the story of jan darra | utsana phleungtham

the story of jan darra UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

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the story of jan darra TRANSLATED FROM THE THAI BY MARCEL BARANG

© THAI MODERN CLASSICS Internet eBook edition 2008 | All rights reserved Original Thai edition, Rueang Khong Jan Darra, 1966

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

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To old friends and all adults during the writer’s childhood

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

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A word from the author This is the writer’s first novel and he must insist that his work of fiction is unsuitable for kids and most offensive to sanctimonious pricks.

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1 Jan Darra – that’s my name, so let me introduce myself as the owner of this weird story, as I’m sure we’ll be keeping each other company for quite a while, unless, that is, something or other happens to me. When I say ‘something or other’, I mean that there are two or more possibilities. That’s right! At least two things could happen to me: either madness or death. Death, I say! Death is worthy of respect. Why do I idly mention it as a possibility? Are there people who can predict when they’ll die, except perhaps the terminally ill? In my experience, everybody forgets about death or dies unawares. And yet, there are; indeed, there are many who can. Theirs is more than a prediction: they are certain; they have worked out the time of their death within a split second, even though they are neither seers foolhardy enough to swear that they can predict the future accurately, nor critically ill patients who have an appointment with the Reaper and are waiting for it, fully conscious and coldblooded enough to ask their evening-shift nurse for a last opportunity to admire a young woman’s body and soul, and neither are they undertakers greedy enough to earn a living out of their own corpses. There are, there are for sure, and there have been plenty of them. Who else, but those who commit suicide? But I’m getting carried away, when ‘at least two things’ means there could THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

6 be more than two. Indeed! Apart from being mad or committing suicide, there are other possibilities, such as dying of… What! Death again? That’s right! In this vile world, apart from birth, which perpetuates the life cycle, is there anything more common than death? Well, besides suicide, there’s death from natural causes, of which there are many, for example sickness or heart attack, and from all kinds of accidents. For some who die like this, we say that they’ve run out of luck. (This statement is somewhat ambiguous: when you run out of luck, do you go and pay for your sins in hell, or do you enjoy bliss in heaven? As to the question of who goes where, those who are left behind should know.) For some, we say that they’ve reached the end of their tether, which is a great consolation for those who are left behind. Besides death, there are many other possibilities that might prevent me from staying with you until the end of this story. For instance, something might happen that could change my attitude to life in this world so that I’d feel delighted with the life I’m now leading, and the pent-up feelings that I’m eager to pour out to someone would simply disappear. There are still many other eventualities, but I think I’ve given you enough examples already. All the same, I want you to know that, even though there was a time when I wished to die several times a day, I’ll never kill myself. I’ve come to understand and thoroughly appreciate the truth that there’s no way you can escape from all your troubles in life through such a method.

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7 Once you’ve killed yourself, even though you’re already dead, you still have to go through similar suffering in the world of oappartika∗, and must endure torments for I don’t know how many hundreds or thousands of years before you can be reborn into your next life. Talking about oappartika, I’d like everyone to be aware of such a world, because it might be of benefit to our society to keep in mind that none of our actions, whether private or public, can ever escape the attention of the so-called oappartika. Knowing that one day soon we’ll be among those watching the people left behind may make us feel more ashamed when we do evil. Who are ‘those’? Call them deities, ghosts, ghouls or phantoms or whatever you wish: they are all there in the world of spontaneous rebirth. If we chance to meet once again some time in the future, I may have more to tell you about these invisible entities in hell as well as in heaven – especially in hell, which I’m particularly anxious to find out about since I’m aware that the time is near when I’ll no longer be able to avoid it.

Death, suicide and now spontaneous rebirth – oh my, I’m really rambling, aren’t I. But I trust you’ll understand something of my background from these musings.

All right then, my name is Jan Darra. I was born in the heart of this great City of Angels. My first name was given to me by the man I used to call my father. The last ∗

Spiritual entities born without progenitors through spontaneous rebirths due to past deeds – according to Hindu-influenced Buddhist lore

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

8 name I thought up myself much later and it’s properly registered in the census. Please don’t pay attention to my surname, because most of my life has been full of surprising twists ever since I was born – and even before I was born, for that matter.

I was born when my mother was already dead. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But listen to me first. The midwife who took me out of the womb hadn’t realised that my mother, who had gone through an unusually arduous and protracted labour, was already dead. The person that went by the name of my father was furious at me and has hated me ever since. He never made a mystery of it, even though he wasn’t normally given to showing his feelings, and everybody in the district knew about it, everybody except me because I was still utterly naive.

Anyhow, shouldn’t I thank him for going to the trouble of bringing me up even though he absolutely hated my guts? At first, I was grateful, in spite of his constant scolding and cruelty to me, but when I was old enough to know what was what between him and me, I stopped thinking that way.

‘That damn boy!’ That’s how he’d call me, and it became a habit of his as well as something familiar to my ears as far back as I can remember. I believe he referred to me like that from the moment I was born. To tell you the truth, I never felt offended or hurt, probably because I was so used to it. The phrase stuck to his tongue and to my ears and lost its edge. I remember that it did rankle a UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

9 little bit, though. ‘That damn boy!’ ‘That damn boy!’

When I heard that, sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t call me ‘That damn son’, because, no matter what, I was his son. If only he had called me ‘That damn son’ just once, I’d have been more than a little pleased, but never did I hear him call me so. Apart from his anger and hatred for me, he also despised me – more than the dogs he raised, which he called ‘his three sons’. As soon as I was old enough to start practicing the only in-house athletic game that he was addicted to, something happened that made him change his mind and call me ‘damned’∗ for short as a form of abuse suitable to my age. He used that word with me for the first time and then threw me out of his house in the middle of the night. But that’s another weird story, which I’ll tell you later.

By now you must have gathered why I was named ‘Jan’. You know that when a child is born, the birth must be notified and the child given a name so that he or she can go to school, do his military service or at any rate pay taxes, and finally be registered as dead. As I had to have a name, it had to be thought up for me and that’s usually the duty of the child’s father who, if he can’t come up with one, will hasten to ask a senior monk or some other notable whom he respects to help give the child a name. But in this case, the father named the child himself. The question automatically came to his mind, ∗

Janrai, literally, in Thai

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10 ‘What shall I call him?’ The personal pronoun that stuck to his tongue switched immediately to the specific noun, ‘that damn…’ – ‘How’s that for a name, Janrai, ‘Damned’? Hell no, the district office will never stand for it.

Well then, let’s call him Jan and be done with it.’ So I was named Jan, and given his ancient family name, Witsanan – Jan Witsanan.

But had I been named Janrai Witsanan, I’d be more than a little pleased.

‘His Lordship, His Lordship works at the Interior Ministry…’ The song had many lines, but this is all I can remember. It must’ve been the hit song of some opera when I was a child still playing with toys. Children all over town were singing it at the top of their lungs, and as I was a thoroughly modern child myself, I was the owner of the voice that bawled out this song in the lane leading to our house, but none of the children of Bangkok was more unfortunate than I in liking this song. I remember one evening sauntering around the entrance of our compound, a pack of textbooks under my arm, and singing lustily.

(You must be wondering what kind of school I was attending that let me go back home so late. Actually, school had been over since afternoon, but the route that took me back home was somewhat winding. If I didn’t linger to play marbles, toss pictures or coins, or engage in whatever other seasonal activity near the quarry at UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

11 Tha Tian, I went to play football at Sanarm Chai or else jumped naked into Lort Canal and frolicked in the water or else went to play with my friends in front of the Barn Mor theatre, and so on. I’d have a good time and, when I started to feel hungry, I’d return home, which is why I arrived late.)

I had finished singing the song but hadn’t yet reached the house, which is in a very large compound, so I started singing it all over again. I had hardly hollered ‘His Lordship, His Lordship…’ when my head exploded and blood spurted out. I had been hit by a large porcelain teacup thrown by my father from the veranda and I hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all worried about the gash in my head, my father launched into a violent diatribe and lengthy exposition of the reasons why he had thrown a cup at Master Jan’s head. I can’t remember the details. In a nutshell, he claimed that I was singing that song to mock him. I had known for quite some time that he was a nobleman, addressed as His Lordship, but it was only that evening that the significance of his title fully dawned on me and that I also realised beyond any doubt how much my father hated me. I wept only for the latter reason, but nobody was aware of this.

I knew that my mother had died because she had given birth to me. Oh yes, it was common knowledge, because my father never let me forget it when he berated me. He believed that it was my fault and made me admit to myself that it was so. I couldn’t yet distinguish THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

12 between truth and alleged truth. It was perfectly evident to all that I was motherless because my mother had died in order to give birth to me. Everybody knew this to be true so I had to believe it as well and admit that it was my fault. Though I was still very young, I realised how serious such a crime was. I didn’t know the word ‘matricide’ then, but I did feel that my crime was of that magnitude. There was nothing more terrible than making one’s mother die, and everyone who commits a crime must be punished; that’s what I was told, but I hadn’t the faintest idea of how I’d be punished for causing my mother’s death. Even though my father often proclaimed me guilty in his loud diatribes against me, nobody came to arrest me, send me to jail and put me to death, like all the murderers that were talked about in those days, such as Mrs Kim Lai, who had skewered her husband’s head with a chisel, or Boon Pheng, who had put the bodies of his victims in metal boxes. As for myself, who had caused my mother’s death, I was still at large. I was constantly aware of the gravity of my crime and that I should be punished accordingly. Therefore, at home and at school, however much I was caned over some misdemeanour or however much my father berated me, I took it all without crying, and when I really couldn’t stand it anymore, I let the tears flow silently.

Even when I sustained a deep gash down to the bone from playing boisterously, I could countenance that too.

So much so that everybody said I had a heart of stone, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

13 and some went as far as calling me a heartless child.

Nobody knew that I mixed that original crime of mine with every punishment I received for my mistakes and with each pain I suffered. ‘You deserve it: you made your mother die,’ I told myself every time.

But when my head sustained a long gash, it wasn’t the same any more. I was startled and hurt when that cup was hurled at my head, but I was many thousand times more startled and hurt when I realised simultaneously the extent of my father’s hate. I knew there and then what my retribution was. That was it! That was the punishment I thought I was exempted from! In fact, I had been receiving it all along from day one. The retribution I had to pay for causing my mother’s death was that I had become a child without a father as well. While I was standing there with blood gushing out of my head, face up and weeping loudly, it wasn’t my father I was seeing any longer. Instead, it was some Lordship or other, who stood scolding behind the railing of the veranda of my mother’s house.

I must’ve been so scared, so carried beyond myself, that I lost my mind. From the very minute I realised I had never had a father since I was born, I did what sporting circles call a marathon: I went on a weeping marathon, and a noisy one at that, sometimes hushed, sometimes loud, sometimes only loud enough to be heard in the house, sometimes so loud it could be heard by the whole neighbourhood, depending on my strength and mood. I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

14 felt my whole body turn into a deep hole, and at the same time all the old memories of my ‘father’ crowded into that hole and filled it up. The myriad things he had done to me which I couldn’t understand or had misunderstood kept overflowing to the point that I almost choked – or almost vomited would be more accurate. I now understood all that he had done to me and now could clearly see that he had behaved towards me in ways that showed that he was not my father! I was startled at the utter loneliness that I felt, as if I had suddenly found myself alone in the world.

Then the nostalgia of my mother, whom I had never known, completely overtook my heart.

‘Mo–ther!’ I yelled out this one word, and then refused to do anything but weep loudly and weep nonstop. The more he chided and threatened me, the louder I cried.

He grabbed my old friend the whip, came down from the house and thrashed me indiscriminately with all his strength. He’d certainly have thrashed me to death had Aunt Waht not come to protect me by taking me in her arms. She took me away to nurse my wounds, the gash on my head as well as the whelps from the whip. I never stopped weeping. I wouldn’t eat, I wouldn’t talk, I just went on crying, and when at dusk he shouted at me and threatened to lock me up in the greenhouse if I didn’t stop, I still wouldn’t.

The greenhouse was an empty building near the compound wall at the back of the main house. It stood apart from the main house and the rows of smaller dependent UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

15 houses. All the children in the compound and even some adults were scared of it. This dim and isolated dwelling used to house the remains of my mother’s ancestors and I was told that the last time it had been used was for the merit-making ceremony over my mother’s body.

When he saw that I was bent on pursuing my weeping marathon, he ordered a male servant and a female servant to grab hold of me and take me to the greenhouse. I don’t know whether or not he saw it, but I walked on my own ahead of the servants, still crying all the way.

As soon as the door of the greenhouse was closed and locked, the evening twilight turned to total darkness.

‘Poor Master Jan…’ I heard the female servant mutter sympathetically before the two of them left. Though she definitely expressed her concern for me, it’s possible that I didn’t hear her words clearly or don’t remember them clearly, but I’m sure of the last expression – Master Jan. Though His Lordship, my father, despised and hated me and treated me cruelly and contemptibly, I was ‘Master Jan’ in the house at all times, and there was no way for him to go back on this. So far as I know and remember, he never interfered with this title of mine, whether in front of me or even behind my back. It is strange indeed that he didn’t even think of removing it for good as it was the only remaining indication that I was the son of the owner of the house.

There were plenty of children in the house, but only

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16 one other was called Khun∗, and my father had bestowed that title on her himself – but I’ll tell you about this later.

After the door was closed and the two servants had left, I groped my way in the dark to the platform where coffins were usually laid. I collapsed against it and carried on crying. You might think I wasn’t afraid, but I was almost scared to death, and yet there was nothing I could do to prevent myself from acting this way. I had been unable to control myself since I had walked ahead of the servants to this place. Why this was so I don’t know, just as I don’t know either why I couldn’t stop weeping. Maybe I was doing it out of a strong sense of denial or compensation or provocation. Let those of you who are experts in psychology make your own diagnoses.

The greenhouse was entirely made of slats and rails. A long time ago, I had often climbed the rails to look through them and every time I had done so had hoped to see my mother and it made me feel at once scared and brave. At first, when the door was locked, I felt that it was pitch dark as if I had entered a large box, but after I sat there and cried for a while, I became used to the darkness and the longer I sat moping, the more my impression changed as it seemed the darkness was receding to the point that I could vaguely see the dim structure of the interior, and the longer I gazed at it, the more I felt it was moving and could turn into something ∗

In this context, ‘Master’ for a boy, ‘Miss’ for a girl

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17 which the frightened part of my heart didn’t want to see.

That’s when my weeping grew louder. In the dark, the sound of my own crying kept me company but in my heart it was my mother who kept me company, as I had never thought of her as a ghost. I always felt that she was someone I was desperately eager to meet but who happened to have been absent ever since I was born. But now, even if she was a ghost, I wished her to come, to be here fast and keep me company before someone else’s ghost arrived. Previously, though I never had a mother, I still had a father to cherish in my heart, but now that I didn’t even have a father, I turned to look for my mother again, hoping from the bottom of my heart to depend on her for everything. I knew it was wishful thinking, I knew it was a pipe dream, but I still hoped, I hoped like I had never hoped before and like I’ll never hope again in my life.

I’ve no idea how much time went by till I saw my mother come in.

Whether you believe it or not is up to you, but Mother came to see me when I was twelve.

Even if you don’t believe that there are ghosts in this world, you and I have nothing to argue about, because when Mother visited me that night, she was no ghost.

There was no warning signal or sound such as the ringing of a temple bell, the howling of a dog or anything like that. There was only the darkness and stillness of the night and the peaceful turmoil which shrouded THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

18 my heart and my mind. The only sound that could be heard then was my own sobbing. The darkness and silence which covered me like a thick, black mosquito net tore into a dim chasm right in front of me, as if someone had lit a torch and entered a cave and was coming closer yet still unseen. The tiny light became bigger and clearer till I finally saw the figure of a woman standing in front of me, like an outline roughly drawn against the glow of a candle. The only part I could see clearly was the face, which looked exactly like the face on the picture which hung in the main house. Mother had soft features, beautiful and sad, framed by hair that went down to her neck.

The mother I was meeting then looked very much alive, and she could move faintly. She looked at me as if she meant to comfort me or to ask me to do something, and then vanished. I felt like she had just died before my very eyes and at the same time my eardrums were shattered by a deafening roar.

It was my own.

I was calling her at the top of my voice and then I started to address her, shouting ceaselessly. I told her I felt more sorry than anyone else in the world that I had caused her death and I also told her that I now knew she wasn’t angry with me, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to see me right then. I went on shouting for as long as I could think of things to tell her. If I addressed her loudly it was because I was afraid she couldn’t hear me, as I had the feeling that her departure this time had UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

19 taken her much farther away than ever before.

How long I talked to my mother in this way I’ve no way of knowing. I learned later that after I had been quiet for a long while, Aunt Waht took it upon herself to have someone unlock the door of the greenhouse and take me out. It was around one in the morning at that time. I was found lying unconscious and delirious on the mortuary platform, my body burning with fever.

I was sick for nearly a month and spent all of that time lying in bed and refusing to talk to anyone. I must have entertained all kinds of crazy thoughts during that time (my vocal cords were rather weak as well) and from then on I turned into what adults call a broody child without even being aware of it. I only remember that since that momentous event took place, the people in the compound and in the lane leading to it were somewhat in awe of me, not to mention the children, who never missed an opportunity to show me respect. Not only was sitting and crying alone in the dark in the greenhouse beyond anyone’s stamina but to meet one’s mother and talk loudly to her in the middle of the night on the very platform where her dead body once had been, well, that deserved all the medals of valour you could find! But whenever children or adults wanted to ask me about what had taken place in the greenhouse that night, I absolutely refused to say anything because I believed it was a sacred matter no one should interfere with.

As for His Lordship, he took no interest in me for a THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

20 long time, as the ratio of his disgust towards me had greatly increased. It seems that he had a new strategy in his hate for me. Speaking in the manner of Chinese chronicles, you could say that he moved to the defensive by building up an eighteen-level treacherous approach to him in the form of utter indifference. But I doubt he was in any way aware that I was more than indifferent to him, because I considered myself a real orphan: Mother had left me forever and as for my father, he was as dead as the uncremated dead.

Actually, it’s totally inappropriate for children to think of their father in this manner but in my case the story had already happened so it might as well proceed, and in any case this isn’t an edifying tale for youngsters, so I suggest you just keep on paying attention to what I’ve got to tell.

I was then in the first year of secondary school and for the first time failed in the final examination. The old people in the house, one or two relatives on my mother’s side who were still living in the compound, rightly took this to be a bad omen. They were worried that there was something wrong, because it was unconceivable a good student like me would suddenly fail an exam just like that. There was talk of sending me to a boarding school – at first Wachirarwut and then Barn Somdeit. But as I said before, the traps my father had set up for me had eighteen levels. ‘It’s his own doing: nothing I can do about it,’ was the verdict that came out of that treacheUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

21 rous labyrinth of his. So, I had to go on studying with my friends at the Wat Pho school and that’s how I began to turn into the oldest student in the establishment. It took me two years to go through each year of secondary schooling and by the time I was seventeen, I still hadn’t finished school. In those days, the Wat Pho school had only three years of secondary studies.

I left before the end of my last year. Another serious event took place that year. The older I was, the greater the trouble I was in – and I had to quit in mid term. I’ll tell you about this later.

I’ve mentioned to you no less than twice already that there were many children in my house and I don’t know whether this has puzzled you. And I’ve also casually introduced Aunt Waht to you, so I think you may have some interest in her. Now, it’s time to tell you about the many children and about Aunt Waht herself, which means telling you the story of His Lordship, my official father.

But first, please allow me to make a suggestion. Since you already know that I am what you might call an ill bird that fouls its own father’s nest, I’d like to suggest that you refrain from scolding me just now because I still have so many more things for you to condemn. It would be better if you held back for a while and best of all, I think, if you held back until the story is over before settling your score with me. This could save much of your energy because by then you may well have decided THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

22 to wipe the slate clean.

I’d also like you to notice that the stories I’m about to tell you regarding my father are stories I’ve pieced together since I was only seventeen, on the year the second impressive crisis took place in my life.

In the old days, there were few associations and clubs, and none were developed enough to be acknowledged venues for wedding ceremonies. Besides, there was no Cultural Council yet. It was thus unavoidable that the wedding of my mother and father be held at my mother’s house. The bride was a rich heiress even though she wasn’t quite twenty. This was because her parents had long passed away, and she was under the care of an uncle. The groom had only brought with him a few large pieces of luggage besides his ancient family name and lordly title. He was about thirty at the time. As the biographies of self-made tycoons are wont to say, he had only a mat and a pillow with him, except that in his case the bamboo mat was intricately woven and the pillow made of porcelain. The wedding arrangements were duly approved by the senior relative – the uncle already mentioned. It seems that it was this uncle who acted as the matchmaker for the two as well. When my mother died, my father was extremely sorrowful and expressed his grief in the following manner: first, as soon as he saw me in the delivery room, which had just turned into a mortuary, he reviled me by calling me ‘that damn child’; second, he made it known to one and all in the house UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

23 that he’d never marry again; third, he mourned his wife for five years and it was understood that he wanted everyone in the house to follow suit (the body was kept at the temple for five years before it was cremated); and fourth, because of his grief he no longer had any heart for work, so he resigned and lived off a pension at home.

He also undertook to exercise his rights as the inheritor of his late wife’s estate. Through a variety of psychological pressures, he forced the old occupants of the house to leave one after the other, and only those who were subservient to him were allowed to remain – he did this with everyone, the servants as well as his wife’s relatives, and after five years the senior relative and erstwhile matchmaker fled back to his native town of Phijit. (That’s when my father decided to have his wife’s body cremated.)

Close intimacy should govern the relationship between the head of a family and its other members, especially the female ones. Therefore, be they old or new servants or even his wife’s relatives, be they of age or under age or a little over age, if he fancied them, he’d just go ahead and gratify himself. When children were born, they were brought up according to the status of their mothers. That’s why there were so many children in the compound, and it was taken for granted that any children who weren’t born to resident couples were his natural offspring.

His other activity, which seemed to be based on an ambiguous principle, was that he liked to support desTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

24 titute children who had no relatives and needed protection – regardless of their age, but he only chose girls. In some cases, he even offered money to make sure they came under his care. When these girls entered adolescence, it was the duty of each and every one of them to be serviced by him regularly in his private chambers.

It was in such a carnal environment that Master Jan grew up. Henceforth, if you feel I’m showing myself a little too precocious in this lascivious playground, may I count on some sympathy from you?

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2 Now, it’s time to tell the story of Aunt Waht.

There is probably no need to tell you that Aunt Waht was related to me on my mother’s side. Originally, she didn’t live in this splendid residence. My mother’s family had its roots in Phijit, where it had accumulated its wealth through trade before gradually uprooting over several generations from that faraway northern provincial town to settle down as titled well-to-do in the capital. By the time of my grandfather’s generation, only a few relatives were left there to look after the family interests that accrued from land and various businesses, but regular visits were exchanged every year between Bangkok and Phijit. Despite their old age, the Phijit relatives undertook the long and arduous journey to the capital, and the Bangkok relatives in turn went upcountry to pay them a visit, and this went on until about the time I was born, when the relationship trailed away.

If someone thinking idly were to blame me for it, it wouldn’t be wrong, because something did happen and I was part of it, albeit totally unawares. But I’ll tell you about this later.

In any case, regarding the friendly ties between the relatives in the two cities, it could be said that my mother was the last Bangkok resident of her generation to visit Phijit, and in my own time Aunt Waht was the last person THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

26 on the Phijit side to come to Bangkok. Aunt Waht was about the same age as my mother, give or take half a year or so, but they were strikingly different in appearance. My mother was like an elaborate work of art – white-skinned, delicate and dainty – whereas Aunt Waht was like a sanguine creation – dark-skinned, sturdy and shapely.

Picture, if you will, Laweing Wanla∗ and Ursula Andress.

What you should know and remember is that Aunt Waht travelled from Phijit to Bangkok on her own after she learned that my mother had died during delivery.

As soon as she arrived, she went straight to the greenhouse to pay her respects to my mother’s body, and then kept it company round the clock until, after one hundred days, it came time to remove it to the temple. Once this was done, she looked for me for the first time, and found me lying on a filthy mat in a couple of old servants’ house. At the sight of me or of the conditions in which I was being brought up – or because of both, I don’t know – Aunt Waht gave up the idea of going back to Phijit and from then on dedicated herself to looking after me. She stayed with me in that couple’s house until, a year or two later, it was the couple’s turn to fall victim to applied psychological pressure from my father, and Aunt Waht and I were left with the full use of the house. Aunt Waht’s status in the compound was ∗

One of the heroines of Phra Aphaimanee, the masterly lyrical drama of 19th-century poet Sunthorn Phoo. A Lanka princess renowned for her sweet beauty, she will, like Aunt Waht, end her life as a nun.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

27 somewhat peculiar. She was a dear relative of my mother’s as well as the niece of the senior-most relative in the house who had once arranged the wedding of my mother and His Lordship (I’ll hereafter call him Grandpa). But because he was prejudiced against me, His Lordship paid me no heed, and she had to accept to lower herself to my level and stay in a small house for servants. Nevertheless, her real status was in no way diminished in the eyes of everyone in the compound, not even of His Lordship, who couldn’t help but be considerate to her. It could be said that Aunt Waht was a woman of strong character, and it may be this very point that caught His Lordship’s attention eventually. He had probably long pined for her, but out of consideration, had had to wait for the auspicious time, as befitted the schemer that he was. In the meantime, he laid siege to every other woman under his roof, young, old or widowed, as I’ve already told you.

Throughout my motherless infancy, I was deprived of a wet nurse for these reasons. I only had Aunt Waht and her loving care, and I survived babyhood thanks to her personal exertions and to Glaxo powdered milk. And speaking of children and milk reminds me of something right now.

I’ve no idea whether psychologists have paid any attention to the matter, but it really did happen to me – or am I the only one to whom it happened? From my own THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

28 experience, I understand that children raised on tinned milk in the first few months of their lives crave the warmth of their mothers’ breasts. If they are boys, they grow up into men obsessed by the female breast. As for girls, I’ve no idea, but I reckon they have no such problem since they are the owners of these deeply absorbing appendages. Some claim that the obsession with breasts may come about for no reason at all, but in my case, it has always had a strong influence and seems to have played an important part in shaping my destiny, turning my life around to the point of making me feel as miserable these days as a brainless monkey. Well, you’ll soon know about this. Right now, let me tell you a little about how my behaviour was affected when my hankering for the maternal breast turned into a craving for female breasts in general.

At that time, I was about thirteen or fourteen. That night was one of the countless times when my behind had been in touch with my old friend the whip. For what mistake? A piddling one indeed, which His Lordship aptly summed up in the usual apothegm: ‘You ungrateful cur!’ And he said it as if he truly felt concern for me. I was in the habit of wandering out of the compound at night. Actually, I didn’t venture very far but kept to the many lanes and alleys in the vicinity. I was well known in the area, so it was necessary for me to get together with my friends regularly in order to keep the social scene going. That night, I had enjoyed myself so UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

29 much that when I went back home I found the main gate locked, as it was past nine o’clock. So I climbed over the wall at the convenient, isolated spot I always used. But that night, it proved to be my undoing. Familiarity made me as reckless as a foolish puppy. Clutching the top of the wall, I lowered myself along the inner side of the wall, let go and fell right where His Lordship was passing water. I missed his head by a fraction of an inch – that close. He lashed out at me with all manner of indictments: wandering out late at night, climbing the compound wall, pointing the way in to thieves and nearly breaking his neck. You may be wondering how it was that a man of His Lordship’s standing, the owner of the biggest compound in the area, was urinating by the wall at night. Well, it was part of his nightlife, you see – he was on his way to tightening the screws of intimacy with one of the female servants living in that part of the compound. He was probably both angry and embarrassed at finding himself face to face with me on the way, but he managed to make it sound as if he had caught me red-handed behaving as an ungrateful cur, and whipping was the retribution that ensued.

Although Aunt Waht had had to leave me behind when she was requested to move to the main house quite a long time ago, she still considered it her duty, either when I was sick or when she saw the whelps left by the whip, to attend to me in the old small house, regardless of how much this annoyed His Lordship. I lay naked so that she THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

30 could rub in an herbal balm whose formula she had brought from Phijit. When the balm began to dry, she covered me with a silk blanket and that’s when I did something under an impulse I just couldn’t control: I sprung up and planted a kiss on Aunt Waht’s bosom. Her hands stilled and she looked at me questioningly. Her half-puzzled, half-pitiful expression brought tears to my eyes for the first time since I had been released from the greenhouse. I was startled and embarrassed but in the same instant I knew exactly what it was I was longing for in the deepest recesses of my heart, and I lost control of myself again. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I hugged and kissed Aunt Waht, mumbling over and over again: ‘I want to kiss my mother’s breast. I’ve got no mother’s breast to kiss. I want to kiss my mother’s breast… I’ve got no mother’s breast…’ On and on and on.

Finally, Aunt Waht held me at arm’s length, shook me and called out my name to bring me back to my senses – the method we both were familiar with whenever I talked in my sleep or became so emotional that I lost control of myself. The first instance had happened frequently when I was still a child sleeping by her side; the latter, since I had begun to know what’s what. This time around, however, I knew exactly what I was doing and so I cried out: ‘Don’t go yet, Auntie! Please let me stay close to my mother’s breast.’ I begged her time and time again, but she finally got up and walked away. Stunned, despondent and sad, I felt dejection and despair.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

31 Aunt Waht had merely gone to close and bolt the door and she came back. A thrill of sheer rapture as I had never experienced before ran through my whole body, as if the sky had torn itself open to make room for me.

Aunt Waht sat down by my side, stroked my head with a most compassionate expression on her face, then lay down on her side, removed the cloth wrapped around her chest and held me tight, in the same position as I had seen her when she breastfed her baby in the main house a long time ago. I heard her murmur, ‘Here, Jan, have your mother’s breast’. I thereupon turned into a baby suckling her motherly breasts to my heart’s content. I felt so deeply elated that tears rolled down my face again and the bosom in front of me was soaked with both my tears and my saliva.

I thoroughly enjoyed the excitement I was in and felt as if I was drifting into some distant heaven for a long while.

Whether or not it was a long while, it wasn’t long before I became aware of an abnormal development taking place in my body. At first, I felt like I needed to pee, but that wasn’t it. Something was threatening to spurt out and I had no idea what it could be. It was at once scary and thrilling, but it wasn’t the kind of bliss I was looking for.

My nose and mouth went dead; my whole body stiffened.

The words ‘not that… not that… not that…’ reverberated inside my head. This wasn’t what my heart had been seeking from the start. It was like a betrayal perpetrated behind my back. I felt an odd recrudescence of affection THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

32 for Aunt Waht. To say it was a new feeling wouldn’t be quite right. In fact, it was a mixture of old and new feelings, which led to a deeper sense of intimacy with her than had ever been the case. But in the supreme moment of exhilaration and exultation also lurked the evil spirit of shame. I flipped my body to the other side and closed my eyes, like a baby falls asleep as soon as it has its fill of milk. After a while, Aunt Waht got up and went out. I then felt completely awake inside and at liberty to try and understand myself.

I lay engrossed in idle thought until I heard the Indian night watchman in the lane beating the twelve strokes of midnight. I still understood nothing and just caught myself having spent much too much time indulging in nothing but musings about the strangest sensation I had ever known since I was born – that was one thing I was thinking about. And the other was the jerky squirt which was the most blissful and bizarre phenomenon in the world. It was so exciting I couldn’t bring myself to believe that all along I had had a duct for this seminal spring hidden away in my own body. How puzzling, how fascinating, how enticing it all was! Then my mind began to recall all the breasts, naked or covered, I had ever seen in this world, and I proceeded to dwell on those I preferred. In those days, I fancied and yearned for big breasts. The bigger they were, the more they pleased me. If they could’ve been as big as the sky, I’d have been on top of the world.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

33 To round up the story between Aunt Waht and myself that I’ve just told you, I must emphasize most strenuously (in order to help you analyse my behaviour correctly and avoid sullying the reputation of Aunt Waht, whom I most love and respect) that she was like a mother to me in a complex sense, both in terms of gratitude and in terms of social position. In terms of gratitude, as you already know, she had brought me up since I was a hundred days old and she had done so out of the goodness of her heart.

In terms of social status, you’ve just learned incidentally that Aunt Waht had a child of her own and you can guess who the father was. Who else indeed? Aunt Waht was the only woman who, having a natural child with His Lordship, had been called to live with him openly in the main house. This made her the unofficial wife of the owner of this large property. She was respected by everyone in the compound and was acknowledged by the neighbours as its most powerful figure, second only to the owner. This affected me in the sense that, since she was known as my father’s wife, she was considered automatically as my mother, and I accepted her as such with all my heart. I’d like to emphasise at this point that, among the cohort of His Lordship’s consorts, Aunt Waht was the only one I considered as my mother. I had to be strict about this, otherwise I’d have become the child of countless mothers in the compound, including Phum, the cook, who was the fiftyish mother of Khein Krathingthong, my friend, who was slightly older than me.

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34

3 Since I’ve already mentioned that besides me there was another child called Khun in the compound, I think it’s time to introduce her. Her name was Wilaireik, a name eighty-four thousand times more radiant than mine. His Highness Prince Mahitsareit or Something-or-other-reit, whom His Lordship held in the highest esteem, had helped think it up. Wilaireik Witsanan… The last part of the name had been bestowed most graciously and willingly by His Lordship himself, and she was the only natural child to have received such an honour. As for the others, if their mother had a surname they used that surname, but most didn’t, and it was another of His Lordship’s hobbies to think up patronymics during his spare time, which seemed to last longer than twentyfour hours a day. Miss Wilairek was nicknamed Miss Kaeo. She was conceived in Aunt Waht’s womb when I was a little over four years old. Miss Kaeo’s entry into this world was of much interest and concern to Master Jan and has never ceased to be so even up to now. I’ve always felt that she was born out of spite, out of spite for one and all – out of spite for me, for Aunt Waht, for His Lordship, for herself even, and for one or two more persons.

As far as I’m concerned, even to this day I can’t figure out whether she was born to retaliate against me on her UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

35 father’s behalf or for me to take my revenge on His Lordship, my ghoulish father. Father and daughter always and equally hated me as if we had met and known one another in a former lifetime. The oldest evidence of this is two old photographs which have always disturbed me – I don’t really know why. These two pictures stand in their old frames on my desk right in front of me now. Whenever I cast a glance at them, I feel that I’m haunted by a ghost, despite their compelling clarity, though their grain has much faded. As for her, seeing her there …

‘Just as well you managed to hang on to it: you can look at that bastard mug of yours and laugh.’ … and it was the first time too that I was harsh enough to slap the lady and send her sprawling to the floor.

These two photographs have exactly the same background, which shows some multimillionaire’s park somewhere, and you can see a stately residential building just behind, and right in front of all this is Aunt Waht, sitting on a high chair and looking composed and unassuming, and on one side of her is a real dwarf tree growing out of an antique pot and on the other side a porcelain dog in a crouching position. The only difference between the two pictures is that one has a girl of about ten standing to Aunt Waht’s right whereas the other has a boy of fifteen standing to Aunt Waht’s left.

The photo shop, I remember, was on Pahurat Road towards the Barn Mor intersection. The shop’s name began THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

36 with ‘Cha-ya’∗ as was the fashion of photo shops in those days, but I’ve forgotten the full name, which sounded like Cha-ya Kong Beng or something like that.

Aunt Waht’s original intention even before she took the two children up the steep staircase leading to the Chaya-something photo shop, which was located on the deck of a two-storey-high shophouse, was that the two photographs be identical. When it was time to take the picture – just as the Chinese photographer had organised the setting and the poses of the subjects to his satisfaction and was diving under the black cloth behind the camera – the girl Wilaireik, who looked as if she had just thought of something, started to show her hand. Despite all of her mother’s entreaties, she wouldn’t allow the boy Jan the honour of being photographed with them. Lest the outing in the Austin through all of those streets be wasted, the boy Jan had to remove himself from the scene first. Once Miss Kaeo had had her picture taken alone with her mother, the boy Jan returned to stand at the previously assigned spot and had his picture taken alone with Aunt Waht, but a smooth process it wasn’t, because Miss Kaeo stood crying and fretting about while ruefully remonstrating and criticizing her mother in all kinds of ways that hurt Master Jan’s feelings. The last thing she uttered that I remember and will never forget was: ‘He’s not your son, he’s not Father’s son, so why ∗

Cha-ya means ‘shade’, ‘reflection’, ‘photograph’ as well as ‘beautiful woman’ (from the name of the god Sun’s wife and Saturn’s mother).

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

37 should you sit with him?’ That was too much for Aunt Waht, who rose and went to give her a spanking before returning to her seat and having the picture taken properly.

That time, as soon as we were back home, Miss Kaeo hurried out of the car and ran to her father, who was in the anthurium nursery nearby. Aunt Waht walked unhurriedly, holding my hand, and we could see Miss Kaeo talking volubly to her father. As soon as we came to them, Aunt Waht said: ‘I just gave Kaeo a good spanking in front of the Chinese photographer. She behaved so despicably, I don’t know what got into her.’

Father and daughter looked at each other and laughed, then His Lordship took his daughter’s hand and they went into the house without saying a word. On our side, we too exchanged glances. Aunt Waht looked suddenly sad, but I smiled cheerfully because I thought the situation funny: ‘They are in this together, Aunt Waht – I wouldn’t wonder.’ What I said was what I understood, and Aunt Waht took it as such. She hugged me and said soothingly: ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She froze deep in thought for a while, then turned to me and said: ‘Change your clothes and then go back to the photo shop for me, will you.’ She went with me to my room, asked for paper and pencil and sat writing a letter while I changed from my school uniform to casual clothes consisting of a poloneck shirt, a pair of shorts and an old pair of sneakers.

When she was done, she handed over the letter for me to THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

38 take to the photo shop together with a ten-satang coin, which could buy a lot of things in those days, for my service.

The letter was folded width wise and again at the corners, which was how a letter was closed in an emergency in those days – that is, just enough for others to have the decency not to open it. As for me, I had hardly turned my back and taken a few steps before I desperately wanted to read it, but because it was Aunt Waht’s letter, I forced myself to strictly observe proper manners all the way to the Cha-ya photo shop. As soon as I handed it over to the Chinese photographer, I breathed a deep sigh of relief: the letter was out of my hands and out of my yearning. But the photographer wouldn’t allow me to leave; he called me back and asked me to read the letter out to him. I therefore happily obliged him by reading it out loud and clear: ‘Regarding the picture of the boy and me: please change the order to four copies, at whatever extra cost. I’ll come and get them myself.

Should anybody else come for them, do not hand them over.’ I couldn’t but wonder at such a brief and blunt message, so I asked the photographer how many copies Aunt Waht had originally ordered. I was told that she had asked for three copies of each, plus one enlarged version of the picture with the girl.

And it so happened that the day Aunt Waht went to fetch the pictures, I had something to do in the main house and was still hanging around there when she UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

39 came back, so I had the opportunity to see all the photographs. His Lordship ordered a servant to take the enlarged picture of Aunt Waht and Miss Kaeo back to the shop to get it framed separately as it would be hung on a wall in the house. As for the postcard-sized pictures, His Lordship put them on a stool and examined them one by one and then gathered them in his hand. That’s when Aunt Waht said she intended to send a copy of each to her uncle in Phijit, but he objected, taking no heed that I could hear him, that he didn’t think it proper to send a photograph of the boy, for a reason, which I was then unable to understand, that Aunt Waht should know well, and before she could reply, he cut the conversation short by giving her one photograph of herself and Miss Wilaireik and telling her he would take care of all the others, then he got up and walked inside the house.

Aunt Waht didn’t seem unduly disturbed by not being able to send the photograph taken of me to Grandpa as she had intended.

Aunt Waht’s attitude neither surprised nor distressed me, because while His Lordship had been looking at each picture on the stool, I had counted them and was sure that there were only six, that is three of each – and I was never to see them again until two years later, when I noticed the photograph of Aunt Waht with the girl Wilaireik and that of Aunt Waht with the boy Jan in twin frames of beautifully carved wood propped up on a shelf in Grandpa’s house in Phijit. That’s where the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

40 fourth copy of the picture of Aunt Waht and me had gone!

I came to learn much later that His Lordship had burned the three pictures of me on the very day he had claimed he’d take care of them. Aunt Waht understood his way of thinking well. The whole episode showed that he didn’t want any trace of me to be left behind in my mother’s house.

From what I’ve been telling you up to now, you certainly realise as well as I do that His Lordship wasn’t my real father. That’s right: he wasn’t my father at all. I had been certain of it in my heart ever since the day of the incident that led to my being confined to the greenhouse. Even though it was a knowledge which was shaky because it was something I had figured out on my own, I had enough evidence to be certain. Therefore, when the ten-year-old girl let out in so many words that ‘he’s not Father’s son’, I didn’t feel disturbed. I only felt like something was screaming inside me: ‘That’s it!

That’s His Lordship’s confirmation of what I’ve been suspecting all along.’ It was only from her father that Miss Kaeo could have learned bits and pieces of such a dark secret. To me, who was the victim and her real nephew, Aunt Waht still refused to reveal anything, although I kept pestering her about it.

Well, by now, you must be starting to wonder what the indications I had were that pointed to the certainty that he wasn’t my father. Because he hated, despised UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

41 and beat me up so savagely? Not at all. My reasons were much more solid than that: indeed, they had to do with evil. They revolved around the proof I had that if he hated me so madly, it wasn’t over the unbearable loss of his wife. He hated me for reasons of his own, that had to do with his own inner disposition, because if he was my real father and did what he did in good faith, out of grief over the loss of my mother, he wouldn’t have behaved in so demented a way to me and Aunt Waht.

His odd behaviour towards me, which kept flooding back time and time again through the gash that the severe shock I suffered on the day of the greenhouse incident had created, goes back to the time when I was four years old.

How many among you are aware of how old you were when the first event you remember happened? I believe very few people know for certain how far back their first remembrance took place, and I’m one of those selected few. My first memory goes back to age four. Oh, if I dare to be so confident, it’s because I have proof: Miss Kaeo’s age is the authoritative almanac in this case. Miss Kaeo was about five years younger than Master Jan, so we can take this as evidence that my first memory goes back to when I was about four years old. If I can only remember one scene, it’s because that scene was truly unforgettable, and even if my memory is vague, like the dream of a man with a fever, I’ve never been able to dispel it altogether.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

42 The most noticeable thing in the world of a child of that age is the regular succession of days and nights. There is day and then there is night. When the world gets dark, the child soon goes to sleep; when he wakes up, the world is bright as usual. Darkness and then light, following each other ceaselessly… But then it happened that another, unnatural kind of light came and interfered with the normal cycle of darkness and light. That light was yellow and sort of dirty, and it had a sound like gusts of wind blowing nearby. I was on my back looking at the dim light and listening, perplexed, to the sound that was like gusts of wind blowing now fast now slow, and then I realised that in the silence there was an accompanying sound, so familiar to the ear I hadn’t perceived it at first, although it might well have been the first sound I heard. That sound was the hiss of the winding lamp next to the mosquito net. Then it meant the lamp was still lit! Then it wasn’t really daytime! Having thus observed, I further realised that the wind blowing inside the mosquito net was the sound of breathing… and not just a single sound either, because these breathing sounds were competing. Who was it? Under the net besides me was only Aunt Waht. I turned towards her and then sat up at once.

What on earth was going on?

Two grownups, in the state of children taking a bath, were lying in such a naughty way that they deserved a good thrashing. I had never seen such a scene and never UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

43 thought I’d ever see it. This obnoxious sight made me feel feverish and unwell. My real feeling was like the revulsion at having to witness two grownups playing at urinating on each other – and these two grownups were none other than Aunt Waht and my own father.

Aunt Waht was shocked when she saw me sit up and stare, and she made to stop being naughty there and then, but my father was unwilling to do the same. Although Aunt Waht whispered something in a scolding tone, his voice was harsh, the harsher of the two. The words bandied back and forth I couldn’t understand, only that they were quarrelling, and eventually Aunt Waht was the loser. She stopped talking and was unable to make him stop being naughty, even though her body looked stronger than the thin and tall frame of my father. During all this time, he never interrupted his naughty game and never took his eyes off me. I could see clearly the whites of his eyes in the drab light inside the net. He went on with it, and stared at me on and on, and even though Aunt Waht raised her hand to cover her own eyes and face, he didn’t pay the slightest attention to her. By now I was feeling sleepy again so I lay down, and after that I could only see the whites of his eyes. It was then that Aunt Waht stretched her hand and closed my eyes while she whispered with a strange voice: ‘Sleep now, child. There’s a good boy. Go to sleep.’

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44

4 It seems that I fell asleep right away.

The next morning I wasn’t sure whether what I had seen the night before was real or a dream, so I asked Aunt Waht, and for the first time she used her love for me to threaten me – if Jan loved his Auntie and wanted her to stay and keep loving him, he must not talk about this any longer nor mention it to anyone else.

Sure. ‘I love you, Auntie. I’m your good boy. I don’t want you to go back upcountry. I’ll never ever talk about it again.’

But the matter didn’t end there. ‘From now on, you must get used to sleeping alone. You’re a boy, so you mustn’t be afraid of the dark. You must sleep on your own so that when you’re older you can be as brave as Jack, who climbed the bean stalk all the way to the sky to kill the giant living there.’ I didn’t find the argument very convincing, but her ‘if you love your Auntie and want her to stay and keep loving you’ was enough to make me comply.

So it was that from then on I had to sleep under another mosquito net than Aunt Waht’s. Later, Jan the little fellow had another opportunity to practise being brave by being separated from Aunt Waht, for the simple but compelling reason that ‘I’m going up to give you a little brother or sister’. ‘Going up’ meant moving into the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

45 main house. As for me, I had to continue living in the same small house with a young nanny, one of the girls brought up in the compound under His Lordship’s patronage. By then, I was almost a year older and learning fast, so I started to show my hand in a secret battle with the nanny, who had just come to live with me, on her very first night.

‘Secret’ meant I wouldn’t let Aunt Waht know about it, because she strongly intimated to me that even though I now had someone to live with, I should go on sleeping alone. (She had always had a knack for finding out things in advance.) But sleeping alone just didn’t appeal to me. Aunt Waht, as you already know, had all the reasons in the world to make sure I slept on my own when we still lived together. Yet, I couldn’t see how it mattered that I didn’t sleep with other people, and Aunt Waht wasn’t telling me why either. Therefore, I considered myself free to do as I pleased in this matter and I did so without showing any disrespect – that is, discreetly and considerately so that no one knew about it.

As soon as the nanny had set up the two mosquito nets, I grabbed the pillow inside the small net, ducked under the large net and lay down to sleep. Although the nanny protested because she was afraid of being berated by Aunt Waht, I ignored her and finally went to sleep.

