Bangkok’s torturous temperatures leave me craving the return of the rainy season. The sun set four hours ago, yet the streets are still radiating the day’s heat, feeding my headache and sapping my energy. Motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and taxis speed by in streaks of light like time-lapse photos. Finally the signal changes and the mob of pedestrians pushes forward into the six lanes of traffic. No Russian roulette for me; my eyes are peeled. “Watch those reckless motorcyclists,” I warn myself. Red, green—what do they care about traffic-light colors?

By the time I reach Lumpini Park, the security guard is locking the gate. “Come back in the morning,” he says, his attention focused on a ring of keys.

“Do you know my mae, Khun Sombat, the fortune-teller?”

He wipes his forehead. “Who doesn’t?”

“Did you see her today?”

“No. Tell her I need the lucky lottery numbers. And don’t hang around here after dark. It’s not safe.” He mounts his motorcycle and drives off, no helmet.

I head back to Silom Road, its sidewalks under a neon glow, teeming with tourists, touts, beggars, masseuses promising happy endings, and people like me, lost in a familiar place. The Skytrain rolls into the station on concrete pillars, with a vibration that could excite a seismograph. The thunderous roar unnerves me, especially tonight. I’m sure that something terrible has happened to Mae. At our apartment building, I rush up the stairs but find the place eerily empty. In her closet is the navy satin dress bought especially for tonight’s ceremony. In my closet is my new tailored suit, our two unused tickets in its lapel pocket.

I wait for her in the kitchen, my head resting on the table beside the chili peppers and fish sauce. The window is open, and my ears are tuned to the late-night street sounds—barking dogs, the hum of air conditioners, the rumble of thunder in the distance. A tuk-tuk’s two-stroke engine backfires. I jump up, thinking someone’s at the door.

It’s the landlord. He places a hand on his chest. “You wanna give me a heart attack? Why are you in the hallway at this hour?”

“Sorry. I thought it might be Mae. She’s missing.”

“How convenient. Rent is due. What about me? You think I don’t got bills to pay?”

“My university commencement ceremony was earlier tonight. We were supposed to go together. She must be in trouble.”

“Better not bring trouble here. Bad enough already.” He shakes his head. “The new tenants on the second floor, playing noisy music—”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Figure it out! In the morning, check the hospital. District police station too. For now, go to sleep. The other tenants will be complaining. Always complaining, always taking my hard work for granted…” His voice trails off as he walks away. “Remember—no pay, no stay.”

I collapse on the mattress in Mae’s room, feverish, stomach empty. Outside, cats are fighting, and I fall asleep to a lullaby of hissing and growling. I’m having an absurd dream about fish swimming on land and a boat floating down a long avenue. The waves make a roaring sound so loud I wake. Someone’s pounding on the door.

I answer in my boxers, no shirt, arms limp by my sides.

A police officer stands before me with beads of sweat on his forehead. Mae’s purse is in his hands; there are red stains on the blue silk. A speeding motorcycle lifted her off her feet, says the half-page police report, leaving her in a puddle of blood.

Crossing the street one minute, a corpse at the morgue the next.

I sit on the floor, knees to my chest, head resting on the door frame.

The officer crouches down. “You okay?”

For an instant, I forget how to breathe. My head feels light. “Do you at least have a description of the driver?”

“Black helmet and a visor hiding the face.”

“So few drivers wear helmets and visors, that must be a clue, no?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Ask your questions at the station. For now, make yourself decent and follow me to the morgue. By the way, you owe five hundred baht to the body collectors.”

Weeks later, in the cooler temperatures of early morning—the rare time when I dare drink anything hot—I picture Mae pouring our tea, every gesture mindful, a comfortable silence between us, our breathing in a synchronized rhythm. I fiddle with the three amulets around my neck, given to me by Mae when I turned twelve. Each one holds a clay figurine nested in a teardrop-shaped plastic bubble with a brass border, hanging on a chain.

The first amulet is of Jatukarm Ramathep, for luck and success, associated with the south of Thailand, a place Mae promised to take me one day. “Sandy beaches as long as Sukhumvit Road,” she would say. The second features Phra Upakut, a lotus in hand, fish and sea creatures at his feet. The third is a rare amulet with Phra Somdej Wat Rakhang, for protection from black magic and disasters. She had all three amulets blessed in a ceremony complete with clouds of incense, sprinklings of holy water, and chanting in Pali. In hindsight, she was evidently the one who needed the protection. But how could I have known that at the time?

