the field of the great | malai choophinit by marcel barang

the field of the great MALAI CHOOPHINIT

the field of the great TRANSLATED FROM THE THAI BY MARCEL BARANG

1 Viscount Nikhom Borribarn breathed his last on a Sunday, on the fourteenth day of the waning moon in the fifth month of the Year of the Tiger, 2493 of the Buddhist era [1950 AD] – ninety-two years after he had first opened his eyes to the world, such an extensive life as few men ever know or witness. He died peacefully in the embrace of his wife, a contented smile on his slightly parted lips, his eyelids about to close, his wide forehead and his cheeks deeply sunk in a sharp structure of bones. Viscount Borribarn passed away on the first day of a new year of the Thai minor era∗. He died like we all must, only so very untimely, when the spirit of the New Year celebrations was still floating in the air, and the scent of the lustral water mixed with aromatic powder that the young pour on their elders’ hands still clung to clothes, the only day when one should not die, as flowers bloom all over the jungle, birds of all kinds sing beautifully all over the forest, and the giant reeds and clumps of tall grass on the island midstream put forth white flowers in a sea of snow. After three full days of merit-making following the cremation gathering, the old woman felt as if she had ∗ Beginning 21 March 638 AD: the Thai major era began in 78 AD; classification used by Thai historians before the Bangkok era, which began in 1782. THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

4 entered a totally dark maze that offered no way out. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know where to turn, what to think, what to do, except sit next to the betel tray on the veranda of the house, a wide platform which opened onto the path meandering along the northern bank of the Ping river, now almost dry and turned into an expanse of sand and pebbles stretching as far as the eye could see. Viscount Nikhom Borribarn had passed away! His cremation was a clamorous and magnificent affair such as villagers seldom had the good fortune to witness during their lifetime. There were all kinds of entertainment, from mask and musical folk drama, to puppet and shadow plays. These may have lured people but their power of attraction was not as strong as the magnetic personality of the deceased. When rites and ceremonies were over, the entertainers packed up and left on trucks and boats, the spectators returned home, but no one would forget Viscount Nikhom Borribarn. For sixty full years, he had spent his life amongst these villagers. For sixty full years, he had gone through what the forefathers of the new generation in this very province had gone through. For sixty full years that were at times peaceful, at times adventurous, he had known the bitter taste of poverty and what sorrow, torment, danger, endurance and sacrifice mean to the human race, while he fought his way to his present status. Viscount Nikhom Borribarn had passed away, but still remained in the memory of those he had come to know, MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

5 relatives, friends and foes. He still remained in the air that they breathed, in the daily life and customs of Nakhorn Chum, as part and parcel of the district, as a local symbol which no new custom, civilisation or even time would erase. Sitting on the veranda that afternoon, the old life companion of Viscount Nikhom Borribarn was certain that no one would forget him. Many would praise his good-heartedness, and many would whisper that he had been a wicked man, but, good or bad, old Sutjai knew that no one in the whole province would have dared to confront him on the battleground, whether over work or over life itself. Viscount Nikhom was born a real man, who wanted to spend his life as a real man, and he had done so to the fullest. ‘Everything here is worth living and dying for,’ he had told her sixty years ago when they first met at the landing. ‘A beautiful girl like you, an upright fellow like me, plenty of food available – only one thing’s missing, and that’s a leader, and I’m the one the gods have sent to be that leader.’ Sixty years ago at the landing – such a long time, and yet it all seemed to have happened only the day before yesterday. The old woman felt her eyes mist with tears brought forth by the memory of his words, which led her to recall days and events gone by. Sixty years ago! Nakhorn Chum was still Khlong Suan Mark then, a few dozen houses with walls of bamboo THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