From that first night, it was understood between us that two mosquito nets had to be set up but we’d both sleep in the large one. I didn’t have the company of the nanny THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

46 for very long, though. One night, I woke and stoop up to find myself face to face with my father once again. My nanny wasn’t alarmed nor did she feel concern enough to try to stop as Aunt Waht had done. It was His Lordship who turned out to feel embarrassed to the point that he spun around, lying prone like a ruddy crocodile, then lunged at me and pummelled my back and shoulders with a series of punches. He threatened me fiercely to prevent me from crying out and ordered me to go back to my mosquito net. Being a little child who still thought His Lordship was his father, I dared not disobey him, so I grabbed my pillow and ducked out of the net, sobbing all the while. Although he felt embarrassed as Aunt Waht had been the first time, he didn’t forbid me to spread the story about, but it was my own decision to keep quiet about it lest Aunt Waht would learn I had secretly disobeyed her.

On the following night, when it was time to go to bed, I knew enough to stay under my own net. Perhaps out of pity for Master Jan’s trouble to which she had contributed the previous night, my nanny sympathised with my plight and unbidden came and lay down next to me and kept me company till I was asleep. This turned into a regular practice and on the nights when I had trouble finding sleep, Mali, my nanny, would lull me with extraordinary caresses of her own which made it even harder for me to feel drowsy and got me addicted to insomnia.

Don’t ask me for details of how she managed to lull me UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

47 to sleep. I’ll just give you a hint: if she had been my nanny much longer, I’m sure I’d have lost my innocence much sooner than is customary. In a way, it was fortunate that she eloped with a driver at the warehouse about one year after she had become my nanny.

The person who took over from her was selected by Aunt Waht herself from the neighbourhood. Her name was Granny Muan. To call her Granny wasn’t derogatory: she was old, real old, much older than Phum, the cook. She was obviously way past her prime so had no part in the nightly deportments of His Lordship. And strangely enough, I didn’t care one bit for her company at night. She went on taking care of me for long years until it was my turn to sort of take care of her instead.

She died of senility when I was about eleven or twelve, and from then on I stayed on my own in the small house, still under the supervision of Aunt Waht, who took care of whatever needed to be taken care of.

At this point, I’d like to insert a remark relevant to my destiny, which on two occasions had me waking up at night to witness something unusual. The first time, I saw His Lordship, the man who was called my father, and Aunt Waht; the second time, I saw him with Mali. This was the starting point in my life of the frequent repetition of events, especially those happening between His Lordship and me. I once read about a kind of mental or neurological disorder which made the patient have hallucinations in the form of double vision. If you think I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

48 read about it in a textbook, you’re totally mistaken, because I’m not that dedicated. I read it a few days ago in a novel entitled Catch 22. It’s a biting antiwar satire written by the American author Joseph Heller. Not bad, wouldn’t you say, for a third-year secondary student of yore.

‘I see everything twice!’

Pandemonium broke loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions and ringed him in a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the humid breath from their various noses blowing uncomfortably upon the different sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beams of light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks, drew blood from his veins, held anything handy up for him to see on the periphery of his vision.

The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up directly in front of Yossarian and demanded, ‘How many fingers do you see?’

‘Two,’ said Yossarian.

‘How many fingers do you see now?’ asked the doctor, holding up two.

‘Two,’ said Yossarian.

‘And how many now?’ asked the doctor, holding up none.

‘Two,’ said Yossarian.

The doctor’s face writhed with a smile. ‘By Jove, he’s right,’ he declared jubilantly. ‘He does see everything twice.’

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

49 They rolled Yossarian away on a stretcher into the room with the older soldier who saw everything twice and quarantined everyone else in the ward for another fourteen days.

‘I see everything twice!’ the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled Yossarian in.

‘I see everything twice!’ Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink.

‘The walls! The walls!’ the other soldier cried. ‘Move back the walls!’

‘The walls! The walls!’ Yossarian cried. ‘Move back the walls!’

One of the doctors pretended to shove the wall back. ‘Is that far enough?’

The soldier who saw everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded weakly too, eyeing his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He knew he was in the presence of a master. His talented roommate was obviously a person to be studied and emulated.

During the night, his talented roommate died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough.

‘I see everything once!’ he cried quickly.

A new group of specialists came pounding up to his bedside with their instruments to find out if it was true.

‘How many fingers to you see?’ asked the leader, holding up one.

‘One.’ The doctor held up two fingers. ‘How many fingers do you see now?’

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50 ‘One.’ The doctor held up ten fingers. ‘And how many now?’

‘One.’ The doctor turned to the other doctors with amazement. ‘He does see everything once!’ he exclaimed. ‘We made him all better.’

Destiny didn’t make me suffer from double vision as Yossarian pretended he did and the other soldier actually did before he died, but the comparison can be considered apposite. I didn’t see a single object as two separate ones, but I saw events happening twice, giving credence to the warning of historians that ‘history often repeats itself’. Whatever fate made his life intertwine with mine in this house, the fate of the same house has led me to find myself in the position he used to hold, and he’s now paying through my own actions for the misdeeds he used to commit against me. In the life we’ve shared, each has had the opportunity to see events repeating themselves with the other. He had the opportunity to see me fall into the same situation as his.

As for me, I had the opportunity to see myself fall into the same situation as his and to see him being done by me what he once had done to me. Therefore, each of us is a reflection of the other. It’s only recently that I’ve become aware of the fact, I swear.

Swear? Should I go this far? Yes, I can swear that I never intentionally let things happen twice in order to UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

51 take revenge on him. I can really swear as much, except in one case – what he shamelessly did to Aunt Waht under the very eyes of a four-year-old child in the dead of night. No matter how much he despised me, no matter how much he looked down on me as a simple child who knew nothing when compared to a fully grown person, or as whatever else, he should’ve had some consideration for the feelings of a good woman like Aunt Waht. True, I knew nothing then. I didn’t understand what he was doing to her, but he forgot that though I understood nothing, I already could remember things. The picture of his performance impressed itself on me like a tattoo. Though the ink did fade with the passage of time, the imprint remained to reveal its full significance later. In the darkness of the greenhouse, I suddenly and forcefully recalled the forgotten scene with the understanding of a child whose experience of the world had been shaped by the school in the Tha Tian area and his social wanderings in the lanes around the house. Though I was only twelve, I had enough theoretical knowledge by then to realise that we aren’t born out of bamboo hollows like goblins. We have an exciting athletic game a man and woman play together in private and from this game we sometimes have offspring. I say ‘sometimes’ because it isn’t always the case that you get offspring from playing that game, and at the time I had no idea why in some cases you did and in others you didn’t. I was particularly suspicious of those women THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

52 who earned their keep by selling their bodies night after night and yet managed to have no children. Oh, but there was one, though – the mother of a student friend of mine. Well, I’ll tell you about it later, because it also played a significant part in my life.

After I recalled what had happened that night, I began to doubt that His Lordship was my real father. Though I only knew the theory of that sort of game and had yet to learn its practice, I could sense it was another instance in which he had acted with me as if he were not my father. A few years later, I had early practice in the athletic field for the first time and from that wonderful experience, I became certain that the man performing in the event that was buried in my mind was not my father, because when I myself performed, I didn’t want anyone to see me, not even my friend, who had colluded in the event and was waiting for me outside. I felt terribly embarrassed by the idea that he knew what was going on. As the years passed, my anger with His Lordship increased to the point that I could never forgive him. I didn’t feel angry for what he had done to me but for what he had done to Aunt Waht. He had vented his spite for me on her. I’ve borne him a grudge unwittingly ever since and when the opportunity, which I had not sought, came about, it became a time bomb which exploded in a manner that went beyond my expectations. Well, we’ll come to this later.

It follows from what I’ve told you so far that Aunt UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

53 Waht became pregnant when I was about four and gave birth to Miss Kaeo when I was about five. And it was during this period that Grandpa could no longer stand the shenanigans of his nephew-in-law, whom he himself had brought into the compound, so he gathered his personal belongings and repaired to Phijit. His Lordship had won hand over fist thanks to his method of applied psychological pressure. He had killed two birds with one stone, taking possession of Aunt Waht and finally acquiring exclusive control over the dominion he had intruded into long ago. It was around that time that the body of my mother was cremated. When I was twelve, I began to think he wasn’t my real father and was sure of it by the time I was fifteen – a year in which I had many experiences, including that of falling in love, which was an entirely different matter from those I faced once I had landed in the field of athletics.

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54

5 As my experiences during that year involved a great many people, allow me to introduce them one by one in this chapter. I’ll not only usher in new characters but also tell you more about the ones you already know, as all have played their parts in the humble theatre of my life.

Wilaireik This is the very Miss Kaeo who meant to me love at first sight and then utter wretched pain. I fell in love with her when I first saw her as a rosy baby wriggling on a padded mat. That’s because I thought she was my little sister, but she knew better – and earlier than I did – so that not only did she not return my feelings but she has hated me ever since she was a mere toddler. There were times when Aunt Waht tried to impress on her that she should consider me as her elder brother, but there were many more occasions for her father to teach her to see me as a worthless, repulsive creature that didn’t deserve even a glance. His Lordship, therefore, bested me without even a contest. I, who was ‘Master Jan’ to everyone in the compound, have been ‘Damn Jan’ to her ever since she learned how to wear a gold fig leaf∗. ∗

An ornament very young girls traditionally wear as genital cover

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55 By the age of ten, her appearance had come to clearly reflect a balanced combination of the features she had inherited from each of her parents: she had her father’s shape of face and fair skin, and the sharp features and shapely figure of Aunt Waht. But her temperament was unfortunately modelled entirely on His Lordship’s, including, let it be said, strong sexual proclivities. One characteristic she had inherited from Aunt Waht was a strong will, but it was regrettable, especially for me of course, that she used this good trait from her mother to support all of her nasty propensities inherited from her father. This was the reason for her increasingly vicious behaviour towards me, early on and up to now. Being her father’s favourite child made her arrogant, contemptuous and malicious, and so selfish that she saw goodness in nothing and was even jealous of her own shadow, so to speak.

Of course, no matter how evil we are, we all have a little bit of good in ourselves. Wilaireik Witsanan, too, had a good side, inasmuch as she sometimes became kindhearted. She could love and knew how to wish people well and show concern for others. So, when she fancied someone, she lavished her love unstintingly, totally oblivious to any other considerations, and this created no end of trouble for other people.

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56 Saisoi This seventeen-year-old girl was at once Miss Kaeo’s nanny, servant and close playmate. Originally, her name had only one syllable – Sai or Soi, I forget which. It was Miss Kaeo who coined the two-syllable name and soon everyone in the compound got into the habit of using it as well. It’s generally said that for an intimate relationship to develop, it must be based on common traits, both positive and negative. The more inclinations, good and bad, are shared, the faster the relationship will develop and the longer it may last – a phenomenon as natural as the instant blending of matching colours. If the proclivities shared on the positive and negative sides don’t have the same weight, it’s like colours of different pigments which can still be matched. The only strange, indeed unnatural, thing is a colour that would blend with every other colour in the universe. If you object that white is such a colour, I must remind you that white isn’t a colour: white is the absence of colour; white is emptiness. And if you still insist that white be a colour then I’d classify it as a special colour, because no one is really empty, except Buddhist saints, who are hard to come by. Apart from them, the only empty people readily available that I can think of are the mentally deficient.

We can’t take either type into consideration. A colour that matches every other colour has no reality in itself; a person who can make friends with all the people in the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

57 world on an equal basis is a person the world must be particularly wary of because it can’t find any sincerity in him or her.

Saisoi was neither beautiful nor ugly. Besides having nothing unpleasant about her appearance, she actually looked homely. As for her temperament, no need to mention it here, because she was a born flatterer and her prurience was a special feature that made her most attractive in the eyes of lustful people of all ages.

Khein Krathingthong This big-framed, softhearted boy, who was old cook Phum’s son, had had lots of capers upcountry. At that time, he had recently come to live here together with his mother. The master of the compound, perhaps because he only had eyes for Phum, whose charm he was crazy about, or to express his disgust with me in a new way no one would forget, or for any other reason I know not, had told Khein Krathingthong to stay in the same house as I. That evening, I was sitting at leisure on the windowsill in my room upstairs, when Khein, panting over an armful of belongings, walked through the door.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Right here,’ he answered in his northeastern lilt. ‘I’m to stay here. The master tol’ me to.’

‘Whose master? Who’s this master you’re talking about?’ Blood had rushed to my ears.

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58 ‘How come? You live here, don’t you? How is it you don’t know who the master is?’ he replied in such a funny way I could no longer feel angry with him.

‘The tall, pale man, you mean?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. He tol’ me to come stay here.’

‘Maybe, but if you want to stay here, you must have this master’s permission first.’ I pointed at myself and got off the window sill.

‘I don’t un’erstand. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ He shook his head.

I was really amused. ‘Do you know who’s the master of this compound – of all the houses around this one?’

‘That master.’

‘And do you know who’s the owner of this house? I say this house.’ I pointed at the floor. He was puzzled like a fighting cock being kicked in the butt. As I had gotten through to him, I pursued my advantage. ‘It’s me – this Master Jan here is the owner of this small house. And don’t you forget it! You can stay in the compound if the other master says so, but if you want to stay in this house…’ I pointed at the floor again. ‘…you’ve got to get this master’s permission first.’ Again, I pointed at myself.

‘So that’s what Mum was tellin’ me about,’ he said enigmatically, then turned around and walked right out of the room.

‘Wait!’ I followed him to the landing. ‘Who’s your mother? What did she say?’

He turned and said ‘Your mother?’ as if in retort.

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59 ‘Yes, your mother. Who’s she?’

‘My mum’s name is Nang Mae [Mrs Mother] Phum,’ he said, giving his mother’s full name. ‘She tol’ me to talk things over with Khun Jan first. I thought Khun Jan was a woman – an adult woman. When I saw you, I thought you were Khun Jan’s son.’ He added under his breath: ‘Tough luck, mate!’

‘All right, I allow you to stay here,’ I said out of the goodness of my heart as rightful master of the small house. ‘Do you snore?’

He smiled broadly and looked like a six-year-old rather than his actual sixteen. ‘How would I know?

Never heard myself. I only know I often have dreams, and damn enjoyable they are, too.’

‘Well, in any case, I don’t like to share my room with any boy.’

‘How can I stay with you then?’

‘Come on. Do you think this is the only room in the house?’

I led him downstairs and unlocked the door of the small room which I had shared with Aunt Waht after she had found me when I was a hundred days old.

These days it was used as junk closet. I helped him clear the junk away and tidy the room so that it could be his living place.

And this is how Khein Krathingthong became my close friend.

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60 Mrs Bunlueang and Master Khajorn I’ve been wondering ever since how it was that His Lordship waited for so long before he took Mrs Bunlueang and Master Khajorn to stay with him in the compound around that time. Since Grandpa had rolled up his mat and gone back to Phijit and my mother’s body had been cremated, he had the right to do as he pleased, yet he had waited another four or five years. Out of consideration for Aunt Waht? Probably not. Or had he thought of them only then? I’ve no idea. Nor did I have any at the time.

I had heard of Mrs Bunlueang even before I saw her or knew her name. When the greenhouse was taken away and relocated in a monastery as an offering, this was the signal of the imminent arrival of Mrs Bunlueang. A medium-sized two-storey house of the latest design began to take shape next to where the greenhouse used to be. This was a major and most significant event because it was the first house to be added to the old dwellings in the compound. I and the other children liked to roam around the construction site to observe the craftsmen at work and sometimes give them a hand when they asked us to pick up this or that for them. It was during this period that I learned the new dwelling was meant for one of His Lordship’s close relatives. Once the construction of the beautiful house was over and the ground had been cleared of bricks and planks, the anthuriums nursery was UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

61 moved from its former location to where the greenhouse used to stand. The ground between the new house and the nursery was dug up and the soil prepared in order to grow flowering plants. A few days after the house was blessed by the monks, Mrs Bunlueang moved in.

To my young eyes, she looked positively ancient, although her actual age then was about thirty-five. Anyway, she was older than Aunt Waht, because Aunt Waht called her ‘Elder Sister’. She was devastatingly beautiful, with a thoroughly fair and glowing complexion and compelling voluptuous curves. At any rate, that’s how I like to remember her. According to my perception of her then, however, what I saw was merely a pale and buxom woman. As to her healthy glow, I thought she must have been flushed out of embarrassment, which couldn’t be further from the truth. She always looked everybody squarely in the eye with those sharp eyes of hers and was the easiest-going woman in the compound, not only in the way she spoke but also in the way she dressed and behaved. She was the first woman in the compound and in my life to wear pants so short that I could have a close look at her. Of all of her exceptional features, what fascinated me most was that she had the biggest and most exciting bosom I had ever seen in any private or public place, and she never thought of keeping its glorious spread secret by covering it up as most women did in those days. Her insouciance went far beyond what you can imagine right now. Not only were all of her THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

62 blouses quite revealing, but she did not like to wear any undergarment, and not only did she seldom wear one, but there were quite a few times when she didn’t wear anything at home, which regularly inspired my wrist exertions and wet dreams. I daresay that she was the first woman who could strongly arouse my passion in a way no other woman has ever matched.

Two months after Mrs Bunlueang moved into the new house, Master Khajorn made his appearance. Everyone in the compound only knew that he was her son, but we had no idea how mother and son were related to His Lordship. After a while, we learned that Master Khajorn called His Lordship ‘Pa’ – a peculiar word. We didn’t know what it meant so we ventured a guess: since ‘Par’ [Dad] meant father, ‘Pa’ probably meant uncle, paternal, maternal or some such. Master Khajorn was one or two years older than I, but his demure behaviour, which befitted his good breeding, made him look much older than his age. He studied at Wachirarwut School and always dressed smartly like a prince born in heaven. He only returned home on Saturdays to spend the night with his mother and went back to the school on Sunday afternoons. When he was back on Saturdays, I liked to follow him around, because I felt that I, too, could have become a student with this kind of smart getup, were it not for the opposition of my damned ghost of a father.

At the same time, I tried my utmost to cultivate his friendship, but it was to no avail. He was aloof, yet not UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

63 conceited and arrogant like Miss Kaeo: it’s just that he preferred to be alone. I well remember what he looked like at the time. He was a tall, slim fellow with an elongated face, slightly wavy hair, a long, pointed nose, a pointed chin, and sharp eyes, and he walked with his back straight. In short, his overall appearance was strongly reminiscent of that of Gary Cooper, who was a Prince Charming kind of guy in those days. He scarcely smiled at anyone and yet I often heard him laughing merrily with his mother and ‘Pa’ – these two persons being the only ones in the compound to whom he was always close.

Regarding the relationship between Mrs Bunlueang and His Lordship, there didn’t seem to be anything special.

Ordinarily, His Lordship went to have dinner at the new house twice a week. One meal always took place on Saturday evening, when Master Khajorn was home for the night; the other had no fixed day. Every time he went there, he’d linger until very late at night, so late that no one was still awake to find out what time he actually left.

Once I heard Khein confiding to his mother: ‘Last night, His Master (he meant His Lordship) went down and shone his flashlight on the rosebushes to check for worms until late, and then he disappeared into the new house. Made me wonder if he and Mrs Palueang are really brother and sister. It sorta bothers me.’ Khein’s tongue had trouble pronouncing Mrs Bunlueang’s name correctly and he always maimed it this way.

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64 ‘Like dogs in heat they are!’ Phum answered angrily out of resentment of some kind, then realised how inappropriate it was for her to talk like this and so ticked off her son to cover up: ‘See what you’ve done? All this naggin’ of yours and I forget to hold my tongue. Anyway, it’s his business. Don’t you go and poke your nose into it. It’ll only get you into trouble.’

‘Like dogs in heat they are!’ Khein repeated the phrase with relish and wagged his head as if he couldn’t make head or tail of it.

I, too, made as though I couldn’t figure it out, but I didn’t think it was at all funny.

Hyacinth My dear Aunt Waht took me to study English almost as soon as I started learning kor kai, khor khai – the Thai alphabet. It was a special evening class. I started learning my ABCs with Teacher Suan at Teacher Pui’s School in a garbage dump of a lane in Barn Mor, the same school where I attended the Thai primary class with Teacher Nueang in the daytime. Thus it could be said I learned both alphabets at the same school. After three years of Thai primary school there, I moved to further my education at Wat Pho School. As for the English class, I had long finished the course with Teacher Suan, so I went on to learn English grammar at Teacher Sarlee’s School near Tha Klang, at the Park Khlong [Canal UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

65 Entrance] market – yes, another market! In the daytime I went to the school near the Tha Tian market, and in the evening to the one near the Park Khlong market. So if you hear me swear like a fishwife and use foul market jive with more fluency than I ever mumbled my way through my lessons, show me some sympathy, will you.

And if a former alumna of Rarchinee School were to object that though her school is close to both markets, neither she nor the generations of alumnae past and present have ever caught the foul-mouth disease as I did, I’d like to point out that her school is totally fenced in by high walls and its discipline very strict, to the extent that there was no way I could have contacted a student there had I wanted to. So how could the foulmouth virus ever creep into the premises? Congratulations all the same, dear lady.

In the daytime Thai classes I never went beyond the third grade of secondary education, but in the English class at Teacher Sarlee’s evening school, I pressed on to the equivalent of Grade 7, and seldom did my friends get a chance to snatch the first place from me in the endof-year exams.

If I boast like this, it’s only because I’d like to tell you that this is where I met Hyacinth, my girlfriend – at this very evening school. She was tall and rather lean. Her dark skin made her look gloomy; her long, brown hair had amber reflections and reached down to her shoulders; her eyes looked sad. She was modest and THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

66 reserved, but when she smiled – oh, wow! the sky, so clear, so bright, so beautiful, wouldn’t hold a candle to her, believe me. She was a few grades below me but I found time before entering the classroom to befriend her, and a few evenings after she joined the course she allowed me to walk her home. Whenever I think about that occasion, I can’t but smile with glee at the elation I felt. It was as though my body and soul were adrift in the air. I walked with her, and nothing else mattered. In fact, all along the way, we hardly exchanged a word and merely stole glances and smiled at each other when our eyes met from time to time, but I was under a wonderful spell, as if I were listening to a rapturous song whose lyrics I couldn’t understand. When I came to my senses again, I had to grab her arm to make her stop.

‘Hyacinth! Which one of us is walking the other home?’

She turned and smiled gently as she often did. She thought I was teasing her, so resumed her walk even though my hand was still on her arm. I let go and slowed down to see which direction she’d take. When I was sure of her choice, I quickened my pace and followed her into the lane – one of the lanes leading to my compound.

The compound was in the middle of an area crisscrossed by a multitude of lanes and alleys like a net. The lane I entered in her wake was on a side I seldom used as a passageway as it went through the territory of a few enemies of mine. Now, it looked as though I was intrudUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

67 ing, and I felt uneasy. But then, the power of love can make us swoon or turn us blind, stun us or make us mad, rash or plain stupid, dauntless or cowardly. In my case, it gave me a degree of self-control and calm I found rather puzzling. As I walked by her side, the wonderful song now gave way in my heart to cold strategic considerations – how to prevent them from attacking me, how to circumvent them so they’d engage in a man-toman fight. Indeed, fighting them one at a time would be preferable to having three or four or even five of them rushing me, so that before I was beaten black and blue the news could reach my friends on the other side.

But it turned out that I safely made it through to Hyacinth’s home, which stood a little past my enemies’ territory.

It seems I let the word ‘love’ slip out just now. Although I wasn’t aware of all the ingredients of the love potion at the time, I’m not mentioning love idly. I didn’t know what it was but I did know what it wasn’t. I told myself every night that I loved Hyacinth, and my heart agreed and was fully receptive. I never thought of her in a sexual way, though my passion did take the natural path of sexual arousal on occasion. What was rising quietly and deeply inside me was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced. It was like the mood conjured up by the fragrance of flowers, not the craving triggered by the musk of hair follicles all over one’s own body.

I have thought of Hyacinth in this demure way ever THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

68 since I was fifteen up to my present age – a little over forty.

Hyacinth’s home was one of twelve joint one-storey shophouses. It was situated almost in the middle of the row, and most of her neighbours were Chinese. Across the lane, which was about four metres wide, stood the high, thick, dull-white back wall of a nobleman’s mansion. At one end of the lane, a passageway led to other lanes through which I could reach my own home. On either side of her dwelling, a few neighbours sat alfresco in front of their wooden shop-fronts, but most had turned off their lights and gone to bed, though it wasn’t even nine. The lone shop of a Chinese silversmith at one end of the row was ablaze with lights, and a street seller of cheap stew had set up her wares in front of it.

I gazed left and right as I stood behind Hyacinth, and held her textbooks while she produced a bunch of keys on a chain of coins fastened to her waist and selected one. As she busied herself with key and lock to open her shop-front, she offered the very picture of loneliness. I was more and more taken by her. It was as though she had been left behind in a deserted place – a solitary soul badly in need of a friend. ‘Hyacinth, I’ll be your best friend in every way till my dying day,’ I vowed in my heart as I stood behind her.

She undid the hasp and opened one of the panels. Her body stood out against the dark opening as she turned to receive her books from me.

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69 ‘Go back now, Jan – it’s getting late,’ she whispered when she saw me standing still. I nodded and sighed, then a thrill ran through me: I had caught a whiff of her natural scent, like the sweet fragrance of saiyut∗ flowers that drifted by on some mornings, but hers was more enthralling even though it was fainter.

I cursed inwardly when I remembered that the gate of my compound closed at nine. There was little time left and all of it suddenly so precious I intended to fully enjoy every second of it.

‘Do you always live alone at night like this?’ I had wanted to ask her this ever since we had reached her door.

She nodded. ‘Every night. Pa usually comes back around eleven.’

‘Eleven… Hey – what was that you said? Who did you say comes back around eleven?’ I grabbed her arm without meaning to, and promptly released it.

‘Pa – Pa does.’

‘Wait.’ I tried to contain my excitement. ‘Pray tell me who Pa is and how he’s related to you.’

She gave a short laugh and answered: ‘Who else? My father, of course!’

She had spoken softly but all of her words resonated in my head. I thought of Master Khajorn. I thought of Mrs Bunlueang. I thought of His Lordship. Then I burst out ∗

A climber whose flowers, particularly fragrant in the early morning, lose much of their scent by late morning

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70 laughing. Hyacinth looked so puzzled that I hastened to explain: ‘No, no, I’m not laughing at you. You’ve just given me a tremendous piece of information, about the word ‘Pa’, I mean.’ I felt suddenly buoyed beyond words and on the strength of this jolly mood decided to do what I had refrained from doing until then. ‘Your Pa won’t be back before eleven so there’s plenty of time left,’ I told her breathlessly. ‘Don’t go to bed yet, Hyacinth, I’ll come back to keep you company.’

Whether she made to protest or thank me, I knew not as, having no time to wait for her reaction, I had darted away.

When I reached my house, I went to Khein’s room, but he wasn’t there. I went up to my room to drop my textbooks, came down and paced in front of the house for a while. Khein was probably still helping his mother in the kitchen or in her quarters. I strayed towards the new house and saw that the ground floor was ablaze with lights, which probably meant His Lordship was still talking with Mrs Bunlueang after dinner and he wouldn’t be wandering in some other direction tonight. It was a good omen for the plan I had in mind. I sneaked away from the area and headed for the main house. I found Aunt Waht sitting on the porch rolling wax into candles. She turned to greet me with a smile when I sat down next to her. Lately, I scarcely visited the place at all. I answered her greeting with a few words then sat there, quietly watching her making candles. She kept throwing puzUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

71 zled glances at me and after perhaps the eighth, I let out: ‘So, Master Khajorn is also Father’s son, isn’t he, Auntie?’

It was what I had been mulling over in a nutshell.

Aunt Waht’s hands didn’t stop what they were doing.

After a moment, she asked matter-of-factly: ‘Why do you ask if you already know?’

That meant she knew, as probably did everyone else in the compound. I must have been the only one kept in the dark.

‘For nothing. I just learned about it, so it makes me wonder.’ Having answered her question, I went fishing for more information: ‘Is Master Khajorn also a Witsanan?’

She nodded.

I also nodded. ‘Then, Mrs Bunlueang was his wife before – before my mother.’

She showed no reaction to this deduction of mine.

‘The confounded sod,’ I said levelly as if complaining about the weather, and got up to leave.

‘Wait, Jan.’ Aunt Waht stopped what she was doing and turned to me. ‘Your father had a good reason to remarry with your mother.’

I smiled with heartfelt disdain. ‘Don’t I know that, Auntie! The more I know, the more I hate him – but then what does it matter? Don’t worry about it, Auntie.’

‘Wait…’ she called out again. She looked at me rather uneasily. ‘You said you know. What is it you know?

How much have you been told and by whom?’

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72 I went back and knelt down in front of her and told her, out of the greatest love and respect I had for her: ‘I figured out by myself that he isn’t my real father. To know this much is enough for me. More than enough. I don’t need to know more than that.’

Aunt Waht looked somewhat stunned. She extended her hand and put it on my shoulder and expressed her concern for me: ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit? Suppose what you think you know isn’t true?’

I shot back: ‘If he’s my real father, I’m prepared to go to hell.’ She was taken aback. I thought I knew what her predicament was, so I broached the topic for the first time in years: ‘When – Auntie, when will I be told the truth about my birth?’

She shook her head and stammered: ‘No – not yet, Jan. You – you aren’t old enough yet.’

I nodded in assent and when I saw she had nothing to add, I stood up and left.

I had to wait another two years before I was told what I wanted to know about my origins.

After leaving Aunt Waht, I went straight to the usual place where I climbed over the wall and went to see Hyacinth. Electric light shone out of her room through the slightly open door. She wasn’t asleep and I believe she was happy I was back, but she worried all the same that her father would return and find us together. I was somewhat uneasy about this as well, although there was really no reason for us to feel like this since we didn’t UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

73 intend to do anything objectionable. Maybe we were overly worried because we were aware that our behaviour wasn’t quite proper. In all sincerity, I undertook to pacify her by promising her I wouldn’t stay too long to put her at risk. From then on, we sat together with a happiness nothing could compare to. We chatted heart to heart as she did needlework and I revelled in the bliss of observing her at close quarters for the first time, while learning many things about her at the same time.

She, too, was motherless, and she had lived alone with her father for a long time. The two of them had moved from a province in the South over a year ago. In the daytime, she went to Beinjamararcharlai School. Her father worked in an icehouse near the Lower Steel Bridge, and he volunteered to work overtime at night to increase his income. I was curious to know why she had this strangest name in the world of Hyacinth and what it meant but didn’t dare to ask, just as I didn’t dare to ask her which language the word ‘Pa’ came from – Burmese?

Mon? Javanese? Malay? – because it might be trespassing on racial susceptibility and I didn’t see anything wrong in her being of another race anyway. She was my darling Hyacinth, and this, to me, was more than enough.

We had completely forgotten about our first worry until – oh my God! Who was this who had just stepped in and stood looming in the entrance? The large tall figure was clad in white cloth like some sort of uniform. He had close-cropped curly hair, a large, square, bony face whose THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

74 outstanding feature was the eyes, large, shiny, commanding. I couldn’t quite figure out the colour of his skin, but it looked to me as dark as a black plum.

I suddenly realised from her father’s appearance what Hyacinth’s race was – Indian. As to whether she was Malay or Thai Muslim∗, I had no idea and anyway wasn’t interested in finding out any longer. That she was my Hyacinth was more than enough for me.

She stood up and introduced me to her father as a friend from school that lived nearby. She explained I kept her company because I had noticed she stayed home alone at night. She was calm, polite and amazingly natural, and it helped to quickly dispel my own anxiety. I added to her introduction by stating who I was, who my parents were and where I lived. I did so fully aware that nothing in my real status allowed me to make such claims, but I wanted him to feel some restraint in case he meant to scold or punish his daughter for staying alone with me until so late at night. He had a most frightening physique, so I felt very worried for her. But it seemed he wasn’t in the least interested. He um-ed and ah-ed in his throat a couple of times then disappeared behind the flowery curtain that partitioned the room. Smiling and nodding, Hyacinth signalled me to leave. I went away feeling like in the current hit song, that I had ‘left my heart in Hyacinth’s room’. ∗

The generic term kaek, usually translated as Indian (meaning both Aryan and Dravidian), refers to all dark-skinned people of Asia, and notably to Malays and the Malay-stock Muslims of Southern Thailand.

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75 That night, I had erratic dreams, because my mood veered between elation and anxiety, and it seemed like an eternity by the time the evening of the next day came.

I went to wait for her at school since early in the afternoon and as soon as she finally made her appearance, my heart brimmed with joy and radiated with warmth like a sparkling diamond. She was neither bruised nor distraught. Her father had only said that if she really needed me to keep her company, she should tell me to come in the daytime on the days when we had no class; she shouldn’t have me staying till late at night, as it looked unbecoming. Just this much gratified me greatly.

It meant that his father trusted me as a friend of his daughter, and from then on I burrowed myself in Hyacinth’s room from dawn to dusk almost every Sunday as well as every other holiday. And on the nights when I couldn’t stand pining for her at home, I made Khein jump over the wall and keep watch for her father at the entrance of the lane, just in case he came back earlier than usual. I know it was a lousy assignment but I was forced to demand this sacrifice from him. Khein, however, wasn’t long in finding his own entertainment out of this boring duty. He flirted with the vendor of Thai sweetmeat at the entrance of the lane whenever he felt lonely, even though she was almost one and a half times older than him. Khein Krathingthong was always lucky with women wherever he was.

But then, one night, he and I had a misunderstanding THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

76 which came close to a falling out between us for the first time.

That night, it wasn’t yet ten o’clock when I heard him whistle the signal on which we had agreed. I hurriedly said goodnight to Hyacinth, left her and made to run.

But he laughed at me as he grasped my arm. I flew into a rage at the thought that he had made this up to make fun of me, but the truth was far much worse: he had called me out to open negotiations with me!

‘I’ve waited and waited but I’ve never heard you offer this pretty lass to me. Aren’t we friends sharing everything? Or do you intend to wait till she’s old and grey?’ That’s the way he went about it. I felt like scalding water was boiling in my chest and thrusting right up my throat. I made a deliberate effort to swallow to push it down with the fleeting thought that ‘The fellow’s dreadfully mistaken’, followed by a dozen foul expletives. I began to lift my clenched fist, intending to punch him lightly on the upper arm to teach him a friendly lesson, but in the same split second my pentup anger took over and my fist smashed into the upper part of his chest instead. He staggered for a few steps and as soon as he recovered his balance lunged at me ready to strike back, but when he saw that I stood still, arms loose, he dropped his fists, feeling furious with himself. He asked me indignantly: ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

I swore and told him: ‘Let’s talk about it at home.’

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77 I walked away and he followed me, shaking his head in worry.

It turned out to be a more difficult exercise than to explain to a child in a roundabout way how human beings reproduce themselves. In the poor light of the wick lamp in Khein’s room, I tried to make him see how different Hyacinth was from the other girls with whom we both had had affairs. Don’t you ever talk to him about love and worship: it’d only confuse him and he’d just stop listening, and when he refused to listen, it was more hopeless than watering a stump to try to make it grow, because not only would he not stay still but he’d also react impetuously and the whole thing might end up in bloodshed – not that he’d kill me, but I might kill him.

Weary of his inability to see differences between women in this world, I tried a new tack to make him understand: ‘I love Hyacinth and I’d like her to become my wife. If it were you, would you want to share your wife with anyone?’

‘What kind of crazy talk is that?’ He laughed grandly.

‘Long before it’s time for you to take a wife, you’ll be bored to tears with the dame.’

I cursed him harshly out of genuine outrage then asked him to make himself clear.

‘You’re still very young and it’ll be another ten or fifteen years before you get married. If you sleep with the same girl for ten or fifteen years, do you think you’ll still want to make her your wife?’

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78 More expletives came out of my mouth. I enjoined him to get it into his thick skull that I had never slept with her and to get his evil misconceptions out of his sick mind once and for all. He didn’t believe me and acted as if he was truly disappointed that I tried to deceive such a close friend as he. I had to swear over and over again that what I said was true until he relented and his exasperation gradually subsided. He was still for a while, then shook his head and gazed at me until he finally decided to speak.

‘What you think and intend to do sounds fine, but it’s a damn foolish notion all the same. If you don’t grab your opportunities, I’ll bet by then she’ll have gone to the dogs.’

The expression he used was nauseating, especially as it referred to the person I loved, but I didn’t have the heart to take offence. ‘Perhaps so. Maybe by then we won’t be husband and wife, who knows.’ I, too, was beginning to feel dejected. ‘Anyway, I think a man should have one woman in his life to love and respect so that it makes him feel good all round.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, forthright as ever. ‘To think about it and not do it – what’s the good of that?’

‘Why?’ I asked him in earnest. ‘Isn’t it possible for men to think of a woman in a nice way instead of only wanting to sleep with her?’

‘Well, why not, if you’re that thick?’

‘Why?’ I went on earnestly. ‘Why can’t we think of a UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

79 woman in a nice way, like we used to think of our mother?’

‘Master Jan.’ He seldom called me this. He was looking deep into my eyes. ‘What you just said sounds to me like a slur on my mum.’ My mouth fell and my eyes widened before he went on: ‘Me, I can’t help thinking about sleeping with women, and come to that, my mum sleeps with His Master as well.’

I sighed deeply. I was in for more explanations. I put my arm around his shoulders and said: ‘We don’t always make love just for fun, you know. Sometimes, there are other purposes, and valid ones too. Think about it. Think about our parents who gave us life, for example.’

I don’t mind if you think I was being too wise for my age. I was born a brooding child and had grown up amid these kinds of stories all along.

Khein now acted as if he had a headache. He sighed, moved out of my embrace and got up. ‘Here we are talking about this pretty girl and you manage to bring our parents into it. I must hand it to you.’ He gave a short laugh and went on talking with laughter in his voice: ‘All right, I’ll let you have this one. I no longer want you to share her with me. But she must be the only one, you promise? Don’t let there be others like her, okay?’

I had no time to argue, so I nodded in assent, though I didn’t have to think hard to figure out that the agreeTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

80 ment wouldn’t last. You see, it was like playing track and field together. For now, we were involved in a relay race, so we had to share the same baton, but when I’d start the sack race, I doubted he’d want to share my sack.

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81

6 Just then, there was a knock on the door, which Khein had closed, and we heard a feminine voice calling him in a whisper. In the same instant, dextrous and swift, he had blown out the lamp. ‘Do you have a date?’ I whispered to him.

‘That’s Waen, and no I don’t, but with this girl, there’s no need for dates.’ From his tone, I fancied I could see him grinning in the dark. Then he offered: ‘Stay here.

We’ll do it together, or I’ll let you have her first.’

Knowing who she was and hearing what he was suggesting, I felt all my hair stand on end. ‘No thanks, but suit yourself,’ I said and quietly exited through the window and went back to my room upstairs.

Waen was one of the girls under His Lordship’s patronage, actually one of the very first. Now she was about sixteen but was skilled in the game way beyond her years. I remember how a few months earlier I had climbed the wall back home at about eleven one night and passed Khein’s room, which was totally dark. I stopped and knocked on the door as usual to find out if he was in. The two of us had agreed on a series of signals involving light and darkness in Khein’s room. If the light was on, it meant he hadn’t gone to bed yet; if I wanted to talk to him, I could just open the door and walk in. If the room was dark, there were two or three THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

82 possibilities. If I wanted to know what he was up to, I had to knock three times and then two. If he didn’t answer, it meant he was asleep, and if he didn’t sleep and was in the mood for talking, he’d get up and open the door for me, but if he coughed or cleared his throat, it meant he was busy doing what we jokingly referred to as ‘bliss building’.

That night, he got up, opened the door and let me in but showed no sign of lighting the lamp. I was struck by his unusual behaviour and on the spur of the moment slid my hand under his mosquito net, only to palm warm naked flesh giving out muffled giggles. That’s when Khein did me the honour of letting me take the floor with Waen for the first time while he went to wait outside. Wasn’t I thrilled! Once done, I opened the door, intending to give him well-deserved thanks, but instead I almost burst out at him in anger at the sight of three or four boys who were waiting just outside. As I stood flushed in the doorframe in full view of these boys, I was so embarrassed I almost felt they could see me as clearly as in plain daylight. I grabbed Khein by the throat and dragged him under the shorea tree near the house to berate him in private. At that moment, I felt like killing him seven times over, but he deftly found enticing arguments to wriggle out of trouble. ‘Don’t you know that’s the way she likes it? There’s no limits for her. So why not be broadminded about it? This way, these kids will respect us even more.’ That’s what he said. I felt as UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

83 if I had fallen head over heels from the sky into a sewer and was left at once nauseated and eager to shed my skin.

I was angry with him for days. There was no way for him to understand my annoyance. He didn’t even know that the very idea that only he and I knew he had introduced me to the game embarrassed me for days when I was in his presence.

I seem to have alluded to this episode earlier on, so let me dwell on it at length now, since it marked the opening up of my life to the pleasures of biting into raw lust at the tender age of fifteen. By the time I was seventeen, merely two years later, I had become so proficient in this field that I can confidently state I was more expert than any older young man such as Master Khajorn or even Khein Krathingthong himself.

As you know, Khein and I became close to each other very quickly. A few nights after I helped him turn the junk closet into a room for himself, he began to tell me about the extensive sexual goings-on he had known in his hometown, not just his own but those of his friends and neighbours, and even folk tales. How many of them were true I had no idea, but they were all new and strange to my ears and so exciting that I listened to them with bated breath. And when I retold them to my friends at school, I had no trouble grabbing the title of champion in dirty story telling from Bai of Mill Landing, even though the fellow was much older than me. Khein THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

84 hadn’t been in the house for two months before he began to demonstrate his practical skills to me with Eeat, his mother’s helper in the kitchen. The show was exciting enough, but it made me uneasy because Eeat had had a natural child with the master of the house who was my playmate. But it was like a cloudburst – sudden, heavy and soon over – a mere experiment. A month later, he managed to lure Miss Kaeo’s favourite nanny into his room. I thought she was too much for him to handle, so cautioned him against her, because everything closely related to Miss Kaeo was risky as it was bound to lead to trouble sooner or later. But he was so fond of Saisoi he wouldn’t give her up, and it turned out Saisoi was the fuse that took two smouldering years to reach the powder keg. The resulting explosion broke up my life so effectively that it was ‘like the work of the devil’, as popular fiction used to say in those days.

Not only did Khein pay no attention to my lengthy warnings, but he prompted me, ever so glibly, to join him in igniting the fuse. He began by asking me whether I had ever tasted the pleasures of sexual intercourse other than in my dreams. Though I knew he already knew, I answered in such a guarded way as he could figure out by himself that, well, no, not yet. Making it clear he had received a negative answer, he undertook to show his mastery: ‘Then, it’s time for you to do so. I’ll find you a good teacher to coach you till ding-dong come.’ He made the story more exciting by keeping UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

85 mum about the identity of the teacher in question. For my part, I played along by pretending to be eager to know. He was very pleased to seem to be torturing me, though he knew I already knew.

Then the right opportunity came one night when Khein arranged a two-on-one date with Saisoi without telling her. Promiscuous as she was, Saisoi wasn’t as perverse as Waen, whom the boys in the compound had nicknamed ‘Miss Hole in one’. When she ambled into Khein’s dark room, I was standing in the darkest corner, across from the door, and went on standing there as Khein began to negotiate with her.

‘Saisoi, I need your help.’

‘Can’t it wait?’ she complained as she unselfconsciously took off her blouse out of habit.

‘Let’s talk now because I need your help right away.’

‘My help? At this time of night?’ There was irritation in her voice. I heard a silver belt drop to the wooden floor and all of a sudden felt my heart racing so fast I became alarmed it would abort tonight’s plan. But it did no such thing.

Actually, the trepidation of my heart travelled all the way down to the soles of my feet and my alarm shifted to the possibility that the wooden floor would begin to shake as well. For this reason, I wasn’t in the mood to listen to the latter part of the conversation, though I did catch a snatch of Saisoi’s protestation: ‘…but he’s just a kid!’ and it was this that made the valiant blood of a THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

86 well-bred gent of recent vintage boil over, clearing instantly the chilling-hot feverish fear of a moment ago. I was now ready and eager to leap belly first into the gamely trough. Right then I heard Khein slapping and thrashing the girl in a way no budding gent could countenance. I stepped out and yelled at him: ‘Why the hell are you beating her up?’

Saisoi, who lay on Khein’s musty bed sheet, ejaculated in fright something like ‘oh!’ and ‘ouch!’ combined and instantly flipped her body to face the wall.

‘Everything’s fine, Master. You can do as you please now,’ he said formally, then went outside and closed the door behind him.

Saisoi still lay on her side facing the wall. Her naked body looked dead white in the dark. Master Jan – a new face in the ring of the most ancient contest on earth – went to sit by the edge of the bed – a sheet spread over a mat on a low rattan platform. And how was he feeling now? Calm, determined and fairly excited. In tones even hoarser than his already breaking pubescent voice, he told the girl’s long back enticingly stretched under the cheap mosquito net perpetually hung at four corners and now rolled up: ‘I say, Saisoi, if you don’t want to, well…’ And then stopped because the blurred body turned to lie flat on its back while both hands went up to cover the eyes. The mouth, which was as naked as the rest of her, began to urge in impatient tones: ‘What are you waiting for, Master Jan? Anyway, I…’ She didn’t UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

87 finish, but I understood all that she meant to say. Saisoi wanted to be quickly done with me and hurry back to Khein. She looked down on me as a mere sapling while lusting for Khein’s sturdy timber. If it were any other kind of game, I’d have quit, turned on my heels and left the room out of pride, but this was nothing if not a challenging opportunity I had long coveted. I decided to pay myself back in kisses, only in those areas that could be construed as allowed, and this made me feel relaxed enough to start digging for the hidden treasure promised by the clues waiting in front of me.

Yes, Saisoi was like clues helping me search for a hidden treasure, but only grudgingly so. That is to say, I did jump and have fun in her trough – a trough that was full of sludge. It was fun in the sense that it was outlandish, something I had never known before. When compared to what I had expected, however, it was so-so. The spice was in my own excitement rather than in anything else. After that first dive, I sought Saisoi’s science a couple more times to hone my skills then desisted, because I felt competent enough to hold my own among the women young and old who were in plentiful supply within the walls of our compound. Since His Lordship had already suffused the atmosphere with the fishy smell of lewdness, it wasn’t difficult for me to follow in his wake, but I stuck to one imperative rule, which was to never ever touch any of the illegitimate daughters of the person known as my father. As Aunt Waht had said THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

88 – what if what I thought I knew turned out to be wrong?

I was scared of sin in such quarters, and whenever I think about it now, I can’t help but feel sorry.

Khein’s room was the place where the two of us and other boys in the compound used to reach heaven. We had made it a rule to share equally and considered it good manners to do so. We considered it good manners also to insist on the sharing; whether there was anything to receive was another matter altogether. There were even some adult couples who came to ask us to let them use the place, and in such cases the sharing was by way of peeping at them without their knowledge.

