in the morning.

A message had come from Leon hours earlier, the preview line still visible on the lock screen; ‘Keep your eye out for p…’ Blake knew what the rest would say ‘… laces locals love but tourists miss. We need things that feel hidden, and authentic!.’ So he had not bothered reading it.

He poured another glass, slower this time, and returned to the veranda. He sat there long enough for the condensation to soak through the linen of his shirt.

He imagined walking back down that road. Arriving again. Kit would be behind the counter, silent as before. Would he acknowledge him? Would he ask what Blake wanted? Would Blake know what to say?

He would go back. Not tomorrow, perhaps the day after. There was time enough.

He did not sleep.