6 splits and roofs of elephant grass, plus a few families of refugees from Vientiane who squatted the huts in the nearby fields; the coconut groves were still wild and sparse; the outer walls of the old city had not yet been pulled down to make way for the roads; and Dong Seitthee was still a city of barren ruins left behind as a monument to earlier generations. The island in front of the house was still far from the bank, and the golden mango tree still spread its shady foliage over the front of the landing. A servant with a grim face made weary by the workload of the past few days shuffled up to her. ‘The boat you asked for is here, m’am,’ she reported. Old Sutjai turned to her with a distracted expression. ‘What boat?’ ‘Why, the governor set up a meeting at his residence this evening about repairs to the temple. You were invited and you asked Kaeo to bring the boat around.’ The old woman sighed. This was one of the many obligations she had been unable to avoid all her life. Not a day had passed without Viscount Nikhom having to perform some charity work or attend some social function with his old wife involved in one way or another. But now that Viscount Nikhom was no longer… The picture of the landing in the shade of the golden mango tree that afternoon long ago presented itself to her again, clearer and fresher than any memory, as if to usher her back once more to the years of her youth. MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

7 ‘Tell Kaeo I’ve changed my mind. He can take the boat back. I’ll see the governor some other day.’ Other business could wait, whereas the business of life, which is the past, present and future of us all, could pass us by without giving us a second chance. The old woman wanted to remember the good old days now that her mind was clear and everyone had given her the opportunity to be by herself. Milin, her eldest living child, had gone with his wife and son on an errand at Park Narm Pho. Sa-ing and her lazybones of a husband had not yet returned from a party in town. Her children and grandchildren had once meant happiness, but who amongst them knew what suffering was? They had been born too late to get a taste of the kind of life Viscount Nikhom Borribarn and she had known. All of her children, both sons and daughters – even Darun and Saarng, who had died in the prime of life, even her firstborn, who had been taken away as a boy when the smallpox epidemic had decimated the village – all had become other people’s property, body and soul, once they had left her bosom. Only Viscount Nikhom and she had always belonged to each other. Even though the vim and frenzy of youth had many times led him astray and he had had countless affairs, he still had belonged to her at all times. From the wind-swept veranda which the spirit of the New Year celebrations had just left, the gaze of the old woman was fixed on the landing and on the large empty THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

8 space where the golden mango tree once had stood. She paid no attention to the people who walked by and bowed to her with hands joined, or to the noise of the children playing boisterously at the back of the house. ‘I can remember everything well,’ the old woman thought. ‘It’s as clear as if it had happened only yesterday – the golden mango tree, the logs of the landing, and the vastness of the Ping, bearing down lots of waterlettuce and Java weed, lots of bamboo floats, pole rafts, and dugouts with coloured flags, Mis’ Louis’s paddle steamer∗, now gone for ever, and then that punting boat, and – and him.’

∗ Actually Mis[ter] Louis, the founder in the 1890s of the Louis T. Leonowens trading company, still active today. MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

2 In the afternoon of the last day of the New Year festival, a sixteen-year-old Sutjai, still wearing the anklet of a nubile girl but radiant like a mature woman, was soaked from head to foot from the day-long water-throwing collective revelry, and her face was begrimed with soot from smearing bouts at close quarters. She grabbed a tin bowl and a piece of soap, then hurried down to the landing in front of the house to give herself a quick scrub as she wanted to have enough time to get dressed before joining the ball games in the evening. But she froze at the foot of the stairs when she heard a loud laugh coming out of the clumps of morning glory to her right and saw a most startling face, flushed a dark red and made oily by the heat and local liquor, popping above the arched roof of a punting boat which had taken refuge from the sunlight in the sparse shade of the morning glory. For a moment, the young woman hesitated and turned round as if to walk back when she realised that the owner of the face was not a local man, but she finally stepped forward and went to sit on the logs of the landing, turning her back to him. Why should she go away just because there was a stranger around? In fact, she had no idea what made him laugh or who he was laughing with. She had hardly scooped water and splashed herself a few times when she heard a loud THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

10 laugh again. She turned to look. ‘Bah! What’s so funny?’ she mumbled out of annoyance rather than to ask a direct question. ‘Whose smoked fish was it you licked to get your face so dirty?’ By now, the stranger had crawled out from under the roof of the boat and was sitting cross-legged on the prow, laughing worse than ever. His sparkling white teeth and blue-black beard made his face look so impish it deserved to be smacked, but all Sutjai could do by way of an answer was to turn her face away angrily. ‘Mind your own business,’ she said. ‘If you’re so smart, why don’t you step on land? I bet you’d get your face dirtier ’an a kitten’s in no time.’ The owner of the sparkling white teeth and blue-black beard raised an eyebrow. ‘Tsk! When you have it in for someone, you don’t care whether he’s a local or a stranger, do you?’ ‘Why should I? This is New Year time.’ ‘Are all women in Park Khlong like you?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, if they are, I’m more than willing to get my face blackened, let alone getting drenched, as happened to me yesterday at Larn Dorkmai.’ ‘Bah!’ The hand that held the bowl scooped and splashed with renewed vigour. ‘But they’re ugly as witches, them Larn Dorkmai womenfolk,’ he went on without paying attention to her outburst. ‘That’s why they couldn’t get a ransom out of me.’ MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