Whenever I recall Khein and his bed, I think of a fat pig wallowing in filth – perfectly happy by the look of it, as if its body were only skin-deep. No matter how deep it wallows in it, there’s no way the filth can reach its real self, which is a tiny dot buried deep inside. Khein always slept soundly on his couch soiled by the evidence of his own promiscuity.

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89

7 In my haste to tell the tale, I’ve rashly overlooked the importance of one small yet meaningful titbit, so allow me to go back a little. As I said, the fun I had after I jumped into Saisoi’s slushy trough was a bit of a letdown compared to what I used to picture in my mind.

Actually, there was another reason for it besides carnal enjoyment. While I bobbed and dived in tune to my newfound craving, a dark bubble seemed to be striving to come up from the bottom of my mind. It was in fact a long-forsaken sediment of memory shaken loose by the swirling force of the wave of emotion, which was at once turbulent and turbid. The blurred picture in the dirty light that flashed at the back of my skull gradually focused until it assumed a tangible shape as if projected on the inside of the occipital bone – that of Aunt Waht using both hands to cover her face, her body trembling below gleaming eyes that were staring at me. That picture now superimposed itself on the one I was dimly seeing on the screen of darkness in front of me – that of Saisoi using both hands to cover her eyes as she lay beneath me. And this is when I suddenly realised that that was what the adults had been doing before my very eyes! How wonderfully weird indeed! And now my turn had come? Hooray! Long live the spreading of knowledge!

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90 From there, I idly asked myself: ‘If I knew someone was peeping right now, would I keep at it? No way!

And if someone came and sat down to watch? Absolutely not! What if it were my parents? You must be crazy!

Then how can one do it deliberately while one’s own son’s watching? Hence, he can’t possibly be my father!’

It was thanks to this almost objective test that I had finally found the answer to the question that had burdened my mind for so long.

Reflections of this kind went on dimly behind my drunken excitement and threatened to scatter my current mood, and I was about to lose heart. Fortunately, I had something to buoy me up right away – something that had often come in handy for me and could take over automatically. What else but the conspicuous figure of Mrs Bunlueang, the mistress of my perennial dreams.

How utterly volatile the primal instinct was, that it only perked up thanks to my trump card? It had just shot a new bud but, having no real root, how could it reach full bloom?

Perhaps because my first experience was held in such inauspicious conditions, none of the games I pursued over the next couple of years brought me much satisfaction.

No, it wasn’t a question of omen at all: it was merely that I had gone ahead half-cocked. I was too much of a greenhorn then, too much of a weakling for such a sky-high undertaking. I needed time to put on brawn and build through good care till I was fully grown.

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91 And fully grown I was by the age of seventeen, getting manlier by the day. It was then I reached the triumphal arch of sexual bliss for the first time in life and went through it with a man’s pride tinged with delight and dignity.

It was also at the age of seventeen that Mr Jan Witsanan’s life faced a violent, multi-layered crisis which left him penniless. No – worse than penniless: I lost everything, including my own self, even though I, having been born, was still alive somehow.

My life had had an erratic course ever since its inception. Though only seventeen, I had gone through a lot. Let’s have a quick rundown: I was born in the matrix of death, had witnessed something at an inappropriate age (my first memory coming too early), learned things at an age I wasn’t supposed to (being too precocious), acted before my time (going half-cocked), and what you will learn next is that at seventeen I reached the turning point traditionally attributed to the age of twenty-five – an age of drastic change and major unforeseen events, according to ancient wisdom, which held it to be the most important transition period in the life of man. And if you lend credence to such an old belief, then you’ll agree that my life had reached such a decisive turning point truly and cruelly seven or eight years ahead of time.

The devastating explosion of the time bomb I’ve already mentioned was triggered by Khein and Saisoi’s long THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

92 ordained if transitory pairing off. The burning of the fuse took place in two separate stages before the explosion blew my life to smithereens at the age of seventeen.

The first stage.

Let’s say that it was both usual and unusual for Khein and Saisoi to be engaged in a long-term affair. Saisoi was well aware that Khein never stopped enjoying his favourite hobby, regularly brought his conquests to his filthy bed sheet and was in the habit of climbing over the wall to go gallivanting in the vicinity. As for Khein, don’t worry, he knew better and more thoroughly than anyone how long Saisoi had been serviced by His Master and to what extent, and he was sure as well that, besides His Master and himself, Saisoi couldn’t help making herself of use to a number of men both inside and outside of the compound on a casual basis. Her random partners in the compound were mostly casual labourers who took care of the gardens, supplied water or chopped firewood, and who never stayed for very long. Ironically, the young lady occasionally took her extras to build bliss in Khein’s room.

How could Khein not know, since he had informants everywhere who took turns sharing favours in his lair?

There was never any display of jealousy between the two of them, though, and they managed to keep their union as fresh as if they were newly wed. In the eyes of the members of the bliss club on the ground floor of my small house, Khein and Saisoi were perfectly matched both in latitude and in longitude.

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93 This wasn’t surprising if you knew Khein and Saisoi from every angle as I did. Khein was above average in everything related to sex. I say this in comparison to myself. The special attention I’ve always paid to these matters made me afraid at first that my own level was much higher than that of the common man, but after I took a close look at my friend Khein’s sex life, I felt relieved at finding myself to be very much in the norm.

Not only wasn’t I below par, but I was rather above, yet still maintained a fair average. I was someone who ate whenever there was something to eat but wasn’t worried when there wasn’t. Besides, I had regular opportunities to purify my mind whenever I found myself alone with Hyacinth. When I was with her, I never thought of sweet or spicy side dishes; my heart was so pure I could have sat down and written reams of poetry. For Khein and Saisoi, though, it wasn’t like that. (I’m only telling the truth; don’t accuse me of belittling my friends.)

There is more to releasing passion than releasing matter, and more to savouring than consuming. It’s like breathing, which can’t be done without fresh air. Show some sympathy. Who wants to die before time? This young couple had most suitable table manners. When they got used to eating together to the point that their food lost its fine flavour, they sought to change the atmosphere in order to rekindle their appetite. And it was I, their close common friend, whom they chose as instrument of change eventually. They both dropped THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

94 clear hints that they wanted me to be the third person in their private abode, and not only did I have no objection, since I understood their motivations, but I rather liked being in that kind of atmosphere. So they found Master Jan sitting reading a book or doing homework or just hanging around while they were at it, but I only joined in the atmosphere, not in the activity itself. As I told you before, I was very shy in these matters. The closest I came to joining in was in dragging a chair and sitting down next to them to study the anatomy of the Gemini configuration, which I hold to be an art as natural as nude sculpture or a representation of Hanuman and the siren∗.

You certainly remember that Saisoi was Miss Kaeo’s favourite nanny. Miss Kaeo was so utterly crazy about her I really wondered if she wasn’t under a spell of the same kind as the one my dear Mali had put on me when I was a child. It was only a suspicion, mind you. Even if I had known the truth, I could have done nothing about it. Miss Kaeo’s wishes were like orders nobody dared to infringe upon, not even her own mother, because they were firmly backed by her father, His Lordship. Furthermore, Miss Kaeo, at the age of ten or eleven, was already a child of many tricks, who got her way in everything if she really put her mind to it.

All the time Khein and Saisoi were enjoying them∗

Hanuman is the king of the monkey warriors in the Indian epic Ramayana. The siren, who is one of his foes, soon becomes his lover.

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95 selves in their hideaway, Miss Kaeo was keeping her eyes on them from a distance, her heart burning with resentment. She knew as everybody knew what was going on between Saisoi and her father, and she also knew as everybody knew that more of the same was going on between her and Khein. She realised how damning the latter relationship would be if news of it reached her father’s ear. If she felt like it, just a flicker of her little finger and he would know all about it. Then, both Saisoi and Khein would be thrown out of the compound. But she still needed Saisoi, so it was impossible for her to do so, and in order to keep Saisoi, she had to keep Khein as well. This was a thorn in her flesh. She hated Khein and resented him for daring to take Saisoi away from her, and hers looked like the spite of an envious child, but in fact – damn it! I came to realise later that it was the slow incubation of full-blown jealousy.

Do you understand what I’m saying? The jealousy arising from the bounds of love tying one to a person of the same sex. True, it was still in the early stages, but whatever found its way into the heart of a child like Miss Kaeo and brooded there came to hatch in no time.

And believe me, though she couldn’t get rid of Khein then, she never gave up the idea, but merely bided her time.

While she brooded and waited, however, something she’d never have thought possible happened: Saisoi became pregnant.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

96 Women getting pregnant without husbands of their own was a natural occurrence that had been taken for granted in the compound for a very long time, but this particular pregnancy was so odd that we, members of the bliss club, made it a topic of deliberation among ourselves. Saisoi was an old hand at the game, and almost every time she tried for a new flavour besides His Lordship and Khein we were aware of it. She had never shown any sign of getting pregnant, however, and all of us had come to forget that women behaving like her could indeed get in the family way. So, whose trick was it? Who was the father? We chewed the fat with great relish. Khein, who was the first concerned, looked more perplexed than anyone else. The only thing he was sure of was that it wasn’t his handiwork. After he thought it over for a while, he expostulated, ‘I’m sure Hao Kuang did it!’ He was referring to Kuang, a Chinese senior bachelor who owned a goods store in the vicinity. It sold liquor, medicine, coffee, shrimp paste, fish sauce as well as cheap clothes and cosmetics; even second-hand motorcycles were on sale there. ‘I arranged it for him myself,’ he confessed, though no one had asked him anything. ‘I did it because there’s so much we want from his store. Just lost a little in exchange for all those goodies of his. If that one hadn’t gotten herself knocked up, I reckon he’d have gone bankrupt pretty soon. No way – I think I’d better let him know.’ And when he was back, he was all smiles as he reported, ‘That fellow Hao UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

97 Kuang is delighted. He says he’s ready to accept the child, but only if it’s a boy.’

As for His Lordship, the owner of the compound, he went about thinking up a name and surname for the child without a fuss, out of broad-mindedness or stupidity I can’t say, so bare is the thread that separates the two conditions.

But then, after being a source of puzzlement, Saisoi’s pregnancy finally turned into big news. At first, when she learned that Saisoi was pregnant, Miss Kaeo showed no reaction at all, but as months went by, it seemed she could no longer stand to see her favourite nanny’s belly growing bigger by the day. She couldn’t bear to witness the awkward looks of pregnancy, and her former fondness turned into dire hatred. Finally, she went about flicking her little finger by getting her father to throw Saisoi, who was six months pregnant, out of the compound forever. As Saisoi had no relatives, His Lordship took her to stay at a friend’s house temporarily. Later, after some search, Khein found out where she lived and paid her occasional visits, out of sympathy or merely out of curiosity I don’t know. And then one day he came to us, smiling widely as if he had a trick up his sleeve, and reported, ‘Saisoi has given birth. Hao Kuang’s the father, no doubt about it.’ And when we showed our curiosity – ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ – he put up a tantalising smile for a while and then answered: ‘He looks real Chinese.’ I believe all of us felt great then, because if Kuang the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

98 Chinese was true to his word, the child would have someone to depend on. We pressed Khein to get on with the rest of the story, and it turned out it was even better than we had expected: Kuang had agreed to take care of both mother and child. Things went on very smoothly.

There was no ceremony, except that Kuang asked Aunt Waht to negotiate with His Lordship, who was Saisoi’s guardian. When everything was settled, Saisoi took her child and clothes to go and live with Kuang at his store.

Though we all agreed Kuang had put himself in no end of trouble by accepting a woman like Saisoi as his wife, we were all pleased that mother and child had found such a secure place to rely on.

Not very long afterward, Kuang took his child and wife to live at a new store in Lart Krabang, south of Bangkok.

The reason? Strictly between us, we came to the conclusion that Kuang probably couldn’t stand Khein’s indiscriminate ‘squeeze’, as it’s called these days.

Maybe some of you are wondering why, having gotten rid of Saisoi, Miss Kaeo didn’t by the same token get Khein expelled as she had long meant to. Well, whether you wonder about it or not, I’d like to tell you that when she had it in for someone, she wasn’t going to forget or forgive for the rest of her life. She didn’t seize the opportunity then because she intended to take her revenge more thoroughly later.

And for this very reason, the devastating explosion had to wait for another period, which lasted about one year.

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99

8 The last stage.

When I was a little over sixteen, His Lordship was about forty-seven and Aunt Waht around thirty-five. As for Mrs Bunlueang, she was two to three years older than Aunt Waht. I don’t know how old Master Khajorn was; I only remember that he had almost finished secondary school and intended to enter the police academy.

For Miss Kaeo’s age, just subtract five years from my own. If I’m totalling up everyone’s age, it’s to prepare you before we reach the major turning point in Jan Darra’s life, which isn’t far ahead.

A man of His Lordship’s age can be considered middle-aged, but to call such a man old would be excessive.

In His Lordship’s case, however, it wasn’t. Though he had never fallen sick like most people, his health had clearly deteriorated. The powerful lust that had long driven him to morbid passion had drained his body of all liquids and left him dry before his time. He had the kind of fair skin which in the old days was thought to be the prerogative of the genteel, but time had given it the dull, pale-yellow shade of excellent straw paper. In case you can’t visualise the colour of such first-grade toilet paper of yore or have never seen it, I’ll try to offer you another comparison. I hope you’ve seen well-formed foetuses or prematurely born babies kept in jars full of THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

100 chemical liquids over a long period of time. Well, his skin was exactly like theirs and looked exceedingly dull.

The lust in which he fermented had clearly bled on his skin. His hair also had discoloured prematurely. Instead of turning grey as with most people, it had gone yellowish with brown touches. It had thinned and he wore it combed flat across the top of his head. His eyebrows were of the same colour as his hair. Even his brown eyes seemed to have turned somewhat yellow. Only his wellgroomed moustache was still dark. Though his hair was receding, his facial features were still as well chiselled as in his youth, and his tall and well-turned figure looked as smart and spry as ever. As for his vital energy, among those not directly involved in his private life only Khein and I realised how much it had dwindled. We deduced this from the fact that without even trying we found a growing number of opportunities to help quench the thirst of his partners of all age groups. Later, I heard a theory according to which men can be compared to guns: all of us are equally endowed at birth with five thousand bullets; the more profligate we are, the faster they disappear, and when they’re all used up there’s no supplying unit anywhere in the world that can replenish our stock, be it through extracts of monkey glands or hormones of any brand. If such a theory is true, then at forty-seven His Lordship’s bullet chamber must have been close to empty. The various targets on which he used to practise were left vacant and forlorn. Those who UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

101 didn’t worry about the interruption would take advantage of their enforced leisure to take a rest, but those who did would grow restive, and this presented the members of our club with the opportunity of welcoming growing numbers of them, old faces as well as new.

His Lordship’s declining health later made me understand one truth, which is that lust tempts all men to feed on their own flesh and blood.

As for the new house – Mrs Bunlueang’s house – seen from outside at a distance, nothing seemed to have changed. His Lordship still went there for dinner twice a week. There was a small, incremental change in that lately Miss Kaeo joined the dinner table every Saturday evening. The four members of the various branches of the Witsanan family – His Lordship, Mrs Bunlueang, Master Khajorn and Miss Kaeo – sharing the same table must have formed a heart-warming picture not a little pleasing to the eye. And the atmosphere would no doubt have been warmer to the point of suffocation had the fifth member of the Witsanan family been there as well! This sarcastic thought crossed my mind unbidden and after lingering there for about four seconds, produced a flash which started a new train of thoughts in the head of the fifth member of the Witsanan family.

You already know how much interest I took in the attractive figure of Mrs Bunlueang. When it turned out that His Lordship’s lapses allowed me to take over THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

102 several rooms in the outer wings of his heavenly palace, I became daring enough to entertain the thought of somehow flying my way into its inner sanctum. Formerly these were snatches of an illusory dream, but now that the germ of a plot had suddenly come to me, I became more daring. Even though the hope was futile, it was better than sitting stock still moping away.

I went to consult Khein about my idea.

Mrs Bunlueang’s house had no resident servant, only daytime servants from other houses in the compound, each with his or her own duties. The older ones were assigned to keep the upstairs rooms tidy, while the younger ones looked after the rooms downstairs. A few servants took turns to handle these duties. Besides, there were a couple of children around to run small errands.

Come evening, Mrs Bunlueang would find herself alone again, as was her wish. As for meals, the food was prepared under Aunt Waht’s close supervision in the main house, and it was Lamiat’s duty to bring it to the new house and take care of the service until the meal was over. For Saturday dinners, which were special occasions, a couple of children would come and give a hand to Lamiat. And it was one or another of these special meals that I intended to use to prepare my flight towards the inner sanctum.

Lamiat was also a girl under His Lordship’s tutelage.

To ask for her cooperation was difficult because she wasn’t one of us. She was one of those disused targets UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

103 who didn’t worry. She was quiet and well behaved – the hallmarks of Aunt Waht’s coaching – as well as neat and quite attractive. The trouble was that, apart from not playing with us, she made it clear she despised us.

Nevertheless, the obstacle wasn’t beyond Khein’s cunning to overcome. At first, he thought of using a magic potion he was familiar with to get rid of her. ‘How about givin’ her menstrual fever?’ he said jocularly, while looking dead serious. Whether or not he could have done it, I had to object right away. So, he sought less drastic solutions and finally found one. Phum, his mother, had supreme control over the kitchen and he was one of her important helpers. He took advantage of his own role and thorough knowledge of kitchen proceedings to keep Lamiat tied up there until she was late in taking food to the new house. And it so happened that Master Jan had some business to discuss with Aunt Waht right then.

Normally, I liked to keep myself clean as Aunt Waht had taught me to, but that Saturday evening I made a special effort to be squeaky clean, and I looked unusually spruce as I carried a food tray into the new house, followed by a retinue of helpers.

When everyone saw who it was that was bringing the food, here are the reactions that followed. His Lordship glowered resentfully at me but found himself at a loss for words, which seldom happened to him. Miss Kaeo looked at me the way a genteel little lady looks down on flunkies. Master Khajorn’s face registered mild surprise THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

104 for the briefest of moments. Mrs Bunlueang was the only one who greeted me with a smile. ‘Well, well, how very kind of you to bring us the food,’ she remarked as she helped me place the food on the table to show her goodwill to a new servant. This increased my admiration for her so much that I was tempted to erase the pictures of her I had stored away in my mind, but another part of myself was even more eager to show my gratitude by providing her to the best of my ability with what I believed would gratify her most. Wasn’t it a sincere way of showing my good intentions towards her?

Indeed it was, believe me. This was the first time my fancies involving Mrs Bunlueang took a positive turn and became a clean, unadulterated sexual desire. My feelings of love and respect were like mixed solvents entering the main stream of lust that kept thrusting forward in me, and I shall never forget the new sense of accomplishment it gave me.

‘And where is Lamiat?’ His Lordship had just found something to say. ‘This is none of your f – (He checked himself in time and changed quickly to a gentler tone.) – er – none of your damn business.’

I stopped everything I was doing and turned to answer him, speaking clearly and with a politeness I’m sure I wouldn’t have shown had I been with him alone: ‘I do not know, Father. Aunt Waht was worried it was getting past mealtime, so she asked me to bring the food instead. I haven’t dirtied anything, now, have I?’ UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

105 I had spoken the last sentence in an undertone only for Mrs Bunlueang to hear. She laughed gaily, then tried to cover up her reaction by addressing His Lordship. ‘Oh let him be, dear. Let him come here so we can get to know each other. After all, he’s like my own son – like a relative, isn’t he, dear? Right?’ ‘After all, he’s your own son, hence my relative, isn’t he, dear?’ is what she meant to say, I believe, but I couldn’t tell whether she was sincere or merely wanted to lead him on. I saw him sitting back stunned as if thunderstruck.

‘Thank you. I’ve been wanting to come for a long time,’ I whispered to her again, hardly moving my lips.

She glanced at me with a smile, but didn’t answer.

Right then, Lamiat appeared, bringing more food and looking flustered, which gave His Lordship another chance to vent his anger. ‘Where the heck were you?

You’re pretty worthless these days, you know.’

‘I was tied up with Mrs Phum in the kitchen, sir.’

Lamiat was shrewd enough to use Phum as her shield.

His Lordship seemed to be left with nothing more to say, so he turned to bellow at me instead.

‘Your place isn’t here, so get out, you d – dumb boy.’

He had almost let slip the word ‘damn’. I wonder why he still bothered to suppress it since everyone around the house knew what he always called me.

At that very second, Mrs Bunlueang sent an electric discharge into the air. ‘Promise to come and see me again, so we can get better acquainted. I’m your aunt THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

106 after all, I’ve been here so long already and yet I hardly know you, Jan.’ My aunt! Wow! How independent the woman was!

She dared to claim me as a relative to the face of the lord and master of the premises, the man who most hated my guts, and by the same token she was showing her strong position in the house, at least on a par with him, because I saw him blanch in frustration – and so did she, because she added in as sweet a voice as she could muster to assuage his feelings, ‘I’m asking for your permission, dear. I think I can help you take care of him.’

His Lordship cut her short to free himself from the annoyance. ‘Whatever you want him to do, just order him about, B, but don’t bother taking care of that … brat!’ I think you’ll have no trouble finding a suitably stinging expletive to fill in the blank.

Mrs ‘B’ turned to give me a most friendly smile and said: ‘Well, you heard. Now you have one more aunt. So don’t stay away as you used to.’

I raised both hands to my forehead and bowed deeply to her out of genuine respect. ‘Thank you so much – Auntie. If it were only me, I’d come here every day.’ I uttered the last sentence as softly as I could while gazing at her expectantly. She gave me a puzzled look, smiled slightly and nodded imperceptibly. ‘You’re welcome – my nephew.’

From that day on, I gave up nearly all of my activities at the bliss club on the ground floor of the house where I UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

107 lived. Usually, when I returned from school at night, if I didn’t stay with Hyacinth, I went straight back home to visit Mrs Bunlueang without even stopping at my house to drop off my textbooks. Our usual meeting place was her library, which was located on the ground floor at the back. She stayed up late and rose late as well. Almost every time, I found her sitting or reclining in that room reading a book. She was a compulsive reader, and what commanded respect from me was that she read in two languages, Thai and English. In fact, I had seen His Lordship reading foreign books since I was a child (I understand it was those rows of His Lordship’s foreign volumes that had prompted Aunt Waht to have me learn English almost as soon as I tackled the Thai alphbet.), but to see a woman avidly reading hefty tomes in English was a lot more fascinating. She read mostly exciting adventure stories like H Rider Haggard’s novels and mystery and suspense works like Edgar Wallace’s.

Besides, she also read large numbers of gold-embossed hardcover books which I couldn’t grasp and which seemed to me to be kept for display more than anything else. The book which fascinated me most and which I wanted to read more than any other was The Cautious Amorist, by Norman Lindsay, the hottest erotic novel at the time. It interested me more than any other because it had riveting pen-and-ink drawings. Most of them showed a scantily clad heroine who sometimes wore no clothes at all as her ship was wrecked and she found THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

108 herself alone with three men on a desert island. I remember these illustrations well because they titillated me long before I could read the book or understand any of it. Unsurprisingly, though I couldn’t help being surprised when I picked up that very same book to have another look at it recently, I found it as dull as a textbook.

A textbook? Well, come to think of it, it really was a textbook for me. It was the first thick foreign book I ever read in my consequential reading life. I remember well how it happened. At first, Mrs Bunlueang was amused to see me trying to fight my way into it. Later, when she saw I wasn’t going to give up, she began to look at me thoughtfully as if she were weighing matters in her mind. Initially, she made as if to forbid me from reading it, but when I took the risk of approaching her and, swallowing my pride, asked for her help with a passage I just couldn’t fathom, she gave me a luminous explanation and proved willing to help me further. Her suggestions led me to think of sex in a positive way, which was new to me – to think of it as pure and valuable as some object within reach in a dream, or as my own desire, roused by the sweet fragrance of her body in those moments.

Let it be said as well: Miss Kaeo also played a part in prompting me to read English books with great determination. At that time, she had moved from Benjamarachalai School to Convent School off Seelom Road, and since she had changed to a new school, whenever I saw her in UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

109 or around the house, she always had a book in her hand.

Even in the early morning, when one of the servants took her to wait for the school bus at the entrance of the lane, she’d be whiling away the time reading. I liked to study English and had thought of joining a foreign school after there had been talk about Wachirarwut and Barn Somdeit boarding schools. I even had Aunt Waht act as my ambassador in negotiations over the matter, though we both knew they would come to nothing. Therefore, every time I saw Miss Kaeo with a book, I couldn’t help feeling sore about my own misfortune. She, however, seemed intent on putting on airs just to spite me.

And that was a major reason why my concentration in my studies dissipated so dramatically, as if I was bent on self-destruction in order to fulfil Miss Kaeo’s longing.

Why was this? Not long after that, Aunt Waht and I discovered that Miss Kaeo had insisted on going to Convent School only to make me suffer. She claimed that much herself the day she was scolded, after the school had reported on her poor performance and asked her parents to give her a good talking-to. It reminded us of the time two to three years earlier when Aunt Waht had taken me to see His Lordship to seek his permission for me to change schools. Miss Kaeo had been present then and had witnessed the intense disappointment I was made to suffer. She had made a note of it and seen it as a way of hurting me further. In fact, she didn’t care at all which school she went to.

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110 On that occasion, Aunt Waht learned a lot about her daughter’s real character. As for me, I had long figured her out, so I thought it was no big deal, and shifted all my attention back to reading foreign novels.

At night, Mrs Bunlueang’s library was like a new abode of peace and bliss for me. Sometimes, we hardly spoke to each other. She’d be engrossed in her book while I struggled through mine. The real enjoyment derived surreptitiously from her reclining position on the sofa. She liked to dress lightly and casually at home, and usually wore thin, loose-fitting clothes. And it was in those moments that she helped me collect deep insights into the art of nudity which would overwhelm me later.

On some nights after she had gone to bed I remained there alone until very late. It was in her library and in this way that I got my first inkling of domestic life.

On days when there was no school, I sometimes went to help her by volunteering to do heavy chores such as fetching water or weeding the flowerbeds in front of her house. I didn’t exert myself for nothing. Even if she hadn’t rewarded me with glasses of soda pop or lemon juice, which she always did, I had plenty of opportunities to admire her body in the daytime, which offered a different kind of beauty from the one she displayed at night. In the usually sweltering heat, she liked to wear shorts and a thin blouse with nothing underneath.

Whenever the weather was unusually hot, she’d take off her blouse and stay in her room, but there were times UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

111 when she’d move by the window or the door and whenever I caught sight of her then, it was like a heavenly vision. She had once told me she was old, but in truth there was not a single part of her that looked old, and I had told her so. She had been pleased and had thanked me with a smile, then said I only thought this way because I was too young.

But please do believe me: although the children of my age usually saw adults like her as terribly old people, I never felt the least bit like that with Mrs Bunlueang. To me, she was ageless. When I had first seen her, I had found her excitingly beautiful. Several years had passed and my feelings hadn’t changed. It was like looking at the stucco statue of the nymph that stood in the flowerbeds. I had seen its face, breasts and arms continuously since I was a child, and nothing had changed. This is exactly what I told her once we had become more intimate, and she had burst out laughing in delight.

‘So you want me to be another two-thousand-year-old woman, is that it?’ At the time, I had begun to read Khroo Liam’s translation of Haggard’s novel∗, but had merely started. A remarkable thing about us was that she no longer called herself ‘Auntie’ nor did I, and this had brought us even closer, as we would have felt awkward calling each other ‘Auntie’ and ‘Nephew’. ∗

Khroo Liam (Teacher Liam)’s translation of H Rider Haggard’s She, one of the very first foreign novels translated into Thai, is entitled ‘The twothousand-year-old woman’.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

112 And yet, there were still times when she referred to herself as ‘Auntie’. She did so whenever she wanted to get my complete attention to what she was saying. If we weren’t cross with each other, it could also mean that one was urging the other on, which was also the case when I called her ‘Mrs B’.

Anyway, I had once raised my joined hands to my forehead as a sign of respect for her on that evening when, mustering all my courage, I had taken myself into her house for the first time. Some seven or eight months later, I had to make the same gesture to her, again out of genuine sincerity. The only difference was in my motivation this time, which was so far out that you could never make the right guess.

Between ourselves, we used the familiar or polite pronouns for ‘I’ and ‘you’ or else called ourselves by our own names (Jan, Mrs Bunlueang), and we have kept doing this to this day, up to the very moment that I am writing these lines. But it happened once that, in a wild moment, I made a slip of the tongue and called her by a different pronoun.

Near noon that day, I took refuge from the heat of the sun blazing over her flowerbeds under the eaves of her house. I was flushed, and drenched with sweat. With eyes still dazzled by the strong light, I turned into the corridor on the ground floor groping my way to the bathroom to take a shower.

About an hour earlier, I had seen Mrs Bunlueang UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

113 going upstairs holding the new book she was reading – Body and Soul, by Vladimir (or something like that; my memory is failing me these days) – and she had gone on pacing the large porch at the front of the house back and forth. That day she wore creamy white shorts and a bright-red short-sleeved shirt of rough satin. Though I saw her from a distance, with a little imagination sharpening my vision I could see that the satin fitting the contours of her full bosom enhanced its up swell and crowned its tapering domes with well-delineated cherry pits. Her big breasts, beautifully curved as two fully ripe banana hands, heaved and shook with her every movement, and with each shake it was as if I could smell the sweet aroma of newly cooked rice, so enticing it made my mouth water.

She liked to take a nap after lunch – ‘siesta’, she called it. ‘It’s good to take a siesta,’ she often asserted. ‘Makes you feel hale and hearty for the rest of the day.’ I figured that by now she was sound asleep and enjoying her dreams. I had never been upstairs in the new house, but my imagination had taken me there many, many times, including then. I’d have liked to tiptoe to her room and watch her in her sleep. I imagined her daytime rest was like another form of art that would be priceless to my heart. As to her sleep at night, I was reluctant to dream of it, because every time I did His Lordship intruded and spoiled the artistic effects I was so carefully trying to achieve.

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114 As I stood in front of the bathroom door, which was slightly open, I kept my eyes closed to try to get rid of the annoying coloured particles that flickered in the daze induced by the sunlight. Then I pulled the door ajar and stepped in. My heart sank with a plop as I let out a shout, something like ‘Wow!’ or ‘Oho!’ or ‘Holy cow!’ How would I know? What made my eyes widen instead of the annoying light particles was Mrs Bunlueang – Mrs Bunlueang in the creamy white shorts and bright red satin shirt I had seen her wearing a while ago.

She stood in front of an earthen jar, presenting her profile to the door. With her arms raised, she was pulling up her shirt and it got stuck all around her head. Her torso was as white and tapering as a fresh jasmine petal in the dim light of the bathroom. What tantalised me mercilessly were the outstanding globes held up before my goggling eyes. They shook and quivered along the movements of her arms as she tried to get the neck of the shirt past her head. What I saw clearly now was the cherry pits, the size of the tip of a little finger, on their rather large round bases. Brown on pink, stiff and fully shaped, they looked intimidating as I had always pictured them. Where my breath had disappeared by now I couldn’t say. A constriction had seized up my throat and blocked my glottis. Torn between exultation and incredulity over such an unexpected treat, I was so excited and disturbed I felt my heart would burst or my chest break open.

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115 ‘Mrs B!’ I jerked out, almost as soon as the shirt got unstuck from her head.

Mrs Bunlueang threw down her hands, which were still stuck in the sleeves, in front of her, with such a distraught expression that she looked like someone whose hands were tied as she turned in the direction of my voice. I felt my shout had been very loud, louder than the roar of ocean waves, louder than the clap of thunderbolt that had stricken my heart asunder – but of course it mustn’t have been as loud as all that.

Mrs Bunlueang now faced me and was looking at me impassively. Only her eyes and eyebrows registered some surprise, but not much, as if she had turned to see a squirrel gazing at her in some place where it wasn’t supposed to be.

‘What did you call me just now? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my ears,’ she started saying in an even voice while she kept her face impassive. I tried hard to swallow the chunk of hardwood that was struck in my throat. While she went on speaking, she freed one hand from the shirt and put her arm across her breasts merely for form’s sake, it seemed, as I could still see most of her. ‘‘Mrs B’! Don’t you realise you called me the way your father does? My dear boy, it seems to me you’re no longer a child now,’ she said and chuckled. I chuckled as well, nervously, and because of this irrepressible chuckle I began to shudder and feel my legs almost give in at the knees. My incredulity had all gone, THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

116 and uncertainty turned my exultation into such delight I could hardly control myself. The chunk of wood was no longer there, but I had nothing more to say to her, and all I could do was stand on trembling legs, dumb under her spell.

I wish I could have seen myself then. My face and eyes must have betrayed my craving and she must have seen it, because she exclaimed: ‘Now then! Don’t stand gawping like a retarded child. Come on, go wait outside so that a lady can take a shower.’

I let out a ‘Sure’ so hoarse and fuddled it almost didn’t sound like human language, ducked out of the bathroom and stood leaning against the wall next to the door, which I forgot to close. I managed to control some of my emotions, but let the rest run pleasantly wild.

‘A retarded child’ – these words of hers slightly offended me; they were the words my classmates used to tease me for being much older than they. I had no idea what she meant and didn’t intend to find out, because by then my interest was on something else. Without realising it, at one point I had turned to lean against the doorframe and was now looking at her as she bent down to scoop up water and went about pouring it over herself. Her showering done, she stood up, turned around and saw me, and I found myself dumbstruck again. She unfolded her satin shirt, covered her bosom with it and, holding it in place with both hands, walked to the door.

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117 ‘Enjoying the show, aren’t we?’ she teased. ‘What do you think will come of it, you silly child?’

I liked the friendly way she teased me in a situation like this, and it made me love and want to thank her so much more, and there and then I opened up in a torrent of words. I spoke at length but the message I wanted to convey to her was merely that I hadn’t meant to intrude; if I did, it was only because I didn’t know she was in there; I’d seen her taking a book upstairs and thought she’d gone to have a nap, so I went in. Then I began to apologise profusely, but she cut me short, saying: ‘Come off it, you aren’t feeling the least bit sorry, now, are you?

In fact, you’re rather pleased about it, right? Isn’t that so? Come, come, there’s no need to blame yourself. Well, since you’ve seen most of me anyway, there’s something I want you to help me with. Take a shower and wash your hands with soap. Once you’re done, come and see me in the library. Er – no, make that upstairs. Yes, upstairs’s better. So scrub your feet as well.’

She walked past me and away, and my gaze followed her. Drops of water clung to her skin, which was as white as the core of a banana bole, and made it sparkle all over. The back of her shorts was soaked, forming an inverted triangle that plunged into the cleavage of her bottom. I watched her till she disappeared from sight then went hurriedly into the bathroom. I dared not guess what she was about to request of me, yet couldn’t prevent myself from making all sorts of wild supposiTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

118 tions; so, instead of just washing my hands with soap, I soaped myself all over, then, still dripping, walked up the stairs.

The situation seemed to be about to fulfil my expectations concerning Mrs Bunlueang, in the sense that I had tied her up to me in my mind, even though, as I already said, I had never intruded on the upper floor of the new house. The first room I ventured into was a bedroom – beautiful, luxurious, paradisiacal and, to me, not a little aphrodisiac. At first, I thought I had come to the right place, because this couldn’t possibly be Master Khajorn’s bedroom, but there was no Mrs Bunlueang waiting. She was in another room in which she slept or sat in privacy whenever she felt like it. The room had many doors and windows, all opened wide. She lay prone but slightly at an angle on a long rattan couch, her face cushioned by one arm. I didn’t quite dare yet to gaze greedily at the exposed parts of her body and whether out of my instinct for survival or sense of guilt, my eyes swept through the various doors and windows and I was relieved to find that nothing could be seen from the surrounding houses, and from the main house in particular.

I wasn’t aware she was watching me until I heard her asking me drowsily: ‘Are you worried about my body on my behalf, young man?’ Dumbstruck, I walked up to her and kneeled down beside the rattan couch, next to her naked body. My eyes must have been feverishly UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

119 active though, because I saw her looking at them and smiling teasingly, before she turned her head in the general direction of a small table at the top of the couch. ‘Please take some ice in that bowl to rub my back with.’ I got up and fetched the metallic bowl, chose a chunk of ice that fitted my hand and placed its smoothest side on her firm, pulpy back, which I went about stroking at length. She complained about the bathtub she had ordered but was still waiting for and said that as soon as it arrived, she meant to lie immersed in it for ages. Almost all of her personal items such as clothes, shoes and miscellaneous accessories, including books, she bought on order. At first, I wondered which shops she ordered them from, because deliveries were seldom on time. I learned later that everything came from Penang and Singapore.

After complaining for a while, she closed her eyes, allowing me to concentrate on her back to better effect and wider wandering. At first I used only one hand rather daintily, not daring to let it touch her skin, a privilege I left to the piece of ice. But when the ice began to melt, I decided to use my other hand to wipe the trails of water, and when the hand that held the ice went numb with cold, I changed hands and kept alternating their respective tasks. After three chunks of ice had melted away, the hand that wiped the water slid down to one of her breasts, which bulged out on either side of her from the weight of her body. Though my hand was THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

120 frozen, the touch was like a jolt from heaven. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled out and instead tightly clasped her back. But I knew what would happen to my body if I persisted in touching and watching her for just a little longer. I raised my clenched fists and shut my eyes tight. What an exquisite, tantalising torment! O God Almighty! And you, angels! And you, spirits of all ilks, help me! What had happened? What had inspired her to allow me to see and touch every inch of her naked body? But then why, on the strength of it, wasn’t I inspired to dare do what I was dying to?

To hell with it all! One day, maybe, if there was going to be such a wonderful day – or so did my wishful heart answer anyway.

I don’t know how long I sat with eyes closed and fists clenched until I heard Mrs Bunlueang’s drowsy voice say: ‘Well, Jan, that’ll do for today. Thanks.’ Strangely enough, her order to stop, instead of disappointing me, made me feel overwhelmingly relieved. I stood up and left the room immediately, almost before I thought of opening my eyes. I went back downstairs to sit in the library in order to calm down and enjoy digesting that most enthralling experience. If I may borrow a foreign phrase to describe my state then, I was like a dog licking its wound with relish – the wound caused by the painful knowledge that, no matter how long I would stay, I wouldn’t dare to do what my heart so desperately hankered for. And it was for this reason that I felt so UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

121 relieved to be able to escape that torment. It was better than bearing it, fully aware that nothing would come out of it in the end.

In any case, I didn’t forget that her parting words had left me with a comforting hope. ‘For today’ meant that there would be another day, a wonderful day which I had a hunch would come sooner or later.

Less than seven days went by before the second wonderful occasion came to be. This time I was a little bit more daring. After four chunks of ice had melted, I told her, ‘Please allow me.’ She asked idly: ‘Allow what?’

Instead of answering, I grasped the edge of the rattan couch on both sides and buried my face against her plump back, which was as cold as marble. Mrs Bunlueang jerked, then laughed and said: ‘Your face’s real hot.’ I kissed her back all over without saying a word.

She let me do as I pleased for a while and then told me to go. Though her tone was as even as usual, this time there was no bonding word like ‘today’ and it made me feel deeply sorry and sad before I pulled back and left.

I avoided her for three or four days and even when I returned to stay with her in the library as before, I was still embarrassed and dared not meet her eyes. That night, the heat was oppressive. She kept fidgeting for a long while and finally put down her book, got up and went into the bathroom. A moment later, she was back, no longer wearing her thin, flower-patterned blouse.

Instead, she had retied her sarong over her bosom. Her THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

122 body was wet and the cloth damp. She didn’t resume her reading, but told me to follow her upstairs. ‘Don’t turn off the light,’ she instructed and left without waiting for me. I was so excited I hardly knew what to do. I partook in the events that followed as if I were sleepwalking.

She was lying prone with her face on her arm as usual, waiting for me. Her sarong was now almost down to her coccyx, leaving her white, tapering back exposed. This time, after more than half of the first piece of ice had melted, I made it slip out of my hand and it went to nestle beneath one of her breasts. She raised herself up a little to allow me to retrieve it, but my hand deserted its task instantly to grab hold of warm flesh in a greedy grope. At the same time, I was slobbering all over her back and outpouring all that was hidden in my heart.

She let me do as I wanted for a while, like she had the first time, and then – at first, I thought she was struggling to free herself, but she was merely turning to lie on her back to have a full view of me. Her face looked at once fearful and serene.

From then on, I was even more of a sleepwalker.

Everything that happened before my eyes became blurred and, at first, left me no chance to recover my composure. I only knew that I was mingling with heaven. The part I remember most vividly was when – Has it ever happened to you? Being jolted by a searing pain as you slide your foot into a shoe and a scorpion stings your big UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

123 toe? The jolt I received from Mrs Bunlueang’s sting was of the same magnitude, except that it resulted in no end of amazement and delight.

When I had followed her upstairs, it was about eleven at night, and when I returned alone to the soft light of the library it was about two in the morning. Thoroughly stunned and gratified as I was, I kept wondering whether it hadn’t all been a dream, even though it was still so vivid to my eyes and tangible to my body. I kept suspecting that every feature of her whole body, nearly every nook and cranny I had seen and touched just now after having dreamt of it for ages, was but a figment of my imagination. By the time I recovered my calm enough to be certain of where I stood, it was past three in the morning. I got up, closed all the windows, turned off the light, then left the room, closed the door and made straight through the trees for home. As I reached the staircase leading to my room, I suddenly remembered an important scene, and only then did I understand its full significance. My legs felt so weak I had to sit down on the steps.

Before I left her room, I had turned to have a last look at her. Her milky white body was still stretched languidly on the rattan couch. Right then, she opened her eyes and held my gaze. She burst into a smile as if to give me the friendliest greeting in the world. Then and there I was choked up with a rapturous emotion so priceless and intense I couldn’t possibly keep it to myself. I went THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

124 back to her, knelt down by her couch, raised my joined hands and prostrated myself onto her generous bosom, which was soaked with sweat.

‘Oh dear!’ Mrs Bunlueang moaned, and hugged my head. I embraced her body tightly and tears came to my eyes from a sweeping feeling of contentment. Then I heard her whisper: ‘You know – let me tell you something – I’ve been thinking of leaving your father – He – that is, I – But now, I don’t think so any longer – thanks to you. You’re a young man now, a real man, you understand? Now, I have to rely on you…’

As I recalled her words, I felt stunned: had I been slow in making a move, Mrs Bunlueang may well have left before I could fulfil my dream! She hadn’t told me why she was thinking of leaving His Lordship, but I already knew, and I had steadfastly committed myself to make good her hope of relying on me, because I was already determined to repay my debt of gratitude to her with my life. For all that, I came to realise how close I had been to losing the opportunity of knowing her in this life, and this is why I was feeling weak-kneed.

That night, my thoughts were such a jumble that I couldn’t sleep. The next day, I was informed by the district office that my name was on the conscription list and on such-and-such a year I’d be drafted into the army. That’s how I remember I was seventeen when I passed through the triumphal arch with masculine pride, as signed and certified by Mrs Bunlueang.

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125 From that time onward, the relationship between Mrs Bunlueang and me turned into a deep and complex intimacy shared in secret. Our common love of reading had brought us together as close friends despite our difference in age, and now that we were intimate with each other, our ties grew stronger and we felt nothing could compare to them. Life in the library went on as usual and our amatory pursuits improved our physical wellbeing. For Mrs Bunlueang, they came as the normal substitute for what she had been lacking; for me, they were something entirely new in my life. Sure, I was the one who demanded more and more out of craziness and gluttony, but I did adjust to her rule, which she had inherited from His Lordship, of a single night per week.

Whenever His Lordship went to have dinner at her house, it meant my life would be empty for the next seven days. It was a good thing that he didn’t feel up to calling on her very often, because lately, the older he became the more he preferred greener grass despite the diminishing number of meals he could stomach. The proportional share that accrued to me was thus fairly constant, and although I received not nearly as much as would have fully gratified me, I found the arrangement very satisfactory and furthermore – ah well, I prayed it would go on forever.

My intimacy with Mrs Bunlueang had strange repercussions on my true feelings for Hyacinth. The more carnal pleasure I had with the first, the more I thought of THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

126 the second, and since I had never associated Hyacinth with the musk of lust I found so heady then, she was like an angel in paradise for such a hedonist as I. During this period, I poured out my innermost feelings to her in bouts of verbal and written confidences, and although she didn’t return my feelings by word of mouth or by putting pen to paper, the expression on her innocent face and in her deep eyes spoke the language of the heart more eloquently than any language in the world. We loved each other – such was the message our hearts exchanged with every beat. Our common hope for the future tied us together, though we knew not what the future held. More important, Hyacinth looked happy, happier even than I, though her only assets were of the heart, but alas, this was to be as high as her happiness would go in the whole of her life on this earth.

Khein by then had turned into a fully grown young man and was nearing the age when he would have to return to his hometown to get drafted. The discreet activities of his bliss club went on as usual and he personally took a more decisive part in them than ever before. Actually, you could say it had become his main occupation, because the demand had increased in direct proportion to the deterioration in strength of the ageing herd leader from the main house, and he was the only savvy, well-limbed male around willing to oblige whoever came to ask for his help. What he once did for kicks out of youthful exuberance was now a source of private UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

127 income. You could say he had become a male prostitute – in other words, Khein was the unofficial second in command after the owner of the compound. As for me, I had washed my hands of the whole business. I must, however, commend him for helping me to strictly impose the moral injunction forbidding any of His Lordship’s natural children to sleep with one another, be it inside his bliss club or outside. He was very strict about this rule and no one dared disobey him. This was the meritorious deed he performed for this compound: he prevented it from degenerating into the lowest level of depravity.

I never thought for a moment that Khein would be unaware of my discreet relationship at the new house, although he never let out that he knew about it – for all his muddle-headedness in some matters, he did know how to treat me with respect. I was aware of his good side, and yet managed on one occasion to misunderstand him grievously due to my own recklessness.

A long time passed. Everything was going smoothly for everyone in the compound, except for Miss Kaeo and those directly in charge of her – the succession of nannies her parents had to find for her time and again once Saisoi was gone. By now, it was the end-of-year vacation and she had plenty of spare time. She made a nuisance of herself so often that her latest nanny packed up and left less than a month after she had moved in. While there was no one to replace her, Miss Kaeo had even THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

128 more time to make even more trouble, and it was then the fuse which had been smouldering all along finally reached the powder keg.

The new house was closed then. Mrs Bunlueang and Master Khajorn had gone to visit relatives and take a holiday in Penang, as they always did whenever there was a school vacation short or long. The house was dead quiet even during the day because the children didn’t like to stay in the compound. That day, I took a long nap and awoke in late afternoon. When I came down from my room, I saw that the door and window in Khein’s room were shut. I wagered he must be inside, busy building bliss with some girl. I felt like finding out if I’d win or lose my own bet, and if I won, I wanted to know who he was with – an old or a young one. These two elements put together could only mean one thing: I missed him and wanted to fool about with him as we used to, and I even wagered he’d want to urge me to join him, again as we used to.