Two long months have passed since her death. My rent is overdue, and the temple is waiting on payment for the funeral. Meanwhile, the bank won’t loan money to me as a recent Psychology graduate. I have no collateral, no job prospects, nothing more than an offer of admission to a Master’s program I can no longer afford. A moneylender is my last resort, and I know exactly where to go. In Mae’s wallet is a card: Golden Lotus Jewelers, Soi 26, Silom. As a boy, I tagged along with her sometimes on her errands. Once, before leaving that jeweler’s shop, she got a handful of one-thousand-baht notes. I remember watching her count them.

I arrive at the soi after lunch. A woman empties a dishpan’s dirty water into the street. A man sweeps the entrance to his Japanese noodle shop. The stairs to the jeweler’s are narrow and poorly lit. By the time I reach the shop, my legs are wobbly and I’m panting.

A wave of frigid air hits me when I open the door. The space seems to have shrunk, or maybe it seems that way because I’ve grown. A man leans his elbow on a glass counter displaying necklaces on red velvet. The fluorescent ceiling light reflects off his bald head.

I place the jeweler’s card on the counter. “My mae used to come here.”

“Name?”

“Sunti Sombat.”

“Not you. Your mae.” He sounds annoyed, as if I’m wasting his time.

“Kalayanee Sombat.”

He opens the door behind him and repeats her name to whoever is in the room. “This way,” he says, and beckons me with a sideways nod.

I enter an office the size of a broom closet. Opposite me is a man with hints of grey in his hair, wearing sunglasses in a room without windows, with a gold chain around his neck, a matching bracelet, and a signet ring.

I wai him before sitting at the oversized desk between us. The door closes behind me.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “You look like your mae. For your sake, I hope the resemblance stops there.”

“You mean because she’s dead? You may not have heard the news—”

“No talk of death in my office. You want to invite in bad spirits?”

“Forgive me, Khun…?”

“Kittisak.”

“My mae used to borrow money from here, and I thought perhaps—”

“Her debts are piling up as we speak.”

“Debts? What kind?”

“The missed-payment-after-missed-payment kind. The compounded-interest kind. Sometimes the customer tells me, ‘Khun Kittisak, please give me an extension on my loan.’ Your mae didn’t bother to do that. She simply stopped paying.”

“I’m certain she would have reimbursed you eventually.”

“There’s no ‘eventually’ in this business. Only very, very bad karma for not taking responsibility for one’s actions.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk, and tuts. “She threatened to go to the Bangkok Post if the police didn’t arrest me. ‘Go,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell them how much you borrowed and still owe.’”

My shirt is damp with sweat. The air conditioner’s fan is on high, raising the hairs on my bare arms. “Arrest you? For what?”

He raises his sunglasses, squints, then lowers them. “You’re more naïve than I expected. She didn’t pay your tuition on a fortune-teller’s earnings.”

“My father sent money from abroad.”

“Ha! A father you never met. A measly thousand baht here and there until you turned twenty—that’s three years ago.”

“How do you—”

“I make it my business to know everything about my customers.”

“Are you a licensed lender or a rogue loan shark?”

“What I am is the person your mae owes money to. You’re the person who’s going to pay it back.”

“Surely you don’t expect—”

He smirks. “No vacation coming soon for you.”

“What job am I taking a vacation from?”

“That hotshot university didn’t teach you respect for elders?”

“Look—”

“No, you look. You have to pay off her debt.”

“Well, I’ll have my driver drop me at the bank. Which one do you suggest I rob?”

“You must have had special tutoring in how to be disrespectful.”

I lean forward, wishing I could pull off his sunglasses. “I obviously don’t have the means to pay off her or anyone’s debt.”

“Obviously? Are you suggesting you’re smarter than me?”

“I’m merely—”

“Payments start next week. Know what happens if you misbehave?”

“Not a clue,” I say, pretending to be disinterested.

“My assistant, Mongkut—you already met him—he’ll deal with you.”

“Does Mongkut drive a motorcycle, with a black helmet and a heavily tinted visor? If I can prove it was him—”

“You want proof?” Kittisak opens the top drawer, takes out a sheet of paper, and waves it in the air. “All the figures are here: loans, interest, fines.”

“Seriously? How do you expect me to earn the money?”