11 She soaped herself with Sunlight soap, outwardly indifferent, but utterly aware of his closeness and of the probing eyes he kept on her. ‘With a body like – like that,’ she mumbled, ‘let Sis’ Dam, Aunt Maeo and Granny Khloi lay their hands on you and you aren’t about to get away with it, let me tell you.’ The owner of the white teeth and blue-black beard raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and his impish face laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. ‘Oh yes?’ he said challengingly. ‘And who are these Sis’ Dam, Aunt Maeo and Granny Khloi of yours?’ ‘Our gang leaders,’ she said. ‘Each of them is tough as a creel. Last night, the district chief had to pay a lot before he was allowed to stagger back home.’ His laughter resounded in the air. ‘No way they’d get me to cough up,’ he said. ‘The one that will catch me in the small of her hand must be none of them ugly witches or sea monsters. She must be slim, petite, radiant and fresh, and she must wear an anklet like you.’ ‘Bah!’ Without bothering to dry her face, Sutjai grabbed soap and bowl and stood up. The man laughed loudly as he lay down on his stomach on the bridge of the boat and rested his chin on his palms. His bloodshot eyes scrutinised her. ‘You haven’t got rid of it all.’ ‘What?’ ‘The soot. There’s some on the tip of your nose, around your ears and on the side of your throat.’ THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

12 ‘Mind your own business,’ the young woman exclaimed, before sitting down and soaping her face once more. ‘To get rid of soot mixed with coconut oil or lard, it’s sand you need,’ he ventured. ‘I’m not a buffalo!’ The protest came muffled through palms sheathed in soap suds. They were silent for a while, then the stranger sighed. ‘I wonder who your parents are. I’ve punted up and down through Park Khlong for years and this is the first time I’ve seen you – Tell me something: has anybody ever told you...’ Sutjai raised the bowl to rinse her face and without opening her eyes asked: ‘Told me what?’ ‘...that Park Khlong women are more beautiful than any along the whole length of the Ping river?’ She didn’t answer and went on tossing her hair and drying her face. ‘At the mere mention of Park Khlong, the Southerners get scared,’ he went on, ‘and when the Northerners punt past, they keep their eyes averted to the eastern bank, but if they knew what I know – if they knew that Park Khlong has a girl like you, they’d soon be crawling all over the place.’ Sutjai kept busy soaping herself, the man’s eyes dwelling all the while on her flawless face, full shoulders and heaving bosom. ‘Did you know I had never thought of settling down anywhere until today?’ MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

13 ‘Is that so?’ She shot a brief glance at him, the briefest of glances only, and when her eyes met his bloodshot, glistening eyes, they turned away never to look at them again. ‘And do you know why?’ She shook her head. ‘Because of you!’ He laughed again. ‘Bah!’ ‘What does that mean? Are you pleased or are you angry?’ ‘Bah!’ ‘People around here are funny; seems they can speak one word only.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve never quite told anyone what I’m telling you now, because I’m beginning to like Park Khlong – with you in it.’ He gazed in silence at the fulsome body in the wet sarong and at the shoulderlength hair, and then nodded. ‘I’ve heard what they say about Park Khlong being ill-fated, how cholera wiped out most of the village many years ago, and how it still comes visiting every five to ten years. For all that, everything here’s worth living and dying for.’ He raised his face and rested his chin, turned bluish by his beard, on his folded arms. ‘A beautiful girl like you, an upright fellow like me, plenty of food available – only one thing’s missing, and that’s a leader, and I’m the one the gods have sent to be that leader.’ Sutjai grabbed the bowl and soap, sprung up, turned her back on him and started to walk up the steps. THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