I tiptoed to the window and put my ear to the shutter, but could hear nothing. So, I went to the door and was about to knock according to our agreed code when the sound of someone talking and then laughing came through. It wasn’t Khein’s voice but some girl’s. Next I heard Khein mumble something I couldn’t catch, and again the girl laughed and talked some more. I remembered that voice and refused to believe my own ears!

Forget the code! I banged heavily on the door, which UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

129 was bolted from the inside, and right then heard a voice screaming: ‘Help! Whoever’s out there, help me!’ It was the same voice that had burst out laughing a moment ago – the voice of a twelve-year-old girl whose nickname was Miss Kaeo.

The door wouldn’t open. My head was spinning in alarm and fury. I had no time to think properly. The only thought that crossed my mind was, ‘That damn Khein with Miss Kaeo!’ Over and over, until I flew into a rage. I knew the latch on Khein’s window was loose. I rushed to the window, jerked it open and hoisted myself through the frame into the room. Thanks to the light now pouring in through the window, I saw Miss Kaeo stretched on Khein’s bamboo platform. Her clothes were scattered about. Her hands were fastened to the top legs of the platform. As for Khein, he stood stunned by the door, as if he was about to unlock it and flee. He was clearly relieved when he realised it was me, but how mistaken he was! I lunged at him and punched him squarely in the face. He looked both frightened and dumbfounded. He shouted something I couldn’t catch because my ears were ringing with my own rage and the din of Miss Kaeo’s high-pitched screams. I only saw his mouth opening wide and punched him again, making his face jerk to one side, but he didn’t think of fighting back or even of protecting himself. His arms were stronger and longer than mine, yet he let them hang by his side as if they were paralysed. This incensed me even THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

130 more and I sent him crashing into the door with a single uppercut from my right fist, which then hurt as if a bone in it had broken. Despite the battering of his face, he kept trying to mouth out something.

I struck his body once with all my might and then my arms fell to my sides. Khein’s back slowly scraped the door panel as he flopped to the floor. I raised my foot to kick him good but in the same instant felt ashamed of myself, and in that very second I finally made out what his pleading voice was saying, despite the yells for help that came nonstop from behind me.

‘Master Jan, listen to me first!’ This is what he had been trying to shout at me repeatedly, and it was enough for me to figure out what had happened – how a peal of tickled laughter had turned into screams for help when I banged on the door.

I knelt down in front of him and took him in my arms.

‘Oh Khein! You poor bastard!’ I remember moaning in this way, as tears came to my eyes. They finally rolled down when I heard what he was trying to explain through his swollen lips.

‘Miss Kaeo came to see me – led me on – tried a hundred tricks – she – she ordered me to bind her hands and do it to her – or else – she’d scream – scream and ruin my good name.’

I told him to stop speaking. I told him I believed him. I asked for his forgiveness, and we hugged each other like two wet puppies lost in the wild. We had both been UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

131 tricked by a twelve-year-old brat. But what was Khein going to do? Because I had no doubt His Lordship would only believe his daughter.

‘You’ve got it coming to you this time, friend,’ I muttered to him. He tried to smile and said, ‘Never mind. You believe me and that’s enough.’

‘But he’s going to get you jailed.’ I tried to think of the worst to see if we could do something about it, but Khein just sighed, shook his head and went on repeating, ‘Never mind’.

Suddenly, someone began banging on the door and shouting to open up. It was Old Phum, Khein’s mother. I still had no idea what to do, except to try to comfort him a little. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be your witness,’ I told him, then grudgingly got up to unlock the door.

The door burst open and Aunt Waht stalked in and was onto the bamboo platform in a jiffy. In the same instant, a thunderbolt struck me down!

‘Mummy! He’s the one who did it! That damn Jan fooled me into coming here and bullied me.’

Aunt Waht stopped dead in her tracks and stood perplexed, then slowly turned to face me. She appeared much more worried than before and looked at me in amazement. I returned her gaze as I tried to gather my wits. I knew Aunt Waht couldn’t bring herself to believe what her daughter had said, but she was too confused to figure things out right then. I merely looked at her and shook my head from side to side, as a way to back her THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

132 own doubt, then walked past her to the head of the platform and stood looking at Miss Kaeo. I wanted to have a close look at her. I wanted to see how long someone who had just told such a monstrous lie could keep a straight face. But do you know what I saw? She looked up and stared me in the eyes, and her face turned into exactly what her part required – a mixture of anger and hate and – I’ll be damned! This girl had never shown anything remotely resembling fear of me, and here she was exhibiting fright and disgust to perfection, as befitted the spontaneous reaction of a virgin freshly raped by a ruffian – and so did her next scream, pregnant with fear and arrogance: ‘Go away! How dare you show your face to me now? You – you scum! You’re evil.

He tried to help me but you wouldn’t stop beating him…’

I heard Old Phum commiserating loudly over her son’s plight, then Khein crying out indignantly: ‘Keep out of this, Mum!’ I turned around and whispered to Aunt Waht as I walked past her, ‘It’s no use’. Khein was trying to get up.

I knew he would argue on my behalf, but I had made up my mind I couldn’t let him do it. I grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room.

From what I had just seen, Miss Kaeo was more than a great pretender: she could deceive even herself. The expression on her face and in her eyes while she vented her fury showed she believed every word she was UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

133 saying. This was beyond the abilities of any actress; nor was it something an ordinary person could possibly do.

Actually, it was insanity. Angry people sometimes behave nastily because they forget themselves, but those who forget themselves to the point of doing something so outrageous out of sheer hatred can only be insane.

And indeed so was Wilairek Witsanan at the age of twelve. Her uncontrollable hatred inspired her to switch targets from Khein to poor me at the last moment, and no one could stop her, not even her own mother. The only one who would believe her unquestioningly was her father. And where was he now? I soon found out he wasn’t home. He had gone out on some business before noon.

I took Khein to sit quietly under the dense foliage of the shorea tree next to the house. We waited until everyone had left and then went back to his room. I tried to convince him there was absolutely no point in telling the truth to exonerate me. Not only would His Lordship, our lord and master, never believe a word he said, but he and his mother might also find themselves without a roof over their heads. As for me, no matter how severe the punishment would be, it couldn’t possibly be much worse than what I was used to. As Khein was still reluctant to believe me, I forced him to solemnly vow that he would do nothing to counter Miss Kaeo’s allegations.

To Khein, a vow was a commitment that didn’t require any particular reason. His dread of vows was even THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

134 stronger than the terror of the sky among primeval tribes. The funny thing about it, though, was that once I got him to make a vow, not only would he observe it, but he’d figure out its every implication with the most wildly inventive imagination. My only role was to determine a degree of solemnity commensurate to the nature of the vow. This time, I made it such a binding commitment that even I felt my hair raise in horror as I heard myself speak. The reason why he was willing to make vows, I understand, was that it was a way for him to make his life secure: so long as he didn’t break a vow, he took comfort in the idea that he wouldn’t have to face the music he had sworn himself to. This was why his sworn promises were always reliable.

I then sat down to await my fate, which was ever so slowly creeping closer. I expected it would come in various forms of violence. I quavered at the thought he might send me to the police.

But when it actually came, it was much worse than anything I had feared!

His Lordship returned home at dusk. He hadn’t even changed his clothes when the little plaintiff was there to present her complaint. Lamiat was the one who came out to fetch me. She called me repeatedly from the front of the house. She stood about six yards away from Khein’s door and behaved as if she were holding a sixyard-long pole and prodding with fear and loathing at a dying snake.

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135 I shouted I’d heard her and stood up. To cover up any outward sign of the anxiety I felt, I turned to Khein and told him in jest: ‘Khein, if you can shove it in to Lamiat, I’ll give you a reward.’ Actually, I learned three years later he had tried his best to get her, but had failed. Unlike most women in the compound, Lamiat was not sexmad, even though she was the owner’s playmate. It was thanks to her, to Aunt Waht and to several others like them that my mother’s compound could still uphold its claim to respectability in the days of His Lordship.

When I reached the main house, I overheard Aunt Waht speaking in a firm and fearless tone she hardly ever used: ‘…You can’t just listen to one side of the story. Yes, I know she’s my daughter. You don’t have to hammer the fact into my head all the time. I know my daughter well. I know how bad she really is. And frankly speaking, it’s you – yes, you who’ve been spoiling her rotten and turned her into a monster.’

Now Miss Kaeo, who sat leaning on the silk-upholstered back of her father’s favourite ebony chair, rose to the occasion by shouting angrily: ‘How dare you accuse me like this!’

‘You little bitch!’ It was the first time in her life Aunt Waht had used such a rude tone with her daughter. She lunged for her, intent on giving her a mighty smack, but His Lordship grabbed her arm and stopped her in the nick of time.

‘Now don’t, Waht,’ he said evenly. ‘Don’t be angry THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

136 with her. She’s just frightened. And besides – I’d like you to show more sympathy to your own daughter, a lot more than you give to that devil of a boy. He isn’t even your real nephew. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time. So let me say once and for all that I’m not happy about it. And don’t you forget it!’

‘What you’re saying just isn’t right.’ Aunt Waht wasn’t giving in. A real tigress! ‘I came here for my sister’s sake.’ (She meant my mother.) ‘And it’s also for her sake that I’m staying here, because Jan’s more than my nephew. He’s more than my own child, I’ll let you know. I don’t have a child any more. You stuffed this vicious brat into my belly by force and I pushed her out of me long ago. So, my duty’s over. Enough’s enough.’ Honest-to-goodness song and dance, that! Hearing it made me love my dear auntie even more.

‘You don’t know what you’re saying – this is preposterous!’ His Lordship’s voice was subdued, as if reeling from an unexpected blow. But in the next instant, he was back on his feet. ‘I think I must once again hammer the fact into your head, as you put it, so you won’t forget, that I’m the master in this compound, even though it once belonged to your so-called sister.’

I didn’t want to hear His Lordship using offensive language with my dear Aunt Waht, so I decided to show myself there and then. Miss Kaeo looked up and saw me first. She shouted: ‘Dad, here he is! That damn beast’s here now.’ My ears rang as I stepped in, completing the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

137 quartet in the room. I forced myself to smile a little to comfort Aunt Waht and we stood looking at each other in deep mutual understanding.

I had failed to notice that my old friend the whip was waiting, until His Lordship finally turned to glance in my direction, and there it was, quivering at the end of his arm. But this wasn’t why I quavered. I was certain my punishment would be more than just a beating, and I was most eager to find out what lay beyond it.

‘Don’t beat him, listen to him first,’ Aunt Waht pleaded. His Lordship whirled round to look at her and then turned to me again, with a look that said he wanted to skin me alive.

‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ His voice was stern and insincere. So much for the mercy of the kangaroo court! ‘How dare you do this to my daughter, you scum?’

This was the first time he acknowledged that I was fully grown, by dropping his customary ‘damn child’ address of the past seventeen years. He then assessed the extent of my felony. ‘If Phum’s son hadn’t intervened, my daughter would be completely defiled by now.’ I almost let out that, ‘She’s my sister, how could I do that to her?’ But I kept my mouth shut, as an objection came to me instantly: ‘If he’s my real father, how come he didn’t think of that?’ So I went on behaving like a mute defendant, and my silence seemed to incense him so much that finally, he let out the secret of my birth for the first time: ‘You son of a criminal!

No way you’ll ever escape that legacy!’

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138 Hardly had he said this than Aunt Waht shouted at him: ‘Don’t! Not that!’ My curiosity sparked, I turned to her.

‘Why should we keep concealing the fact?’ His Lordship bawled at her. ‘Now’s the time – let’s get it over with. I’m fed up with this comedy – let him know once and for all – I’ve had it! He’s destroying himself – what can we do? He should be thankful to me for not dragging him into jail, and you still want me to keep on pretending I’m his father? No way. Besides, I’ve seen him around for far too long. How can anyone stand raising the child of a wild beast? I won’t have him anymore. I’ve had enough! Out he goes.’

So here it was – the harshest punishment for me, totally beyond my wildest fears. The dreadful realisation that I was going to be without a home made my head reel so much I could no longer think straight. My last hope was Aunt Waht. The possibility of being thrown out of my own house had never occurred to me, and now that the fact was so brutally hurled at me, it was beyond my ability to remain calm. The world outside that I could vaguely imagine then was huge, dark and desolate, and it frightened me.

I walked to Aunt Waht, the last person in the world whom I could depend on. Suddenly, I was empty inside and my heart was so heavy I felt like bursting – like bursting into tears as I hadn’t done in public in very many years, especially not in front of that vicious girl. I UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

139 tried to swallow till my throat ached, but couldn’t prevent myself from letting out a sob. Aunt Waht drew me close and put her arm protectively around my shoulders, then turned to address His Lordship in a cold voice: ‘Would you be so cruel as to throw him out on the streets? This child has no one, as you know very well. I never thought that –’ ‘A child?’ His Lordship exclaimed, forcing himself to laugh. ‘He’s big enough for me to feel jealous, seeing the way you fuss about him.’

‘You’re disgusting!’ Aunt Waht hissed.

Upon hearing this sarcasm plucked from his own field of expertise, I disengaged myself swiftly from Aunt Waht’s warm embrace. His words hurt me and made me worry instantly about my relationship with Mrs Bunlueang. I was seized by a dark foreboding and at the same time was stunned like never before. Was it true that I’d have to leave her? I felt myself wither. I forgot all about my fear of the outside world and turned to yearn for Mrs Bunlueang’s serene bedroom, for Mrs Bunlueang’s breasts, for her whole body and, most of all, for its apex – her generous bushy mound hiding an inexhaustible supply of wonders. As I was immersed in this gloomy reverie, something seemed to awake and resound in the vastness around me – Hyacinth!

‘I’m asking you where you intend for him to go.’

Hyacinth…

‘Up to him. Even dogs know how to fend for themTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

140 selves. Er – or let him go back to the boondocks to search for his father’s ancestors. Why not indeed?’

I heard his voice faintly, but loud enough to pull me out of my daydream and back to the most important matter I kept deeply buried in my heart: my father! my father’s ancestors!

So, what I had surmised all along wasn’t wrong: this man was not my father. Furthermore, he wasn’t even related to me. I felt immensely relieved as if a heavy burden had been taken off my chest. I was truly and totally free now. Nothing was holding me any longer, and what was particularly pleasing was that I had no debt of gratitude towards him, not even for his behaviour as the most vicious beast of a father. It was he who was indebted to me for the merciless way he had been treating me. At that moment, I determined to find a way to make him pay one day, no matter how long I’d have to wait.

I remember heaving a deep sigh, so loud that everyone heard it. Aunt Waht must have caught its full import, because she called me to her with utmost kindness in her voice and in her eyes.

‘Jan…’ She stared at me for a few seconds, then said slowly: ‘Tell me the truth. Did you do what Kaeo is accusing you of?’

I looked at Miss Kaeo thoughtfully. Aunt Waht knew perfectly well that I had done no such thing. She wanted me to have the opportunity to defend myself by telling the truth. She had the tiniest hope I’d be able to find UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

141 mitigating circumstances, as she was most worried I’d be thrown out onto the streets. For my part, I desperately wanted to reveal the truth even though I knew it wouldn’t help me in any meaningful way. But I had already resolved not to do it. I had muzzled Khein, my trump witness. Why had I taken such a decision and why was I sticking to it? Was it because I felt concerned over Khein’s and his mother’s welfare, which was the reason I had used to convince him? Of course not. I wasn’t such a good person that I’d sacrifice myself so totally: I wanted to take revenge.

You may think this funny – and indeed, it was a laughable kind of revenge. It was my very own brand of derisive vengeance, too subtle in its implications for anyone to see, but I was satisfied it was as cold-blooded as it comes. Well, I’ll explain it to you, and you don’t have to agree with me. This is how it went: leaving aside Khein, my erstwhile witness, there were only Miss Kaeo and I who knew the truth, and she was by no means certain she’d succeed in distorting all of the facts, but, since it was such a serious matter, she was confident I’d be in big trouble as a result of her deed, and this gratified her immensely. The bigger my trouble the more I’d suffer, and that was the ultimate aim of that wicked girl.

Therefore, if I accepted the suffering resulting from her deeds without protesting or writhing in agony in front of her jubilant eyes like an ox led to slaughter, she’d be disappointed and frustrated. The more she wished to see THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

142 me in torment, the more disappointed she’d be. Then she’d be the one to suffer out of her own frustration, and she might even fall sick: the mental health of people like her is so fragile! Such would be the immediate outcome of my idea of replying tit for tat, as it were.

The ultimate outcome of my subtle plan for revenge would take time, and may even come to nothing in the end. I was sort of convinced at the time that it wouldn’t fail, however, because I believed in the law of karma – a matter I actually knew little about then. The person who played an important part in her spiteful manoeuvres against me was her own father, and she had to lie to him, even though he was always on her side, in her quest to hurt me. Thus you could say she had enticed her own benefactor to collude with her in doing evil, of which both were equally guilty in my view. How and when they’d suffer retribution was of no interest to me: to stand watching father and daughter committing sin against me was satisfaction enough.

All I had to do to take revenge was to behave in a submissive way and play this role as well as possible, because no matter what, I had nothing left to lose.

Right then, Miss Kaeo’s glare challenging me was like a tightly wound spring ready to jump forward as soon as I revealed the truth. But the spring stayed put for a short while and very likely sprang backward deep into her chest when she heard me tell Aunt Waht: ‘It depends on who you want to believe.’

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143 Miss Kaeo was both startled and astonished. Aunt Waht looked flummoxed and even more miserable. His Lordship snarled: ‘And you still have the cheek to claim your innocence! You cunning little bastard!’

Then the moment he had been waiting for for years – perhaps since the moment I was born – finally came.

Holding the whip in his hand, he proclaimed that my status in my mother’s house was terminated: ‘Damn Jan! From now on, you and I are no longer related in any way. A scoundrel like you is beyond redemption. You show no respect. And now you even have the gall to do this to those who’ve brought you up. Therefore, I won’t have you stay under this roof any longer.’ Again, these words hurt. I had stopped worrying about finding myself without a home, but I thought I still had the right to stay in the compound if I so pleased. ‘One more thing.

You’re too lowly to share my surname. I won’t allow you to use it any longer. Use what the devil of a surname you want. But let it be understood that from now on, you have no more connections with this place.’

‘Hold it!’ I thought I should say something, though I wasn’t too sure what. ‘About the surname, I don’t mind.

I don’t care if it’s Jan What The Devil as you say, or whatever else. But this is my mother’s compound and no matter – no matter what, I’m my mother’s son.’ I turned to consult Aunt Waht. ‘Mother’s still my real mother, right?’ Talking about Mother deeply disturbed me and I felt my throat tighten and my voice shake. I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

144 was sorry I had mentioned her and thus shown my weak point to my opponents for the first time, but I tried to suppress my emotions, because I was eager to know, ‘Then – why – can’t – I – stay – in – my – mother’s – compound?’

He laughed grandly out of impudence or whatever.

‘Sorry,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You can’t stay here any longer because – I – won’t – allow – you – to! Because – I – am – throwing – you – out – of – my – own – compound! D’you hear? I said my compound. Maybe you want to know why. Do you really want to know? Then, you must know first why you turned out to be born the son of –’ ‘Don’t!’ Aunt Waht shouted so loud I almost started.

‘I’ll talk to him myself.’

‘Good,’ he said mockingly, with such an expression on his face I wanted to go up to him and rip it off with my bare hands. ‘So I leave it to you then to make him understand where he belongs, and then make sure he leaves my property presently.’ He laughed scornfully, raised up his hand and went on: ‘Oh, and don’t forget to agree on a new surname for him, so I can get it changed at the district office when I get him stricken off the house registration. And may I suggest you don’t allow him to use the surname of that sister of yours either. I’d feel duty-bound to object, and I’m sure you’ll agree it wouldn’t be proper.’

Aunt Waht didn’t answer him. She took my arm and UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

145 whispered, ‘Let’s go,’ and I followed her promptly. You no doubt realise I was most eager to hear the story of my origins.

Hardly had I taken a few steps than a shout at my back stopped me dead in my tracks. ‘Not so fast, damn you.

You can’t just leave like that. You must have a taste of the whip to cleanse you first. I can’t let you off that easily.’

I had been trying hard to keep my composure, which had already been thoroughly tested once. This time, it was shaken so hard that it broke into pieces. ‘Damn it!’ I swore forcefully. I told Aunt Waht to wait and returned to face him, while Miss Kaeo yelled with glee: ‘Good! Good!

Thrash him for me, Father, or else I won’t have it…’

I stood right in front of him and looked him in the eye.

He took a step back hastily then raised his whip, readying to lash it down on my chest or perhaps on my face. How could one be so vindictive and cruel?

I hadn’t come back to be castigated, however. He looked more surprised, even frightened, when I moved close enough to touch him and plucked the whip out of his hand. And there was more coming to him that he didn’t expect.

‘Have you forgotten?’ I told him evenly and clearly enough for him to hear, ‘we are no longer related.’

Having said this much, in the same lowly language he had used with me a moment ago, I couldn’t help swearing at him with the strongest insult there is in any THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

146 language, and he stood transfixed to the spot as if under a spell. Then I returned to Aunt Waht.

I had already left the house and thrown the whip that stuck to my hand into a nearby bush when I heard his voice again – deafening, furious and shrill like a madman’s. The gist of his rambling was that I must leave the compound that very night or else he’d shoot me down like a dog.

At my small house, Khein was waiting for me in front of the door to his room, which was unlit. When he saw I had come with Aunt Waht, he propped himself up and stood hesitating for a while, then followed us to the bottom of the stairs. Before I could think of what he’d do next, he went to Aunt Waht and knelt down on the ground in front of her.

‘Milady…’ he told her. I laughed in my heart. Khein’s formal language was always straightforward but quaintly archaic.

‘What is it, Khein?’ Aunt Waht was more interested in what he had to say than intrigued by his form of address. But he was still bound by his vow and could only say once again, ‘Milady!’ He prostrated himself at her feet, mumbling something unintelligible, then got up and walked away sluggishly.

‘He came to apologize for – for what happened,’ I explained as we climbed the stairs.

‘But he didn’t say a thing,’ she mumbled to herself, then suddenly turned to me. ‘You mean –’ UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

147 ‘That’s right. It wasn’t me, but it wasn’t Khein’s mistake altogether. Miss Kaeo forced him to – she wanted to pull his leg. Unfortunately, I barged on the scene and – and I was blamed instead.’ I wanted Aunt Waht to know what had happened, but with as few details as possible, and it seemed she understood, because I heard her heave a sigh, then she was silent.

I turned the light on in the room and prepared a mat for her to sit on. We sat in silence for a while, and finally Aunt Waht said: ‘Jan…’ She spoke with difficulty. I smiled to encourage her. ‘It’s time for you to know the truth.’ Then she was silent again.

‘Who’s my father? Please tell me,’ I asked, straight to the point.

‘Jan, it isn’t as simple as what you’re asking.’ She looked at me painfully as if she were confiding her own secrets. ‘It’s vile and – and shameful.’

Read on now: here comes the prologue to the story of my birth.

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148

9 Four or five months before marrying His Lordship, my mother, who was then eighteen years old, had gone with her Bangkok elders to visit senior relatives in Phijit, as happened every two or three years. She had travelled to Phijit regularly when she was a child but had stopped going in recent years, so that when she went there this time, people could hardly recognise her. By then, she had turned into a young woman, and one of the most beautiful by all reckonings. To brighten her prospects even more, she was known to be considerably wealthy in spite of her youth. So, her name was all around town in Phijit. Men young and not so young, including rich merchants and government officials, nurtured hopes and pushed themselves forward.

The notoriety of her beauty and fortune was in no way confined to the town but spread among young men in the surrounding areas – country bumpkins, as we’d say today, who thought her charm and good looks weren’t beyond their reach. Her appeal was so devastating it seemed to derive from black magic. It made some of these young lads so crazy that they forgot themselves and were ready to die. Thus, a totally unexpected and terrible event took place when she and her elders went to visit other relatives and old acquaintances in the fields outside of town. Aunt Waht, who was one of the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

149 relatives living in the area, had been close to my mother ever since they were children. Aunt Waht herself was a star among the local clods. Her family was rather well off. At the time, she already had a boyfriend, who lived in the same village. When my mother arrived there and stayed with her family – Aunt Waht recounted – ‘All of a sudden, it was as if I’d never lived there: everyone only had eyes for your mother, and I was left in peace for a change,’ she recalled with a smile. ‘It felt like being on a holiday, which was fine, even if it was only for the duration. No one knew I had a sweetheart. We had to keep our dates secret because he was poor and besides, he was something of a hoodlum. As nobody knew, men kept coming to woo me, but as soon as your mother came, everyone stopped paying attention to me and I could do as I pleased. That’s when I went to see him on his farm every night. And you know what? One night, for the first time he didn’t keep our date. He wasn’t at the place where we usually met, and that’s because that day, your mother had gone with Grandpa to inspect some land in another subdistrict, and Jorm and two of his friends had ambushed them on the way back and absconded with your mother. It took the better part of a month for the police and district officials to find her.’

I think you can guess what happened next. Yes, what you suspect is correct. When she was back in Bangkok, she was pregnant with me. Because of this, the story had to be kept under wraps as much as possible, and THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

150 Grandpa made it his business to find a spouse for my mother so that she could give birth without offending custom. He finally found His Lordship. How he got hold of him, I’ve no idea. The only thing I know is that my mother’s side had to agree to the conditions that all her properties would go to him as compensation and that they’d be married in name only until she gave birth. But then, as you know, my mother had to surrender her life as well as all of her wealth in exchange for giving birth to me, and all that as a result of a mere accident.

Learning the truth like this made me feel even more grateful to my mother and I couldn’t refrain from crying.

At the same time, I felt utterly estranged from her. It was as though we were hardly related to each other and I wasn’t even sure I had ever received any maternal love from her at all. It was a troubling question which no one in the world could help me give a definite answer to. I felt terribly lonely, even more so than when I’d been locked up alone in the greenhouse.

But then within the paralysis that numbed the inner core of my self, a glimmer of warmth tried to assert itself – no doubt the ancient instinct of man (or was it animal?) that made me rejoice over knowing at last who my father was, even though he was that type of a father!

His name was Jorm (which sounded so much alike Jan it was uncanny!). He had committed great evil, and to His Lordship he was nothing but ‘a criminal’. The only dignity I could find in him was that he once had been UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

151 Aunt Waht’s boyfriend, though he had ruined that relationship. If anything of him was left with Aunt Waht, it could only be in the form of an annoying ghost, but even so, to me, he was an interesting kind of ghost worth finding out more about.

Where was he now? If he had been jailed over the abduction, he must be free by now. Maybe he had gone back home. At this point, His Lordship’s sarcastic remarks came back to me. ‘Up to him. Even dogs know how to fend for themselves. Er – or let him go back to the boondocks to search for his father’s ancestors. Why not indeed?’ On second thoughts, it wasn’t such a bad idea. I knew now where I’d go when I left this compound, but I dared not tell Aunt Waht because it sounded like a preposterous idea. I didn’t even know what it was I was going to go there for.

‘Auntie, have you given some thought to where I should go?’ I asked to test the waters. Actually, it was natural enough for me to ask such a question, but I felt like a trickster asking it.

Aunt Waht nodded. ‘You must go to Phijit.’

‘Phijit!’ I exclaimed. The expression on my face must have misled her because she hastened to comfort me: ‘I don’t like the idea of you going so far away either, but you don’t seem to have a choice.’

Hearing this made me feel guilty over what I’d been plotting, so I let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Don’t worry about me. Actually, I’m most eager to go to Phijit.’ Aunt THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

152 Waht sighed in obvious relief. I couldn’t help sighing either, then asked: ‘Where will I stay? At your house?’

She nodded, beaming happily. ‘You’ll stay with Grandpa, of course.’

‘What!’ I almost let out, ‘Is he still alive?’ because I took it for granted he was dead. Still doubtful, I enquired: ‘But isn’t Grandpa very old by now?’

She smiled. ‘Not at all. He’s only sixty and still going strong.’

‘How about your parents?’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘How about your brothers and sisters? Don’t you have any?’

‘I do, but some of them have died as well.’

‘How is Grandpa related to you?’

‘He’s my uncle – my father’s elder brother.’

‘So what is he to my mother?’

‘The most respected relative.’

‘What about Jorm, then? Is he still there?’ The questions came out truly unbidden, to my own amazement.

As for Aunt Waht, she was stunned, but then she seemed to understand and sympathise with my curiosity and did her best to answer calmly.

‘No, he isn’t. Nobody knows which way he fled. He hasn’t been seen since and to this day no one knows if he’s dead or alive.’ Then she gave me a few details about what had happened. When the police and district officials were hot on their trail, the criminals had started UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

153 shooting and in the ensuing gunfight were shot dead and fell into the river. But only the bodies of Jorm’s two underlings were recovered from the water. As for Jorm, the ringleader, nobody knew whether he died or managed to escape.

Now then! Here was a mystery with several clues to ponder that was more entertaining than many a whodunit. I had already thought of a hundred and one ways of meeting that stranger named Jorm, but they all led to the same dead end. Did I want to take revenge on him for what he had done to my mother? Was I to strike up an acquaintance with him and then prostate myself at his feet out of gratitude because he was my father? Or should I keep watching him quietly from the sidelines, whatever kind of life he led? And so on and so forth.

None of this would get me very far.

When Aunt Waht told me to hurry to pack my belongings if I didn’t want to be shot dead like a dog, I wondered how I could possibly travel to Phijit that same night.

Hyacinth!

Aunt Waht explained that she’d take me to stay at a friend of hers for a while. That house had people coming and going between Bangkok and Phijit all the time and she’d ask them to take me there.

Hyacinth – I must find a way to meet her before I left.

As we were gathering a few clothes and other essentials in a bundle, I remembered His Lordship’s other important instruction. ‘I still have no new surname, Auntie.’

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

154 Thus reminded, Aunt Waht stopped what she was doing and thought for a moment, and then said brightly: ‘How about this one – Darra? Jan Darra? It’s most apposite and sounds nice as well, don’t you think?’

Darra… Jan Darra! It sounded so great that a thrill of pride and joy went through me, and I realised right then no other name in the world was as sweet sounding as ‘Darra’, my mother’s name.

Jan Darra… It was a marvellous matronymic, which raised me way above the position I merely owed to the chance outcome of a seminal chemical reaction.

Before she excused herself to change into a dress better suited to going out, Aunt Waht grabbed my shoulder and said: ‘Now tell me, Jan – what was it you told His Lordship that made him so mad he threatened to kill you?’

What I had done was ugly, so I had some explaining to do to try and make her sympathise. ‘As long as I thought he was my father, I endured everything from him. But now – he himself said we’re not related in any way, so I won’t let him treat me badly ever again. Besides, I resent him for despising me since – since I was born, maybe, though it’s not my fault, really: I was never told anything. And even now – now that he’s told me – I still don’t know who I am, except that I’m a human being.

No matter what, he keeps despising me. What kind of a man is that? So I –’ I couldn’t go on, not because I was angry but for fear of offending her ears.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

155 ‘So you what?’ Why did she want to know so much?

‘I was rude to his mother.’

She sighed, and it made me wonder why.

She told me to go out first and wait for her at the entrance of the lane, then she went back to the main house.

Bundle in hand, I went down the stairs of the small house in a dejected mood I tried to suppress. I dropped the bundle at the bottom of the stairs and went to see Khein. He sat dispirited in front of his door, face bruised, shoulders hunched, looking as disheartened as a toad long deprived of water. I sat beside him quietly.

Each of us was lost in his own gripes for a while, then Khein broke the silence: ‘It was my fault, but you’re the one being booted out. I think that isn’t fair.’

‘I made a mistake too: I was born in the wrong place,’ I said to comfort him.

‘Then let me tell you somethin’.’

I nodded.

‘His Master, he’s treated you as if you wasn’t his son.’

I laughed heartily. ‘Some sharp eye you’ve got! I’ve only just found out myself I wasn’t his son.’

‘How come!’ he exclaimed. ‘Then how did you get born?’

Khein was slow-witted; he only understood one thing at a time. What didn’t go through his head went through his tail. He knew I definitely had a mother and she had died giving birth to me. Since my father was my mother’s husband, my father, according to him, could only be THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

156 His Lordship. And since it turned out His Lordship wasn’t my father after all, it followed I didn’t have a father – then how could one without a father ever get to be born?

‘A ghost must have stuffed me in there,’ I said, annoyed.

‘Don’t joke about those things.’ He was frightened because it was what he was inclined to believe.

‘Oh come on. Anyway, I’ve got to go. We must say goodbye now.’ My heart was heavy as I said this. I remembered the clumsy way he’d barged into my room on the day of his arrival, and today it was my turn to leave him just as awkwardly.

‘Don’t say that. Makes me feel bad.’ He turned to look at me incredulously. ‘Far as you’ve got to get outa here, I bet you won’t be outa reach.’

Perhaps he thought I was leaving the way Saisoi had and no matter what he’d find it in him to come and visit me. I put my arm around his shoulders and said, ‘Khein, listen carefully. I’m not pulling your leg. The place where I’m going is very far away. I’m going to Phijit, a town way up north, and I don’t even know if I’ll ever be back again in this lifetime.’

I felt my heart wince as I said this. As for Khein, the damn fool cried out loud and whinged: ‘Why? But why?

Why does he have to send you so far away?’

He made me feel dismayed and I thought again of Hyacinth. I slapped him on the back and scolded him, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

157 warning: ‘Khein, you pig head! What’s so strange about it? You did come all the way from the Northeast, didn’t you? Well, it’s the same, really.’

He quietened down, but couldn’t help moaning: ‘It’s not the same – not the same at all…’

I hugged him again and told him in earnest: ‘Khein, listen to me carefully. There’s something important I want you to do for me. Please go and see Hyacinth some time tonight or tomorrow and tell her ‘Master Jan got into trouble at home and had to leave for Phijit, but he won’t go there right away. He’ll be staying somewhere else first and he’ll come to say goodbye in the next couple of days for sure.’ Tell her also I miss her very much and will never forget her. Can you remember all this?’

He set about retelling the main points of my message and I helped him by having him repeat every word several times until I was sure he could remember everything. And then he said, in a low and quiet voice that resounded like thunder in my ears: ‘How about the other one? Haven’t you got no message for her? I mean, the Mistress at the new house.’

Goddam Khein! The exclamation came to my mind just as I thought of that forgotten item. I felt like cursing him and yet didn’t curse him. I felt like cursing him for being aware of what was going on between Mrs Bunlueang and me, as he had now made obvious. I didn’t curse him because he had reminded me of her for the first time since I had known I was being thrown out. The THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

158 mere thought of her, added to the strength of my longing, aroused me powerfully. I wasn’t sorry I had forgotten her during these vital moments of my life, and neither was I sorry for the strong yearning I felt as soon as I thought of her. The powerful sexual urge that burst forth didn’t trigger any kind of regret either, even though choice scenes of our blissful intimacy shot eerily through my mind then. My strong feelings at the time ran the thin line between acceptance and commemoration, and that was how it should be, because I had found in Mrs Bunlueang so fulfilling a sexual gratification it seemed to have taken over every nook and cranny in heaven. And now that the time had come for me to lose her, it meant the end of what passed as the most wonderful fulfilment in the world. There was nothing left for me to crave since I had already received it all from her. Sexual arousal was merely an enticement to remember with yearning the intimacy we had known, as when one must leave a beloved friend and relative to whom one feels indebted.

I patted Khein on the shoulder again and told him, ‘Wait, I’ll give you something for Mrs Bunlueang.’ Then I went back upstairs to my room, turned on the light and looked for some paper to scribble a note on. I sat down and removed the cap of my favourite ‘Watermann’ fountain pen and got ready to write. I had plenty to confide to Mrs Bunlueang, but the time was so limited that I felt cramped.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

159 So this was the parting of the ways for us! I thought.

I had a mother and yet didn’t have one. (I had Aunt Waht instead. Without her, I wouldn’t even be a human being by now, but more likely some tiny creature born out of a bamboo hollow. Oh yes, this reminded me I had yet to thank her for everything before we finally parted.)

I no doubt had a father, yet didn’t have one either. So you could say I was most unfortunate to have been born without parents.

I had Aunt Waht as my second mother.

Then how about Mrs Bunlueang? Aunt Waht was my second mother, but it was Mrs Bunlueang who had single-handedly ensured my second birth, to the world of the senses. Just like the first, this second birth was achieved out of lust, though, unlike the first, out of sexual wont only. My first birth accidentally brought me into this world; my second birth gave me the certainty I really existed in it. Mrs Bunlueang’s sexual mores were like Phanthurat’s magic well, in whose waters Phra Sang∗ had partaken of the magic. The immaculate radiance of his golden body marked the rebirth of Phra Sang, who had been born a conch, just like sex-anointed manhood marked the rebirth of plain Jan, who had been born a toy critter.

There was no way I could fully show my gratitude to Aunt Waht because I was too much indebted to her. But ∗

The titled hero of Sangthong, a Thai classical drama written by Rama II (1809-1824). Panthurat is a female giant and Sang’s adoptive mother.

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160 in the case of Mrs Bunlueang, I had already done so through my constant willingness to gratify her till the very end. That end had now come unexpectedly, and if I felt sorry it was over this, rather than for any other reason. I was sorry I no longer had the opportunity to gratify her forever as had been my intention.

For all that, I felt less sorry than worried. Mrs Bunlueang’s life would be incomplete without sexual compensations. I wasn’t worried that she’d separate from His Lordship as she had once planned. It was her health I was concerned about.

I thought briefly of Khein in this context, but soon discarded the notion, not because I was jealous and wouldn’t let him play in the same sack as I, but because it struck me that the sack in question was Mrs Bunlueang’s exclusive property.

Thinking about it, I found myself in Narinthibeit’s situation, when the poet couldn’t make up his mind to whom or to which element he should entrust his beloved.∗ All of this fed the turmoil in my mind, but all I did was to sigh and write down the following words: ‘Dear Mrs Bunlueang, I am in deep trouble, much more serious than I could have ever feared. I must leave the house presently. I am

∗

The 19th century poet who wrote Nirart Narrin croons: “Shall I leave thee with Heaven or with Earth?

I doubt I can trust the gods to behave Shall I commit thee to the wind then?

I fear its caress would hurt thy fair skin.”

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161 to stay with my grandfather in Phijit. When you return, whatever you are told, please do believe that I am still the good boy you have always known. I must go now as Aunt Waht is waiting for me. I shall never forget Mrs B in my life. Thank you for everything.’

I extracted from Khein the promise he’d keep the whole matter secret and when I followed him to make sure he kept the letter in a safe place, I enjoined him to deliver it only when he was sure the coast was clear.

‘You and me it’s like death’s parting us forever,’ were the last words I heard him speak, right from the heart.

When I walked out carrying my bundle, I turned to say goodbye to the shorea tree, which had stood by my house since I was born, and I couldn’t help casting a last, sorrowful glance at the house itself. The last picture of it I remember was of Khein sitting despondently in front of the door to his room, in the same position as before – like a toad long exiled from its pond.

What he had said about death parting us forever must have been true: I haven’t seen him again since that day.

The house of Aunt Waht’s friend from Phijit which she took me to was in the Phaya Thai suburb. It was so far out we became afraid the Chinaman who pulled our rickshaw would never reach it. Along the way, I thanked Aunt Waht for all her kindnesses as I had planned. Although she had so much to tell me and so many instructions and we went on talking until we no longer had anything left to say to each other, we still hadn’t reached THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

162 the place. I still remember well the pleasant coolness of the air that night. I even remember the Chinaman’s steady panting in rhythm with the slap of his feet on the ground and the shrill whir of cicadas, the loudest insects I’d ever heard, while the speeding line of trees along the way allowed only fleeting glimpses of the full moon.

I don’t know to whose destiny I owed the fateful coincidence: people from Phijit had been staying at the house for days and were preparing to go back on the morrow, which left me with no time to go about doing all I had meant to do. My life in Bangkok was coming to an abrupt end. …Hyacinth!

That night was the most forsaken and frightening low point in my life. Unfamiliarity with a place surrounded by the dead quiet of black jungle, combined with anxiety over the clueless future stretching ahead of me, turned the house in the Phaya Thai wilderness into a departing station for another world. Loneliness: whoever invented the word, it described my feelings at the time perfectly. I lay in tears below an eerie din of dewdrops. Underneath the shroud of silence of that forlorn night, turbulent thoughts whirled on themselves… Hyacinth!… Hyacinth! … Khein… Mrs Bunlueang… His Lordship and Miss Kaeo… Hyacinth!… Mrs Bunlueang… Aunt Waht… Mother!… and the man named J–o–r–m!

I fell asleep within such loneliness.

And the next morning, after the train for Phijit had left UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

163 the Bangkok station, my life as Jan Witsanan came to an end. The young man sitting dejected in that northbound train was travelling towards the life of Jan Darra.

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164

10 The train stopped at the Phijit station late at night. The town at first sight was a succession of dim or grey fragmentary scenes in total darkness I can sharply recall even now. It was the most expansive darkness I had ever seen. The chill of the night made me feel alternately hot and cold, as if a sultry haze also hung in the air. In fact, it must’ve been my emotional state that made me react to the cold weather in this way. This was the first time I found myself in the countryside, after a very long trip, and furthermore, this was only the second night since I had been thrown out of the shelter I had had since I was a child; I was nothing but an innocent at large.

I spent the rest of the night in the house of the Phijit citizen who had kindly accepted to take care of me at Aunt Waht’s request. The next day, the man took me to see Grandpa, who lived way out in the fields. This time, it was a journey in the true sense of the word, as we had to walk all the way. Before we left the small town behind in late morning, we crossed two local roads. They looked dead quiet and forlorn, although I could see a few people going about. The whole town seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It reminded me of a similar atmosphere I had known before, but I couldn’t remember where or when. I do now, though: it was like the atmosphere in Bangkok in the late morning of 24 UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

165 June 1932. Most commoners were still confused about the events that had just taken place, even though a socalled coup had been carried out in their name, albeit without their knowledge, to change the political system.

We have all had to suffer the consequences ever since.

During the three years I spent in Phijit, nothing impressed me, except Grandpa, who was the one and only person I found truly remarkable.

We walked for hours and by the time we reached Aunt Waht’s former house, it was early afternoon. The house was big and set on large grounds dotted with animal pens, haystacks, and puddles of mud which buffalo could wallow in. It was the largest farmhouse I had seen that day and would ever see during the whole three years I was to live there. As we reached the house, my companion told me to sit down on a bamboo platform in the shade of a big tree and wait for him there. He then went up to the house alone. I didn’t object. It was the longest distance this city dweller had ever walked, and instead of sitting, I lay down. I listened to the exhausted beat of my heart within my ribcage and enjoyed the throbbing of my blood as it coursed past my temples, and before long I was sleeping, gently caressed by the breeze.

When my companion shook me awake, I sat up to find myself surrounded by a dozen staring children. I had no idea where they had come from. I hadn’t seen them when I arrived. In fact, they all belonged to the house THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

166 and later turned out to be my closest friends, although, apart from Grandpa, I lived all by myself – a situation which Grandpa and I had agreed upon and which I readily accepted. I was happier on my own, living somewhat like a vagrant, rather than staying in the house, whose atmosphere was poisoned by covetousness over Aunt Waht’s share of the estate.

My guide took me to freshen up by the side of the house. We then went to look for something to eat in the kitchen, where no one paid attention to me. After we finished our meal, he took me to see Grandpa. He didn’t say a word; he had gone up to settle everything with him privately beforehand. His task now complete, he prostrated himself in front of Grandpa and took his leave. He wanted to start on his way back to town immediately. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he wished me all the best before standing up and leaving the house. I didn’t know what to say, so I bowed to him respectfully, thanking him in my heart for all he had done for me. He was a good and obliging man, so rare these days. I was never to see him again – it was as if he had been born for the sole purpose of taking me to Phijit!

The house, built in traditional Thai style, had twin roofs that met in the middle, leaving an airy, shady space between the two sets of rooms of the upper floor.

When for the first time I ventured into that middle section, I found the place cool and dark and made out the dim, imposing figure of Grandpa, who sat alone on a UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

167 high veranda on one side. When my eyes got used to the poor light, I noticed how wide the space crisscrossed by a tangle of beams under the tapering roofs was. My first impression was that I had entered a prayer hall made entirely of wood. As for Grandpa, whose figure I now saw clearly, he reminded me of one of those senior officials of the old regime with high-sounding titles such as Jao Phraya Phra Sadeit and others I can’t remember. He had a big body, broad, muscular shoulders and a square face with a wide forehead and prominent jaws. A shock of grey hair parted in the middle looked like wings above his closely cropped nape. Bushy eyebrows arched over harsh eyes. His fine moustache was still black, unlike his eyebrows and hair. He sat cross-legged among his paraphernalia, while I stood staring at him from the central landing below.

‘Come here, Jan.’ There was a strange note of kindness in his gruff voice. I climbed the high wooden steps and went to sit at the same level, then crawled to him and prostrated myself at his feet.

‘Hmm…’ he said, while looking at me closely. ‘You’re fully grown now, son of my niece Darra.’

This delightfully quaint address made me feel so deeply elated I almost burst into tears.

‘We have much to talk about,’ he went on. ‘Your Aunt Waht left it to me to decide about your position in this house. People around here, including the man who brought you in, don’t know who you are. I never thought THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

168 you’d be forced to come here. But since you’re already with us, I think you’d better stay in such a way no one knows who you are, because I want everyone in this house to forget all about what happened to my niece Darra, your mother. We should let bygones be bygones.’ Having said this, he asked, by way of confirmation: ‘You already know the story of your birth, don’t you? That’s what Waht says.’

He held out a rumpled letter for me to see.

I nodded wearily, feeling dejected. I realised that, even here, I’d have to live like a man without roots. I suddenly felt the urge to find the man named Jorm. But, assuming he was still around, how was I going to do it?

If I stayed on for a while I’d probably find a way, I reasoned. To ask Grandpa about it would no doubt be useless. To investigate on my own would probably raise suspicion and go against Grandpa’s wishes. So, I decided to bear with it and play for time.

After being silent for a while, Grandpa finally said: ‘I’ll tell everyone you’re here because Waht asked me to take care of you. This way, no one will think too much of it and you’ll live here without any problems. But then, you’ve got to earn your keep. You look strong and healthy. So, work hard! Working the fields never killed anyone. On the contrary. So, you think you can do it? In case you…’

He didn’t complete his sentence. Later, I understood what he had meant to say – if one day I chose to settle down there as a farmer, the share of property Aunt UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

169 Waht still had would probably be left to me. Grandpa knew well I was more than a son to Aunt Waht. It was only later that he told me the whole story.

