Lone Wolf A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

person sitting across from you—and the bottoms of your feet are literally and spiritually unclean. You might as well be giving the other person the finger. You don’t shake hands, you wai —by putting your hands in front of you like you’re praying, with the tips of your index fingers touching your nose. The higher the hands are, and the lower your bow, the more respect you’re showing. A wai can be used for greeting, apology, gratitude.
    You’ve got to admire a culture that uses a single gesture to say both thank you and I’m sorry.
    Every time I start to get sick of living here, or get the feeling that nothing ever changes, I take a step back and remind myself that I’m just visiting. That Thai culture and beliefs have been around a lot longer than I have. That what one person sees as a difference of opinion can be, to the other person, a sign of great disrespect.
    I kind of wish I knew back then what I know now.
    There really isn’t an easy way to get to Koh Chang. It’s 315 kilometers by bus from Bangkok, and even after you get to Trat, in the eastern provinces, you have to take a songtaew to one of the three piers. Ao Thammachat is the best one—it only takes twenty minutes by ferry to reach the island. Lam Ngob is the worst—the fishing boats that have been converted into ferries can take over an hour to make the crossing.
    It may seem ridiculous to come all this distance when I only have two days off from the language institute, but it’s worth it. Sometimes Bangkok is suffocating, and I need to hang out in a place that isn’t wall-to-wall people. I chalk it up to my upbringing in a part of New England that is still two hours away from the nearestmall. After sleeping last night at a cheap guesthouse, I’ve spent this morning trying to find my way to Khlong Nueng, the tallest waterfall on the island. And now, just when I am sweating and thirsty and ready to quit, the biggest boulder I’ve ever seen blocks the path. Gritting my teeth, I get a foothold and begin to climb over it. My boots slip on the rock, and I scrape my knee, and I’m already worried about how I’m going to climb back over from the other side—but I won’t let myself give up.
    With a grunt, I reach the top of the boulder and then slide down the far side. I land with a soft thud and glance up to see the most beautiful rush of water, frothing and sparkling and filling the ravine. I strip to my boxers and wade in, the clear pool lapping against my chest. I duck under the spray. Then I crawl out and lie on my back, letting the sun dry my skin.
    Since I’ve come to Thailand, I’ve had hundreds of moments like this, when I run across something so incredible that I want to show it to someone else. The problem is, when you make the choice to be a loner, you lose that privilege. So I do what I’ve done for the past six years: I take out my cell phone, and I snap a picture of the waterfall. I’m never in these pictures, needless to say. And I don’t know who I’ll ever show them to, given that I’ve had cartons of milk that have lasted longer than most of my relationships. But I keep that digital album anyway—from the first spirit house I saw in Thailand, intricate and laden with offerings, to the arrangement of wooden penises at the Chao Mae Tuptim Shrine, to the creepy conjoined babies floating in formaldehyde in the Forensic Science Museum near Wat Arun.
    I am holding the phone in my hand, looking at these pictures, when it starts to vibrate. I check the display to see who’s calling—expecting a friend who wants to invite me out for a beer, or my boss at the institute asking me to cover for another teacher, or maybe the flight attendant I met last weekend at the Blue Ice Bar.It’s always struck me as amusing that the cellular service in Nowhere, Thailand, is still better than in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.
    Out of area.
    “Hello?” I hold the phone up to my ear.
    “Edward,” my mother says. “You have to come