14 ‘Oh, leaving already?’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Just when we were having such a nice chat. Besides, the more I see of you, the more I like you.’ She threw a glance of disgust at him over her shoulder. ‘And the more I see of you, the more I hate you.’ ‘Pooh! That’s too much!’ He mimicked her voice teasingly. ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘Bah!’ And this was the last word that Sutjai – a sixteen-yearold Sutjai, still wearing the anklet of a nubile girl but radiant like a mature woman – shouted out in a fury before rushing up the stairs at the foot of the landing amidst a peal of amused laughter from the stranger. ‘What made me talk to him so rudely?’ The old woman reclined against a wedge-shaped cushion. A flush of feelings from her long-gone youth was almost drowning her heart again. When she had met him for the first time, she had greeted him with ‘Bah!’ and ‘Bah!’ had been her parting word to him, as if this had been a meeting of old foes. ‘I’m absolutely certain I wasn’t interested in him then other than as a rude stranger, like so many other men who had briefly appeared and left without making any impression and without ever coming back, except that I simply couldn’t avoid him. I just couldn’t.’ That very night, Sutjai met him again, in the courtyard

MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

15 of Village Headman∗ Phoon’s house, while she performed as Mae See’s medium amidst much revelry under bright torchlight, as a chorus of young and old of both sexes traded catcalls and saucy remarks, their din carrying far and wide into the pitch-black night. Even though her eyes were half closed as the part required rather than because she was in a trance, and even though she maintained her composure while both her feet rested on upturned coconut shell halves and both her hands touched the ground, keeping a precarious balance that could topple her over sideways or backwards as she crouched and slowly revolved on herself, Sutjai was still able to observe him. She had no idea when he had joined the group of young male villagers who formed the outer ring of spectators. She only knew that he had dressed up for the occasion. He was wearing purple silk trousers and a white Chinese lose-fitting shirt, his hair neatly combed, his blue-black beard unchanged. His eyes were no longer red and the impish expression on his face was gone as he was no longer laughing. She tried not to pay attention to him and concentrated on the song drowning her ears. ‘O! Mae See Bonny lass in bud Raise your hands And to the Lord bow That your beauty be hailed ∗ Village chief, appointed in monarchic days, now elected THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

16 In the curve of your brow And the round of your neck And don’t you forget To cover your breast O bonny Mae See O!’ On and on the lyric was repeated as if it would never stop. In her heart there was a fluttering of myriad butterflies flapping their wings in a riot of colours as if they were about to lift her all the way to the heavens above, and it seemed the sense of his proximity that she had had that afternoon was still very much present. ‘I won’t talk with him again,’ Sutjai had thought in anger as she first caught a glimpse of his face through her half-absent eyes. But how could anyone, let alone an adolescent girl, remain angry long with anyone on such a festive day, when songs kept rekindling the spirit of ancient Thai traditions, merry laughter and banter reverberated in the air, grapes of stars adorned the sky and swarms of butterflies fluttered all over one’s heart? She did not know when the coconut shells on which she crouched had stopped wobbling, yet felt certain in her heart that when she stood up, she was awake body and soul. Her eyes were still half shut but she could see, and her ears caught the words of the song clearly. ‘O flower garland Is it wise to leave the room? Why not by and by drift Into the inner chamber?’ MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

17 Then she danced languorously, ever so slowly, well aware that someone’s eyes were gazing at her slender figure, graceful arms and rippling bosom and shoulders as her body surrendered to the beat of the bamboo sticks and drums and to the pulse of the music. ‘Well, well, so that’s what it means to be a medium for Mae See–’ Sutjai was aware that she was smiling slightly. She wanted to laugh and stretch out her arms and take off for the sky, over the shady coconut groves, through the pristine air, all the way to the stars twinkling above. ‘O flower garland Is it wise to leave the room? Why not by and by drift Into the inner chamber?’ She danced and danced and danced, oblivious to the meaning of the song. She was only aware that the exhilaration of the dance brought her a wealth of sensations her adolescent life had never experienced before and that she was gliding in a world far removed from the people assembled in the courtyard. And then, her dreams were halted when two hands seized her shoulders and a shout against her ear deafened her. She stopped dancing, stood dazed for a while, then opened her eyes wide and looked around as mediums do when the spirit of Mae See leaves them, and she smiled when she saw it was Jampa, her best friend. ‘Wow, it’s hot,’ Sutjai told her friend, waving her hand to fan herself. THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