“You were raised by a fortune-teller. Your pricey education in English should be worth something. Starting tomorrow, go to Lumpini Park. In addition to your mae’s former clients, every tourist you see, you’ll offer to tell their fortune. For the first week, I’ll let you off easy. Bring me three thousand baht. I don’t care if you have to work forty-eight hours a day to do it. After that, Mongkut will let you know the weekly payments. And get your hair cut. Wash your clothes while you’re at it. Nobody wants their fortune told by a scruffy streetwalker.” He flicks the back of his hand at me as if I’m a mangy soi dog and says, “Go.”

The rainy season is almost over, and I’ve spent every day of it telling fortunes in the park, in an open-air pavilion near a trash can visited by the occasional monitor lizard. I’m trapped at the bottom of a black-market chain, with Kittisak as a middleman between me and a high-society family that accumulates wealth by collecting payments at exorbitant interest rates and fees—loan sharks.

During the first months in my new role, I depended on the generosity of Mae’s former clients. Lately their numbers have dwindled, but one of them, Khun Wan, a seamstress, hasn’t given up on me yet. She comes to see me Wednesday mornings.

“Make sure that cheat is punished in the afterlife,” she says, referring to her philandering husband.

I sigh. “Fortune-tellers aim to foresee the future. They can’t intervene in it.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll make sure he suffers in the present one.” She boasts about her skill with scissors and outlines her plan in pointed detail. “Will it work?”

“I foresee you tailoring prison uniforms and your husband surrounded by pretty nurses.”

“You’re honest, like your mae,” Khun Wan says. “But she always blunted the truth.”

Khun Wan comes again the following week, this time wanting help in finding her husband. It’s been five days, and there’s no sign of him at work, in nearby hospitals, or at the morgue. She shows me a poster, one of many she’s placed near Skytrain stops, with the word MISSING in bold. Then she holds up his Thai identity card. “I found it in his shirt pocket. Why would a man leave behind his ID?”

“I’m not a detective.”

“My friend told me to check Khao San Road. Five hundred baht there will buy a new ID. Maybe my Sirichai has become a Werawat, who abandoned his seamstress to keep a promise to his mistress.”

“Did he have debt?”

“What man with a mistress doesn’t?” She sniffs and wipes her nose with a tissue.

I stare at the card, wondering if he’s found a way to outsmart the loan sharks. “You may see him again, or you may not. In the meantime care for your children, and for yourself too.”

Khun Wan stands, elbows pointed out at her sides. “May or may not?” She slams a five-hundred-baht note on the table. “Make an offering at the temple. Pray that your mae will be released from earthly torment and that her son will awaken, find his true path, and stop pretending to be something he’s not.”

If it weren’t for foreigners, the farangs, I’d never manage to keep up with my payments to Kittisak. I charge the farangs double what Thais pay, even more if they show signs of affluence like brand-name clothing or accessories. I rationalize the rate knowing that they can afford it and that having your fortune told is on a top-ten list of things to do in Bangkok. Yet, whenever they pay me, I feel like a cheat. Meanwhile, their privilege makes me envious.

That’s how I feel now, listening to a young Canadian woman, Joanna. Her sun-streaked brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, lifted away from her tanned face and neck. No makeup, not even any lipstick. A backpack instead of a purse, shorts instead of a dress or skirt. The top three buttons of her blouse are undone, showing trickles of sweat in her cleavage.

“Are you a real fortune-teller?” she says.

Her question catches me off guard, and I flinch. “What I am is someone who might help you recognize the path you’re on.”

“But how, if you say you don’t use tarot cards, numerology, or crystal balls, not even palm readings?”

“I can’t pretend to predict your future. I can, however, listen, observe, and offer insights into where you might be heading.”

“But how?”

“For every action there is a reaction. For every intention there is a consequence.”

“Like cause and effect? No free will? That sort of thing?”

“You’re already in a certain current, but you have a rudder—call it free will if you like. Why don’t you start by telling me what led you to Thailand at this time of year. I assumed Canadians celebrated Christmas with family.”

“I came to see the land of smiles. To escape Vancouver’s rainy, cold winter, eat fabulous food, meet new people, lounge in the sand, and play in the waves.”

“So you’re on vacation from your job or profession?”

“Not quite. Last spring I finished my dentistry program, with a specialty in forensic odontology. Two weeks before I was supposed to start work, I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life matching dental records with human remains.”

She keeps talking, I reply, and three hours pass like minutes.

Finally she fiddles with the water bottle in her hand. “Sorry. I’ve talked too much about teeth, bite marks, lip prints, God knows what else. Can I come see you again tomorrow? I’d like to hear more about—what was it?—the trinity of intentions, actions, and consequences.”