So it was that I stayed on, placed under Grandpa’s care for three years. I worked hard for the rice that sustained me. I laboured in the paddy fields and willingly took on the odd jobs that needed to be done. I no longer knew what the future held in store for me, but didn’t care. The only thing to do was to try to forget about what had happened and live one day at a time. This would never have been possible if I had lived a comfortable life. So I set out to toil away and was soon the hardest working man in the village. This in turn ended the suspicion that I was after the wealth of the people in the house. The modicum of happiness I enjoyed during this part of my life derived solely from hard work. Frankly speaking, I thought of myself as some kind of ox or buffalo. It was as if I wished to atone for sins I had been a party to.

All this time, I learned nothing more about the man named Jorm. It took me about a year to find out where his land was located, but it turned out the people on it knew nothing about him. Had he really vanished without trace, or was it that, as I dared not ask direct questions about him, I got nowhere?

The only person with information was Grandpa, whom I became increasingly close to. Even if he refused to tell me anything, I had nothing to lose by asking, and I decided that one day I’d do so. But when that day finally came, I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

170 discovered how wrong I had been. Instead of being enlightened, I found myself completely in the dark, and regretted I had ever struggled to find out the truth.

The secret I discovered made it impossible for me to know who I really was.

Before we come to the most dreadful part of my story, I must keep my promise and tell you about the prostitute who had a child, something I found very strange. I found it strange because I had never seen or heard of a prostitute who could have children like other women – and that, too, was rather strange in itself. Women of the night receive far more attentions from men than your average housewife does, so you’d expect them to have children year in and year out like my friend Erp’s mother, the food vendor in the lane leading to my house, who produced children as regularly as trees bore fruit in season. And yet prostitutes didn’t. This had convinced me that they couldn’t have any – but then, at Wat Po School near Tha Tian, I had a friend who was the son of a brothel’s madam.

When I first mentioned this story, I said I’d tell it later because it was relevant to one part of my life; we’ve now come to that part.

At the age of eleven or twelve or was it thirteen? Well, around that age, anyway, whenever I was too lazy to go out and play or felt depressed and bored, I’d wander about the streets wherever my feet would take me, venturing near or far depending on my mood. Sometimes, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

171 I’d follow the lengthy route the teacher would take us along when we’d stay overnight at the Sapharn Soong monastery in Bangsue, as part of our boy-scout training.

I’d set out with the intention of going farther than the monastery, but usually gave up at Khaodin Wana∗. On some afternoons, I’d take the long New Road with the intention of going to Barn Thawai or beyond, to Tok Road, but I usually ran out of steam by the time I reached the lower part of Bang Lamphoo. In most cases, however, I didn’t go very far. One of my favourite outings was to the Rama I Bridge or New Bridge as people called it in those days – its construction had been completed only recently. I liked to stand in the middle of the bridge in late afternoon waiting for the sun to set. From there, I had a sweeping view of the sky, which was far greater than the one to be had at the Royal Esplanade. It was second only to the view from the top of the Golden Mound. I used to enjoy climbing the Golden Mound and sitting up there with the clouds in the daytime, but since scandal sheets had reported that a seaman named Chalao had been enticed there by his friends who had murdered him and hidden his body in a nearby cave, I had stopped visiting the place, except during temple fairs.

To get to the New Bridge, in the early days I’d take Teethong Road, walk over the Tharn Bridge at Bampheinbun Market and enter the Narm Juet square, exiting on the Ming Mueang Market side. I then turned into ∗

The site of today’s Dusit Zoological Garden

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

172 the road running between Wat Liap and Phoh Chang Suan Kularp School before going up the loop that formed the entrance to the enormous bridge. Or else I’d take the road in front of Wat Rarchaborphit, walk across the See Kak Phraya See intersection, follow Barn Mor Road and its rows of gold shops, and then the road passing in front of Saowapha School and its shrine – a road I often took on my way to the evening school. I’d then pass the lane where the school was located, enter Tha Klang Street and finally turn left onto the embankment before climbing up the steps alongside the bridge. In later years, no matter which route I took, I made a point of passing through Tha Klang Street, not just on my way to the bridge but also on the return trip, when I’d turn left towards Tha Rong Ya or right by the grids of the Wat Liap power plant – all this because I had heard the rumour that Pling, my new friend at school, had a mother who ran a brothel out of a shophouse in the street.

Pling was the name we gave him. As for his real name, which we heard at roll call every morning, let’s say I’ve forgotten it. Actually, we should all forget it, because when we didn’t call our friends by their nicknames, we called them by their fathers’ names. We called him Pling∗ because of his habit of absconding into Wat Pho during lunch breaks to sit alone by its range of imitation mountains. However much his friends tried to persuade ∗

Pling means anything that sticks and stays put, such as leeches, stapes or clasps.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

173 him to go and play with them, he stayed rooted to the spot, because he couldn’t stand being teased about his family background. I sympathised with his plight, but there was little I could do to help him, for all the influence I had among the most mischievous of our classmates. The story of his life was rich in spicy episodes that prompted much mindless teasing and loose talk among us. To really help him, I’d have had to punch every joker in the face and make enemies of almost everyone in the school, which you’ll agree just wasn’t on. So, I tried to help him the best I could by sticking close to him during breaks, so that the sharp tongues wouldn’t harass him too much with their jibes. I was the only one close to him in the whole school, and the only one to whom he condescended to address a few words a day – such was the extent of our friendship.

Because life at school was such a torment, after less than two terms Pling quit and went back to the mollycoddling of his mother’s home. I made a habit of passing by his house on Tha Klang Street at every opportunity in the hope of befriending him, so that he could at least rely on one friend in the world, but he spurned my advances. Pling acted indifferent whenever I went to visit him at the shophouse, and if I came by when he was enjoying the fresh air on his doorstep, he’d sneak back inside at once. I couldn’t blame him. I fully realised he bore me no ill will and had made up his mind to confine himself to the narrow but comfortable world THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

174 that suited his condition – the square world of his shophouse, consisting of his ever-so-benevolent mother and the women in the harem, which was a superfluous commodity for him. Even though I knew the door to his friendship was closed, I still walked by his house on occasion. I was curious to find out as much as I could about his peculiar way of life.

The focus of the story at this point is on my pitiful friend Pling. I realise that this account of his life isn’t very pleasant to listen to, but since I consider it significant to this part of mine, I simply have to tell it. So, however disgraceful it may sound, please do me the favour of keeping your peace and allow me to have my way.

Pling’s secret life was revealed at school by Laen, who lived in the same area. Laen’s father was a lawyer, whose office was in a shophouse in Tha Roang Ya Street nearby. If you want to ascertain the truth of what Laen told us, then you’d better quiz his father, because Laen was adamant it was his father who told him.

As the story went, one night a great commotion erupted in the brothel. One of the prostitutes raced down the stairs from an upstairs room, clothes amiss, her shrieks answered by angry oaths. Shaking with fear and loathing, she banged the door open and rushed out into the street. Standing at the top of the stairs was the bellowing guest who had paid for her service, a Pakistani with dyed red hair and moustache who stamped about unabashedly naked.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

175 To restore peace and order, the madam told her girls to bring the terrified creature back inside and lock the front door. She then stormed up the stairs to confront the hulky Pakistani. She asked him to stop his ruckus and go back to the room and promised she’d give him all of his money back. He was willing enough to go back to the room but wouldn’t stop complaining until he got what he had gone there for, and it looked as though he’d carry on like that until dawn. The madam thus went back down the stairs and asked for a volunteer, but plead as she might she found none. The girls’ reluctance was understandable, actually, given the awesome specimen on display at the top of the stairs a moment ago and the fact that the girl who had run away for dear life was the star of the house, well known for her boldness and stamina. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of story you could trouble the police with.

In order to solve the problem and restore peace, the madam had no option other than to don her old armour, head resolutely back up the stairs and enter into battle herself. The situation returned to normal towards dawn, and it was from that mighty encounter that my poor friend came into existence.

Sordid as it was, I tended to believe the story wasn’t true, although there were several indications to the contrary: Pling’s mother had no known husband or lover; Pling himself was tall and big like the biggest breed of Indian people; and his mother’s physique THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

176 seemed to match the events of that night: she had a large, sturdy body, breasts the size of gourds, hips as broad and thick as a lady buffalo’s, and a fierce-looking face. All of this made me suspect the story could be true after all.

If I’ve told you this shameful episode, it’s to give you something to compare to my case. Although my friend Pling was born by accident or happenstance just like me, he had always been aware of what had happened. As for me, when after a long search I finally discovered the whole truth, I found myself steeped in a darkness eighty-four thousand times more intense than before.

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177

11 After I had been in Phijit for about a year, and a couple of months after I had decided to find a way to ask Grandpa the truth about the man named Jorm, an opportunity came my way unexpectedly, as if borne by the wind of the hot season at a time when I had almost forgotten about the whole thing.

That day, after I finished my work in the fields, I went back home in the early afternoon, took a bath to freshen up, then went up into the main house. Although many people lived there, most of them went out during the day, and by then there were only a few women and the old folks, who stayed mainly in the adjacent house at the back. As for the children, they had their own favourite hideaways; if not the thickets, then the stream near the house. At such a quiet time, if I was home, I liked to go and sit and relax in the wide central area beneath the web of timber supporting the twin roofs, as it was pleasantly shady, cool and quiet there. The place that suited my modest condition best was a single plank used as a stepping board to reach the wide veranda which stretched between the rows of rooms on either side. Although sitting on it wasn’t particularly comfortable, it was good enough to rest on and be at peace.

To me, it was like being under a shady tree at Khaodin Wana in Bangkok.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

178 Entering the area shaded by the twin roofs, I walked on a wooden floor that was about three fingers thick. Its planks had been joined side by side without nails and they shook and creaked at almost every step. I had yet to go down to the place where I usually sat when I heard Grandpa asking from his room, ‘Who is it?’ I answered it was me and he replied, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ then told me to come and see him in his room because he wasn’t feeling well today, though it was nothing serious, but he needed me to pick up a few things for him. It was then that, for the first time since I had arrived, I crossed the knee-high doorsill and entered his room.

And that’s when I saw the twin frames of old-fashioned fretwork propped up on a shelf on one of the walls.

You may remember I already mentioned them – the twin frames holding one a photograph of the boy Jan at the age of ten and Aunt Waht, the other a photograph of Aunt Waht and the girl Wilaireik at the age of five. Seeing these long-forgotten pictures, I exclaimed in wonder, as if suddenly I had found myself back in the house where I had lived since I came into this world. ‘Your Aunt Waht sent them to me in secret,’ Grandpa said.

Talking about these pictures reminded me of a persistent doubt I had, but it didn’t concern the man named Jorm.

‘Don’t I have any right to my mother’s house, Grandpa?’ Please understand I didn’t ask the question because I intended to claim my rights over my mother’s property. I was interested only in my mother’s house. I merely UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

179 thought of the right I should have, since I was sure I was related to my mother by blood, over His Lordship, who only had the right of possession but had thrown me out nonetheless.

Grandpa gazed at me for a while and then asked: ‘How much do you know of your own story, Jan?’ I told him all that I had learned from Aunt Waht, and it was then I recalled the man named Jorm, but it was a mere thought, and I didn’t even mention his name.

‘What you know is fair enough.’ His last two words gave rise to my suspicion. ‘Fair enough’ meant there must be more things I should find out about, but I let it pass because Grandpa was still talking. ‘So, I think it won’t be difficult to make you understand. In a sense, given that I arranged for you to be born as my niece Darra’s son according to custom, you should also have the right to that house, but you’d have to file a lawsuit against him…’

I saw myself in court – a place I had never been to in my life – arguing bravely against His Lordship. ‘Good idea!’ I cried out joyously, but my joy was short-lived, because Grandpa’s next words squashed it.

‘There’s a bad side to it, of course. A man of this kind won’t give up easily. He’ll probably dig up your mother’s story and use it to make short work of you. Do you think you could stand that?’

I saw my mother and myself in that same court, listening to His Lordship exposing my mother’s secret THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

180 for all to hear. I felt so dismayed I couldn’t speak and merely shook my head from side to side.

There and then I stopped thinking about the rights I should have to that house and decided to forget all about it.

I went back to the framed pictures, picked them up and returned to sit on the floor in front of the bed on which Grandpa was lying. My thoughts then were on my good Aunt Waht, to whom I’d never be able to repay even a fraction of my debt of gratitude. I hadn’t extended to her even half of the thanks I felt I owed her. ‘If it hadn’t been for Aunt Waht staying with me in Bangkok, I wonder what would have become of me,’ I pondered aloud, as I had been in the habit of doing during my stay there. I learned later it was a kind of psychological disorder from staying alone too long.

This time, instead of disappearing into thin air as on other occasions, my mumbling was overheard by Grandpa. ‘Come and sit beside me on the bed, so we can talk comfortably.’ His gravelly voice was full of kindness.

Grandpa’s bed was an old-fashioned iron affair with four posts and much brass decoration, and it was very spacious. He sat up and propped himself up against the head of the bed, shifting to leave me more than enough room. He extended his arms to take the pictures from me and perused them quietly while I sat myself crosslegged and straight at the foot of the bed. ‘Maybe you want to hear something more about your aunt,’ he said as if addressing the photographs. I grunted in assent.

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181 After her boyfriend had broken her heart, Aunt Waht had no more news of her friend Darra in Bangkok, not even of her marriage, until she received a letter from Grandpa after my mother’s death. In it she was informed that her friend Darra had married a lord and died while giving birth. She left for Bangkok almost at once, not only because she truly loved and respected my mother, but also because she felt partly responsible for the abominable sin her lover had committed. For all that, she had yet to learn the truth behind my mother’s marriage. As you already know, when she arrived in Bangkok, this village girl went to keep my dead mother company in the greenhouse night and day until the body was removed to the temple, and then asked about me.

When she saw me wallowing on a dirty cot in the old servants’ house, she had the intuition, then the premonition and finally the accurate perception of the truth she was later to squeeze out of Grandpa. It made the sin all the more atrocious in her eyes, and this is why she gave up the idea of going back to Phijit and dedicated herself to looking after me instead of my mother. ‘Otherwise, she’d have come back and gotten ordained as a nun for good a long time ago,’ Grandpa said.

This doubtful piece of news shocked me very much – if that was the case, I had sinned by preventing someone from getting ordained. But then, I felt better when I reflected there was someone else whose sin was much greater than mine and who deserved to be the only one THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

182 to suffer retribution, and that was His Lordship, who had ruthlessly used all his tricks to force a woman ready to devote herself to a life of prayer and renouncement to be a slave to his lust.

As if he could read my mind, Grandpa broached the same subject. ‘When that accursed lord went after her, your aunt told me she had to give in to him, otherwise he wouldn’t have let her look after you. Can you imagine! That brazen-faced buffalo dared to use you, a child he didn’t give a damn about, as an excuse for raping a woman.’ He then blasted His Lordship with several resounding curses.

‘If your aunt thought she was partly responsible for the sins against your mother and you,’ he went on, ‘then I’m the one who should be blamed for being the source of all this evil. The whole misfortune happened because I was unable to protect my own niece, and to make things worse, I couldn’t find anyone less heinous than this damn lord to save our face.’ He sounded as if he was commiserating with himself. There were several arguments I could have used to comfort him and show him this wasn’t so, but there was no way I could have expressed them without sounding impertinent. ‘And it looks like he sowed the seed of his own evil in my grandniece,’ he said further. ‘Kaeo has turned out to be just as bad as he is. Everything I’ve done has gone wrong, as it were.’

I deliberately changed the subject by asking him UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

183 whether His Lordship had ever come here. I queried him about this because I had heard that my mother’s properties here were highly profitable. He replied that His Lordship had come once, to sign contracts relevant to the sale of three rice mills and of more than a hundred and fifty hectares of land, and had never shown up again because there was nothing else for him to sell. I learned later that he was a shrewd and far-sighted investor. He had invested a huge sum of money in one fledgling heavy industry which greatly prospered and is now well established. The dividends from such stocks have ensured the welfare of my mother’s house ever since. He was good at decision-making – I had to grant him that, but don’t think that I, who had also lived off those dividends in the house, would readily congratulate him for it. I wished the house would’ve fallen in ruins like the aristocratic residences along Bamrung Mueang Road, which chirpy Chinamen have turned into some sort of aviaries, so that we wouldn’t have had anything to do with each other any longer.

‘A smart operator, that damn lord,’ Grandpa said at last. ‘Little by little, he forced all the old people in that huge compound to leave, including me, then established himself as the master, showing his true colours, taking all the women in the house as his wives, and he even got his old wife to live there as well. Oh yes, what’s her house like? I’ve never seen it.’

‘His old wife?’ I couldn’t think of who he meant, THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

184 because I had never thought of Mrs Bunlueang as His Lordship’s wife. The word sounded strange to my ears. I only thought he was Master Khajorn’s father, nothing more, just as he was Miss Kaeo’s father. To speak truthfully, I seldom thought of Aunt Waht or Mrs Bunlueang as His Lordship’s spouses, in the same way as I thought of his children as his own, without a thought to their mothers.

‘That’s right,’ Grandpa insisted, ‘his old wife has mixed Malay and Chinese blood. She’s from a well-to-do family in Songkhla or Penang down there. Her name’s something like Bunlue or Bunlam, I think.’

‘Oh, I know!’ I finally understood, and suddenly thought, ‘Grandpa, why are you doing this to me?’ I had long tortured myself working hard in the fields in order to forget the games Mrs Bunlueang and I used to play together, and now Grandpa was reminding me of them.

Thinking of her startled me and suddenly filled me with fantasies. The large-sized iron bed before my eyes and the soft mattress on which I sat made me recall every picture of Mrs Bunlueang in her Bangkok bedroom. So many memories gushed into my heart, so fast and so forcefully that the self-control I had uneasily maintained for so long almost blew to pieces.

‘Her name’s Bunlueang,’ I hastened to explain, trying to get a handle on myself. ‘She’s nice – she’s a good woman – she’s been so good to me – to everyone, actually – she’s quiet and composed – polite – a real aristocrat – UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

185 well-educated – beautiful – clean – fair-skinned – plump…’

I had to jump out of that soft, tantalising bed and pretend to stretch my arms and legs, claiming I was feeling stiff.

‘Well then, that’s your good luck – everybody’s luck, I mean. If she was mean, it’d be a thousand times worse than having bad neighbours.’

I had tried to change the subject of Aunt Waht which seemed to disturb Grandpa only to fall on one which seemed to disturb my own lust no end. I had to think of a new subject urgently, and that’s when the problem which had been lying dormant in the cradle of my heart suddenly rose up and was out of my mouth in the same instant. ‘Grandpa, do you know where the man named Jorm is?’

He was briefly taken aback, then turned to look at me in obvious surprise. ‘Why do you want to know?’

I only realised then what I had just said, but it was too late, so I plunged into the subject: ‘I’d like to meet him.

No matter what kind of a man he is, he’s my real father.

What happened happened long ago. Has he ever been back here? And whatever became of his family? I went to his place, but they’re all strangers there.’

Grandpa got out of bed and went to put the pictures back on the shelf, all the while mumbling, ‘It’s so bad – so very bad indeed.’ He sat down on the chair behind his desk, which faced in my direction, and stared hard at THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

186 me. His fine moustache heaved from the strength of his breathing, but there was nothing stern in the expression on his face, which looked at once pleased and compassionate. ‘I got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘I never thought anyone would be interested in this story, least of all you.’

His tone buoyed me up. ‘He’s still alive!’ I said, half in prayer, half in wonder, but it seems he didn’t hear me.

‘But very well then, since you want to know, I think you have a right to. After all, it’s your own story. I’ll tell you, otherwise you’d be dying of curiosity for nothing.’ He heaved a long sigh before gradually letting the secret out. ‘The land at Jorm’s house belongs to these people now. His parents couldn’t stand the shame of staying here after what had happened, so they sold everything to a neighbour and moved to another province altogether. As for the land, the man who bought it leased it out to rice farmers.’

I interrupted him. ‘Which province?’ And when I saw him shaking his head as if to tell me I shouldn’t know about it, I carried on: ‘Maybe he’s followed his family there.’

He shook his head even more forcefully, then said evenly: ‘Jorm is dead.’ The expression on my face must have revealed I didn’t believe him, even though I felt a part of my heart had been ripped off. ‘Believe me, Jan.’ He could read me like an open book. ‘What you learned from my niece isn’t even the half of it, although everyUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

187 one knows only as much as you do. The rest is a secret a few of us will take away with us when we die. But then I’ve been putting off dying and now you’ve caught up with me.’ He chuckled at his own words before telling the other half of the story.

Jorm and his two accomplices had kidnapped the young heiress from the capital and taken her to a remote hideout. As this was a serious matter, the governor and the chief of police of the province decided to handle the case themselves, especially the latter, who held the rank of luang∗ and was an expert in crime suppression, whose widespread fame was equal to the cruelty of the many bandits infesting the province of Phijit in those days. The cooperation between the two local authorities bore fruit within less than a month. The criminals were surrounded and promptly arrested, but when the two high officials arrived there, they found only the accomplices and the victim. As for the man named Jorm, the instigator, he had disappeared. During the urgent investigation carried out on the spot by the governor and police chief, the criminals confessed the whole truth. Jorm had kidnapped and seduced the rich heiress from Bangkok not only out of blind lust but also in the hope of using his charm and her fear of scandal to force her to accept him as her ∗

A title of nobility conferred on government officials. By descending order of importance: Jao Phraya, Phraya, Phra, Luang, Khun, Muern, Phan and Thanai. These titles, created in the mid 15th century, were abolished in 1932.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

188 husband. His two accomplices were less ambitious, however. They merely wanted their share of fondling of the city angel for a while as a rare treat in their luckless lives, and this led to a serious conflict between them and Jorm. In the dead of night ten days after they had reached their hideout, the man named Jorm had his throat slashed in his sleep and his body buried in the nearby jungle. Then the two men took turns partaking of the pitiful angel for nearly two weeks until their arrest.

When they realised how much worse the situation turned out to be, the two senior officials consulted each other and agreed to keep the additional information they had just received top secret and to make sure that the secret would be well kept. They had the two bandits, who had been tied to each other by the wrists, and who thought they were to be taken by boat to the police station in town, shot dead and their bodies tossed into the river. As for Jorm’s corpse, it was left where it had been buried, and no one wanted to know where that was. This matched what the two high officials would write in their reports: the main perpetrator had managed to flee the scene during arrest; as for the two who had been caught, they had been shot as they tried to escape from the boat that was taking them back and had disappeared into the water. Later, both corpses were found floating down the river in town. Actually, it was the smallest number of corpses ever to float by as a warning to all the criminals that plagued the province in those days.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

189 Well now, can you guess whose criminal’s semen it was that led to the chemical reaction from which I result? What a darn wretched destiny!

It could be said that the genesis of my life was more breathtaking than the titanic tussle that had taken place at Pling’s mother’s brothel in Tha Klang Street. Had my babble-mouthed friends in those days known the story of my birth, Pling would probably have had an easier time at school. As for me, I really don’t know what would have happened.

My interest in the owner of the spermatozoon which had broken into my mother’s ovum went no further. I went back to seeking the comfort of maternal warmth instead.

‘How did my mother feel about me when I was in her womb?’ I asked further.

‘It’s difficult to say.’ Grandpa was again staring at me.

The fingers of one of his hands resting on the desk were drumming nervously. ‘She kept to herself all the time and hardly said a word to anyone.’

‘But wasn’t there a way to know how she felt?’ I insisted.

‘There was, all the same, and since you want to know, I’ll tell you,’ he said with deliberation – and had I known the answer in advance, I’d have suppressed my curiosity there and then and returned to my carefree life among the cows and buffalo in the fields. But of course I had no way of knowing, and I went on listening, as was my fate.

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190 ‘My poor Darra let something out once during her labour pains, before – before she gave birth to you.’ I was born when my mother was already dead. ‘She spoke in a delirium, as if it was her last will. ‘The child is using my womb to be born; please bring it up for me.’’

This deathbed request opened a searing wound as it entered my brain and I was a long time recovering my calm. Even though she hadn’t acknowledged me as her child, she had shown a greater compassion than ever could be found for such an extraneous birth as mine.

With such intrinsic goodness of heart, had she been allowed to live and be close to me as Aunt Waht had been, I’m sure she’d have accepted me as her son and loved me much more than any other mother ever did her adoptive child. And what pleased and comforted me most was that, as my mother had gained merit by showing her compassion for me, who had brought the most terrible tragedy in her life, before she breathed her last, it was quite certain her soul would find peace in the next world – amen to that!

During my three years in Phijit, it could be said that my life was totally deprived of the sweet whiff of women, even though the land there wasn’t about to turn barren, as our forebears used to say. True, there were women of all ages: wherever there were children women were to be found. But what I mean – I mean women whose good disposition towards me I could assess accurately or just about. There were, as I said, women of all UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

191 ages. Some of them could have been taken to temple fairs on the dark nights of the waxing moon, and some only on the last nights of the waning moon. Some had the dark good looks of Aunt Waht, and many women of fair and tender skin could also be found in the vicinity of the house as well as within it. Among them all, you could make further distinctions. There were those who merely wanted to try a different flavour from their lovers or even from their husbands for a while. Women of this kind were definitely dangerous and I always turned down any of their attempts at intimacy. There were also those who wished to tie me down as their life companion. Girls of the latter group usually had the support of their parents, but when they didn’t they just went ahead on their own. I’m most sorry to have to state here that these girls assessed me the way they would cattle – they were interested in me because I was strong and hard working. For all that, I was happy enough to maintain good relations with them, because they could do me no harm. On the contrary, I considered that they wished me well.

I had no problem with the women outside the house.

No matter which tack they tried, I could easily take care of myself. But the women inside the house were a real drag, especially those who wanted to change partners for a while or forever. When their wishes were not fulfilled, they were at first surprised and couldn’t believe they had found an ox that wouldn’t graze. Incredulous, THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

192 they tried again and exposed themselves further as those who spent their lives close to nature usually didn’t mind doing, but try as they may never came to anything, except that they felt shame in retrospect. They weren’t ashamed of their bodies or of their hearts, but felt they had lost face. It became a damned matter of loss of face, and what in them had been a desire to please turned into a need to spite. One way or another, this had unpleasant consequences on my self-effacing mode of living. But then I thought of solving the problem by befriending their boyfriends or husbands. I found ways of gaining their confidence and deliberately undertook to sing the praises of their partners in anything that wasn’t related to their physical appearance. At the same time, I showed them that I didn’t associate with their sweethearts either in private or in public. This was because I believed that in their conversations before and after intercourse they’d have the opportunity to mention me to their partners and this was the best time to instil guilt in the latter.

From then on, I was left happily alone as was my wish.

Why? Why was I demonstrating such abstinence from sex, a favourite of mine which had already brought me so much satisfaction and of which I had never been in short supply? Or perhaps you don’t believe I did observe the vow of chastity for three years? I myself can’t remember exactly when I took such a resolution. Perhaps it came all by itself without my being aware of it, through the automatic determination of the inner workUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

193 ings of my heart following my absolute conviction that no other sexual enjoyment in this world could compare to what I had experienced with Mrs Bunlueang. This is highly plausible, since I know I’m rather fastidious in such matters. Or it could be the determination of my super-ego, that is to say, my sexual impulses were subconsciously suppressed in order to mourn the extreme misfortune that had befallen my mother due to the lust of a despicably vicious man – yes, a vile and base creature, the worst of all devils in hell, the most… I could go on cursing him forever, and from the bottom of my heart, too!

As for the suspicion you may have that my testes were temporarily disabled, let me state here that this wasn’t the case. In such a faraway rural area where entertainment of any kind was hardly to be found in the surrounding nature, most people sought their pleasure in their own sexual deportment. Local behaviour in this respect was as free as sun and wind, as widespread as shrubs and grass and as informal as household matters.

As time went by, I came to know these people well and often had the opportunity to watch their pursuits in this field, which they didn’t really try to suppress or hide and carried out almost without limitation on time and place. In this kind of endeavour, they had no need for an auspicious time and performed indiscriminately on the ground, in the grass, behind bushes at the edge of the forest or in thick groves, or even in the ditches at the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

194 beginning of the rice season. But the most popular abode, comparable to motels in Bangkok these days, was nothing but the huts built in paddy fields to watch crops in during the growing season. Every time I learned about and occasionally saw what went on, I was vicariously happy and felt as aroused as the actors themselves. And when once in a long while I could restrain myself no longer, I’d use my faithful five fingers to release my tension, just as a despondent Khun Chang had done in the early days after he lost Wanthong.∗ Yes! This was all the pleasure I took in the dull life I led in Phijit. Even though it wasn’t romantic, literary banter favoured it all the same!

I wasn’t the one who fixed the term of my stay in Phijit to three years. I had decided on four years and kept counting the days and months, waiting for the time I’d be called for the draft in Bangkok, my birthplace. While in Phijit, I prayed that when I returned to Bangkok, whether or not I’d be conscripted, I’d be strong enough to eke out a living on my own and then – then I’d run to my darling Hyacinth and take her along with me, however far we might have to go to live happily together and make up for all those times we had been far apart.

As for Mrs Bunlueang, I had completely given her up.

By now, she must have left His Lordship as she had once ∗

The noble Chang and his wife Wanthong are the main hero and heroine of Khun Chang Khun Phaen, one of the best-known works of Thai classical literature.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

195 planned and returned to spend happy days in her hometown of Songkhla or Penang. I wished her the greatest happiness. I’d remember her till the day I die.

But after I had counted the days for only three years, it was as if the gods had sent Aunt Waht to take me back to my old home again.

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196

12 At the time, the rice season was over. I went to dig the soil in a field not very far from the house. Normally, around eleven o’clock, one of the children from the house would bring me something to eat and drink. That day, while I was busy digging in the middle of a patch, keeping my ears cocked as I waited in earnest for the child’s calls since my stomach, that most reliable timepiece of mine, was telling me it was well past eleven, I heard someone calling me from a nearby thicket, a shady place ideal for taking a rest. The voice was strange because it sounded like Grandpa’s. What was the matter? Had he suddenly decided to take some exercise? Or did he… I made several wild guesses and it wasn’t until I got close that I saw another person getting up from the ground.

Aunt Waht! She was dressed as local women are when they go out to work in the fields. It was strange and endearing to see her dressed like that. It was as though she had figured out in advance where she could find me, so had borrowed this outfit from someone in the house and come out here.

I was only ten paces away from where she stood in the shade. I remember I shouted out her name at almost every step I took as I rushed towards her. I stopped before her and took a good look at her for a while. ‘She’s gone UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

197 much too thin,’ I told myself. I took her in my arms and kept embracing her and repeating her name. Although I was coated in sweat and smeared with earth, she, too, was hugging me, as when I was a child delirious with fever and I’d wake up to find myself in her arms. Now, she was whispering soothing words as she stroked my back. It was as though I had been lost in another world for a long time and she stood for everything in the former world which I had missed a little every day for the past three years. It was only when I emerged from a sweeping feeling of self-pity and disengaged myself from her that I realised that, even though I was smiling happily, I was shedding copious tears. I was still sobbing as Aunt Waht wiped my tears with her hand, smiling just as happily. ‘You’ve grown into a giant, you know, Jan,’ she remarked. I was aware I had grown bigger from my work in the fields, but didn’t know how tall I was until I heard her comparison right then. Much amused by her words, I hugged her again and felt like holding her tightly as befitted the strength of a giant.

She, too, hugged me again, laughing delightfully. When her feet were back on the ground, she held me at arm’s length and looked at me. ‘You’ve grown much stronger as well, Jan: you held me so tight all my bones are hurting,’ she said, then, folding her arms over her chest, looked at me admiringly until I began to feel embarrassed. It was only then I realised I had become an adult.

The three of us sat on the ground in the shade of the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

198 trees and shared lunch. Each of us felt the strange taste – not of the food, but of being together like that, and none of us was as yet willing to refer to the reason for Aunt Waht’s visit. Maybe the two of them had already talked things over. I didn’t merely try not to think whether it was good or bad news: I refused to make any kind of conjecture. I had got used to the slow pace of life here over three years, and there was hardly anything that would perk me up as easily as in the past. Once we had our fill, I stretched myself out on the ground with my head on my folded arms as was my wont after lunch. I had been lying there enjoying the surrounding peace for quite a while when I heard Grandpa remark: ‘Jan, my boy, your aunt Waht is in trouble and she needs your help.’

‘Good heavens!’ I couldn’t help exclaiming in my mind. Asking for damn Jan’s help! If it wasn’t something really piddling, I figured it couldn’t be a big deal either.

But big or small, it must be something interesting. I sat up with an arm around my folded left leg and lowered my face to doodle on the ground as I waited to hear more.

‘I know no more than you do, only what I’ve just told you.’ I had made a wrong guess. Grandpa’s last remark signalled for Aunt Waht to start opening up on her predicament, and she readily complied.

‘Kaeo’s gotten herself pregnant – it’s been almost three months now.’ Can you think of anyone more straightforUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

199 ward than my aunt Waht? She had spoken with a most ordinary and plain voice, like someone who had been living with this problem day and night and had gotten entirely used to it.

Grandpa exclaimed: ‘What!’ while I merely reflected, ‘Talking of a big deal!’ But I still had no idea how I could help her solve her problem.

Grandpa went on in earnest, like the experienced man that he was. ‘And do you know who is – er – with whom?’

Aunt Waht compressed her lips and shook her head. ‘I tried every way I know but she wouldn’t say.’

‘How old is she now?’ Grandpa asked and made as if he was counting in his head.

‘Fifteen.’ I had the answer off pat.

He turned to look at Aunt Waht. ‘Fifteen only?’ When Aunt Waht nodded, he grumbled: ‘Children sow their wild oats early these days.’

Aunt Waht extended her hand and touched me. ‘Jan – for my sake, do help me. It’s my duty, and I can’t think of anyone else.’

I was completely at a loss, and had yet to fully grasp the situation. ‘Me? Why me?’

Aunt Waht turned to look at Grandpa with pleading eyes. He was quick to understand and took it upon himself to act as the intermediary between my aunt and me. ‘Jan, your aunt is asking you to become Kaeo’s official husband.’

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200 ‘Good grief!’ I moaned in my heart rather indifferently, then came up with a thought which I expressed as neutrally as if I were talking to myself: ‘Exactly like the time Grandpa found His Lordship for my mother.’

Aunt Waht turned to stare at me with the expression of someone whose heart was being cruelly whipped.

‘I’ve thought about this hundreds of times. This kind of repeat misfortune shouldn’t befall someone like you who’s already suffered so much from the first time around. But then, I’ve been thinking in so many directions I thought my head would burst, and it always comes back to you. Anyway, it’s all – it’s up to you – up to your own decision, Jan.’ Her behaviour gave me a sinking feeling. This was the first time in my life I saw her desperately cornered by a problem, but my mind went numb as I tried to figure out what I should do over what and for whom, so much so that I couldn’t utter a word.

Grandpa carried on in his capacity as go-between.

‘How about Kaeo’s father? How’s he taking it?’

‘He won’t lift a finger. He’s quite resigned to his fate.’

‘Does this mean he knows you’ve come here to see Jan?’ Aunt Waht nodded. ‘He’s given me a free hand. He said he’ll agree to whatever I decide.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the man I used to know. He must’ve gotten quite old to give up that easy. Now that he’s facing the same problem I did when I went to him, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

201 he just buries his head in the sand. So there – or maybe he’s afraid to fall on more cunning than himself? But are you sure he knows you’ve come here?’

‘I’ve explained clearly to both father and daughter that I saw no one we could ask to do us such a favour, except my own nephew, Jan.’ ‘Has he ever mentioned anything about the property he’d put up as compensation, as he demanded from me?’

‘Compensation? Er – I myself haven’t even thought about it.’ Aunt Waht’s voice betrayed her worry and puzzlement.

‘Why should you? It’s for that fancy lord to figure out.

It was that lunatic who thought of it before anyone else.

When I swallowed my pride and went to ask for his help, it was the first thing he mentioned, the very first word he said. He played hard to get until we had given in to his every demand. And now that his turn has come, he can’t just ignore it. That’d be too much. What does he take our nephew for?’

‘Wait, uncle. There’s something he did say – I was so busy thinking about this compensation you mentioned it just slipped my mind. He did tell me, ‘Let Jan come back into the family circle.’’

‘Ah! So, he’s given some thought to the matter. Then it means he hasn’t forgotten the past. It makes me feel a little bit relieved.’

‘He said that no matter what, Kaeo was his daughter.

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202 As for Jan, he’s none other than dear Darra’s son…’

‘Tut! It’s only now he thinks of it!’ Grandpa interrupted angrily and went on: ‘In any case, we can’t trust such a shifty one as he. Word of mouth won’t be enough: he must give Jan a guarantee.’

‘So, what are we going to do?’ Aunt Waht asked worriedly.

‘I agree with Grandpa,’ I said, intervening for the first time. ‘There must be something in exchange – compensation, as Grandpa calls it. I won’t agree to anything until I’m sure I’ve got it.’ I pointed out that if I was setting this condition, it was no doubt partly because I wanted to retaliate against His Lordship, but the main reason I was doing it was for Aunt Waht’s sake. For her, I was prepared to do much more than this, but His Lordship and Miss Kaeo were also involved in this matter and much more directly vis-à-vis myself than Aunt Waht, who was only acting as a go-between. Since I’d be deliberately changing the course of my life, if something unfortunate were to happen to me in the future, Aunt Waht wouldn’t have to blame herself for it. Therefore, I agreed to do what was expected of me so long as there was something in return. This way, it wouldn’t be a question of help involving just the two of us.

Grandpa and Aunt Waht looked at each other with smiling faces then Aunt Waht turned to say to me, ‘Think of it whichever way you want but in any case, I’m deeply thankful to you.’

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203 Grandpa then asked in earnest, ‘What do you want in exchange?’

I stared at the two of them, and it was my turn to wear a smile. I answered with a firm and clear voice, ‘I want my mother’s compound. He must sign a contract giving me the sole right to that compound on my wedding day.

If he disagrees, then there’s no deal. As you can see, at this point it becomes purely a matter between him and me.’

They exchanged meaningful glances and they weren’t smiling. Then Aunt Waht turned to me and said, ‘A house and no income: that won’t lead you very far.’

I replied confidently, ‘I’ve already thought this out, but I’ll tell you about it later and you can tell me what you think.’

‘Then, let’s hurry back to Bangkok together. The sooner the better.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Grandpa added heartily. ‘I’m going with you.’

‘Great!’ I said.

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204

13 Who made Miss Kaeo pregnant? This was the puzzle I teased myself with as I prepared my heart and mind to take up the duty I was about to be hired for by His Lordship. Frankly speaking, I didn’t care who the partner on the male side in her tasty little game would turn out to be. Moreover, I wasn’t the least bit surprised by what had happened. It left me indifferent and was none of my concern. My mind was totally uninvolved, like someone who sees a long flash of lightning and awaits the rumble of thunder he knows must follow and feels no fear, however deafening the clatter. Yes, I had always expected something like this would happen sooner or later to Miss Kaeo. I had had a premonition of it ever since I had discovered she was the one who had enticed Khein to set up a rape scene in his own bedroom when she was only twelve. She had dared to put her body on the line and had been willing to risk being raped if she couldn’t follow her own scenario and scream for help in time, and all this merely for the sake of some ulterior purpose.

I knew about it because I had noticed how thoroughly she enjoyed herself while she performed her dangerous and exciting plan. Maybe she was determined to wait until she could stand it no longer before bringing the house down with her shouts, or even to see the game through to the end. Who knows? If this was so, it would UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

205 explain why she got angry with me for barging in and spoiling her plans when she wasn’t ready to kill even half of a single damned bird with one stone. That’s when the new idea struck her of switching targets and going after me instead and thus destroying part of my life.

If she had been prepared to risk herself to such an extent merely for the sake of some ulterior motive, then how far wouldn’t a girl like her be willing to go the next time she badly needed to satisfy a lust exacerbated by her own impatience, which derived from constant pampering? In the nauseating atmosphere created by her father, how many children like her would be unaware of the faint smell of lust and how could it not pervade her very body and soul? In addition, her father’s blood coursed through her veins, so it wasn’t difficult for her to risk committing minor criminal activities of this kind.

I took up the puzzle of who had made Miss Kaeo pregnant to exercise my brain during my spare time because I wanted to extend my sympathy or gleeful regrets to all of her partners in the game. I believed I knew her well enough to state she hadn’t fallen prey to whoever the man was. Actually, it was he who had fallen prey to her and he could count himself lucky for not being in a position in which she’d want to harm him, or else his identity wouldn’t have remained a closely kept secret.

But as far as I was concerned, I felt it wasn’t very difficult to prize that secret out.

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206 The first person that came to my mind as soon as I heard the news was my good old friend Khein. But if it were him, his identity wouldn’t have remained secret for long. Yet you never can tell – things have a way of changing. In order to make sure, I asked Aunt Waht about him, and was told he had left to be drafted in his hometown in the Northeast two years before and had never been heard of again, not even by Phum, his mother, who didn’t know if he had actually been drafted.

Once I was certain it wasn’t Khein, I was able to roughly guess who the man was. I can as well tell you how I figured it out: I believed intercourse must have taken place more than once or twice; it must have been a regular activity practised freely enough to bring mutual satisfaction to the partners – so often and for so long that the ovary of a fifteen-year-old girl had become familiar enough to open up a bit and receive the male sperm.

There weren’t that many people in the house that could have that sort of opportunity. If I asked about one other person and got as clear an answer as in Khein’s case, I thought I could tell almost straight away who the man was. But I didn’t want to ask, because I intended to keep it as a surprise for when I would get there – not at all as a surprise to you, of course.

And if what I suspected was correct, it would be yet another awful happening.

As for my personal problem regarding – as you yourself must by now be wondering – what I’d do about the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

207 heart of my heart, my darling Hyacinth, to whom I intended to rush as soon as I returned to Bangkok this time, I didn’t understand why the mechanisms of my heart had made me set her aside so cold-bloodedly, as if I had planned it all beforehand. She was the only woman in my life – a life precociously littered with all kinds of females – whom I was determined to worship as my beloved for the rest of my days, and yet I had come to treat her cruelly as if it were a most ordinary matter. In the current vicissitudes of my life, a new point of view occurred to me almost instantly as an answer: the social status of a legal or minor wife cannot compare to her status in her husband’s heart. I thought and believed so in all sincerity and was secure in the hope Hyacinth wouldn’t hold it against me and would believe in the purity of my feelings for her. Would you agree with me that I had placed her on the highest pedestal? I certainly did think so, but then – oh, my poor Hyacinth!

By the first southbound train of the northern line that stopped by, I left Phijit with Grandpa and Aunt Waht, leaving no ties behind, except the regret to part from my ten little friends who lived in and around the house.

During the trip, the three of us, after prolonged consultations, agreed to negotiate with His Lordship with the condition I had set. We agreed that Aunt Waht would take me to stay temporarily at the house in Phaya Thai where I had previously stayed. Grandpa would stay with Aunt Waht in the compound while he acted as my THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

208 representative in the negotiations with His Lordship.

There was only one sine qua non condition from my side: that my mother’s house and land belong to me before my wedding day. During our talks, Aunt Waht was the one who couldn’t bring herself to believe His Lordship would agree, whereas Grandpa held the middle ground, and I was certain he would accept. Why was I so confident? In my view, to be confident or not didn’t make any difference. My lowly life, like that of the rabbit chided by a lady in the days of Seeprart∗, was motivated by the trickery of lust, the constant hankering after wonders beyond reach, in which the mere will to reach them brought more than enough colour to my existence. And in this case, I had the upper hand over His Lordship in every respect, as I had no stakes at all, except my phoney life.

Grandpa also expressed his anxiety about Aunt Waht’s worry that though I’d have a residence I’d have no money to keep it going. He even suggested adding a lump sum of money as a condition to the transaction.

But something in my mind told me to reject the idea absolutely. Even though I couldn’t quite figure out why, I felt I was right to have refused. If there was any reason behind it, it must be that I didn’t want to look like a man ∗

An allusion to the well-known exchange of niceties during a court ceremony between the young Seeprart, a most gifted early 19th century poet, and an aging lady-in-waiting of King Rama II, who spurned his advances by comparing him to a rabbit prancing at the moon.

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209 of means fallen on hard times. Then, where was I to find the money to support the house? About this problem, I ventured the opinion that, once the house belonged to me, I’d exercise my right as the owner by compelling His Lordship to do his duty as the resident – to keep on taking care of all expenses in the house as he had in the past and, on top of that, to set aside a reasonable amount for my and my wife’s personal expenses every month.

Please note that at the time I talked about this, I didn’t use such fancy language. No, I said quite bluntly that I’d demand from each and everyone in the house a monthly rent based on the status of each individual. Since everyone in the house, including me and my wife, was His Lordship’s own relative – a member of his family, not mine – it was his duty to pay for everyone. As for the extra rental fee he must pay for me and my wife, it must be appropriate to our own status and it was that money I’d use for personal expenses. If he didn’t agree, I’d drive him and the many members of his family out of the premises, then would sell the house and land in my possession. And if he wanted to purchase them back, he’d have to do so with all of his wealth – I’d never settle for less.

Grandpa listened thoughtfully, then said he thought the idea was workable and added: ‘You’re foxy, too, you know! And quite a fast thinker as well.’

Hearing this compliment, I revealed the truth then: what he was praising me for was something I had long THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

210 brooded over, something I had daydreamed about on and off to relieve in my own way the utter helplessness I felt. I had built up the idea little by little into a beautifully coherent scenario through the careful addition of detail upon detail until I felt it was a good offensive plan, which I had then discarded as I could see no way I’d ever be able to put it into practice. When Aunt Waht’s long-distance train came, I had picked up the scheme again, dusted it off and immediately put it to use. I didn’t reveal the whole truth, however, which was that in the daydreams I had, I intended to take possession of Mrs Bunlueang, instead of becoming Miss Kaeo’s husband.

By now, you already know how long and how much I had been trying to achieve and savour this kind of endeavour.

After leaving me temporarily in the care of the Phaya Thai house, Aunt Waht left with Grandpa, who was now looking much more lively and energetic than I had ever seen him during those three years in Phijit. I knew he was happy and proud to be my representative in this round of negotiations with His Lordship, which was the second time he’d deal with the same man over the same matter. It seemed this time he stood a good chance of paying his former foe back. He had the feeling he had taken a wrong decision for lack of choice the first time around, and although he could take his revenge only partially, this second round could be considered as an UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

211 excellent omen. It was the last opportunity that had fallen into his hands unexpectedly.

At this important turning point, I felt a lot of changes in me as well. The thoughts, hopes and dreams in which I was engrossed made me feel like I had become much older overnight, but I couldn’t deny I felt happier, even though things had only progressed so far. It was now only a question of a few more roads and of a few more days and hours before I found myself in front of Hyacinth, and by then we’d be within reach of each other.

Though I had left her for a faraway place and for years on end without the possibility of saying goodbye to her, I was dead certain she understood me thoroughly even though she knew nothing of what had happened. I was certain she’d always be waiting for me no matter how much time had gone by and would still have to pass, because each of us had no need of any language to know we were born for each other.