18 ‘Sure it’s hot, the way you’re carryin’ on.’ Jampa bent over her ear to whisper: ‘You kept dancing even after they had stopped singing. It made that guy over there double up with laughter.’ ‘Who?’ Sutjai stepped out of the circle of spectators. She knew before Jampa told her whom she meant. ‘He looks like the bandit chief – like Janthakho-rop∗, you could say, or perhaps Laksana-wong∗∗.’ Her young friend, who had returned home less than a year ago with her child born to a famous likei∗ actor in tow, twisted her mouth in the direction of a tall man who stood flashing his white teeth in the dark behind a group of children across the courtyard. ‘I see. That one.’ Sutjai was still smiling. ‘You know him?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then why are you saying it like he’s part of the family – or is it you’ve met before?’ ‘He isn’t even from here.’ ∗ The hero of an ancient tale, a young prince who learns magic martial arts from an ascetic, who provides him at the end with a most beautiful wife, Mo-ra, created out of a peacock’s feather. On the way back to his father, Janthakho-rop is attacked by five hundred bandits. He slays them all but is in turn killed by the bandit chief, thanks to vain Mo-ra’s unwitting treachery. She is turned into a gibbon by the god Indra, who revives Janthakho-rop. Our hero kills a giant dragon and takes his daughter, Mutjalin, as his wife, and goes on to further adventures. ∗∗ The hero of the tale of the same name written by the great Thai poet Sunthorn Phoo (1786–1855) ∗ Open-air folk opera MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

19 ‘I know that. That’s why I’m asking. Oh dear!’ Jampa looked startled. ‘He – he’s following us.’ ‘Who cares?’ Sutjai did not turn to look at him. ‘I do,’ Jampa said. ‘He was all over me just now.’ ‘What did he do to you?’ Sutjai stopped smiling and fanning herself. ‘No – not that. He didn’t go that far.’ Jampa kept an eye on the figure that was getting closer with every single step. ‘But he kept pestering me with his questions.’ ‘About what?’ ‘About you.’ ‘Bah!’ ‘I don’t know about that yet. He asked me what the name of the young lass was, how old she was, who her parents were, and – and where her house was. The same questions Prong used to ask me.’ ‘So, you told him everything, right?’ ‘Why should I be rude to a stranger? He asked, so I had to answer.’ ‘Some friend you are!’ Sutjai raised her hand and clapped her on the back. ‘Not so hard, or I may need a balm.’ Jampa looked nervous. ‘Oh dear, here he comes.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The bandit chief,’ Jampa whispered. ‘Janthakho-rop or King Phrommathat∗, take your pick.’ ∗ Laksana-wong’s father THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

20 The young woman’s hand held out to fan herself waved more quickly now. She did not turn her head to look in the direction Jampa’s twisted lips hinted at, but she knew from the shadows cast by the torches that he was getting closer. Again she became aware of his proximity as she had that afternoon, and it made her heart beat a little faster, but she wasn’t thinking of running away. ‘You danced beautifully.’ A deep, raucous voice with a rich undertone of mirth made itself heard from behind. ‘As beautyfully as the kinnaree∗∗ frolicking in the Anodart∗∗∗.’ Jampa moved closer. ‘He means Mutjalin,’ she whispered, ‘and that means you!’ ‘Bah!’ she let out unwittingly and rather softly, but loud enough for him to hear. ‘Ah! Now I know: it’s the way the Park Khlong people greet each other,’ he said. ‘‘Bah!’ when we first met, and ‘Bah!’ now that we meet again.’ Jampa turned to gaze at her friend and whispered: ‘Didn’t you tell me you didn’t know him?’ ‘We met at the landing this afternoon very briefly,’ she replied haltingly. ‘Very briefly, I’m sure!’ Jampa guffawed. ‘Really, now, Jampa!’ ∗∗ A mythical creature, half woman half bird, in the manner of mermaids ∗∗∗ One of seven large ponds in the (mythical) Himalayas MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