“Certainly,” I say. “Business has been slow lately. I’m free a lot of the time.”

She stands up to leave. “By the way, any suggestions for where to eat around here? Talking to you has restored my appetite.” She laughs wholeheartedly.

I smile and make a small, grateful bow. “I can give you directions. Street food okay?”

She glances at me sideways, coyly. “I might try it if I had a local person to help me interpret the menu. Can you join me? My treat, of course.”

I’m surprised by the invitation. Is she simply looking for a tour guide? I’m more envious than ever of her status and her freedom. What I wouldn’t give to be able to travel on a whim to the opposite side of the world! “With pleasure,” I say, wondering if I’m sounding too stiff.

While we head to the restaurant, she asks questions about Thai food and I teach her how to say, “Not too spicy, please.”

She’s practicing how to say “My name is Joanna” when her voice is drowned out by the roar of a motorcyclist revving his bike’s engine. I turn toward the street, and the driver, a black helmet over his head, a visor hiding his face, reaches forward to give me something.

The light changes, and he’s gone. In my hand is a business card for Golden Lotus Jewelers.

“Nice set-up you have here,” Kittisak says, eyeing the surroundings through his sunglasses. “In a pavilion, shelter from rain and rays, nice view of the lake…”

“Surely you’re not here expecting me tell your fortune.”

“Of course not. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. Your new girlfriend, that young farang, she’s keeping you busy. Guest of the Dusit Thani Hotel, no less.” He makes a “pay me” gesture with his finger and thumb. “Money, money.”

I resist the urge to insult him. “What gives you the right to spy on me? You’re already breaking the law with those usurious interest rates.”

He points a finger at me. “You’re the one breaking the law—my law.”

“I’ll get you what you’re owed.”

“My patience comes with a price. I want an extra two thousand baht next week.”

“How do you propose I come up with that amount of money?”

“Your girlfriend rented a longtail boat last week, so I heard. All afternoon on Bangkok’s canals. Very expensive. Only the two of you, with a candlelight dinner at The Peninsula Hotel afterward.” He raises his eyebrows. “Borrow from her or charge her more. What’s a few thousand baht for an American?”

“She’s not American,” I protest, not bothering to mention that she’s not my girlfriend either; I’ve never even touched her. “And how do you know—”

He calls to Mongkut, who’s standing at the bottom of the pavilion’s steps, dressed in black, like a crow keeping watch. “Give it to him,” Kittisak says.

Mongkut hands me a clear plastic bag of red pills.

“Ever try yaba?” Kittisak says. “Spice up your trade with a rush of meth plus caffeine.”

I push the bag toward him. “You’re going too far.”

He snickers. “Only getting started. Now follow my instructions carefully. Play the fortune-teller; if the customer asks, ‘Is my future safe?’ nod, and he’ll hand you payment in exchange for a bag of goodies. There’s plenty more where these came from.”

My face is reflected in his polarized sunglasses—eyes unblinking, mouth hanging open, as if both organs were temporarily out of service.

Kittisak wipes his hands with a neatly folded handkerchief. “Don’t want to push pills? Then ask your girlfriend for a loan.” He pats his brow. “Time to get to work.”

He leaves the pavilion and walks over to a shiny black Mercedes. Mongkut opens and closes the door, and they drive off in the pedestrian-only park.

Once they’re gone, I wait for Joanna at the park’s gate. Eventually I spot her heading toward me. At first I don’t recognize her—her hair is down, and she’s wearing a loose cotton dress that flatters her curves. I, meanwhile, am wearing a new shirt to go with my fresh haircut and smooth shave.

“Is there a problem?” she asks. “Why are you standing here? You seem a bit—I don’t know—different.”

“The park’s not the best place to meet. Sometimes it attracts the wrong kind of people.”

“Must be the neighborhood.” She points in the direction of her hotel. “Last night, on my way to a massage, I noticed a bald man, short, stocky, talking to the porter and glaring at me. When I left the spa, he was outside. And the strangest thing is”—she pauses—“I think he wanted me to know he was tailing me.”

I imagine marching right up to Kittisak’s office and threatening to go to the police or the media if he doesn’t call off his dog. Reluctantly I say, “I have a problem with a moneylender. He’s intimidating me by intimidating you.” I grab her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

As I lead her along an underground pedestrian pathway, I check constantly over my shoulder. I’m relieved when we finally reach the food court on Sala Daeng Road. If Mongkut is on our tail, we’ll easily lose him here, among the hordes of office workers on lunch break.