The same landscape around the house had now a different meaning for me. From a lonely station from which I had started on a travel into the unknown, it had become a station from which I was eager to rush back to the old world, which had all kinds of hopes awaiting me. The bustle of the night insects outside was now an instrumental performance around the castle of my dreams, and in the middle of the night, I no longer had tears to compete with the dew falling from the ether.

One of the things that impressed me greatly at Phaya THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

212 Thai was a field of tuberoses. During my previous stay, I had only had a glimpse of it. This time, I stayed longer and felt relaxed enough to appreciate my surroundings.

At every moment of the day, morning, noon and night, the field of tuberoses was always lying in wait in the periphery of my vision – a riot of white stretching far and wide under the vast and bright indigo sky. In row after row, the long, slender stems of the flowers swayed to and fro as if teasing one another in the wind. And when my fancy made the slender figure of Hyacinth appear here and appear there, the luxuriant picture of the stretch of tuberoses took mystical overtones and so much impressed me I still remember it vividly. Poor, poor Hyacinth!

On the third morning of my stay there, Aunt Waht kindly informed me that His Lordship had agreed to my conditions after having mulled things over for an entire day, and now both he and my representative were busy arranging for the transfer of ownership of house and land at the Ministry of Agriculture and at Phra Nakhorn, Bangkok’s central district office. Even though I had been certain of the result of the negotiations, I couldn’t help feeling relieved. I asked about Miss Kaeo and was told she had shown no reaction whatsoever. She accepted every arrangement in silence as she had the first time, when she had been informed Aunt Waht was travelling out to see me. Three or four days later, everything that could be arranged was ready, and both Aunt Waht and UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

213 Grandpa came to take me back to my old home formally.

And thus it was that I followed in His Lordship’s footsteps of twenty years before, and entered through the front gate of my mother’s compound with only one bag of clothes in my hand, the only possessions I had in this world next to the clothes I was wearing.

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214

14 As you may remember, there was one topic I had deliberately refrained from mentioning to Aunt Waht ever since we met in Phijit, because I wanted it to be a surprise, and now that the time had come to see for myself, I found things were not as I expected. What was it? I’m sure you must have guessed: it had to do with Mrs Bunlueang.

When I went away from her, I reckoned she would soon leave His Lordship and return to her hometown in Songkhla or Penang to seek the pleasures her flesh demanded. As the three of us, having walked through the gate of the compound that afternoon, headed for my small house, I didn’t even cast a look around to find out if she was still there. I walked with the composure of a monk out on his daily alms round, until I reached the staircase of my house. I’ve always liked to torture myself by resisting my own impulses like this. I found it was a good way to practise endurance. This method is of great help to my life even now; without it, I would have long been mad and dead.

At my request, Aunt Waht had had the small house readied for me to stay in while I waited for the wedding ceremony, which was due to take place ten days hence.

According to my new status, I was fully entitled to live in the main house the day I returned, but I wished to be UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

215 back to the old place in order to recall my past life there for a while. Almost everything in the room was as I had left it, as if it had been waiting for the three years I’d been away. Of course, that couldn’t have been the case, but there was nothing surprising about it, as there were few items in the room anyway. Nevertheless, I felt my throat contract upon seeing them.

Before Aunt Waht went back to the main house, she gave me a sum of money to buy clothes and whatever else I needed. I agreed with Grandpa that we’d go out shopping together the next day. Though he had left Bangkok a long time ago, he still had a fair knowledge of what was going on in the capital, including various social issues which I was totally unfamiliar with.

When I found myself alone, I sat down to decide which of the two roads lying ahead I should take – turning at the bottom of the stairs, another few dozen steps would take me to the new house and the answer I wanted to find out by myself; from there I could casually walk to the front gate and then start running. ‘Don’t be ashamed of what people might think, just run, run as fast as you can, run to match the speed of your heart, which wants to fly, fly, fly, fly to the neighbouring single-storey shophouse in which Hyacinth lives, in which Hyacinth is waiting.’

If I went out to visit Hyacinth first, I’d pour my heart out to her for who knows how long, and if Mrs Bunlueang still happened to be in the new house, I wouldn’t THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

216 be able to pay my respects to her until the following day.

It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to hurt her feelings in this way, and for this reason, I decided to go to the new house first. With Mrs Bunlueang – were she present – I could always manage to meet Hyacinth, but with Hyacinth, the reverse wouldn’t be possible.

I went to the new house as though walking with eyes closed, but my eyes opened wide as I stood in front of the gate marking the entrance to the front part of the ground floor. The gate, which was made of iron bars, was sort of open and from what I could see inside, there seemed to be someone living in the house, but I couldn’t be sure who it was, because everything had changed a great deal. When I went straight into the library and found the door and all the windows open, my heart beat at a more excited pace, but there was no one inside when I stepped in. My heart slowed down a little. ‘Maybe she’s upstairs,’ I ventured to comfort myself, but an evil spirit objected: ‘What if His Lordship lives here now, or is visiting Mrs Bunlueang?’ Try as it may to pull my leg, that spirit couldn’t stop my feet. I went up the stairs quietly, though not to the point of tiptoeing. In the hall upstairs, all the front blinds were drawn, making the room look oddly dim. I walked straight to the sitting room, whose door and windows were all open. It was in this room that chunks of ice had paved my way to heaven with Mrs Bunlueang.

‘What are you looking for?’ a clear, arrogant and agUTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

217 gressive voice asked in the silence of the room before I could see there was someone in it. The owner of the voice was reclining comfortably on a new navy-blue leather armchair by a window at an angle from where I was looking, my eyes being fixed on the old rattan couch which was still in the same place.

I remembered the voice only faintly. It was Miss Kaeo’s. Her appearance had changed almost completely.

She had grown up a lot, much too much in fact for a girl of fifteen, much too much for her physical features, behaviour and expressions. The body and complexion inherited from her father and the attractive face from her mother’s side had obviously matured in the course of three years and she had become a beautiful young woman. She was dressed in a Javanese sarong and a loose, thin cotton blouse. She had been reading a weekly newspaper. Her whole attitude as she looked up to confront my gaze showed the arrogance of a girl and the malice of a boy. All this put together made her pleasant enough to watch in a way, like a small and slender queen in some realm who deserved to be taught a good lesson.

There was no need for me to answer her question. I stepped forward and sat down on the rattan couch while keeping my eyes on her. Several questions arose in my mind as I wondered what she was doing here. The state of the house seemed to indicate Mrs Bunlueang still lived here. If so, the relationship between aunt and niece must have blossomed considerably in the past few years.

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218 I felt a searing pain at the back of my heart. What I had guessed about Miss Kaeo’s partner made even more sense. Thinking about it I felt disheartened and longed all the more to meet Mrs Bunlueang privately.

‘You idiot!’ she scolded. ‘Stop staring at me as if you’d never seen a human being.’

‘Well, you’ve changed so much,’ I told her truthfully. ‘I was admiring…’ The vision of a girl fastened to Khein’s bamboo platform flashed across my mind.

‘Don’t! Spare me your compliments,’ she burst out, sitting up. ‘No matter what, don’t think you’ll ever get to lay me.’

Her attitude now was more in keeping with that other scene, I thought, and thought further, ‘It’s the same little wretch causing more trouble again’. As she said the last few words, I flew into a rage.

‘You’re obscene!’ I tried to control my voice to make it as calm as possible. ‘Not only do you behave indecently, but you’ve got the cheek to accuse others of entertaining lewd thoughts.’

She was totally dumbfounded as if she had been whipped across the face. ‘You – impudent – you…’ She couldn’t find her words, so had to go on listening to my rebuke.

‘Your outrageous behaviour is bringing shame to your parents, and yet it’s not enough – you’re becoming even more wicked. Why? Is it too difficult for you to find someone with two legs and no tail or what? that you feel UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

219 the urge to…’ I tried hard to take back the words that followed, even though I was dead certain of what I was saying. I couldn’t help but pity the frightened look that spread across her face. Her expression and reaction clearly showed she fully understood the hidden meaning of what I was saying; they were an open if unwitting admission of guilt.

‘You – you…’ was all she could say, and I was left to feel nothing but compassion.

‘Calm down, will you,’ I said, meaning it. ‘There’s plenty we have to talk about, but we can talk later – tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. Yet we must talk things over you and me, just the two of us – and not here either.’

Miss Kaeo gradually came to her senses. She was finally able to control her face, though her lips remained tightly compressed and she stared at me furiously. I stared back at her stolidly. Then I began to probe her again about something which, on reflection, I now felt rather sure about. I lowered my voice to a whisper and said as rudely as I could: ‘You don’t have to worry: for your mother’s sake and for the sake of the child to be born, I’ll help you keep the matter secret. There’s only one thing I want in exchange – and don’t think it’s because I’m growing soft on you or want to get to lay you.’

In an even softer whisper than mine, she cursed me in the foulest language, and it was the first and last time I felt glad to be abused by her. I had just realised that she THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

220 could use offensive words as fluently as the foulmouthed vendors at the market could.

‘And do remember that I won’t have my wife and child use abusive language, or else – I’ll slap you in the face one of these days. I can promise you that.’ These were the last words I said to her that day.

As I went downstairs, I had given up on the idea of meeting Mrs Bunlueang, even though I wasn’t sure whether she still stayed there, and it seemed I no longer wanted to find out either. Miss Kaeo’s implicit confession about the man who had made her pregnant numbed me so much that when I found myself face to face with someone at the bottom of the stairs, I almost didn’t realise it was Mrs Bunlueang.

I was shocked and, before I came to my senses, raised my hands to my face and bowed to her respectfully, then turned round and started to leave, even though it thrilled me to see her extend her arms towards me instead of bowing back as etiquette would have it. I wanted to compose myself first, but she wouldn’t let me.

She followed me, grabbed my arm and led me back to the foot of the stairs.

She held both of my arms and said in an agitated murmur: ‘Why? – Jan – what’s the matter? – why? – what’s going on, Jan?’ By then, I was in full control of myself again. My irritation and numbness were all gone, and I saw her fully for the first time. Her face and the hair on her nape UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

221 were wet, as well as her arms and every part of her body over the sarong tied around her bosom, and I knew instantly she had just splashed water on herself in the way I had often witnessed such a long time ago, but it was like a new vision to my eyes again and I was totally enthralled by the beauty of her face, whose very coolness hinted of the fire within. The wild stirrings that had churned continuously during three years of exile came to a powerful surge, bursting all barriers and gushing out in copious squirts there and then. I couldn’t utter a word, I didn’t know what to say. The only thing I knew was that I was shaking so much I couldn’t stand anymore. I took her in my arms and buried my face in the hollow of her shoulder. I heard her gasp in pain and eased my embrace. Her hands lifted my head from behind and she began to cover my face with kisses. I untied the top of her sarong but she hurriedly held it back up. ‘Don’t! Wait…’ she urged while casting a glance at the staircase above us. With her free hand she led me around the stairs and into the bathroom, closed the door and latched it, and then let me do as was my wont.

I had forgotten how wonderful it felt stroking her body. Touching every inch of her bare flesh again was so refreshing to my face – yes, to my face, because I kissed and stroked all of her flesh with my flushed face – and yes, all of her flesh: hadn’t I gone through every inch of her in the past?

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222 After a while, I found myself kneeling, tightly embracing her body which stood erect before me, and it reminded me of a movie I had seen. I think it was the first French film ever to be shown in major cinemas such as Chaleumkrung Theatre. It was the story of two foreign soldiers who lost their way and fell under the spell of a horny queen in a mysterious castle in the middle of a desert. There was a scene in which the leading male character was kneeling with his face pressed against her, in the same position as I was now, but then his two hands went up to palm the bosom of the queen. Because of this outlandish love scene, my friends and I had given the movie a new title – ‘Kiss low, grab high’. I had often bravely dreamt of having the opportunity to do the same – and this was it. In order to achieve a perfect imitation, both of my hands went up along Mrs Bunlueang’s body and repeated the performance, down to the last shiver.

I couldn’t suppress a soft laugh, and pressed my face tighter against her to try to stop myself, but to no avail.

Mrs Bunlueang became aware of my reaction and forced me to stand up. With a puckered face, she asked harshly: ‘What are you laughing at, Jan?’ I laughed dismissively while putting my arms around her neck and then told her what it was all about. She laughed and hugged me tight. ‘And it’s only now you act on it? Poor Jan,’ she teased, and we burst into laughter together. It was then I realised I was back to normal, body and soul, irritation UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

223 and wild stirrings gone. I lowered my hand to scoop up one of her breasts and bent down to sample its stiff, dark-pink head with great affection, then bent lower, picked up her sarong and handed it to her.

‘I came to visit you officially, but when I went upstairs, I met…’ I said no more but motioned with my head towards the ceiling to make her understand.

She nodded and before she lowered her gaze to straighten her sarong, I thought my eyes must have played tricks on me because I noticed a weird glint in her eyes. ‘She too has taken to me since you left,’ she said half in jest. I thought of asking her for details presently but didn’t because I knew the matter may not end easily and the occasion wasn’t appropriate. Instead, I asked her, ‘Do you think you’ll be free tonight?’ which since the old days we both understood to mean whether she’d be free from His Lordship for the night.

She pressed her lips together, deep in thought for a little too long, it seemed to me, before she nodded and said, ‘That’s okay’.

As I started for the door, a thought struck me and I turned to warn her, ‘I’ll probably be a little late’.

‘That’s alright. But you must come, because I’ve got surprises for you – nice ones, too.’ At first, I thought she meant what we both understood, but I was to realise later that, besides that, she did have other surprises in store for me.

I went to unlatch the door quietly and motioned for THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

224 her to stay behind for a while, then opened the door and stepped cautiously out. When I saw there was no one around, I quickly tiptoed up the stairs. I was still wary of Miss Kaeo. I knew her well enough not to allow myself to be careless in any matter that related to her, and even when I craned my neck and saw her lying face down at the same place, sobbing so much that her shoulders shook, I wasn’t yet willing to believe she hadn’t just popped out and seen what was going on downstairs. I stared at her for a few seconds and finally retreated down the stairs.

I poked my face into the bathroom and told Mrs Bunlueang to come out, but she didn’t move except to motion to me to come to her again. I shook my head and merely reached for her hand. ‘Tonight,’ I whispered, then gently let her go.

Even after I walked past the gate of her house, I kept thinking about her. She had completely forgotten to find out why I had tried to ignore her when we first met, but maybe she had only forgotten temporarily, as I had. It seemed the three years that had gone by, rather than etching in her body the marks of age, had endowed it with a surfeit of charm instead. She was as exceedingly beautiful, radiant and attractive as ever – or was it that my craving had blinded me and it was all my own fancy? Well, tonight, I’d know for sure.

I didn’t run on my way to Hyacinth as my winged heart would have it. I walked slowly as if to deliberately UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

225 savour the approach to the awaiting happiness, but when I slowly got there, this wasn’t to be. It turned out that I had delayed my approach to a terrible misery I didn’t know was there.

I thought I had gone mad for a while when I couldn’t find Hyacinth’s unit in the row of shophouses. As far as I could see, the one-storey wooden houses with tiled roofs were almost all in the same condition as before, so how was it I couldn’t find her house? The notion that Hyacinth and her father could move house had never occurred to me. To my incredulous eyes, the whole row of shophouses looked the same as before, except for one thing – Hyacinth’s was no longer there, and there was no empty space either! It was as if the row of buildings were a mere toy: Hyacinth’s section had been demolished and the units on either side joined together, as if someone had played a joke by removing her unit yet keeping the whole row in the same condition as before.

Actually, there was a Chinese family in her former dwelling. It wasn’t a magic trick at all.

When I realised what was what, I immediately thought of Khein. Maybe the bastard hadn’t told her what I had asked him to explain before my sudden departure three years earlier and thus Hyacinth didn’t know, didn’t understand and had decided not to wait for me. She must have felt a thousand times sadder than I did when I disappeared unexpectedly and left her with no news, as if I had died in the span of a single night. Her life here THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

226 must have been like that of an uprooted tree exposed to the merciless sun. With no more ties to bind her and all hopes betrayed, she must have let the dry breeze carry her along the course of her fate in a direction she knew not, forever straying from my life, which hadn’t died but was in fact dying to meet her.

Anyway, I didn’t allow myself to drown in this silly conjecture. I walked up to an old Chinese woman who sat spinning coloured thread near the door where Hyacinth’s father used to set up a table to welcome his guests – and it was also where she sat doing her homework or sometimes some needlework, with me always sitting nearby to keep her company. To me, it was more than the Asoka Esplanade, where Karmmanit and Wasitthee first met and fell for each other∗. I went to the woman and asked her about the family who lived there before her, but failed to elicit any information from her because, even though I could speak her Chinese dialect, she was reluctant to speak to me. Maybe she had enough problems of her own without having to stand my pestering. Fortunately, the goldsmith who lived two units further along the row, taking a break from work, happened to come outside to relax for a while. We knew each other by sight from the old days, but I had just ∗

A reference to the Mahayana Buddhist tale known in the West as The Pilgrim Kamanita, John E Logie’s English translation of German Karl Adolf Gjellerup’s novel inspired by the tale. Karmmanit and Wa-sitthee are the hero and heroine of the tale, respectively.

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227 thought of him when I looked in his direction at the same time as he looked in mine.

From the few, staccato sentences of that middle-aged Chinese goldsmith I learned the whole story of my darling Hyacinth. About a year after I had gone, she had fallen sick during the longan season. How was it he remembered it was the longan season? Because she was down with a disease people in those days believed came with the longan. She had contracted typhoid… And after a few days of sickness, she died in her room. About two months later, her father moved to a distant province – neighbours understood he went to Mae Sort in the North, on the Burmese border.

I started to roam dejectedly, paying no attention to where my feet were taking me. I felt like my flesh and blood had been minced into offerings to evil spirits, leaving only a hollow frame which had to keep on suffering, wandering in distress like a lonely firefly. The psychological state I was in at that point was the same as when I had first realised I was head over heels in love with Hyacinth and had the certainty of being loved in return – every single thought was of her. At times, with every breath I took I mouthed a melodious one-word poem, ‘Hyacinth – Hyacinth’, and every single square inch of the blurred and empty space which prevented my eyes from seeing the world beyond was full of the unseen picture of Hyacinth. The symptoms in both cases were superficially similar, but drastically different in THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

228 their deep-down resonance. I had been fed with rapture in those days, but now only loneliness was left in the hollow recesses of what was once a heart. I took the carcass that remained for a walk in the streets deeper and deeper into the night and wouldn’t stop. I kept on walking like a miserable man possessed on and off, now convinced I was madly running away from something, now fancying I was dispiritedly traipsing after something else.

‘Hyacinth!’ When I first turned this melodious word into a poem, I asked my beloved what her name meant.

She answered contentedly that it was the name of a flower. When I asked her what kind of flower, she answered she didn’t know. Did it have a nice smell? She couldn’t answer either. ‘The only thing I know is that I am my father’s flower,’ she replied as if to impishly imply she was off limits.

When I asked my very own bookshelf queen, Mrs Bunlueang, about this flower, she enlightened me well enough by explaining that hyacinth is the name of a foreign flower of the lily family. Its head is like that of our sedge; its leaves are flat, long and round-tipped, and spread out like a fan; as for the flowers, they grow closely around a single slender stem like our tuberose, only shorter, and in bloom are pink with a touch of yellow. She added that this flower couldn’t be found here or in Penang; she had only seen reproductions in catalogues. What could be found here was another kind UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

229 of hyacinth, of the water lily family, better known as Java weed or water hyacinth. Well, well, I knew none of this. From then on, I started to look at the water hyacinths scattered here and there with deep respect and began to appreciate the tender beauty of their soft purple flowers.

Later, long after my beloved Hyacinth had found happiness away from this unsuitable world and I had already settled down in my mother’s house, one day a new issue of an English magazine came in the mail, and as I leafed through it as I always do first, I felt a dull yet blissful pain in my chest as if I had been struck by the almighty arrow of a flower. That’s exactly how I felt as my eyes fell on the beautiful coloured picture of a hyacinth covering most of a page advertising cosmetics for women. To the best visual effect, the whole plant was featured, stem, leaves and flowers, growing out of a flat pot. Also stemming out of the pot was a small wooden stick supporting a cotton board with the words ‘This month: hyacinth’ embroidered on it. That’s what had startled me so suddenly. Then a searing pain spread through my heart like sedge long buried in the soil which keeps on sprouting over the ground as soon as it is fed. The crazy idea of planting the whole compound with hyacinths crossed my mind. The memory of a field of white tuberoses rippling in sunlight and swaying in the wind around the house at Phaya Thai came back to me again. This time, I was even more impressed because THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

230 the picture of a whole field of hyacinths in bloom superimposed itself on it. Hyacinth in a field of hyacinths!

What an extraordinarily dreamy vision!

I visited several nurseries and learned further that the hyacinth can’t be grown in Thailand at all because this kind of flower thrives on cold and even snow. Besides, it’s considered to be as difficult to grow as tulips, so I had to give up the idea altogether and satisfy myself with the contemplation of water hyacinths as before.

But, as I wished to possess something more or less related to her that I could look at or touch when I was in the mood to deceive myself like adults deceive children to comfort them, I took great pains to find out whether the word didn’t have other meanings, and lo and behold, I discovered hyacinth could also refer to a kind of precious gem. People in the old days called the sapphire ‘the hyacinth gem’ and even now two of the nine gems are classified as hyacinth gems, namely the garnet and the topaz, depending on whether their colour verges on red or yellow. At first, I wanted to buy a sapphire ring as a memento of her but after I asked around I found that, though a sapphire was cheaper than a diamond, to own a stone the size my heart was set upon would be way beyond my means in this lifetime. So I had to lower my expectations and consider garnets or even topazes, but then I came to feel I shouldn’t stoop to buy either kind.

I’ve had to fall back on admiring the water hyacinths floating in ponds and waterways for the time being, and UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

231 every time I’ve had the opportunity to do so, I’ve pictured Hyacinth in the same sitting position as Wa-sitthee somewhere in heaven, and felt thoroughly disheartened at the thought of how many lifetimes of merit-making it’d take me to be able to follow her up there. Oh why did I have to face so many and so dire obstacles in love?

I went back home around two in the morning and didn’t go to see Mrs Bunlueang. I was too tired and tense.

When my head came to rest on the pillow, I wished my heart, my mind and my whole body would melt away into the night and thus put an end to my suffering.

This was because I was now fully aware of what had happened and come to pass – of what had come to pass nearly two years before, nearly two years which I had spent dreaming of her in a remote paddy field, thinking all along she was looking forward to my return, while she had long been far away, far beyond the firmament and its dust of winking stars. For all that, my love, which had indulged in that kind of dream for months and years, had made me blissfully happy when I should have been as tormented as I now was. It was as though, no matter how happy or sad love made me, its value and results were just the same in reality: no matter how happy or sad, Hyacinth was dead and gone.

That night, I lay carefully licking the wounds festering in the depths of my heart nearly until dawn. When I woke up in late morning, I felt astonishingly lightTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

232 headed: it was as if I had just recovered from a long bout of fever – so long I hardly remembered it and it never returned to bother me again. I still thought of her with all my heart as before and this didn’t bother me again either. Whether I was happy or sad when I thought about her, it was no longer an intolerable emotional stress. I still thought of her with all my heart as before, except that from then on my thoughts of her have always been weighed against the acknowledgment of her death. The heavy monsoon of yesteryear had made reality more visible, and what was more clearly visible in my heart than ever before was Hyacinth. She’ll remain there forever.

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233

15 After the first meal I had at home since my return, served by Lamiat, I went to pay my respects to His Lordship at the main house. Aunt Waht and Grandpa were there as previously agreed. Though His Lordship still looked imposing as before, his health had noticeably deteriorated. His skin, which looked like that of a baby kept in formaldehyde, had dried and shrunk, giving him a gaunt and swarthy look. His neatly combed ambercoloured hair was so stunningly thin you could see dark yellow patches of scalp through it. It made me feel pity for him to the point that I began to wonder whether the conditions I had set weren’t a way of bullying the weak, but his arrogance and indifference pointed decisively to a negative answer.

He didn’t return my greeting, but answered in a formal way: ‘Very well, then. I see you’re already here. So, we can get on with our business along the terms we’ve agreed.’ Then he informed me of the date of the wedding and briefly outlined the following: he had sent invitation cards to some thirty distinguished guests; there would be no religious ceremony (I felt relieved at not having to deceive the monks by inviting them to participate in such a farce); the water-pouring ceremony and the banquet would be held consecutively at the main house; as for the bridal chamber, Mrs B had kindly offered to provide it in THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

234 her house. Hearing this, I felt annoyed with Mrs Bunlueang again, but something prevented me from reacting hastily. She must have good reasons for acting like this which I couldn’t think of, and maybe this was one of the surprises she’d provide me with tonight.

Then it was Grandpa’s duty to bring up the topic of the transfer of ownership of the house and land. Since the Phra Nakhorn district officer had been invited to attend the wedding and establish the marriage certificate here, he would also act as the intermediary in handing over the relevant documents to me.

As I listened, I couldn’t help feeling it sounded exactly like the regulations quoted by the referee to the players before the start of a game. I thought further that it was worse in my case, because both parties were conniving with each other. At this point in my reflection, I wanted to ask for how long the deception would be carried out.

Would it stop with the guests invited to the wedding?

Or would the groom and bride be wedded in name only for ever and ever? Or… But finally, I realised my true feeling, which was that I couldn’t care less – whatever would be would be. Letting time sort things out was the best policy. So I didn’t make any comment and didn’t utter a single word until I left the house. I went to greet my old friends and many other people in the various small houses around the compound and in the kitchen, while I waited for Grandpa to take me to the tailor’s and do some more shopping.

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235 Phum didn’t look any older than when I left, and was as nimble and sharp-tongued as ever. When I asked her about Khein, she answered ruefully she had no news of him whatever and thought she’d never see him again, whether dead or alive. I had nothing to answer to that, and when I asked her sotto voce whether she was still in business with His Lordship late at night, she gave me a mighty slap to cover her embarrassment, then spoke in riddles for me to figure out by myself: ‘Though it doesn’t rain all over the sky, there are times when it rains on barren land, but usually out of season.’ You had to give it to him: his tastes were really eclectic to the end. As for the other women, several had got their own husbands, and some of these couples even lived in the compound.

At first, I admired him for his broad-mindedness, but later had to revise my opinion when I realised he was keeping the men for those times when he felt the urge to sleep with their wives. As for my friends – his natural sons and daughters – some had got married, some had gone to live elsewhere, some still lived here, but none of them ever engaged in incestuous affairs. Miss Hole In One had resigned and gone to pursue her favourite avocation at Tharn Bridge, which was nearby.

After that, I went with Grandpa to Kuang Buan Seng, a shop which stretched over several sections of a huge shophouse at the Phahurat intersection. I had my measurements taken for a formal white jacket to wear with the purple loincloth Grandpa promised to provide me with THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

236 for the wedding ceremony. He also suggested I order a white suit and a coloured one. To please myself, I ordered another three jackets cut out of French silk to wear with silk trousers. From there, Grandpa took me to Hung Fat, another tailor’s, and ordered half-a-dozen shirts, a dozen round-necked shirts of various materials, and plenty of underwear. Then we took a shortcut to Sampheng and went to Grandpa’s favourite old shop to buy fine-quality silk trousers. We helped each other select more than ten trousers of plain or flower-patterned silk to wear on various occasions. When I pointed to a pile of shiny black silk trousers, Grandpa seemed to be looking for words. He said black silk trousers weren’t popular with us, Thai, except among hoodlums, but then he helped me make up my mind by adding, ‘Since you want to wear them, who’s going to say anything? After all, hoodlums aren’t always bad, what.’ Since we had known each other, this was the first time I saw him in a jolly mood, and it made me love and respect him all the more. When he chose two silk blankets of plain design for me, I selected a third one as well. It was of excellent quality silk, embroidered in vivid colours with celestial birds against a beautiful background. Grandpa puckered his lips and commented, ‘You’d be better off framing it and hanging it on the wall.’ I asked the vendors to pack this blanket separately. Grandpa was puzzled but said nothing. The last place we visited was a shoemaker’s, called Mao Lee or something like that. It was a small UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

237 shophouse at the foot of the Morn Bridge near home.

Small as it was, Grandpa said, this shop was renowned for its craftsmanship, and the quality of its leather could be trusted. He told me to have two pairs of shoes, one brown, one black, custom-made, two extra pairs to wear with the silk trousers and French silk jackets, and a pair of slippers. Thus ended our shopping that day.

Back at the house, I was about to sit down in my room and relax my stiff legs when I saw from the corner of my eye a slender figure who stood leaning on the doorframe. Who was this now? Well, well, none other than Miss Kaeo, doing me the honour of visiting the living quarters of her bridegroom-to-be. What was she up to? I turned round fully to face her, and that was all I could do by way of a welcome. Propped against the doorframe, she was pulling a long face. She gave me a shifty look for a while and finally uttered half-heartedly, ‘Mrs B has asked me to deliver the following message – she’s inviting you to have dinner with us tonight.’

She called Mrs Bunlueang the way her father did. Her tone as she mentioned me was somewhat less offensive, which was a welcome change to my ears. I could sense, though, that the message wasn’t the real reason for her visit – she had been awaiting my return.

I knew the stubborn and ruthless girl standing in front of me well enough not to thank her. I nodded in assent to her false invitation and kept silent and still, waiting to see what she would come up with next. After a moment THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

238 of stifling silence, she blurted out impatiently: ‘You said you had something to talk to me about before – before the wedding, didn’t you?’ Please note that the pronoun ‘you’ she used this time∗ was more polite than before and sounded natural – no doubt, it showed how farsighted she was: it certainly didn’t result from a change in her heart, and she’d probably return to the former form of address or even worse at the first opportunity.

There was only one thing in the goodness of her heart now: her desire to know what I wanted to talk to her about.

‘Yes, yes – a lot – lots of things,’ I retorted briskly, then moved a chair to the front of the desk for her and said, ‘Sit down,’ and before she could say anything, I hastened to add, paying no heed to her: ‘I don’t like people standing around when we’re having a long talk; it makes me feel uncomfortable for them.’ I went to a corner of the room, took the mat with which I had covered the mattress in the morning and spread it on the floor, then sat down and reclined against the mattress with my legs stretched out comfortably. When she saw me relaxing on the floor, she walked to the chair and sat down as invited.

‘There are all kinds of topics we have to discuss,’ I began. ‘But how about this for starters? Does Mrs Bunlueang know? About your secret, I mean?’

‘What secret? What are you talking about?’ Regret∗

From the demeaning kae to theur, equivalent to the familiar French ‘tu’

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239 fully, pretending innocence made her beautiful face look incredibly stupid.

‘As you wish! Then let me put it this way: why did it have to be Master Khajorn?’

As though whip lashed, she turned round swiftly and looked at me sideways as if she wanted to tear me to pieces. Again, her expression was at once real and fake.

The real part was that she was cursing me nonstop in her heart; the fake part was that the anger that showed on her face was in fact concealing her fright, because she had convinced herself since the afternoon of the previous day that I really knew nothing and had just been pretending, but now she knew what was what beyond a doubt and thus couldn’t deceive herself any longer. Yet she thought she’d keep on deceiving me still, and it made her stupid looks even more pitiable. Good grief, girl!

‘No answer? Never mind if you don’t want to answer.

I’ll provide the answers for you.’

I did feel it was cruel of me to do this, but it had to be done. You might object I was trying to win over the enemy through magic spells or something of that ilk. To tell you the truth, that’s what it was: I felt I had to do it.

If I didn’t correct her behaviour now, she’d come to think she could deceive one and all, and by the time we got married she’d behave worse than this several times over. So I went on pummelling her without mercy: ‘It was out of craziness, wasn’t it? You’re crazy about the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

240 smart uniform of the cadets. You too are dreaming of getting for a sweetheart a man with stars on his shoulders like Sub Lieutenant Phrorm∗. You want him as a talisman to show off to your friends like those trees festooned with tiny lights on royal anniversaries.’

(I sincerely apologise to the author of Sao Khruea Fa for this sarcastic remark. In those days there was nothing more gratifying to curse those women who were crazy about men in uniform than to mention the name of that buffalo calf of a sub lieutenant. Hence the loose reference.)

She fought back with a couple of words, while her face turned arrogant in desperation. I didn’t catch what she said, but I didn’t care so long as she didn’t use swearwords, something I would no longer condone. ‘You mixed craziness and lust and totally lost control of yourself. People usually think of the consequences before they do something. Don’t you know no one does it with another offspring from the same father? If you insist there have been cases, I won’t argue, but the fact remains you’ve made a big mistake here. Don’t forget you are Aunt Waht’s daughter, not Lord —’s.’ (I mentioned the name of a very rich lord who didn’t allow anyone

∗

The hero of a tragic play, Sao Khruea Fa, adapted from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly by Krom Phra Nararthippraphanphong in the early 19th century.

Sao Khruea Fa (‘Miss Celestial Vine’) kills herself when she finds out that her husband and father of her child, Sub Lt Phrorm (‘Ready’), is already married.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

241 near his dough or his daughter, yet had been willing to let his own son commingle with his sister – an enormous scandal at the time.) ‘But then, so be it. If you don’t want to save your parents’ face, it’s up to you, but why is it you can’t behave properly for the sake of those who love you? And don’t you dare pretend to me you didn’t know you and Master Khajorn have the same father.

Has Master Khajorn ever hurt your feelings? Of course not, yet you’ve managed to make him lose his dignity for the rest of his life, just as you did with Khein. And what about his mother? I hear you love and respect her.

Why didn’t you think of how she’d feel?’

I folded my legs to sit up cross-legged. I just remembered then I was still waiting for the answer to my very first question. It was the only thing I wanted to hear from her before I pursued my investigation through Mrs Bunlueang. ‘Out with the truth now, Miss Kaeo. You haven’t answered my question yet. Does Mrs Bunlueang know about this?’

She was gazing at me with a poker face, while biting her upper lip. I reiterated the question more forcefully.

Seeing I wasn’t giving up, she finally answered by shaking her head slightly. I wasn’t satisfied with this and asked, ‘What do you mean by shaking your head? That you don’t want to answer? Or that his mother doesn’t know?’

Releasing her upper lip, she shut her mouth tightly like a girl at her wit’s end. To me, she was a little more THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

242 pleasant to look at now, as her sight inspired only one feeling – annoyance. ‘Mrs B doesn’t know,’ she finally blurted out.

I believed her, but couldn’t help asking whether she was sure. She nodded.

I told her that was the only reason I could show her some mercy, but she shouldn’t hope I’d ever forgive her or even turn indifferent, as I no doubt would have if Cadet Khajorn had been the natural offspring of His Lordship and any other woman but Mrs Bunlueang, and if she hadn’t had Aunt Waht for a mother. I warned her to always bear that in mind. ‘Although your secret is no longer a secret, since I know about it, it’s still your sacred duty to keep it a secret forever. If I ever learn it has leaked from you to your mother or to Master Khajorn’s mother, I’ll…’ I stood up with legs spread wide. ‘I’ll kill you with my bare hands. And that’s a promise!’

I had no idea whether I’d be able to act on it. I merely knew I wasn’t making an empty threat, and the pallor on her face as she heard what I said was no pretence either. I let my words sink into the deepest recesses of her heart, and in order to compel her eyes to keep following my moves, at the same time I took a few steps in a zigzag course and stopped by the rear window, where I stood gazing out, but my mind was busy figuring out a way to end this meeting that would make her remember it for a long time.

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243 My thoughts strayed for a while, then the questions I wanted to ask His Lordship earlier on sprang to my mind again – how long would the deception be carried in this marriage? And to what extent? Where should we draw the line? I hadn’t thought of this last point before, concerned as I was only with how long the whole rigmarole would last. Thinking about it now, I was suddenly curious to find out what Miss Kaeo personally expected out of it, besides her decision to prevent me from ‘laying’ her.

I turned round and asked her in a harsh voice.

Her expression and shrug really got on my nerves.

‘Whoever gets married can get divorced,’ she retorted.

‘What if I won’t let you?’ I teased her, caught between annoyance and pity – after all, she was but a child.

‘One day, Master Khajorn will come and settle old scores with you, da–’ She almost let the word slip out again, didn’t she. But I thought it was a trifling matter then, and so she must have, because she added determinedly, ‘for sure.’

Unbelievable! I had just told her I’d kill her if she let her secret out, and here she was, brazen enough to wish this young soldier would come and take her away on horseback! ‘You must be mad!’ I shouted at her in genuine outrage. ‘Keep in mind once and for all that no matter how many times you’ve persuaded Master Khajorn to sleep with you, and even though he’s gotten you pregnant, from now on there will be no Master Khajorn THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

244 in your life ever again. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll do everything – I swear! And you must comply as well, or else I’ll kill you – and don’t you forget it.’

Incensed by my strong words, she forgot everything we had been talking about. ‘You beast!’ I heard her hiss before she sprung up and lunged to paw at me with nails as sharp as cat’s claws. ‘How dare you, you damn bastard!’ My hands grabbed her wrists to stop her fierce claws and squeezed ruthlessly. Even though she cried in pain, I wouldn’t release her. I wanted to use her pain to force open her heart and make it receptive to what I had to say next, and if she still didn’t believe me, may hell be ready to receive my murderous hands.

‘This is the last time I talk to you before I become your husband,’ I remonstrated to her face. ‘This is also the last time I allow you to use foul language with me. If you persist, you’ll get hurt a lot more, I’ll make you suffer for good, in a way you’ll never forget. And I’ll tell you for the last time: give up your sissy hopes about Master Khajorn. If you do anything that makes your disgusting affair leak out and thus break two good mothers’ hearts, I’ll kill you. I really will, and before you die I’ll make you suffer like you’ve never suffered in your life. Don’t you ever forget it. Do you hear what I’m saying? Remember it well.’

I pushed her away and tried to keep my temper under control. At the same time, I did my best to persuade her.

I was worried she wouldn’t believe me and would end UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

245 up in pain and death. I wanted nothing of the sort to happen, even though I wasn’t sure I wasn’t going to make it happen there and then. I told her Master Khajorn was a very good man, so it wasn’t appropriate for her to consider him as ‘a bird in the hand’, and anyway by now, wherever he was, he probably bitterly regretted what he had done and would bear this lesson in mind for the rest of his days. Furthermore, if a good man and good student like him could enter a military career, he could expect to become a general one day, and if he had any good sense as would befit his future rank, he’d give priority to his career over a hapless girl who had offered him nothing better than the occasion to fulfil his curiosity about sex. I also told her that she was no great bargain – she had hardly any education, was foul-mouthed and selfish, all characteristics which didn’t become the spouse of a general. I said all this assuming he was able to choose and wasn’t too much deceived by the entreaties of lascivious ladies – and I added that she was no longer in a position to deceive him either.

‘There’s no way he’ll ever turn back to pick up a worn rag like you, believe me.’ I had only said this much when she ran down the stairs in shame and – no doubt about it – in painful resentment.

Everything I told her about Master Khajorn came strictly from speculations based on my observation of his character. Oddly enough, some of my guesses turned out to be correct. First, it was true he never set foot in the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

246 house again. When I returned from Phijit, he was holidaying in Songkhla, as he and his mother always did at this time of year. This year, however, his mother had known ahead of time there might be a big ceremony in the compound concerning two youngsters she was very fond of, so she had decided to stay behind to make sure everything would be fine, and Master Khajorn had had to go to Songkhla alone. He returned after the ceremony had taken place and went straight back to school, and from that moment until he graduated, he was the only cadet who considered the school as his home even though his parents and his parents’ house were in Bangkok. He never came back home over the weekend, and it was I who took it upon myself to allay his elders’ suspicions, which could have easily festered. Wasn’t it admirable that I managed to fully persuade Mrs Bunlueang and His Lordship and even Aunt Waht herself? I charged myself by leaking the news that Master Khajorn had long hated me on account of my crooked behaviour.

As I was to become the sole owner of the whole compound, his parents’ home included, how could a military man full of dignity and pride like Master Khajorn allow himself to enter the living quarters of his foe?

Something else I got right was that he was promoted to the rank of general when he was just past forty-five, and married the daughter of a high-ranking officer whose ancestors covered themselves with glory during

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247 the siege of Thalang∗. But I have no idea whether the general Khajorn in question has the markings of a truly brave man, and whether his honourable wife is a real jewel or one cut out of broken glass – I don’t know and have never had the desire to find out.

Actually, I had intended to use the opportunity of talking to Miss Kaeo alone to make her understand I had no wish to take advantage of the situation by truly becoming her husband as I had a right to, which she must have been worried about. Besides, I also wanted to define the scope of our relations as man and wife so as not to set tongues wagging, but our discussion had taken another course altogether. Therefore, I had to fall back on my old principle – let time take its course – which was fortunate in a way, for had I spoken as I intended, I’d have been accused of not keeping my word afterward.

In any case, shortly after she ran down the stairs and fled from the house, I fell asleep feeling rather relieved that I had done a good chunk of my homework concerning Miss Kaeo. I had insisted on her keeping the secret of Master Khajorn. To what extent I’d succeed, let the fate of man and beast decide.

That evening, after I had taken a shower and put on my brand-new clothes as befitted my new status, I left ∗

An episode during one of the wars with the Burmese. In 1785, the unsuccessful siege of the town of Thalang on the island of Phooket in Southern Siam for more than a month ended the Burmese penetration of the Siamese southern provinces.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

248 the house with the packed-up silk blanket. I went to have dinner at the new house at Mrs Bunlueang’s invitation. The dining room was still in the front part of the ground floor as before, but the dinner table and chairs had been changed and a nice sideboard added, together with a new set of crockery, which was so fine that I, who just came back from the paddy fields, was embarrassed to use it lest I should break something. The casual, lose evening dress Mrs Bunlueang wore tonight was anything but suggestive, as if she meant to punish me for breaking my promise of the night before. ‘Did you come back home very late last night?’ was the first thing she asked when we found ourselves alone in the library, while Lamiat and her helper were setting up the dining table in the front room.

‘Yes, much later than I expected, so…’ I let her complete the sentence as she wished, which I thought was the best procedure when talking about something I didn’t feel like discussing, and I presented her with my gift, which brought that particular line of conversation to an end. ‘Today, Grandpa and I went out shopping. I thought of you when I saw it, so here you are.’

Hurriedly, she unwrapped the gift and unfolded the blanket with much excitement, and showed herself very much pleased, which elated me in turn. How could I not rejoice seeing this wealthy woman, whose life was surrounded with all kinds of possessions, pleased over the small present she was receiving from me? ‘I think it’ll go UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

249 well with your fair skin,’ I said, lowering my voice over the last few words.

She looked at me ever so sweetly from the corner of her eye. ‘Let’s find out about it tonight, then.’ Her whisper was as soft as a gentle breeze yet strong enough to bore deep into my chest. As I nodded with a resounding heart, my hands reached out for her on their own. I heard the soft whisper again, ‘Not now!’ so full of promise it stopped me short and left me clutching at empty air. I nodded again, this time in disappointment.

She got up smiling and gave me a tight squeeze on the shoulder as she brushed past me on her way to supervising the table arrangements outside.

The table was set for three. It was past dinnertime when we took our seats, but the occupant of the third seat had yet to show up. ‘Miss Kaeo always has dinner with me here. Why is she so late tonight?’ Mrs Bunlueang complained, then answered to herself: ‘Maybe she’s too shy to meet her groom-to-be.’

I laughed heartily. ‘I don’t think so.’ She gave me a puzzled look, so I told her, ‘We’ve just had a little talk, and it didn’t go down well.’

‘What a shame. Auntie had planned to help you two get on together tonight. It’s so frustrating.’

A long time ago, I had asked her to use any pronoun she wanted when referring to herself in our conversations, except ‘chan’, which made me feel unduly alienated from her, and it had become her habit to refer to THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

250 herself as ‘Auntie’ whenever we discussed serious matters. For some reason, every time she referred to herself as my aunt, I felt a special craving for her, but this time, the terms ‘get on together’ that followed did away entirely with that special stirring of mine. Get on together indeed! I could guess the whole story almost at once.

During the past three years, in her chats with Mrs Bunlueang, Miss Kaeo must have found plenty of bad things to say about me because, no matter what, I was still considered as the culprit in the case of the attempted rape of a girl, and that girl was none other than herself. She needed to fawn over someone in exchange for sympathy, which she couldn’t hope to get from Aunt Waht – not that she wanted to. As for His Lordship, she got so much sympathy from him that she was used to it. The person with whom she had to pretend to be ashamed over the event could be none other than her handsome Master Khajorn, so she had had to pave the way to him through his mother first. I didn’t think Mrs Bunlueang believed the scandal about me or even was willing to listen to any gossip about it, but it was weird indeed that these two women, so different in age and character, could get along so well that it had led to that shameful development with Master Khajorn. Thinking about all this, I couldn’t help feeling angry with Mrs Bunlueang as well.

‘Jan!’ Mrs Bunlueang’s call fell amid the tumult of my thoughts. ‘You’re so far away you don’t even hear what I’m saying.’

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251 I cast her an apologetic glance and asked her what it was she had said to me.

‘What did the two of you talk about?’

‘Oh, I see,’ I answered curtly. ‘About the child in her womb.’ Then, I turned to investigating how much Mrs Bunlueang knew, as I had intended. ‘Do you know who the father of the child is?’

She shook her head immediately with a reserved expression, as if she was being forced to think of something she didn’t want to think about. Apart from this, her expression and reaction were devoid of any deviousness. I believed my eyes as well as her honesty, but I couldn’t help asking further, ‘Have you ever thought of who it could be?’

Mrs Bunlueang chewed her food while munching my words in her mind, then turned to look at me and replied, ‘It could be anyone or it could be no one.’

‘What if I had been here?’

‘You, prefer that girl to me?’ she exclaimed crossly. She had dismissed the servants as soon as we had sat down at the table.

Now I felt like finishing the meal right away.

I had many more stories to tell and many more questions to ask as close friends who hadn’t seen each other for three years are wont to do, and there were also quite a few problems that needed to be discussed, but the yearning for sexual pleasure which had been denied for years and was now within reach with its promise of THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

252 manifold returns left me in no mood for anything else. I found the second half of the meal as tasteless as leftovers, most probably because my heart had other cravings that took me in another direction.

It wasn’t until we took our cups of coffee into the library that Mrs Bunlueang mentioned what had been bothering me since morning. ‘Did you know your bridal chamber will be here?’

‘His Lordship told me about it this morning.’ I set my coffee cup down. ‘He also said you kindly arranged it for us.’

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ She did know how to read my voice.

‘I’ve been thinking – I can’t help wondering why you did it.’ I pressed her for an answer, paying no heed to her feelings. It was the first time since we had become intimate that I behaved aggressively towards her. ‘Was this your own idea?’

She frowned before answering. ‘Not quite, but there’s nothing strange since chan – er, sorry – Auntie agreed with the idea and wished it were her own. Why? What is it you don’t like about it?’