21 ‘O! Mae See Bonny lass in bud Raise your hands And to the Lord bow That your beauty be hailed—’ Jampa sang out just as a new medium was replacing Sutjai, and several pairs of eyes turned in her direction. ‘Look! He’s staring at you, Sutjai.’ She nodded towards the rear, where the man with the white teeth and blue-black beard was singing on at the top of his voice and clapping his hands in rhythm without the least concern for the quality of his performance. ‘Let’s go, Jampa,’ Sutjai whispered, not daring to turn to look at him. ‘Where to?’ ‘Home.’ ‘How come? Weren’t we supposed to go out for a stroll on Barn Rai hill?’ ‘Not tonight. I’m tired and sleepy. Besides, I haven’t finished preparing the things for tomorrow’s meritmaking. I’m afraid Auntie’ll give me hell if she finds out.’ She started walking slowly and felt her legs shake and her heart pound as she walked past him. Jampa, grumbling, followed her. When she reached the gate of Headman Phoon’s house, she turned and looked back. ‘Oh, no!’ ‘What is it now?’ Sutjai said crossly. THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

22 ‘The bearded guy’s following us again,’ Jampa said in an overly startled voice. ‘And he’s smoking, too.’ ‘That’s his privilege, and the paths in Park Khlong have no owners.’ ‘This has nothing to do with paths, Sutjai. It has to do with people.’ There was only a few hundred yards from Headman Phoon’s house to theirs. The path was lined on both sides with mango, jackfruit and banana plantations, and a few houses here and there which were still brightly lit. Both girls knew that, so long as they kept to the path, they were safe, but as soon as they reached the large krathorn tree at the junction where a side trail went down to the river, Jampa had an idea. ‘Let’s go by the riverside,’ she said. ‘This way we’ll know whether he’s following us or not.’ ‘Let him be,’ Sutjai told her. ‘What is there to be afraid of anyway? This is our home and since I was born I’ve never heard of people here being eaten alive by any bearded bandit, let alone that Janthakho-rop of yours.’ Although her mouth said this, her feet followed Jampa down the trail. As they reached the riverside, they turned and looked back. The red glow of a cigarette and a torso in a Chinese loose-fitting shirt showed themselves at the entrance of the trail leading to the water’s edge. ‘Wasn’t I right?’ Jampa told her friend. ‘He’s really following us.’ ‘So – so, what do we do now?’ MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

23 ‘Nothing, just leave it to me.’ Her words implied competence, but she looked nervous. ‘Keep on walking. Don’t pay attention to him. Pretend he isn’t here. Then let’s see what he’ll do next.’ Well, he didn’t do anything next, except follow in their footsteps on his long legs at his leisure. He didn’t call out or cough to attract their attention as most men do in the presence of attractive women. They both heard him hum some ballad, but so out of tune and out of step it jarred their ears. They could only catch the phrase, ‘O my beloved’, and then he fell silent, probably unable to remember how the song ended. They walked past swards of lemon grass and thickets of euphorbia along the sandy bank now covered with wet pebbles, and soon came to a white expanse of fine dry sand which sloped down to the shallow and cool stream of the Ping river. At last, Jampa sought Sutjai’s hand to make her stop. ‘Look towards the river and act unconcerned,’ she whispered. But this time, as soon as both girls stopped walking, he caught up with them. ‘You walk as if you’re following a buffalo.’ He laughed. ‘Or is it as if you’re fleeing from a ruffian?’ Jampa heard her own voice, which she meant to sound haughty, coming out amazingly weak and strained. ‘What is it to you?’ she asked. It gave her a start when she turned round to see the white teeth and blue-black beard towering over her. THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

24 ‘Well, seeing you two walking in the dark like this – Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?’ ‘Why should we be afraid of ghosts?’ She turned and looked at Sutjai, who refused to turn back from where she had been told to stand. ‘It’s people we’re afraid of.’ ‘Meaning me, right?’ He put his arms on his hips and expanded his chest. ‘Look at me! Take a good look! If you’re afraid of a person like me, then what other kind of person is it that you’re gonna love?’ To such a question, Jampa had no ready answer. She looked at him, then turned and went to Sutjai again. ‘What do you think? Come on, say something,’ she whispered. But without answering a single word, Sutjai lowered her head, clapped a hand over her mouth and, turning round, ran straight to a log dimly visible amongst the swards of lemon grass of the riverside ahead and sat down on it. ‘Hey, what’s the matter with her? Is she crying, laughing or what?’ The stranger scratched his head. Jampa looked at her friend, turned to look at him again, and sighed. The suspicion she had had since the beginning had now been confirmed. ‘Why do you want to know?’ She stared hard at him. ‘Because I’ll be sad till the day I die if I know she cried because of me,’ he said. ‘Did you know we quarrelled this afternoon?’ ‘Quarrelled? You’ve just arrived in Park Khlong, you just met her today and you quarrelled with her?’ The MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