I stay close to Joanna so we’re not separated as we wander from stall to stall, sampling everything from Tom Yum egg noodles to mango and sticky rice. The jampacked crowds, the noise, and the aromas of lemongrass and basil offer a much needed distraction. For now, here with her, I want to believe that nothing else matters. But I can’t.

“Try to forget about that man,” I say as we sit down at a table. “I’ll talk to his boss. In the meantime, take this.” I pull the chain with the Phra Upakut amulet over my head and hang it around her neck. “May it bring you protection and safety. And beyond that, if you’re feeling uncomfortable, why not change hotels? I don’t mind coming to you instead of you visiting me in the park.”

She wipes her lips. “Even if the hotel is seven hundred kilometers away from Bangkok?”

I force a smile, telling myself this was bound to happen. I’ve been little more than a diversion for her, a Bangkok tourist attraction. “Ha,” I say, pretending the idea is funny.

“I saw a promotion for a villa in Khao Lak. Do you like the beach?”

I shrug, unsure if I want to hide my disappointment. “I’ve never been. I can’t even swim.”

“Well, we could celebrate the 2005 New Year together.” She pauses. “Come with me?”

I wonder if I’m hearing right or misunderstanding her. “Seriously?”

“These past three weeks have been extraordinary,” she says. “Meeting you is the best thing that’s happened to me in ages.”

I could say the same thing about her, but what does that matter, given my circumstances? “I can’t afford a holiday.”

“I booked a two-bedroom villa—it was all they had left. Christmas is high season.” She reaches over and touches my hand. “There’s no need to reimburse me. I’m not like your evil moneylender friend.”

“Evil, yes. Friend, no.” I stare desperately at the throngs of office workers passing by. Their lives are so normal, so predictable.

“I’m sorry,” she says, drawing back. “I’m putting you on the spot. Take the time to think about it. But I’d really love to spend—”

I stand up, come around the table, and wrap my arms around her. “Do you mind? I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about leaving Bangkok permanently. Now’s as good a time as ever. I’ll start looking for work there.”

“Fantastic! The tourists will be lining up to have you tell their fortune.”

“Joanna, you asked me once if I’m a real fortune-teller. I’ll be honest: I’m a fake.”

“Let the future be the judge of that,” she says.

Having lived in Thailand for short periods, I’ve developed a great respect for Thai people’s belief in realms beyond the material, beyond sensory perception or intellectual understanding. Mysticism, spiritualism, animism, superstition—these all play a visible role in Thai life. It was in Thailand that I began to understand the significance of Karma and the notion that intentions and actions have consequences and reactions. If that is the case, can we predict those consequences by paying attention to our actions? Is that what fortune-tellers (or at least some of them) do? Can we control our fate? How easy is it to look at our actions and those of others and discover clues, indicators, signs of what is to come? These and similar questions inspired me to write this story.

The first three chapters of THE RELUCTANT FORTUNE-TELLER introduce the protagonist, Sunti. Sunti is forced to take over his mother’s job as a fortune-teller in Bangkok in order to pay off her debt to a loan shark—a debt she incurred so that she could pay for Sunti’s private university education. A chance encounter with a Canadian woman, Joanna, offers him an opportunity to escape the loan shark’s control. They meet when Joanna consults him as a fortune-teller, and they quickly develop a friendship and then a romance. Meanwhile, the loan shark is pressuring Sunti to pay him more money, more quickly. He gives Sunti the option of either peddling drugs or getting the money from Joanna. It’s nearing Christmas, and Joanna proposes that Sunti accompany her to Khao Lak for a beach holiday, evading the loan shark at the same time. They have no idea that a tsunami is about to strike the region, resulting in a tragedy that will forever alter the course and purpose of their lives.

The novel’s story takes place in two time periods—2004 and then 2014, the tsunami’s tenth anniversary. By that time, Sunti is teaching English in a refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border while Joanna is working as a forensic dentist in Canada. Each of them looks back at what brought them together, at how the tsunami helped them find meaning in their lives. Now, they must decide if they still love each other and want to get back together.

THE RELUCTANT FORTUNE-TELLER illustrates how tragedy can offer a context in which lives take on more intentional meaning and purpose. The narrative explores themes related to the impermanence of life (anicca), fate and free will, and the interconnected consequences of our actions.