I didn’t answer, but said, ‘I never thought it was His Lordship’s idea. It was Miss Kaeo’s, wasn’t it, Mrs B?’ Normally, I called her by this name only when I was overwhelmed with desire. I really don’t know why I called her that way then.

This time, it was her turn to put her cup down on the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

253 saucer with a clatter. A touch of anger briefly clouded her face and as it went away, she sighed and nodded.

‘She said she was afraid. She wants to stay close to me in order to feel protected. We should sympathize with her, and in any case, it’s no big deal. On the contrary, I think it’s good…’ She left her sentence unfinished, then looked at me in a meaningful way before revealing what was on her mind. ‘Haven’t you considered that it’s the only way for us to stay under the same roof day and night?’

It was my turn to sigh, but I didn’t nod. I moaned in my heart, ‘Oh, how little you know Miss Kaeo! She’s nosier than a house lizard.’ But what I did utter took a different track: ‘I don’t want to pry when His Lordship visits you here.’

I couldn’t figure out what sensitive spot my remark hit in her. Blood rushed to her creamy face in a manner that was obvious even with this kind of nighttime lighting. I couldn’t tell either whether it was out of embarrassment or for some other reason. I only remember she gazed at me with bright eyes while her face flushed under the impulse of some inner feeling. Then she puzzled me even more by laughing. At first, she chuckled a little, then faster and finally burst into a hearty laugh. ‘So, that’s all it was.’ She extended her arm and touched me on the shoulder while wiping tears off her face. ‘It’s good to know you’re jealous of an elderly woman like me. You’re so considerate with me.’ She gently stroked my shoulder then withdrew her hand.

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254 As she took another sip of coffee, she glanced at me and said evenly, ‘Don’t worry about that, Jan. His Lordship has long deserted me. He’s now at an age when he needs greener grass for his love potions.’

She was referring to the few teenage girls he had brought up himself.

I was stunned – not because of His Lordship and his young playmates, of course, but because a question immediately arose in my mind: ‘If this is so, why did it take her so long to answer me yesterday afternoon when I asked her if she’d be free from him tonight?’

Then my mind lingered on the doubt that had assailed me: how had she been able to stand the cravings of her flesh for three years, when she herself was thinking of giving up her affair with him even before I entered her life? I had never thought she’d have affairs with other men in the compound; she was too self-righteous for that. I had then convinced myself she’d probably change her mind, would it only be for Master Khajorn’s sake, and impose a hefty tribute on His Lordship. But then, as she just told me, she had lived in total abstinence, even worse than Old Phum’s ‘barren land’. How come? Why had His Lordship given her up altogether even though she was far from old, whereas an older woman like Phum was still being honoured once in a while? All right, maybe Old Phum had merely boasted to better swallow her own bitter pill, but no matter what, I didn’t believe Mrs Bunlueang could stand a three-year fasting.

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255 No one knew better than I did that intercourse was essential to her health. I didn’t believe she could do without it. I just couldn’t believe it. No way. Not in a thousand years.

But then, how come I had been able to abstain during the same three years? Did it mean I had less of a drive than she had? Less than her, when I was only pining for her? No way.

On the other hand, I had the well-known outlet of my five fingers to release my pent-up feelings – how about her then? Women must have their own ways of coping with the problem. How do they do it? How would I know? I didn’t – not for sure anyway. Better leave the matter alone, then. It was certain, however, that she had coped through some method or other I knew nothing about. I could always find a way to ask her later, if I really wanted to know, for whatever reason.

But why had she taken so long pondering her answer when I had asked her whether she was free from His Lordship, given that he had long stopped being responsive to her charm?

I sat gazing at her, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts for so long that she noticed it and stretched her arm to touch me as if to ask what was wrong. When I felt the contact and our eyes met, I blurted out a question I wasn’t aware I had at the ready at the back of my mind. ‘How odd. How did you manage to strike up a friendship with such a vicious girl as Miss Kaeo?’

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256 ‘I don’t think it’s odd.’ She withdrew her hand suddenly and looked away.

‘You aren’t the sort of person who makes friends easily, and when it comes to a real brat like Miss Kaeo, it just isn’t like you. Yet you seem very close to each other – closer than you are with me, I daresay.’

‘Because we are both women. But really, this is nonsense. Are you going to be jealous of that little wench as well, Jan?’ Because we are both women! Hearing this, I felt a dull pain in my heart, I didn’t know why, because I had no way of understanding then, but when I learned the truth later, I nearly went mad. Things had gone dreadfully wrong that shouldn’t have. Well, you’ll know about it in due time.

She got up, walked around, stopped behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. ‘Don’t you want to know where your bridal room is?’ she asked teasingly.

‘Master Khajorn’s room?’ I ventured.

She laughed. ‘Yes. It was the only room available, actually.’

‘Where will you put him when he comes back?’

‘At first, I thought I’d have him stay in the main house with his father, but when I reached him in Songkhla, he answered it wouldn’t be necessary. He said it’d be no problem for him to stay as a boarder at school. He’s really glad to give up his room for the two of you. The only thing he asked was not to be sent to the main UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

257 house. Such a weird child. I’ve no idea what it’s all about.’

But I did! This time, it was I who turned to a new topic. ‘Is it all new?’

‘Come again?’

‘The furniture in his room: did you change it all?’

‘Every single item in it is brand-new,’ she said gaily.

‘The top-quality iron bed with brass fittings is a special present ordered from India by myself. The bedding and mosquito net were ordered by Aunt Waht from the White Lotus shop.’ She went on listing the other items of furniture and their outstanding features.

When she was through, I turned to look up at her and asked, ‘Has everything arrived already?’

‘Almost everything,’ she answered innocently.

‘What about the bedding? That’s all I’m interested in.’

‘Why?’ ‘They say that according to tradition, respected elder relatives will prepare the bed for the bride and groom and lie on it to wish the newly wed a happy married life.

I’d like you to do just that – tonight.’ I wasn’t beating around the bush but referring forcefully to our common lust in order to ridicule the fake marriage that would take place in that bridal chamber. I did it only to ask for Mrs Bunlueang’s sympathy, which she well understood.

She went behind me again and took me in her arms, her cheek and chin nestling against my neck. I heard her soft, slow murmur at close range. ‘In any case, it’s going THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

258 to be your life, you know, since you’ve already made the decision. So, why not relax and look at the good side? At least, you own the place, you’ve got me and Aunt Waht – everything in your old home is still the same, and in some respects you’re much better off, except for this one thing, a trifling matter, really.’

‘So, no real wife for me in this life,’ I mused playfully.

‘A wife? What’s so important about a wife, now that you’ve got everything, much more than you could hope to get from any wife? You’ve got everything, from your beloved Aunt Waht and from me – everything except the word ‘wife’, which will happen to belong to Miss Kaeo.’

‘What would happen if I fell in love with someone else?’ I asked in order to torture myself a little.

‘When you are in love, you’ll get that love: if she loves you in return, you’ll get love from her and you can give her everything you own, except the word ‘wife’. When that time comes, do you think this will matter more than everything else?’ Part of Mrs Bunlueang’s charm was that she was so frank and broad-minded.

I lifted her arm and kissed it at the fold, then turned and rested my head against her soft, warm bosom.

I thought of Hyacinth, I thought of my mother, I thought of my lonely days in Phijit. I felt the stunning emptiness of those days squeezing my heart all over again. This sudden flood of emotion made me aware of the warmth of tears welling up in my eyes, but when I UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

259 realised how lucky I was to have escaped such a fate, a thrill coursed through me to the very tip of my toes. Mrs Bunlueang was right: I had got everything back and then some. It was as if I had my mother back.

This in turn made me think of the compound, of what would happen to it in regard to His Lordship.

‘How did you feel about my demanding the property back from His Lordship?’

‘It was the right thing to do, since it’s yours. Actually, I’m glad you did manage to get it back.’

‘But what about His Lordship?’

‘He was seething, of course.’ She chuckled. ‘You hit him over the head. But he still hopes to buy it back from you.’

‘That’s what I think, too. How much is he willing to offer, do you know?

Mrs Bunlueang walked back to her place, sat down and looked at me doubtfully. ‘Are you really planning to sell?’

I wanted to know her view, so I improvised, ‘What can I do? Such a large compound with so many people – I don’t think I can manage.’

She looked mystified. ‘Why? You can count on your auntie to help you run things.’

It was my turn to feel mystified. You see, I meant to ask her about His Lordship, but the answer I got was beyond my expectation – vintage Mrs Bunlueang. I felt moved by what she said, but since I hadn’t thought THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

260 things over in my head, I couldn’t respond properly. So, I replied evasively, ‘It makes sense, but since I’m a man and the owner as well, it’d be my responsibility.’ Although I knew I wasn’t meaning it, I couldn’t but feel disgusted with myself and merely hoped Mrs Bunlueang wouldn’t feel the same.

‘What will you do then? You must avoid selling back at all cost. If you did, you’d go back to being no better off than the poor boy you used to be – worse, in fact.’

Obviously, she wasn’t disgusted with me, or even disappointed. She not only showed concern for me but also took my side.

I laughed to reassure her. ‘Under no circumstances will I sell. If it comes to the worst, I’ll lease out plots to Chinamen.’ I disclosed one of the threats I had in mind.

She objected at once. ‘He wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘Precisely. He can’t have his way and I can’t have mine, so we’ve got to meet halfway.’

She perked up immediately. ‘Then, you must have a solution?’

Mrs Bunlueang was definitely my weak point. I couldn’t keep what I had planned secret any more. So, I decided to reveal to her my plan as the new owner regarding how to ensure the maintenance of the compound by collecting rent from His Lordship and all other dwellers.

She heard me out, then broke into a broad smile and remarked, ‘You really know how to drive a hard bargain, don’t you?’

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261 I can’t remember who of Grandpa or Aunt Waht had made a similar remark. This time I was ready to accept it. ‘What can I do? I’m cornered. Do you think it’ll work?’

She nodded vigorously. ‘Of course it will, because this house has become a matter of great prestige to him, and this is the best option he has to save face.’ Then, she acted as if she had just remembered something, sat herself erect, brought her joined hands to her face and asked in an official manner: ‘How much do you intend to charge Mrs Bunlueang?’

Her smiling eyes, which looked as though they held a bribe, almost got the better of the craving for her I had been trying to suppress all this time. I looked over her head through the library door to the main hall which doubled as the dining room. The light was still on and its circle spread outside, lighting up the front of the house. When I saw that there was no one around, I got up and went to kneel down by the chair on which she sat. I was some distance away from the door opening but still in a position to see the approach to the entrance.

‘Staying together forever will be enough,’ I said with a voice that wasn’t steady, but my hands were firm as they seized hers, which were still joined in front of her, parted them and brought them down to her sides. ‘Stay with me and help me – help me go through my part as Miss Kaeo’s husband.’ I pressed my chest against her generous bosom, my head against her neck, my face THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

262 turned to the door and beyond. As for those hands of mine, they were busy moving up and down like the heads of large snakes slithering in search of gaps in the thick grass. My mouth kept whispering about something unrelated to what we had just discussed, ‘What are you waiting for? I can’t wait any longer.’

‘Don’t be so impulsive, Jan. It’s still early – too early.’

Her shaky voice didn’t convey the message in full or as clearly as this, and even though her mouth told me to stop, her hand was like the head of yet another snake, a female snake intent on finding her way and grabbing some prey in a hollow recess.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. My hands stopped groping and went to seize hers, clenching it tightly to warn her not to move any further. I was feeling slighted and wanted to ask her why it was too early, since she was totally free from His Lordship.

‘I can’t wait like this,’ I whispered harshly.

‘Why not?’ she whispered, equally harshly.

‘What I mean is, not if we stay like this. I can’t endure it.’

‘Yes, you can. Come on.’

‘I can’t – it’s too much. I’ll go wait outside, watch a movie – right, I’ll go and see a movie first and be back later.’

‘Don’t! Please don’t – you mustn’t…’

I got up instantly and went to cool off in front of a bookcase. I felt as though I had had a narrow escape.

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263 From what? From my own emotions, of course. Had I been a little slow in pulling back, I’d have blown up there and then.

And we’d have been torn to pieces had I not pulled away impulsively, because I had hardly composed myself, taken a book off the bookcase and started to flip through it with hands I could see were shaking, when I heard Mrs Bunlueang’s greeting – ‘Oh, hello, Miss Kaeo.’

The girl had silently appeared from nowhere.

My whole body slowly turned round in her direction as if I had a stiff neck, to try to guess how long she had been there. My heart was as cold as an executioner’s.

The briefest glance at her face would be enough for me to figure her out.

She deliberately didn’t look at me. She knew I was there and hadn’t left the house, but how did she know?

What made her know?

I scrutinized her as she spoke.

‘Mother told me to see if – in case you want sweet dishes. Today we have yams in coconut milk.’

Liar! I knew she was lying, but it wasn’t because I had long known Mrs Bunlueang never had dessert after her meals – if anything, she’d have some fruit but invariably would end a meal with a cup of coffee. If I knew, it was because I never failed to sense when Miss Kaeo was fibbing, but I still couldn’t figure out how it was she knew I was still in the room with Mrs Bunlueang.

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264 ‘Well, thanks so much, Miss Kaeo, but we’ve just had our coffee,’ Mrs Bunlueang said, smiling cheerfully. She seemed to show much consideration to Miss Kaeo, though the girl acted as if she couldn’t care less. Mrs Bunlueang went to her at the door and took her hand which she held as though they were close friends. ‘Come in and have a chat with us. Jan’s still here.’

‘No, thanks.’ She refused outright. ‘I just came to ask if you wanted sweets.’

Now at last a little of her temper was showing, oddly incensed, but I couldn’t explain it right away. I knew only that she hadn’t refused out of her hate for me, and if she had that expression and intonation because she had seen us fondling each other, it wasn’t quite like her.

So, I could discard that hypothesis. Thus, I stopped paying attention to the two of them, as I felt relieved at not being under suspicion. With the book in my hand, I went to sit on a chair in a corner of the room, while Mrs Bunlueang was still trying to win Miss Kaeo over.

‘Please. Come and keep me company. I can do with some talk. It looks like tonight Jan won’t be going away easily.’ (I turned to look at her at once, afraid she was pulling a trick on me.) ‘He’s been in the boondocks for years and now that he’s back, he’s only got eyes for books.’ I burrowed my face into the book again.

‘Well, tell him…’ That’s all I heard before Miss Kaeo lowered her voice to a whisper. I could catch a few words, but not enough to make sense. Oddly enough, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

265 Mrs Bunlueang also lowered her voice. From what I could gather, they were arguing over something. Then I clearly heard Miss Kaeo saying, ‘So be it, then!’ before she turned around and stormed out of the room, Mrs Bunlueang in her wake.

Though I thought it was strange, I didn’t really pay attention. A spoiled child like Miss Kaeo was always behaving erratically.

A moment later, I heard the click of the dining room light being switched off; the library door darkened, and Mrs Bunlueang walked in wearily and closed the door.

‘Poor, poor child!’ she mumbled.

‘What did she want?’

‘Her own way, that’s what.’ She didn’t sound annoyed.

She went to sit down on the same sofa, then leaned back on it, a mere three steps away from me. She seemed to be in a pensive mood.

I still didn’t understand what Miss Kaeo really wanted. ‘Miss Kaeo didn’t come here to ask about dessert.’

From her position, Mrs Bunlueang cast a glance at me and smiled. It was a cold smile. ‘So, you were aware of it, too? She hoped to have a chat with me as usual, and she wasn’t happy when she saw you were still here.’

‘But she came knowing full well that I was here. She wanted you to get rid of me, didn’t she?’ Mrs Bunlueang turned to glance at me again. ‘No need to answer. No.’ That was why she had made all that fuss for me and put THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

266 up the excuse that I was starved for books, which just wasn’t true.

‘What a Mr Know All you are!’ she enthused.

I told her candidly it was because I knew her well.

‘Is that so?’ She looked at me with a deep expression I had never seen in her eyes.

‘I’ve had more than my share of trouble with her.’ She made no comment, so I turned to another topic. ‘Why do you bend over backward to please her like this? I find it quite annoying.’

‘She’s only a child.’

‘A child? It’d take half a dozen vicious adults to measure up to your Miss Kaeo.’ I was angry again. ‘If you and I let her live under the same roof, we’ll only be begging for trouble.’

She remained stock still for a while, then said, ‘It won’t come to that. I’ll take care of her myself.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ The more I spoke, the angrier I felt, so I blurted out: ‘I thought I was safe, but here comes his proxy. Let me introduce her to you: Miss Kaeo, His Lordship’s successor.’

Mrs Bunlueang bolted herself erect. She stood there gazing at me stolidly, her face a mask. She almost startled me. I looked up at her, feeling mystified. Since I had returned from Phijit, she never stopped perplexing me.

When I saw she no longer wore her poker face, I asked: ‘What’s wrong? Did I say anything wrong?’

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267 ‘N-no,’ she said, waving her hand. She looked lively again. ‘I just thought of something, that’s all.’

I didn’t believe her. If there was anything that had just happened to motivate her strange reaction, it must have been that what I said had hit home by chance. What was it I was saying right now? Proxy, successor… I said Miss Kaeo was His Lordship’s successor. What was wrong with that? Since I couldn’t figure it out, I added it to the long list of puzzles I was storing in my mind. I had no idea how many I had collected. Never mind – they’d sort themselves out in the end.

And then, Mrs Bunlueang put an immediate stop to the turmoil in my heart with a few words that were sweet both in tone and in meaning. ‘Well, we’ve waited long enough.’ She looked at me from the corner of her eye as if she was consulting me and added, ‘Don’t you think?’

It was so sudden I didn’t know how to react. The restless sluggishness I felt disappeared the moment she began to undo the first button of her loose blouse. I swiftly stood up and threw the book away.

I almost asked her the foolish question of what standard she held to decide on when to wait and when not. How did she know that past nine o’clock was no longer ‘too early’? What was the yardstick, if not Miss Kaeo? It was Miss Kaeo who was ensnaring us in a new time frame which restricted our freedom to enjoy this new era of sensual pursuits. But why hadn’t she told me THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

268 so from the start, and what made her sure Miss Kaeo wouldn’t sneak in again tonight? The first question I kept to myself; as to the second, I voiced it immediately.

She had a mild, superior smile as she answered: ‘This shows you’re not the only one who knows Miss Kaeo well. I’ve had quite a few dealings with her myself, and I don’t mind telling you. Since that – that scandal happened, she has had to sleep in her mother’s bedroom and she must go to bed no later than nine. She isn’t even allowed to stay overnight with me as she did in the past on occasion.’

There was something like a flash of lightning in a remote recess of my mind. Master Khajorn! Miss Kaeo had had the opportunity to sneak out and sleep with him till she got herself pregnant. I knew Mrs Bunlueang’s sleeping habits well. Once she was fast asleep, not even I could enter her dreams through her womb and wake her up to alter those dreams together without having a hell of a time of it. This instantly brought a new doubt. With me, you see, there was reason enough for her to sleep as if she was dead to the world, but with Miss Kaeo? I couldn’t see any reason. Or was it that Miss Kaeo would sneak out into another room for a while as soon as Mrs Bunlueang fell asleep? Could well be, but – the naive sceptic that I was had almost overlooked another point. ‘In that case, why were you inviting her to join us just now? I did notice it was almost nine by then.’

‘I was just testing her to see whether she’d dare to stay.

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269 If she had, she’d be welcome, but since she didn’t, it means she won’t come back. You should stop worrying.

Besides, we still have plenty to do.’ She had raised her voice as if she was feeling annoyed, but then lowered it to say, ‘If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you.’

By then, she had already taken off her blouse and just as she finished speaking, her beautifully decorated sarong slipped off her and fell to the floor. She threw her blouse on the sofa first, next her brassiere, and the remaining item went the same way. She slowly walked in a circle right in front of me, then stood with arms akimbo and asked me, ‘Will you stop worrying now?’

Nothing could stop me from thinking about all kinds of things as effectively as this could. I let out a moan.

‘Oh, Mrs B!’ ‘Good,’ she said sternly. ‘In three minutes, please take these clothes up for me. Don’t switch off the light in here.’

She walked gracefully through the inner door, taking my colourful silk blanket with her. She didn’t wrap it around her body. She carried it by hand.

One minute went by, and I could wait no longer. I took her clothes with me as requested and edged out of the room before stopping at the foot of the stairs to collect myself and test my stamina, but after a short while I could stay still no longer, so I began to slowly tiptoe up the stairs, calculating it would take me the whole of the three prescribed minutes to reach my target.

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270 She hadn’t told me in which room she wanted me to deliver her clothes. Perhaps she’d be waiting in the sitting room as usual, or perhaps, for a change, in her own bedroom, which I had never had the honour of trying out. But there was no light on in either. As I turned, I noticed a glare coming out of Master Khajorn’s room – out of the bridal chamber! The amazement I felt added a new dimension to my sexual craving, by now so strong I could hardly stand on my feet. Yet, I managed to reach the door of that room without delay. I opened it, stepped in and promptly closed and latched it. I sighed deeply then slowly turned my back to the door, still playing for time.

The iron bed had magnificent flower-shaped brass fittings at its head and foot. It was larger and more beautiful than Grandpa’s bed at his home in Phijit, and looked like a structure designed for something else because it had no mosquito net or curtains yet. It only supported a brightly coloured mattress, placed a bit aslant and with creases that showed it had been unpacked only recently.

As for the sheet, I had never thought there could be the likes of it in the world. The other items of furniture were scattered about. The bridal chamber at first glance was like a mere sketch, in which the only perfect picture was that of the conspicuous, white body of a woman who stood with her hand on the bedstead looking at me gravely.

‘What took you so long? Are you going to stand there UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

271 forever?’ she chided, then extended one hand as if to help me through a chasm, and in the twinkling of an eye I had stripped, and ran into her embrace. We lingered where she stood for a while and then of a common accord collapsed onto the bed. Do you remember the poems of our classical literature that describe love scenes between youngsters who happen to savour the wonderful taste of sexual congress for the first time in their lives? In some lines, our inventive poets of yore drew the picture of a small boat rolling and pitching through raging waves. Due to a lack of skill on both sides, the boat, in its haste to reach the open ocean, ignominiously capsizes as soon as it reaches the entrance of the gulf.

What an apt comparison to my case – I mean, to my side only. Sturdy and battle-tested as I was, after three years of starvation in the fields of Phijit, I fared even worse than the boat of the poems. It was exactly like what Jao Phraya Phrakhlang (Hon) had written in his poem ‘Lilit Seewichai Chardok’, which I reproduce here: The heavenly rain was long denied its season And when a storm aroused the sky Meikkhala, palming a glass ball, incensed the giant And rain dript ’n’ dropt all over the land At a mere palming of the glass ball by Meikkhala, my rain, alas, dript ’n’ dropt all over. My boat had already capsized even before it reached the entrance of the gulf.

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272 Thanks to my youth and vigour, I didn’t waste much time in salvaging the wreck. Nevertheless, it took me two more tries before I succeeded in taking my boat to sea, and after it traced its wake and I had eyes left to survey the swells of the ocean, I gave it all I got, unwilling to take time out to rest, as if I meant to sail it all the way to the horizon, no less. There was no time to think that mast or riggings might get damaged. So long as there was water to ply, I’d sail it to the end.

That night, by the time Mrs Bunlueang was sound asleep as usual, it was about three in the morning, and when I finally emerged from the reality and dreams of her, I saw the dawn lighting up the sky. But I didn’t miss a single of the nine nights that remained before the wedding, before the freedom we enjoyed under the same roof would regrettably be curtailed.

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273

16 The wedding day – sickening!

I’ve no idea how much delight young couples who are really in love with each other take in their wedding day, as I’ve no direct or indirect experience of it. Even for those couples who, though they don’t love each other, don’t hate each other either, I wonder how bittersweet they feel when the time to irrevocably cast their lot with each other draws near. The most I can do is surmise dreams and nightmares must chase one another in utter confusion, which may be exciting after all. In the case of Miss Wilaireik Witsanan and Mr Jan Darra, I can tell you conclusively it was a most maddening melodrama. As they say, it was as if I had fallen into the twilight zone, whose light hesitated between dawn and dusk or else between dusk and dawn, from the end of reality to the start of illusion or vice versa, why not. I couldn’t make head or tail of the present and was at once tempted to believe and not to believe, no matter on which side of reality or illusion I thought I stood. I had better avoid brooding about it or else I’d turn mad for sure.

The preparations for the wedding ceremony grew increasingly hectic. Aunt Waht, His Lordship, Mrs Bunlueang and Grandpa as well as Old Phum and everyone else in the compound, including gardeners and menials, all had their own tasks to perform for the ceremony.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

274 Even I, who was the leading actor in this play and the laziest of the lot – pleased to let myself drift along the bustle of others, doing nothing – still had plenty to keep me moving all the same. The only thing in the preparations that worried me was how to wear the ceremonial loincloth. Grandpa had provided me with the lotuswhite loincloth I favoured at an early date. At Mrs Bunlueang’s suggestion, I borrowed one of His Lordship’s old loincloths from Aunt Waht to practise putting it on.

My instructor was none other than Mrs Bunlueang, who had helped His Lordship put it on a long time ago.

Actually, everything in my life during that period was new, be it getting married, becoming the son-in-law of the man who had been my mother’s husband, being the owner of my mother’s property, or wearing new clothes – besides the loincloth, I was wearing the silk trousers and those with a western cut for the first time, including, it goes without saying, the leather shoes. I was like a destitute about to do well for himself through marriage. Before that, I had nothing but myself. Everything that came by or was my due this time was new to me. There was nothing I had ever seen or experienced before, except one thing, which was central to this significant ceremony. Do I really need to tell you what it was in a marriage that I was proud to say I was most familiar with? No, I don’t think it’s necessary, but let me ask you something: wasn’t it laughable this familiar thing so vital to me that is at the core of marriage UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

275 turned to be the only thing I neither longed for nor even considered?

The last thing that held my attention to the ceremony was the transfer of the title to the house and surrounding land which had been agreed would take place on the day of the wedding.

That’s all I considered important in a ceremony that was such a momentous affair for so many people in the compound. They acted exactly as if they were setting up the scenery on stage. They kept at it even though they were all fully aware it was an act of deception, so much so it was impossible to figure out who was deceiving whom and it looked like everyone was deceiving everyone else – deceiving everyone else as in a dream, even though they knew they were awake, yet helplessly worried they’d wake up before the end.

But no one could match Miss Kaeo in this context. She was well versed in matters of deception and could upstage everyone. She could deceive even herself with a straight face. The closer it came to the wedding, the more excited she showed herself inside and outside of the main house, especially when she was with Mrs Bunlueang, now haughty, now embarrassed, even though she could see I was there watching her. Now it was, ‘Mrs B, love, do you think old rose agrees with my skin? How about another kind of pink, dear? But then, why does it have to be pink, of all colours?’ She was referring to the dress she’d be wearing during the water-pouring cereTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

276 mony. And now it was, ‘This kind of green is a bit dull, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Bunlueang, dear? I’d prefer a brighter hue to make me look more cheerful.’ Having said this, she pretended to be shy as if she had just remembered she was talking about the sarong she’d wear when the bride would be delivered to the groom.

She behaved as if Mrs Bunlueang was going to hold a birthday party for her, and Mrs Bunlueang played along.

‘Why do you have to involve yourself in her silly games? To tell you frankly, it makes me very unhappy,’ I complained to her when we were alone.

Mrs Bunlueang chuckled as if to mock me. ‘Isn’t it thanks to my involvement in her games that Miss Kaeo believes everything I tell her? You see, she hasn’t dared to show up here again.’

I burst out laughing. She was such a crafty woman!

The decoration of the bridal chamber was her sole responsibility, as owner of the new house. During that time, I took this opportunity to stay close to her, with the convenient excuse that I helped her decorate the room – and I went to help her morning, noon and even afternoon. The room gradually took shape, but of course Mrs Bunlueang and I didn’t always only lose sweat over its decoration. One afternoon, Miss Kaeo opened the door and entered quietly as she always did. We weren’t aware of it until she exclaimed, ‘Wow! What a beautiful room!’ It was most fortunate that at the time we were UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

277 helping each other move the dressing table to what we thought was a more appropriate place. Mrs Bunlueang turned to her, looking almost startled. I knew from her expression that she was really alarmed, but she could gloss over her emotions thanks to her quick wit. ‘Good grief, Miss Kaeo! You can’t enter this room before the wedding day. This is your bridal chamber, which tradition forbids the bride to enter before the elders make it auspicious. Or else…’ Miss Kaeo looked alarmed and stepped back instantly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ she complained, then looked towards me. I was standing by with a poker face. ‘And why is Jan…’ Mrs Bunlueang cut her short: ‘Because Jan is a man. It doesn’t matter for the bridegroom. According to tradition, the groom is the owner of the bridal chamber because he builds it with his own hands. For now, he has to be sure his bride doesn’t enter until the auspicious time, otherwise the whole ceremony is in jeopardy.’ Miss Kaeo could find nothing to reply as she’d have loved to, so she stormed out and never intruded on the upper floor again until the wedding day.

On that day, any careful observer would have noticed that the bridegroom looked exceedingly pale, though not out of excitement, and that he behaved exceedingly coolly, though not because of the pins and needles he felt after crouching for ages during the water-pouring ceremony. As for the bride, no power of observation was needed to see the beautiful radiance that hid beneath the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

278 lovely shy pose she maintained. Through occasional glances at her groom while she crouched, she was able to bridge the gap which separated the couple linked by the sacred thread they wore round their heads, making it so warm you could almost feel it with your hand and so narrow it seemed nothing could come in between.

You could say she put on a top performance even though she had never rehearsed her role; the whole ceremony, to tell the truth, was nothing but a grand rehearsal.

As far as I was concerned, the feelings that whirled in me completely alienated me from reality. I felt as though I was there to perform every single step of the ceremony on behalf of someone else, and to alleviate my boredom I whiled away the time by observing the people around me. Most of the guests were elderly people, and a few belonged to the nobility. But then, the older they were and the more titles they had, the greater the sympathy I felt for them for wasting their time and energy there.

The other guests were of the same age as His Lordship, and none was younger than him. Their expression and behaviour as they took turns to pour the sacred water on the hands of the bride and groom showed they were enjoying themselves as if they were taking part in a show of some kind. Some were as solemn as if they had come to bathe a Buddha image whereas others behaved as though they were watering roses to please their latest concubine. Some were heavy-handed as if they were UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

279 splashing water on a road, and there were those who were so careful that hardly a drop came out of the conch, like a widower’s tears. Some were so prurient it seemed they wanted to pour seminal fluid instead; others were laughing good-naturedly as if they had come to give a bath to their offspring. As for the women, most of them felt like weeping in memory of their past married life or of the times they had shared with men they didn’t marry, and there were several who couldn’t refrain from expressing their views in various ways, for instance those who acted as if they wanted to say, ‘Oh, my poor little niece, I know why you must hurry to get married though your period’s only just started’. That’s the kind of women I’d have liked to undress to find out which way their husbands did it to them that they still didn’t know women could get pregnant! With some of these, if you put your hand inside them, you’d find they had been sterilised. And there were also those who liked to behave like children despite their age, and made a real effort to express their heartfelt congratulations. They were the lovable ones, and I’d have liked to follow them home to most willingly repay them in kind. All sorts, indeed!

During the water-pouring ceremony, I couldn’t locate Aunt Waht and neither did I see her for the rest of the day. Grandpa wore a well worn, checked, green-black and yellow-ochre loincloth and a palace silk jacket, but neither socks nor shoes. He looked sprightly as he coTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

280 hosted the ceremony together with His Lordship, who was dressed in his white government uniform, complete with collar, badges and medals, as in an old photograph I remembered. He seemed to be floating in it, but had lost none of his allure, looking a little like the movie star Adolf Manchu. No woman in the party was as outstandingly good-looking and charming as Mrs Bunlueang, whose light and healthy complexion was exceptionally flushed pink that night. Her silk clothes and sparkling jewels perfectly matched her tall, pulpy body and beautiful face, whose nice, cool smile added to her charm and made her look like a person of high birth, or like a queen in a foreign novel. So far as I could see, she seemed to know all of the guests, which I found surprising, as she spent her days at home and it was unlikely she’d strike so many acquaintances the few times she went out.

Then, the answer came to me: I had almost forgotten she was His Lordship’s former wife. The party tonight gave me the opportunity to discover a fascinating side of her personality. I did remember seeing her dressing up to go and attend a winter fair with His Lordship a long time ago, but in those days I couldn’t appreciate the beauty of women, beyond the two features of theirs I longed to see and touch. Although I had found her then as beautiful as an angel in Grimm’s fairy tales, that couldn’t compare with the beauty of the earthly goddess I was looking at now, possibly for the last time. I considered myself lucky to be offered such a visual treat and almost couldn’t UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

281 believe in my good fortune in being her lover. If nothing had ever happened between us and I had just set eyes on her tonight, I, who had always been attracted to older women, would be sitting dazed, bemoaning my poor fate at being unable in this life to approach even her little toe, and if I was determined to somehow overcome my bad luck – if my condition became chronic and took a turn for the worse – I could only avail myself of the services of my five fingers while turning her into a practice target in my mind. But in reality – a reality that was more of a dream than a dream – I was the one who was gnashing away at every follicle of her hair, sucking in every particle of her fragrance, drinking up every drop of her juices and burning up with every degree of her fire. Thus I felt overwhelmed with high-spirited happiness, and I was also aware I was the proudest man in the world, so much so that I felt like getting up and announcing: ‘Dear gentlemen who have kindly come to attend our wedding party tonight, I hope you can all appreciate the exciting features of the queen of this gathering, and if some secret organ in those old bodies of yours is aroused because you’re attracted to the queen’s charms, let me extend my deepest sympathy to you. By the same token, I’m glad and honoured to inform you privately that I rule over her, and I can promise you that I shall continue to rule over her for as long as I live and am in good health. Therefore, for the sake of your own peace of mind, allow me to ask you to get rid of the lust that has come up in the vicinity of your pelvis. There is no THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

282 way you can gain access to her as I control every possible entrance. Believe me. I’ll be the queen’s bodyguard as long as I am able.’

So much for my delirious speech on my wedding day – and so much for the only pleasure I had on the day I got married to Miss Kaeo!

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17 It’s true what they say: happiness and suffering are all in the mind. If my mind was willing to let itself down from its pedestal of pride and, paying attention to nothing else, seek the enjoyment I was entitled to through this ceremony, then I wouldn’t be hanging around half-crazy and disheartened. Although I had agreed to marry Miss Kaeo in exchange for my mother’s house, it didn’t mean I had to be happy with my decision. I had accepted the deal willingly enough, but I still had no idea why. Perhaps it was out of some mysterious blood bond, to recover what destiny had stolen from my mother, or else to take a personal revenge, but whatever the reason, it wasn’t something to congratulate myself or anybody else about; it wasn’t a matter of ability or generosity; it was something that had taken place according to the laws of give and take.

But even though I was arrogant enough to take pride in the windfall from my marriage and to decide there was no further obligation between us, a little later that same night I did something beyond the expectations of all insiders, prompting various interpretations among them. I’ve never revealed the reason behind such action to anyone, and was unwilling to do so until I sat down to write this story.

Outside the main house the banquet had already THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

284 started, and under a canopy set up between that house, where the wedding ceremony had been held, and the new house, where the bridal chamber was, a Thai orchestra was playing merry tunes. Entertainment and congratulations were matters between the hosts and the guests only, which I thought was a most appropriate custom, especially for the bride and groom. I kept sitting, standing up and walking in the private room which served as a temporary retreat for the groom after the water-pouring ceremony. As for the bride, she was in a room upstairs. She must have been eating, relieving herself, taking a bath, changing into a green silk sarong and waiting for the next stage of the ceremony, the sending of the bride to the groom.

The room I was in used to be a library and I had seldom intruded into it, because His Lordship spent his afternoons in this ‘den’, as we children called it among ourselves, after we found out that, apart from using it to do some reading and writing as it was meant to, he also used the room, whose door was always latched, as a place in which he enjoyed his flings with those women, young and old, who attended to him closely in the main house. Whenever he felt the urge in the daytime, he’d use this den to release it right away – and he did it deliberately in front of my mother!

On one of the walls of the library used to be a large photograph of my mother’s parents. As for the large photograph of my mother, which had been familiar to UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

285 me since as far back as I could remember, it used to hang in the main hall outside. One day, when I was six or seven and His Lordship had been the sole owner of the compound for quite some time, after a Thai lesson given by an old woman called Prik, whose house was in the neighbourhood, I came back home in the afternoon as usual. I went up to get some sweets from Aunt Waht as I normally did and in order to take the short cut to the porch at the back of the house where Aunt Waht spent her afternoons with Miss Kaeo, who was still crawling about, I had to walk across the main hall and take the corridor that led to the back porch. When there were guests, or when His Lordship was in the front hall, usually sitting or reclining just outside the library, I had to go all the way around the house, which meant a lengthy and time-consuming walk for the little boy that I was. Whenever I went across the main front hall, I had developed the habit, without being prompted by anyone, of stopping to bow to my mother’s picture before resuming my dash through the hall. Aunt Waht had taught me, ever since we were still together in the small house, in other words before she had Miss Kaeo, that I must show respect by bowing to the adults and, before going to sleep, by reciting prayers and bowing on my pillow to the Buddha, and bowing again thinking of my benefactors. As for the latter, she had never said who they were, telling me instead to decide by myself who had shown me some goodness. The persons I always THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

286 thought about at bedtime were Aunt Waht and His Lordship, whom I took to be my father. Apart from them, I chose to think of other people on a day-to-day basis, depending on whoever impressed me on a given day. And the last person I always remembered was my mother – the person I most dearly wished could have come back to life. As for bowing to pay respect to adults, apart from the guests who kept coming and going, there was no one I could think of – I saw Aunt Waht and His Lordship almost everyday, so there was hardly any need to bow to them every time. The only other adult in the house whom I saw everyday but didn’t live with was my mother – the photograph of my mother in the main front hall. Every time I bowed to her, I felt warm inside as if we had just greeted each other, and I noticed she answered me with a special smile.

That afternoon, I stopped running, turned to join my hands against my forehead and bowed, and as I looked up to receive my mother’s smile as usual, my heart felt hollow. My mother’s picture had disappeared! It had been replaced with the picture of a man with a moustache. Yes, it was a portrait of His Lordship, my father, but right then I just didn’t want to know who it was who had played a trick as spiteful as this. The tears of a boy who hardly ever cried poured out of my eyes and I yelled at the top of my lungs, ‘Where’s my mother? Who took her away?’ I ran yelling in this way until I reached Aunt Waht at the back of the house. She looked as upset UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

287 as I was. ‘So, she, too, knows that my mother’s disappeared. She’s still frightened.’ She hugged me tightly until I could no longer cry or shout. She tried to soothe me, which annoyed me very much. ‘So, she already knew. Why did she let it happen?’ I paid no attention to what she was saying. I caught only a few bits and pieces: Father took it away… It’s not missing… It’s in the library… But how could I believe her so easily? My mother’s picture was the only thing that bound us together. Losing it would mean I’d have no mother any more. I freed myself from Aunt Waht’s embrace and doubled back to the main hall. I banged on the library door and hollered at the thick slab of wood, ‘Give me my mother back! I want my mother back!’ Then, with all my strength I turned the knob and pushed and – what the… – stumbled into the room. The door hadn’t been latched! In the dark and ghastly room I saw the white bodies of two people bouncing on a large sofa next to the wall opposite to the one on which I had seen in the past the picture of the old couple. As soon as I got up, I rushed at the two figures – one was Father, the other I didn’t know, though I knew it was a woman, as I had just heard her cry out of fright. He grabbed hold of my fists, which kept pummelling his body. I struggled, punching and kicking and shouting all along, ‘Give my mother back to me! Don’t touch her!’ His Lordship dragged me to the door, even though he was stark naked. He bawled at me, ‘What business have you got in THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

288 here? Finding your mother, huh?’ He laughed scathingly. ‘If you want to see her, here she is.’ He pointed to the place where the picture of the old couple hung, but now it was gone and – my mother was there instead! But I only saw her briefly before I went tumbling out of the room under the strength of his merciless push. He banged the door shut and latched it from the inside.

That was the first time, it seems to me, that I began to wonder, ‘Is he my real father?’ Such a cruel man! It was a waste of time bowing to him every night – and that evening I refused to recite prayers, bow to the Buddha and think of anybody at all. I set out on a mini-marathon of tears instead and cried so loud and long the maid had to fetch Mrs Waht at the main house to handle the situation. Aunt Waht came to lie and cry with me until I fell asleep. I began to cut ‘Father’ out of my list of benefactors the following night, not because I suspected he wasn’t my real father, but because he made me unable to greet my mother any longer.

I stood gazing at the large sofa next to the wall with a mixture of interest and disgust. Several sofas had followed each other there, and each had had a long history of steadfast service, and even at His Lordship’s current age.

This one had brown-black leather upholstery and was big enough to be comfortably slept on. It seemed it was the largest one ever put in this room. Come to think of it, that was strange: the older he was and the greener his grass, the more space he appeared to need, and although UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

289 he was ashamed of neither gods nor ghosts, as the saying goes, he should at least have been abashed performing in the buff in the middle of the day before the very eyes of a gentlewoman – my mother’s picture was still hanging on the wall above the sofa, and from the same place that picture had all along witnessed his hundredand-one depravities.

I was startled away from my reverie by a soft clatter behind me. A young female servant was bringing food on a tray she put down on a low table in a corner of the room. ‘Er – thanks,’ I said, turning to her. The door was still closed. It looked as though she could go through a closed door like a draught. That was my impression, and the idea struck me that this young woman was used to getting in and out of this room and opening the door and entering at the same time – with one hand holding the tray – to be able to open and close the door as quietly and efficiently as she just had. All this must take place at lunchtime when His Lordship was secluded in his den, or perhaps for breakfast, or else for dinner, and why not before the meal? Or maybe a short while after dessert? – on the large sofa. But then, did this young woman qualify as a love potion for the old goat? My anger of a moment ago, which had just abated, whipped up again in all its ugliness.

She took the dishes off the tray and set them on the low table and kept sitting, legs folded on one side, on the floor beside it. I took off my jacket, hung it over the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

290 back of a chair and went to sit down in front of the food.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, while pouring myself some water from a jug.

‘My name is ’Phan, sir – Buaphan.’ She sounded polite enough. She looked pretty and neat, and not older than seventeen, which was still within His Lordship’s current parameters, though probably a wee bit too old for him already.

‘How long have you been here?’ She had the clear skin of youth that spelled lust – exactly the kind of special treat the very old liked to suck and lick.

She guffawed at my question. ‘Since before you left for Phijit. You don’t remember ’Phan, do you, the country bumpkin Master Jan despised because her face was covered with spots?’ Her tone was at once complaining and boastful.

I did remember her right then, and remembered her so starkly that I cried out, ‘Of course!’ Although ’Phan-thecountry-bumpkin’s face had been covered with spots since her days in Phayao, her body had interesting curves. The girl would have nothing to do with anyone but Master Jan, but the spread of spots all the way down to her belly and thighs, as if she had been bitten by rats, had discouraged Master Jan from proceeding any further, and the girl had put her clothes back on and left with tears streaking down her face – that was what her complaining was about. Then, where had all the spots gone? Now I noticed the tiny scars on her face and arms, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

291 but nothing that could in any way dampen the warm feeling I had towards her. In fact, it added unusual pep to her appeal – and that was what her boasting was about.

‘Oho!’ I exclaimed again. ‘How strange! The scars are all gone, then, aren’t they?’

‘Completely, Master Jan,’ Buaphan said earnestly, but her answer prompted me to give out a short laugh. So, she raised her voice. ‘It’s true, Master Jan!’ I turned to look at the clock in its round glass setting nearby. ‘In that case, you’ve got to prove it to me.’

‘Sir? … What! But this is your wedding day. No – no way.’

I grabbed her arm so that we could get up together.

‘Why not? Nobody will know.’

‘Oh you – wellll, allll right!’ Buaphan’s eagerness was obvious. She ran to the door and latched it silently, then rushed to the brown-black upholstered sofa.

It soon became even more obvious she was one of the stars in His Lordship’s daytime shows. She must have featured fifty or a hundred times to be that skilful. Just great!

The trouble was, she had expertly undone the tail of my loincloth but proved unable to help me tie it back on.

What was I to do? Mrs Bunlueang was still stuck with the guests at the banquet, so there was nothing to it. ‘Go and ask Aunt Waht to come and see me here.’

‘She’s with Miss Kaeo upstairs. I wouldn’t dare…’ So THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

292 there! A moment’s favour, and here she was beseeching already! ‘Then take your pick: either you go up and fetch Aunt Waht or you go out and get Mrs Bunlueang at the banquet. Hurry up!’ I demanded, glaring at her.

‘Yes, sir.’

I hurried to the low table and selected only sweets, which I ate standing up.

It turned out that Buaphan had preferred to get Mrs Bunlueang, who looked around the room and said, ‘This is quite a comfy room, isn’t it?’

I hoped she wasn’t referring to what my guilty conscience was afraid of. ‘Haven’t you been here before?’

‘I did, once. A long time ago.’ While she helped me retie the tail of my loincloth past my crotch to the waist at the back, she said, ‘Are you back from the toilet?’ I waited until Buaphan had taken the food tray out of the room before I answered, ‘Yes.’ Having done, she went about admiring the various things in the room. ‘You aren’t going back to the reception, are you?’ I wondered.

‘No. They’ll all be here in a minute. Oh, look! Isn’t this your mother? She’s so beautiful.’

I stopped buttoning my jacket, and my whole body grew stiff. I had completely forgotten and was only now remembering that my mother was also in the room!

‘The pot calling the kettle black.’ The old saying I had heard since childhood flashed across my mind.

How come? How was it possible? Why was I so UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

293 piggish, when I wasn’t at all in need these days and had too much of it, in fact? So, why? I couldn’t stay still, as if the exhaustion accumulated over the last few nights had just begun to wear me down. I sat down, forgetting Mrs Bunlueang’s question. I had never felt ashamed after consorting with anyone like this time. My guilty conscience tormented me badly.

Finally, I remembered. I gave out a most sheepish laugh.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Mrs Bunlueang turned to ask from where she stood. ‘What’s wrong with you, Jan?’ What was wrong with me? Calling the kettle black, that’s what! I turned to look at her crossly and saw her right then lowering her beauteous butt which I knew so well onto the edge of the sofa that doubled up as a bed.

‘Don’t sit there!’ I cried out. Mrs Bunlueang, startled, sprang up as if she’d landed on a cactus. I got up and, grabbing her by the hand, led her away from there, then let out everything that was on my mind. ‘Don’t sit there.

It’s a damn wicked place. That’s where His Lordship finds his pleasure with his flings in the daytime. He’s done it for years – since I was very young. They did it in front of my mother, too! Under my mother’s nose, as it were. I’ve been angry at him for so long and then, just a moment ago, I came into this room and saw my mother’s picture, and felt angry all over again. When I’m angry but can’t do a damn thing against him, it rankles THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

294 me. I’d like to take my revenge, but what else can I do to him except in the only way I know how? So when one of his favourites comes by, I …’ I snapped my fingers. ‘…I spite him with his own critters. Same opportunity, same place. I did so right now. Yes, with Buaphan, who just took the tray out. That’s why my loincloth got loose.