25 expression on her face showed she was truly amazed. ‘What happened?’ ‘Nothing much.’ The man laughed again. ‘She invited me to celebrate the New Year with her, so I offered to take her anklet.’ ‘Bah!’ ‘What a popular word this is! It seems to be on everybody’s lips here. Anyway, I still like Park Khlong.’ She raised her head and looked at him with interest. ‘Where on earth do you come from?’ ‘From wherever I go, from Chiangmai to Park Narm Pho, from Phijit to Phitsanuloak, from Sukho-thai to Bangkok...’ ‘I see. So you must be from the Yom valley?’ ‘No, I’m from around here. Haven’t you ever heard of Ruen of Wang Khaem? Well, this is him in the flesh. Timber and tinder traders, packet-boat operators and likei troupes know me well.’ ‘You’re a likei actor!’ Jampa exclaimed, raising both hands to her bosom and stepping closer. ‘Oh, now I know why I’ve been feeling you look like my Prong.’ ‘Who’s Prong?’ ‘The famous likei actor of Park Narm Pho – my husband.’ ‘The Lord help you!’ ‘No one can help me. Only one year, and I had to take my child back home.’ ‘Alas, I’m only a trader, not a likei actor at all. Trading THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

26 lumber, tinder, catechu∗ and tobacco’s my occupation, not singing or dancing for a living.’ ‘Even then, it’s okay. The story still applies.’ ‘What story?’ ‘The story between you and Mutjalin, er – Sutjai, of course.’ ‘I see. Well, go on.’ ‘Just now, you wanted to know why she ran away to sit silently over there, hand over mouth, right?’ The man nodded. ‘Well, why don’t you go and look at her with your own eyes? But I do believe she isn’t crying. There’s no crying in Mutjalin’s part. I think she’s just being shy.’ ‘Why should she be shy with me?’ ‘Why not? Suppose you’re Janthakho-rop or else, the bandit chief.’ ‘But I’m just a trader,’ he protested again. ‘I trade tinder, catechu, tobacco, honey, beeswax...’ ‘Never mind that. Let’s forget for a while you’re a trader. Now, you’re Janthakho-rop. I’ve got it. Let’s start from the scene when Mo-ra hands the sacrificial knife to the bandit chief. ‘Janthakho-rop dies.’ ‘Janthakho-rop comes back to life.’ ‘Janthakho-rop continues his journey.’ ‘Janthakho-rop meets Mutjalin’– You see, my memory’s still good – Mo-ra and the bandit chief, Mutjalin and Janthakho-rop, Janthakho-rop and Mo-ra. Ah, I’m glad I ∗ A hard, brown substance obtained from a variety of Asiatic trees and shrubs, used as an astringent in medicine, and for dyeing, tanning, etc. MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

27 remember it all, from the book and from the performance on stage. No one can forget my dear Prong, especially when he played the part of the bandit chief – er, no, I mean Janthakho-rop.’ ‘So you’re Mo-ra?’ the stranger mumbled. ‘Yes, I’m Mo-ra. But sometimes I’m Mutjalin. To be one or the other isn’t important. What I’m trying to tell you is that when the female character is shy, the leading male character has to woo her.’ ‘Woo her?’ ‘That’s right, woo her. You understand the word ‘woo’, don’t you? You have to win her bashfulness over so the story can come to a happy ending.’ ‘A happy ending—’ ‘That’s right, a happy ending.’ ‘Confound it! The overture of the likei hasn’t started yet and I’ve no idea which character I can be. I’m no likei actor, you know.’ ‘You must choose. Either the bandit chief or Janthakhorop. You choose or you lose. I’m fed up with you. You’re slow as molasses, not like my dear Prong.’ ‘Is your dear Prong fast on the draw, then?’ ‘It took him one hour to win me over as his wife, and ten seconds flat to kick me out of his life.’ Laughter came out through his white teeth and from behind his blue-black beard, so loud and so long that Jampa turned and stared at him in a huff. ‘What’s so funny?’ THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

28 ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that I may be faster than that? Maybe I can make up my mind before the presentation is over.’ Jampa shook her head. ‘No way. One likei actor’s more than enough anyway. Maybe I misjudged you. A man like you has nothing in common with my dear Prong. It’s funny, actually. You and I have been living in different corners of the world and we met half a second ago, and yet I feel like we’ve always known each other, like I’ve seen you or met you before.’ Her child-like openness made him feel like answering in kind. Right then, Jampa looked anxious. She went on speaking: ‘I don’t know what happened this afternoon, but all the same, what is there between the two of you that makes you behave like Janthakho-rop and Mutjalin? Let me ask you frankly: what do you want from her?’ ‘I’d like us to understand each other a little.’ Jampa looked deep in thought. ‘A little?’ She stroked her chin. ‘A little? Well, that won’t do for Janthakho-rop and Mutjalin. Anyway, go ahead, you have my permission.’ She spoke as if she were Sutjai’s close relative or chaperone, though she was only two or three years older than her. ‘You’ve my permission, but be quick about it, and don’t press your advantage too far. Auntie Khlaeo is as fierce as a tigress.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Sutjai’s aunt.’ ‘Fierce as a tigress?’ MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT

29 ‘Yes, but she’s sort of a tigress in repose. If you know how to cope with her, you can ride on her back, but if you make a wrong move, she’ll crunch your head to bits.’ She stared at him again and sighed. ‘You do look like my dear Prong, like Janthakho-rop, except that you’re more of a man. That’s why I felt you looked like him – no, I mean, like the bandit chief. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. There are many virtuous bandits, bandits with hearts of gold like Angkulimana∗.’ ‘Perhaps I’d qualify as your new Prong, wouldn’t you think?’ ‘Bah! You must be kiddin’,’ Jampa chided. ‘Women in this village have only the word ‘Bah!’ in their mouths. An incorrigible habit, it seems.’ Again, his white teeth flashed above his blue-black beard. ‘But Park Khlong women haven’t killed anybody yet,’ Jampa retorted, ‘and don’t you forget it. No one in the world will replace my dear Prong. But then, there’s no one like you, either.’ ‘Don’t trust men too quickly,’ he cautioned. ‘Whatever you say, I’m a good judge of people.’ She stopped and examined him from every angle. ‘I’m certain I’m right.’ The stranger moved closer, one hand stretched out. ‘Tell me how it is you’re taking my side even though you and I have just met.’ ‘Because –’ Jampa moved away as if she knew what he ∗ A disciple of the Buddha THE FIELD OF THE GREAT | MALAI CHOOPHINIT

30 was up to. ‘Because – er – to tell you the truth, I’d like to have you as a member of this village.’ ‘I’d like that too.’ He moved closer. ‘But how should I go about it?’ ‘Ask Mutjalin – Ow! You are faster than my dear Prong, you know – Ask Mutjalin. Hey, stop that! – You ask her, the same way my dear Prong asked me.’ Jampa laughed one last time, then dodged to one side and raced up the bank before his groping hand could reach her.

Malai Choophinit (1906–1963), whose journalistic career spanned 37 years, was a top editor and master writer of his time, but by all accounts he cut the unas‐ suming figure of a hack. A slim, slow‐spoken and con‐ trolled man who dressed casually, loved jungle outings, big‐game hunting and boxing, and played traditional string instruments, he read voraciously, both in Thai and in English, had a phenomenal capacity for work, slept few hours, drank coffee, chain‐smoked – and died of lung cancer at age 57. Because he wrote frantically and could literally write a whole newspaper all by himself, he went through his writing life with a gar‐ land of pen names around his neck – more than thirty of them. He wrote thousands of articles and editorials, thirty plays for the theatre, perhaps a dozen more radio and television plays, some five hundred short stories and nearly fifty novels.

MALAI CHOOPHINIT | THE FIELD OF THE GREAT