And finally, I’ve come to realise I’m no better than he is.

I did it before my own mother, too, you know. That’s why I feel filthier than him. I never planned it – didn’t mean to. I wanted to retaliate for what he had done to me, so I did it out of my own – er – tendencies. What you hate you earn for yourself. It eventually gets you. To those who share the same inclination, it’s obvious.’

I prattled on with Mrs Bunlueang in this fashion, perhaps not in so many words, except for the foreign words ‘tendencies’ and ‘inclination’, which I remember well because in those days there was no Thai equivalent, so I had to use these raspy substitutes. I’ve long sympathised with the early Thai overseas students, and if any among them was proficient in a foreign language and yet could speak his native language without using foreign terms, I’d be most willing to prostate myself at his feet. But I’m digressing.

I went on berating myself until Mrs Bunlueang held a cold object to my hand. It was a glass of water. I drank it in one gulp. ‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked, out of great concern. I nodded. She said it should be so, thanks not only to the water but more importantly to the release UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

295 of my pent-up feelings. Then she tried to take my mind off its worries by alluding to the merits of confession for the Catholics and by touching on many other topics, but she had no way of knowing she wasn’t getting anywhere with me, because as I sat looking at her with love and respect, I realised suddenly I had another reason to curse myself for what I was doing to His Lordship, my rival – ‘Something else indeed,’ I thought – a reason called Mrs Bunlueang, his very own wife. That she had already been discarded by him was no excuse that would prevent me from going to hell. I carefully tried to assess whether my adultery, to which I admitted wholeheartedly, was due to my inclination to take revenge on His Lordship, but I couldn’t come to a definite conclusion. Maybe it wasn’t after all. What do you think?

Whatever you say… Even then, I don’t think so – I don’t think paying for sins in hell can be avoided. Let’s all hope the god of death won’t be too severe with Mrs Bunlueang. If she is to be blamed, then so should Brahma, the god of fate, for creating her with strong earthy desires. As for me, to hell with me, because it was hell itself that bore me in the first place.

This actually meant His Lordship wasn’t unilaterally evil to me; I, too, was equally evil to him. Therefore, before we both died, I thought I should find an opportunity to apologise to him formally at least once. From what I could see of his present health and from what I knew of his sexual behaviour, I reckoned he wouldn’t be enjoying THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

296 worldly pleasures for very long before he was sent up to his reward. Therefore, only a few minutes later, when the time came for the transfer of ownership of the house and land, which we had agreed would take place in the library, I did something that astonished the people in the know.

Those who came into the room were only those involved in the transfer. They were His Lordship and Mrs Bunlueang as one party, and Grandpa and me as the other, plus the Phra Nakhorn district officer, who had been invited to be the registrar of the marriage and act as intermediary. Grandpa and Mrs Bunlueang signed their names on the marriage certificate as witnesses. After offering me his customary congratulations and good wishes, the district officer mentioned the transfer of ownership, which was now complete, and stated that His Lordship had consented to it out of goodwill, which made me exclaim ‘Balderdash!’ in my mind. He then handed the deeds over to me. I took a brief look at them, because I already knew their contents and also knew that these papers weren’t as important as the other documents already signed, but in order to give more zest to the occasion and show everyone I wasn’t interested in His Lordship’s goodness, after pretending to peruse the deeds, I looked up and addressed the district officer. ‘I thank you for your help in completing this transaction, but I would like you to answer one last question: Can His Lordship, as former owner, ever get the property back without my consent?’

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297 I made the district officer most uneasy, but he finally did answer, and it was what I wanted to hear: ‘No.’ I bowed to him to thank him and turned to hand over the documents to Grandpa. ‘Please hold these for me for a while, Grandpa.’

Then I squatted on the floor and smartly prostrated myself at His Lordship’s feet, and remained in that position while I asked for his forgiveness in my mind as I had intended. Then I raised my head and stood up. The district officer, whom my previous behaviour had made rather tense, broke into a smile. Grandpa and Mrs Bunlueang didn’t even try to hide their astonishment, but the one who understood better than anyone else was His Lordship. He raised a smile of suspicion and disdain and said rudely: ‘That wasn’t necessary. We’ve got nothing in common in this matter. Isn’t it so?’ I greeted his statement with a gleeful smile. He couldn’t know that his tone and words had not only released the monkey in my heart but also made me decide to carry on seeking revenge on him.

I turned to ask Grandpa how long we had to wait for the auspicious time when the groom would receive the bride, and was told about twenty minutes. ‘I’ll go and wait there then,’ I said to no one in particular, and left right away.

We weren’t through with each other in this life, it seemed. It had been a waste of time apologising to him candidly. I had acknowledged my own bad deeds as THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

298 well as felt sympathy for his own, as an ordinary mortal suddenly wishes the gods well, but he had rejected my offering without realising that this bit of luck would never come his way again, whether at his feet or to his face. He had put it very well indeed. ‘That wasn’t necessary. We’ve got nothing in common in this matter.’ To other people, to outsiders like the district officer, it must’ve sounded innocuous, like when the elderly acknowledge the salutations of the young by saying, ‘Come, come, keep your bows for the Lord.’ But to all of us insiders who knew what was what, and particularly to him and me, it sounded obviously like, ‘Rubbish! Stop playing to the gallery, will you?’ Actually, he deserved some understanding, because what he implied matched the extent of his wisdom. He had no way of knowing the real reason why I behaved like that. Even Grandpa and Mrs Bunlueang had been completely unnerved. So I shouldn’t hold it against him, but consider the true respect I had shown him this once as some sort of permanent offering, instead of kicking it out of my way in a fit of pique. But that was then, not now, more than twentyfive years later, as I am writing this book, recalling the events of those days. At the time, I was an angry young man who had no time for letdowns and never wasted any thinking things out. My heart was like an automatic machine which could only handle the problems at hand, answered tit for tat and always had its way. I considered it was my second opportunity to let the monkey in my UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

299 heart lose itself again along the byways it used to haunt, and do so this time with increasingly enjoyable freedom – and this meant I still had to keep avenging myself on His Lordship indefinitely.

I had stepped hurriedly halfway down the stone stairway at the front of the building when I became aware again of the festive atmosphere on the lawn, which was brightly lit with lanterns. This time it was festive only because of the lights. There was no longer any music, and thus it all looked like a vast yet soundless scene as you see in dreams, and the silence of the orchestra seemed to have been intentionally prolonged in order to await the brisk appearance of myself right then. I stopped abruptly mid stairs when I realised I had become the target of the stares of the guests who were relaxing on the lawn after the reception. Everyone seemed to be looking at me with the same eye and I looked back at all eyes out of the emotional turmoil raging in my chest. The rashness in my heart wanted to yell at these people, ‘Come on, take a good look. Yes, this is the strange groom who’s arrived with nothing, not even it seems his male organ, which is so crucial to this kind of undertaking.’ This was merely a wild thought, though, and I didn’t speak it and upset the reception. Then all of a sudden I felt pity again for the guests who had come to join this fake ceremony, bringing along their titles and reputations merely to be supporting characters in a minor if luxurious scene on the world stage so dear to the THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

300 bard of Stratford-upon-Avon. It was as though they had come in procession bringing their dignity along in order to adorn the principal actor, me, whose social status was no better than that of a nameless insect. Good grief!

I did think a lot in that fraction of an instant, but my automatic reaction was to bow smartly at them all as I had seen it done in the movies, then I resumed my walk down the stairs, while chuckling to myself at the pleasing thought that I could act up when I really wanted to.

As I walked past the music canopy, I saw the men and women of the orchestra eating sweets. I had only good feelings for these people. Whether they came out of kindness or friendship, and whether to a real or a fake reception, their musical performance was exactly the same, because they came as true intermediaries. They bestowed beauty to all sides and to everyone, including themselves. In a moment, they’d play for us Eeam Wimarn or Ma Yong and whatever other traditional nuptial tunes, and though I had no intention of using their melodies to lull my newlywed, there was no denying their value, for me or for anyone else. May you enjoy everlasting happiness, folks!

At the new house, every room was brightly lit and the façade was decorated with Japanese lanterns and garlands of electric bulbs, but the whole house looked quiet and forlorn. Actually, the quiet and desolation merely came from the recesses of my heart as I sat idly in the bridal chamber, waiting for the arrival of the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

301 bride. Deep inside, I felt despondent and dispirited, and when I heard people coming up the stairs and opening the door of the bridal chamber, I didn’t feel like moving at all and merely got up and stood by the chair out of sheer politeness. The last act in this minor play was carried out without decorum, which suited the total lack of substance of the whole event. His Lordship and Mrs Bunlueang escorted the bride up to the threshold of the room, accompanied by three or four close guests, among who was the lady who was so effusive in her congrats. She poked her head in and teased the bride and groom with risky double-entendres which had the people outside the room in stitches and managed to draw a smile out of me.

As for Miss Kaeo, she stood in front of the dressing table, her face down and her back turned to me, and as soon as the door was tightly closed, she went back to being the same arrogant and self-centred wench as ever.

I went to latch the door.

‘What did you do this for?’ she asked querulously.

In jest, I spread out my arms, shrugged and remained silent. I walked back, sat down at the same place and set about taking off my socks. As she made a run for the door, I shouted, ‘Don’t! I latched it because I don’t want anyone to enter and see we aren’t doing anything to each other. There’s no need for you to worry.’ My voice was as clear as the lively serenade drifting in from outside.

She hesitated for a moment, then went to the bed and lay on it without taking off her wedding gown. She THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

302 pulled the blanket up to her chin. This meant that she intended to monopolise the bed. I took my jacket off, hung it and went to the front of the bed to talk to her. ‘I intend to sleep as well, but if you think I’m going to sleep on that chair or on the floor, you’re mistaken.’

Thereupon, I lifted her body and the blanket and tossed the lot to the other side of the bed, then I also lay down, without taking off my loincloth either. She fretted and fumed, trying to get up, but I pinned her shoulders down to force her to keep still and told her in dead earnest, ‘Tonight – that is, at least tonight, no one leaves this room. Mrs Bunlueang has a friend staying overnight, so don’t spoil the whole ceremony, which has gone well from start to finish. Now go to sleep.’

I was lying to her about Mrs Bunlueang’s friend, because I didn’t want to get into lengthy explanations. I turned to my side, with my back to her. I thought I’d fall asleep soon, even though the light was still on, and so I did, sharing the same bed as Miss Kaeo but back to back.

I slept soundly and had no dreams at all.

Mrs Bunlueang took it upon herself to negotiate with me late the following morning when we met at the breakfast table. ‘Miss Kaeo – or should I say Mrs Kaeo? – would like to stay with me. What do you think about this, Jan?’ Though I still had no idea how or how long I and my ‘wife’ would live together and I should have been glad as this was a solution to the problem, I felt angry upon UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

303 hearing it. I couldn’t explain why I felt like this. What was there in it to hurt me? The only thing I could figure out was my feeling of annoyance – with whom, then?

With the two of them. ‘How do you feel about it?’ My voice didn’t succeed in concealing the underlying tension. Mrs Bunlueang cast a puzzled glance at me, then said evenly, ‘It should be all right. Anyway, this is no problem for you, is it?’

Her question made me even tenser. ‘Of course it’s a problem!’ I exclaimed in a controlled voice. ‘What about us, then?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, my poor Jan! What’s the difference between you leaving her to see me and me leaving her to see you?’

‘There is. A big one, too. No matter what, I believe I can force her to keep quiet about my going out at night. But you couldn’t possibly do so, because you’ve always spoiled her. She’d ask all sorts of questions, and I wouldn’t put it past her to go looking for you all over the house.’

I thought my reasons made a lot of sense, but she began to argue heatedly after having pondered for a while. ‘So what? Do you think a nosy girl like her wouldn’t go after you also?’

‘If you don’t believe me and think she’d dare to behave like this with me, then let me shift the bridal chamber to the main house and spend my honeymoon there. If we live separately, it’ll be difficult for her to come chasing after us, because there are so many places THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

304 in there.’ This was quite a sound reason, but she marshalled more arguments against it.

‘No way! I won’t have it.’ Her tone was very firm.

‘Auntie wants you to live here. Besides, it wouldn’t be good for you to be another tiger in His Lordship’s den. It would also weaken your request for rent from him, as he’d no doubt use this point to strike a better bargain.’

What she said was right: I should let him believe he was still in full control of the house, so that he’d feel it was worth the amount he’d pay me. It would make the negotiations easier.

‘By the way,’ she went on, ‘have you decided who’s going to negotiate with His Lordship? Will it be you, Grandpa or Mrs Waht?’

‘Grandpa.’

‘I think I’m better qualified – the most suitable, in fact.

It’d make it look like our side, I mean him and me, was the one who generated the idea. It’d make things look better, don’t you think?’

I did agree with her, so we set about hammering out all the details of the deal, and a few days later, Mrs Bunlueang successfully arranged an honourable settlement with His Lordship, a big favour on her part if ever she did me one.

‘About Miss Kaeo, what do you want to do?’ she asked, as she poured me another cup of coffee.

My heart mechanisms decoded the message of her voice and expression as meaning she wanted it as much UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

305 as Miss Kaeo did, or at least she very much hoped Miss Kaeo’s request would be granted. Why should that be?

Indeed! ‘Please tell me the truth: what’s all this about?’

I asked, not bothering to hide my suspicion.

‘About what?’ Her face showed clearly she understood my question, but she pretended not to.

‘Why do you want – er – why are you so interested in having her stay with you?’

I saw clearly she was about to cook up some lie but she must have seen something in my eyes, because she changed her mind as if she realised her lie wouldn’t work. But then, she still wasn’t answering. She looked at me as if she wanted to ask for my sympathy when she finally said, ‘You don’t want to know right now. I’ll tell you later. I’d like you to know, actually, but not now.

The one thing you should know now is that, if Miss Kaeo stays with me here, it’ll make our relationship so much smoother. You can trust me on that.’

Miss Kaeo left the bridal chamber to stay with Mrs Bunlueang as of that very night, and from then on the erstwhile husband I was turned into a full-time bachelor who led a happy life. Its happiness lay in that Mrs Bunlueang came to my bridal chamber to help give it a full meaning every night, and sometimes even during the afternoon. She was doing indeed as she had promised when she had asked to be trusted to make our relationship run so much smoother. Wasn’t that marvellous?

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306

18 The next six or seven months went by not only smoothly as already stated, but also so subdued that I felt uneasy.

It was a kind of calm coated with ambiguity. Let’s put it this way: the only obvious matter known and awaited by everyone in the compound was closely related to the aforementioned period of six or seven months, that is, the expected delivery of my bride, who had managed to be three months’ pregnant within less than a month.

As months passed and Mrs Kaeo’s belly bulged, her brave attempts at deluding herself by passing herself off as a man’s wife or as a girl who had a husband (something in which she at first took great pleasure) gradually gave way to an unusual silence in the last few months of her pregnancy. Her silence was unusual in that it was seething with painful lamentations. I think you may recall her anger years ago when she found out that her favourite nanny, Saisoi, had gotten pregnant and how her hatred for pregnant women had become so fierce she had had her favourite dismissed and sent out of her sight. Now that it was her turn, the hatred she felt towards her big belly was no less intense than that she had felt for Saisoi. The difference was that this time she had no one to blame but herself. Maybe it was the first time that a most selfish person hated herself to such an extent, and since she had no way of confiding her UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

307 innermost feelings to anyone, as she knew well that even Mrs Bunlueang wouldn’t blandish many Oh-poor-darlings on her, she had to suppress them by remaining unassailable as if she lived alone in the world. Even though she couldn’t cast aspersions on anyone or get herself dismissed, don’t think she had no one to berate. She had: the child in her womb, of course.

The poor child hadn’t got a chance even before he was born. Besides the fact that he wouldn’t know his father’s real name, he was being cursed by his mother even before he was much of a creature. The heavier her belly and the closer she was to delivery, the more blatantly did Mrs Kaeo show herself eager to get the child out of her womb.

A young mother like her would be expected to dread labour pains at times, but no – hatred held total sway over her. Her strong will to give birth gave her such an aura that Morm Chom, a masseuse-cum-midwife of great repute in the Worrajak area, who had been asked to provide prenatal care and assist in the delivery, uttered words of puzzled praise and had more of the same to say when she expressed her concern to me in private.

This Morm Chom was the wife of a nobleman in whose identity and rank I hadn’t the slightest interest. She was tall for a woman, with dark, weather-beaten skin, and had straightforward, likable manners. She could have been anything between forty and sixty. She had sturdy arms and legs, but best of all, she was good-humoured.

The delivery room was on one side of the ground floor THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

308 in the main house, the same room in which Mother had given birth to me and Aunt Waht to Miss Kaeo, and it’s quite possible that my mother was born in it as well.

Morm Chom came and waited in that room before dawn and by the time the delivery was over, it was near noon.

His Lordship, who had been the one to ask for her services, knew her well, so he had had some bootleg wine together with appetizers ready to be served to her in the front hall, in which His Lordship, Mrs Bunlueang and myself sat waiting. After she had finished her work in the delivery room and washed her arms, she entered the hall and went straight to the bottle without uttering a word. The glass she used was shaped like a small, fluted tumbler on a ten-centimetre tall stalk. She helped herself three times before reporting to us everything was all right; the birth had been difficult, but there was no real problem; the mother was fine, and the child healthy. Then she admired Mrs Kaeo for her forbearance and spunk, so exceptional in an inexperienced young mother. His Lordship talked with her for a while, then invited Mrs Bunlueang to go and visit Mrs Kaeo in the delivery room, where Aunt Waht was taking care of her daughter.

It wasn’t until she downed another glass that Morm Chom noticed I had been left stranded in one corner of the hall. ‘Well, proud young father, aren’t you going to see your wife and baby?’ she turned to ask in her customary loud voice.

‘No – later maybe,’ I answered plainly and truthfully.

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309 ‘How weird. One more weird story,’ she complained to herself. ‘Since you won’t be going now, how about some of this darling to keep me company?’

Whereupon she filled the glass with yet another shot of her ‘darling’. I got up and went to join her and excused myself, saying I never drank, but she wouldn’t hear of it, so I finally gave in. ‘Hold your breath while you swallow – bottoms up – soon as it hits the spot, start to breathe again. This way, you won’t choke. This brand of Chinese wine’s reeeal good for your health.’ She was such a good coach, I did as I was told. The liquor scorched all the way down to my groin and brought tears to my eyes. It took almost half a saucer-full of snacks to counterbalance the first swig of alcohol in my life. She laughed exuberantly and rewarded herself with another swig. Seeing she was in a good mood, I asked her what she meant by ‘weird’.

‘Well, it is weird,’ she confirmed. ‘The grandfather goes and sees his grandchild before the father goes and sees his first child. And up to now, no one has even asked me whether the baby’s a boy or a girl!’

How right she was! I let out a laugh. ‘How would I know? Never had a baby before. Well, all right, let me ask you now: is it a boy or a girl?’

‘Umm – that’s a little better. Er – but…’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She turned to down yet another glass before saying tentatively, ‘I’d like to know – you and your wife, are you still on good terms?’

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310 ‘Is it customary to ask this kind of question?’

‘He won’t answer. So, it means things aren’t going that well.’ She was absorbed in her own deductions. ‘But then, all right, I’ll tell you something that may interest you.’

Before she did, she referred to the strange reactions of women under the pains of labour that she had witnessed or knew from hearsay – the kinds of stories you must be familiar with, some smutty and droll, others frankly disgusting, but all with the same ending: you never learn your lesson.

‘But your wife’s case is weirder. She was so awfully stoical; I don’t know how to put it. She didn’t say a word and hardly complained at all though she was in great pain, but as soon as the child was out, she let out – er, pardon me for saying this. She said, ‘What a wicked child! Serves me well for sleeping with a man!’ And then she passed out.’

‘I don’t think it’s strange,’ I said, although I felt numb after hearing Mrs Kaeo’s last sentence. ‘She was just delirious.’

‘No she wasn’t. I can tell. To me it’s weird, because in my experience, no mother ever curses her baby or herself. If they curse anyone, it’s their men. What’s weirder is she berated herself about a man, as if she could choose the sex of her partner – male or female.’

‘My aunt was there as well. Did she hear her?’

‘No, she didn’t. Madam was busy with the child, and UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

311 your wife didn’t speak loud at all. Hey, where are you going?’ She saw me getting up and stalking towards the stairs at the front of the house.

I was annoyed with myself for still being affected by that sentence. It seemed to be tripping over something in my heart, but I had no idea what it was. ‘I’m going to the district office to report the birth,’ I turned to tell her of my intention. It was my responsibility as owner of the compound, not, of course, as father of the child.

Because of this, I had to go back to her and tell her laughingly, ‘You still haven’t told me if it’s a boy or a girl.’

She stopped pouring her wine and laughed with me.

‘Oh, haven’t I? It’s a son. Congratulations.’

When I went to register the birth of the child on that day, I had no trouble giving him a name. Pree∗… Master Pree… Pree Darra! It certainly looked like we had a lot in common, me and that poor brat! I mumbled with a confidence that was more than a premonition. I felt a deep sympathy for that child from that moment, even before I saw his face, which I did several days later.

And this is when a great change took place in the house, which I hadn’t expected.

As soon as she felt a little stronger, but had yet to give up the hot-water bottle she used instead of lying near the fire after the delivery, Mrs Kaeo pleaded to return to the new house to continue her convalescence, but His Lordship was strongly opposed to the idea. It had ∗

Short for appree, ‘vile’, ‘despicable’ – a synonym of janrai

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312 nothing to do with his daughter’s postnatal health. He had made up his mind that Mrs Kaeo, her husband and the baby should stay together in the main house, and that Aunt Waht would take it upon herself to look after the newly born child closely. This was because Mrs Kaeo had made it abundantly clear she wanted to have nothing to do with it. He intended to stay with Mrs Bunlueang, but Mrs Kaeo insisted that if she didn’t convalesce at Mrs Bunlueang’s she’d rather die (by whatever method). He was afraid his daughter would be true to her word but adamant about staying at the new house as well. Therefore, I, Mrs Kaeo’s unwanted husband, was, as the political lingo has it, ‘kicked upstairs’ and found myself the sole overlord of the main house, and for this reason, Aunt Waht had a grandson and a nephew sharing the same roof with her. Furthermore, the poor child was brought up on Glaxo milk under Aunt Waht’s care just like me.

The shady porch at the back of the building, which had been Aunt Waht’s favourite haunt in the daytime for so long, became the regular playground of the little baby, who was beginning to take human shape. One day, as the three of us were there together and I mentioned the fact that the baby, just like me, was under her care and was even being raised on the same brand of powdered milk, Aunt Waht, with tears in her eyes, said something that left me with a heavy heart. ‘This is what I’m worried about, Jan. If I weren’t here, there’s only you who UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

313 could take care of the little one. His mother won’t look after him. His grandfather, well, you know how he is. As for Mrs Bunlueang, she’s a good woman, no doubt, but she’s no relative. So then, Jan, for my sake, please look after him as well.’

Aunt Waht was about forty-two at the time, but she spoke as if she was about to check out, and I remarked on it to her. It was then that she opened up on her intentions, saying she was utterly fed up with her life in the house for the past twenty years and wished to go back to the peace and quiet of Phijit.

‘You are affluent enough to be depended upon by these unfortunate creatures.’ She looked at me with a smiling face. I understood what she was trying to say – it was time for me to do my duty, the duty of conscience Aunt Waht had performed for me in the past, when the days and months of my age could still be counted. This was also the case of this baby here, and I had been in an even worse situation than his. It wasn’t a question of repaying a debt of gratitude or anything like that, because what Aunt Waht had done then she hadn’t done out of some compelling obligation, but out of the goodness of her heart, which had intervened naturally, as does rain – when it isn’t artificially created, that is. For me, in this case, it was the same: it was up to me to do it or not – that much I understood.

And as it happened, I was that kind of man. Even though I had been downtrodden ever since I was born, I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

314 was still trying to feel sympathy for everyone, even the celestial beings. I picked the baby up and held him in my arms. He lay there looking at my chin with blinking eyes that were only large black pupils, fitting what they say of that age of innocence – they show no trace of evil from the heart. I then said to him, ‘I’ll be your father and mother, poor fellow, and even your grandfather if it comes to that.’

Aunt Waht looked greatly relieved and seemed positively delighted. Delighted about what, pray? That I didn’t disappoint her by lacking in goodwill, what else.

I’ve said more than enough already. The goodwill I’m talking about is some sort of curse, nothing else.

Aunt Waht, beaming, hugged me around the shoulders and at the same time bent over to address her real grandchild, saying, ‘Oh my dear grandson, you’re safe now. No matter what, I must leave you sooner or later.

Don’t blame me for being hard-hearted.’ Then she took the baby off my arms and hugged him with great affection.

‘You know something, Auntie?’ I said all of a sudden.

‘He makes me feel like having my own child.’

‘If you aren’t sterile, it won’t be long, now, will it?’ she said without thinking.

‘But I want to have one with the one I love, not with a promiscuous girl like…’ I just managed to hold my tongue.

I had a fleeting thought for Hyacinth, but hastened to UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

315 push it back to the bottom of my heart as usual. Its emergence had been beyond the control of my heart, and what my heart was demanding was Mrs Bunlueang.

I’d like to have a child with Mrs Bunlueang!

‘I had forgotten, I wasn’t thinking,’ I heard Aunt Waht mumble. ‘I’m sorry, Jan.’ I turned to give her a consoling smile. ‘My dear aunt, it really doesn’t matter.’

I’d like to have a child with Mrs Bunlueang… It sounded like a buck rabbit wanting to mate a cow elephant because he was unable to find himself a doe rabbit to perpetuate the species – because Mrs Bunlueang was about forty-five at the time and I was only twenty-one.

Even then, if it were at all possible, I wouldn’t have minded having a child with a woman more than twice my age. For one thing, it would be adding spice to Mrs Bunlueang’s taste in our mating races. It wouldn’t be wasted but perfectly suited to the intents and purposes of the game. But wait! We had had overwhelming fun over hundreds of races, and then why – we should’ve been stuck with a child by now. My member wasn’t a rabbit’s, though at that age it was understood not to be fully developed yet. Later I learned from Mrs Bunlueang herself that, after she had Master Khajorn, she had asked the foreign doctor in Penang to sterilise her, because she wanted no more children. She readily admitted that she didn’t like children.

I heard Aunt Waht adding tentatively, ‘And how THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

316 about you and Kaeo? What do you intend to do next?

From what we agreed, you’ve done your share and are free to do whatever you want from now on. If you want a child of your own, go ahead and arrange for a divorce.

Don’t let me stand in your way.’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’ I thought about this for a while and burst out laughing, then hastened to tell Aunt Waht to prevent her from wondering, ‘I’ve no need for a separation just yet. For the time being, it’s better we go on living like this. I can exercise my authority over her, and if she needs to be subdued, well, I can do that more easily.’

Aunt Waht laughed and said, ‘Do you realise that before long you’ll turn into a wicked man nobody will want to have anything to do with?’

Because of the little boy, I worried Aunt Waht wouldn’t be able to go back to Phijit as she had been intending for a long time. I received my draft papers a few months later. At the time, the world war which had long been brooding was about to hatch, but even though I had volunteered because I hated the draw of black or red chits, and had been put in the most eligible category, it turned out the nation didn’t need me just yet.

Strangely enough, almost all of those who tried to avoid the draft through a variety of tricks and deceptions were conscripted, and I thought jokingly maybe it was because I hadn’t tried to fool the recruiting officer, a Sergeant Stern – yes, Stern. I’m not the one who gave UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

317 him this unconventional moniker; my friends did, who all got their marching orders as it were. I thus received a glowing discharge compliment of the Thai armed forces together with a one-salueng∗ allowance, which I didn’t contribute to the welfare of the military as did the others, but took back with me as a souvenir. Two days later, at home, there was a special dish for dinner – pig’s head à la vinaigrette. I was told Mrs Bunlueang had performed a thanksgiving ceremony. Good gracious me!

As for Aunt Waht, she stayed with us for another two years until she found it in herself to make the decision to leave.

Although I haven’t said a word about it yet, do you think I wasn’t dismayed when His Lordship moved to the new house to stay with Mrs Bunlueang? When I first heard about it, I almost went berserk and felt like going about shouting that he had no right to sleep with Mrs Bunlueang any longer, or else like finding a way to shorten his life there and then without anyone knowing, but it was merely an outburst in my mind, because none of this could ever be. I couldn’t do the former because society only approved of sexual relations between Mrs Bunlueang and His Lordship; as for her relations with me, society made as if nothing had happened, not even once, even though it was eager to sit by and watch our performance. That meant I only had something between my legs but didn’t exist at all in Mrs Bunlueang’s sexual ∗

One quarter of a baht

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

318 life, as if that something was a fake like those implements you could order in some shops in the back streets of Wang Boorapha in those days. Do you realise how much that hurt, after exhausting myself almost to death performing? I couldn’t do the latter either, not because I wouldn’t dare to harm anyone, but because if I wanted to do so, I’d want to do so openly, and if I still went ahead, I’d have to go and spend the rest of my life or at the very least twenty years in jail with other men – forget it! The best I could do was to depend on Mrs Bunlueang’s largesse.

I brought the matter up with her that very night, at a time when we still had the full use of both my bridal chamber and her bedroom for every minute of every hour and we were so free, in fact, our life-nourishing fluids almost dried up. At that very moment, even though it was that time of night, we were fully dressed again and sat chatting in the sitting room upstairs. Mrs Bunlueang was lying on Mrs Kaeo’s dark-blue leather sofa reading a romance by San Theiwarak. As for me, I was sitting on her rattan couch with a book translated by Amararwadee on my lap, which I had just bought but had yet to open. It was understood between us that we would spend the rest of the evening merely reading and sleeping.

I expressed my doubts to her by wondering aloud what had made His Lordship suddenly decide to move here. Was he ready to renounce once and for all of his UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

319 young grass? I was quite certain he wouldn’t be harsh enough to sow his late oats under the same roof as Mrs Bunlueang and Mrs Kaeo. Mrs Bunlueang kept silent for a while, her face a mask, leaving me with no choice but to look at her submissively, and when she spoke it was also with a voice devoid of expression. ‘You should stop worrying about His Lordship in that way.’ Then she went about explaining what she meant. Do you still remember the theory drawn from the evidence of an artillery soldier I once told you? The one that said men are born with a stock of five thousand bullets? Precisely.

It appeared His Lordship had been suffering from a complete depletion of stock for two years. She knew about this because, before I returned from Phijit, His Lordship had tried with her a couple of times and utterly failed each time. I believed there and then he really must have no bullets left in him, because I knew Mrs Bunlueang’s expertise very well: if any man stayed limp through her ministrations, then the fellow was worse off than impotent – he was positively comatose!

His sexual life in latter days went on in the recollection of past prowess, as he could only grind, push and thrust, and sniff. How depressing it was to hear, and how worrying when you thought of yourself at a later stage!

What an awfully sad fate indeed!

At this point, allow me to make it clear that we talked about His Lordship’s condition objectively, without the least animosity. Therefore, please don’t blame Mrs BunTHE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

320 lueang for divulging her husband’s secret to me. As you already suspect, there were no secrets between us, and we discussed His Lordship’s predicament as properly as we would the symptoms of someone whom we had been close to for most of our lives.

His intention for going back to Mrs Bunlueang, his first wife, was pitiful in the extreme: because he was well aware of his own condition, he had decided to entrust the rest of his days to her care. He must have heard somehow that Aunt Waht wouldn’t stay here much longer, and was probably aware of the fact long before I was. Moreover, his health was visibly deteriorating. Thinking back now, I can hardly believe I could have harmed him later to the extent that I did – in revenge for his evil treatment of Aunt Waht before my eyes when I was four years old. But as I told you before, I couldn’t help it; it was an automatic reaction totally beyond my control.

As far as moving was concerned, when it became apparent Mrs Kaeo insisted on staying with Mrs Bunlueang as before and finally had to get her way, His Lordship readily accepted to stay in the bridal chamber on his own.

With His Lordship staying in my bridal chamber and Mrs Kaeo sharing Mrs Bunlueang’s bed, there was no niche for me to remain in the heaven of the new house.

No more nectar! Gone, the ambrosia of love! This time, my life would dry up away from Mrs Bunlueang. But UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

321 Mrs Bunlueang herself put my mind at rest when she stated confidently, ‘Don’t worry about that. I need you more than food and water, and more than you’ll need me in the future, for sure. Don’t argue – in a few years, I’ll be old and grey …’ She showed me her glasses, which, in fact, were the only thing that betrayed her age. ‘…whereas you’ll be in the prime of life. There’s nothing we can do about that. Anyway, you can rest assured I’ll help you find a way. Just give me a little time.’

I trusted her wisdom, and even if she invited me to follow her to catch a rainbow and drink from it, I wouldn’t object.

The removal was over within a single afternoon, because my things were limited to what was in the bridal chamber, including the iron bed with brass fittings. I wasn’t going to leave it behind for all the world, because every single inch, every corner of it was full of recollections of Mrs Bunlueang. As for His Lordship’s belongings, though he had a lot, the space available in the new house was limited to a few cubic metres in Master Khajorn’s room and a little area on the veranda of the upper floor. He thus took with him only what he really needed. As for the rest, which was all in a jumble, I allowed him most willingly to put it back to its former place. I also had his bedroom, which was the largest and most comfortable in the building, closed up. I much preferred to reopen and occupy my mother’s old room.

Everything in that room – the bed, cupboard, table and THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

322 other objects large and small as well as decorations on the ceiling and the walls – was still where it had always been, so that when I took my first step inside, I almost felt as if Mother had just left a moment ago. There was only the dank smell of time which testified that Mother had left the room long ago, but that was easily taken care of when I opened the door and windows to let the light flood into the room and started cleaning. I wouldn’t allow anyone to help. Except for the servants bringing me pails of water and disposing of the dust, I did all the scrubbing and cleaning myself. Since the room had been dusted a few times over the years, my work wasn’t too heavy. I went through it a little at a time over a period of several days, during which I made enough room to move my large bed in, together with a biggish wooden box in which I kept my clothes, and these were the only two items that entered the most respectable and engrossing ancient atmosphere of the room – not counting me, that is.

The first morning I woke up in that room, I felt extraordinarily refreshed and proud. I remember that the great felicity I experienced then was very close to sexual fulfilment. During the night, I had slept with warmth in my heart, as if I was in Mother’s embrace.

The room had wonderfully brought back all the longing I had for her in a way that was totally different from the atmosphere in the greenhouse all those years ago. Up until now, even though Mother has yet to visit me here, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

323 I’ve done my best to strictly preserve the respectable atmosphere of the room from all the disgraces that do befall this place, especially those related to the lust which has played such a powerful role in my life. I won’t allow my favourite avocation to soil this room, which I hold to be my sanctum sanctorum. Do you remember my telling you about the tiny dot buried deep inside Khein Krathingthong’s filth – the only spot spared the mud and mucus which he wallowed in all his life like a pig? Yes, it was similar. Khein had his clean spot, whereas I had my private sanctum. Even though my daily life in later years has been so promiscuous as to be nearly as filthy as Khein’s and so covetous as to rival the constant downpour of His Lordship’s sexual life, every time I come back to this room, I feel a different man altogether, clean and at peace with myself. Mother’s room is a wonderful physical and mental shelter for me, and I’ve always been careful to maintain that sacred feeling. Only once did I err by allowing lust of a kind to intrude, when I slapped a woman for the first time in my life. I slapped Mrs Kaeo’s face so forcefully she fell to the floor, as I already mentioned, but the story didn’t stop there.

Actually, it started with the floor… Well, my story is about to reach that point, so I’ll let you know when we come to it.

As for the library – ah, the library! As everybody knows, I like reading books, and out of courtesy I informed His Lordship I intended to use the room. But THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

324 strangely enough, even though he knew of my purpose, he didn’t move his books out, except three or four he hadn’t finished reading and another two or three which he still hadn’t read. (I knew, because they were still unwrapped.) Neither did he remove the sofa on which he’d lay in the daytime, leaving me the burden to move it to the storeroom. Frankly speaking, I hated the thing, despite the fact I had used it as a battleground once. I respect my own head; if I ever had to lay it down to sleep on a couch used for worldly pleasures, let it be the one used for this purpose by myself. I had my servants clean the room thoroughly while I surveyed the books.

There were many of them; half had been with the house for ages, and His Lordship had collected the rest. I respect him for this. Will you be surprised if I tell you all his books were books of history, historical novels, edifying tales of the life of the Buddha and classical literary works in Thai as well as in English? There wasn’t even Balzac’s Droll Stories and other samples of naughty literature I gradually added to the shelves. The only serious weakness of his library was that there was only one book of sexology written by an early Indian instructor, which meant he was a hedonist who sought his pleasure only through repeated performance, unlike Mrs Bunlueang and me. We both liked to seek this kind of pleasure through books as well. We read everything from Boccaccio, Balzac, Frank Harris and Maupassant to the section for men of The Arabian Nights and even the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

325 so-called white-cover literature, such as Blanche’s diary and so forth. Thinking about this, I’ve long been wondering who was the most sex-minded.

The library was thoroughly cleaned and a new, brightred leather-upholstered sofa installed to replace the old one. While I was waiting for Mrs Bunlueang to find a solution to our problem, I had uproarious fun with Buaphan exploring the details of His Lordship’s book of sexology, and you won’t be surprised if I tell you I learned few new tricks from that book besides what Mrs Bunlueang had taught me.

Out of consideration for Aunt Waht, who lived under the same roof, I decided to take over only one of His Lordship’s young partners, Buaphan, during that time.

All the same, it could be considered that I had already seized the tiger’s den from its previous owner. Oh, I almost forgot – my mother’s picture in that room! The first thing I did when I put the library to good use was to remove Mother’s picture from there and hang it on the wall above her old bed in the room I now occupy. The picture has added considerable sanctity and warmth to my sanctum and has brought back the atmosphere in the greenhouse that night. Whenever I return in a foul mood from my daily activities outside, I feel the said atmosphere grow more intense, to the point that sometimes I break into goose pimples.

As for His Lordship’s picture, it’s still in the same place in the main front hall. After all, he remains the de THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

326 facto owner of the house, since he’s still responsible for all the expenses of the compound as well as my own. So, it was only natural to let it stay, wouldn’t you say?

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19 A most dreadful thing happened to the little fellow whom I love so much, Pree Darra. He was exceedingly slow in learning compared to normal children. At the age of two, he was still unable to utter a single word, and could only babble like a baby, but Aunt Waht and I weren’t as worried by this as we were by the fact that he still couldn’t crawl. Worse than that, he didn’t even know how to lie on his stomach, and it took much patient effort on our part before he finally could do it.

He didn’t begin to crawl on all fours until he was three, which was very late. So slow was his development that we felt greatly relieved when he could finally crawl, but then turned to worry about his speech ability. We feared he’d be dumb, but comforted ourselves with the idea that he might, like some children, merely have a speech impediment. We had no way of knowing it wasn’t like that at all and his problem was incomparably worse.

Poor little fellow!

It was during this time that we received the sad news from upcountry that Grandpa, who had left us only two months after my fake marriage, had died of what we called a ‘seizure’ in those days. Aunt Waht cried as she had never cried in her life. The two of us filled two or three pieces of luggage with our belongings and took the first available train to Phijit. I stayed there less than a THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

328 month this time. After the cremation and a visit to the provincial land office, I returned to Bangkok alone.

Aunt Waht had decided to stay behind to live the quiet life she had long aspired to, and a few years later – I can’t remember how many, but it was some time after the war ended – she took the vows and retired as a nun in a Nakhorn Sawan monastery which is famous for transcendental meditation. Isn’t it strange? As soon as I received her letter informing me of this, I felt stunned and started to cry, reacting as if I had received news of her death. This is the real nature of the lustful, you see: I could only conceive of her monastic happiness as the bliss of the next world!

If I’ve mentioned the provincial land office, it’s because I had important business to attend to there, as Grandpa had named me his sole legatee. He had left a fairly substantial amount of cash, and many plots of land. I asked Aunt Waht to manage the latter for me, leaving everything to her discretion. What I took back home with me on the train was only the money and the pictures of Miss Kaeo and Master Jan in their twin wooden frames.

As soon as I was back from Phijit, I put the frames on my writing desk in my sanctum. I didn’t know why I put them there – probably some unconscious impulse.

The amount of money was enormous to me. I had never owned that much. I put aside part of it to make daily merit to nine monks at sunrise, except on holy UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

329 days. On those days I’d perform a water-pouring ceremony to dedicate merits to Grandpa and my mother.

That’s the extent of what I knew about merit-making in those days, and I’ve kept performing in this way until now, with the difference that lately, I’ve been dedicating merits to two persons who are still alive – one who’s among the living dead, the other so handicapped it’s as though he was never born.

The former is His Lordship, who has become seriously paralysed. I’m partly responsible for the karma of this man, it seems, and you’ll know about this before long.

As for the latter, his karma is entirely caused by other people. He is the one I have been calling ‘little fellow’ since he was a child. He is now Mr Pree Darra, whom the court has declared an incompetent person and placed under my guardianship, as his official father, for the reason that he is mentally retarded. He’s someone who has grown up physically but whose brain stopped developing at the age of nine, which in those days was considered a form of madness and is now called ‘mental deficiency’ – of the moronic type.

Nevertheless, Pree presents no threat and is no harm to anyone, except to himself, and therefore he’s yet another person who needs to be closely looked after. As for His Lordship, he has Mrs Bunlueang, with very limited assistance from Mrs Kaeo. Pree has me, and I have instructed all the people in the house to take turns looking after him. Lamiat is my assistant, and she has THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

330 taken over the duty of raising my little fellow from Aunt Waht. His home – or rather, bedroom, to be more accurate – is a room on the ground floor at the back of the building that used to be a store room. The only window in it is permanently barred, and the only door is locked from the outside at night, which for him means as early as dusk. There’s no light in the room because Pree is as naughty as a firefly: lamps, lanterns and candles are like exciting toys to him. So, his nights are longer and darker than anybody else’s, but he never complains, because he hardly knows he exists in this world.

All things considered, it’s a good thing that his abnormality is so obvious. It’s better than those people who hide theirs in their hearts – from all outward appearance, they look fine, which allows them to harm society in many ways. There are many people like this, who are hard to avoid as well. This is why I love and prefer my little fellow Pree.

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331

20 At the time I was called for the draft, our leaders decided to make war in French Indochina in order to try to get our former territories back. It was during this period that Master Khajorn started his military life in earnest.

He had hardly finished his military preparation when he entered the battlefield, and he was able to come out of it safely, whereas many of his friends of the same promotion returned in coffins and several others had neither remains nor ashes to be brought back. From then on his military career rose by leaps and bounds. It wasn’t long before the armed forces of the Rising Sun invaded Siam, at the same time as they destroyed Pearl Harbor. Thus did the war start without being declared, and then spread to the rest of the world.

When the Japanese invasion took place, His Lordship was the only one to create a commotion in the compound because of his strong reactions. He cursed Japan and denounced the evil of the soldiers of that nation, especially the danger they posed to women. He unfolded a map and studied the routes through which he could take all of us out of the country. Completely ignorant of the situation, I couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. It didn’t make sense to me that we had to flee when this was truly a world war. I couldn’t see where we could escape to to be safe. All right, let’s THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

332 suppose we went along the Karnchanaburee way and out into Burma as he planned. Then where to next? If we didn’t head north to Chunking, we’d walk straight into India. How did he know Japan wouldn’t attack Chunking and India, let alone Burma? His plan sounded wishy-washy and risky, and might lead to endless trouble. I didn’t want to think he was so eager to leave just because he was worried his girls would be bullied

by Japanese soldiers. As the second man in the compound, I told him frankly I disagreed with his idea and much preferred to face whatever difficulties in our own country. He cursed me roundly, saying I was shortsighted and such a lazybones I’d be happy to watch other nations crush us under their heels. But then, less than ten hours later, it turned out our country’s leaders announced that the ‘play safe’ policy was the best option. The situation inside the country improved so much that we finally declared ourselves against the Allies in the Second World War. It was then that His Lordship kicked up a fuss yet again. He ordered a strong air-raid shelter built, under the premise that ‘The other side will certainly come and give us a drubbing’. This time, I agreed with him, and it appears the air-raid shelter in our compound was the first of its kind in the country. A few years later, we did indeed use it; it hadn’t been built in vain.

From the moment we had the shelter until the Japanese armed forces bowed to defeat under the threat of UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

333 more atomic bomb explosions, Mrs Bunlueang never set foot in it, not even once, even though it was spacious enough to accommodate everyone in the compound. She explained she was ready to face any situation. ‘If it’s your time to die, then you’ll die, no matter where you take refuge,’ she said. But I wasn’t that fatalistic, so I went there every time the sirens warned of an air raid.

The shelter had been built a few feet underground, but most of it was above ground, because we had to make certain there would be enough air to breathe inside.

There were two entrances, one at each end. At one end, the place was reserved for Mrs Kaeo and His Lordship’s ‘girls’, whom he still guarded with zealous care and whose safety he looked after, posting himself right at the entrance. The other end was under my responsibility.

On this side, there was Lamiat, who held the little fellow against her bosom at all times, and the other people of the compound, many of them former partners of His Lordship. I usually arrived last at the shelter, because it was my responsibility to make sure everything within the compound was fine – but then again, there were quite a few occasions when I was delayed by other, private reasons. You see, I had already turned into an owl at the time. To tell the truth, I had taken over onehalf of His Lordship’s idle harem – some on this side of the shelter, and some at the other end.

This happened during the period when I was still waiting for Mrs Bunlueang to keep her promise. I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

334 couldn’t just sit and wait and had to find a way to kill time. If it was a girl working in my building, I’d call her over to the library in the daytime to ‘be of service’; if it was a girl or woman staying in any of the small houses or rows of service quarters, I’d go and visit her there late at night. As for Mrs Bunlueang, I got a windfall from her once in a while, and always in rushed or stealthy conditions, which added spice to the activity. We only did it at the new house. She refused to meet me in the library.

Only at the new house could we arrange to meet secretly. Can you guess in which part of the house we met for that purpose? Has anyone guessed correctly that we took our pleasure in the cramped bathroom? Yes, the bathroom near the stairs on the ground floor, the very room in which I saw her naked bosom for the first time.

She’d enter into the bathroom, latch the door, open the window and let me in. The available supporting equipment in that blissful abode of ours consisted of two earthen jars with dragon patterns, a narrow bathtub, the carpet on the floor and, finally, the lid of the septic tank.

We agreed to meet in these dire conditions only once a month. As she had the reputation of taking very long baths, no one would wonder if she prolonged them, but there were occasions when she didn’t even have time to soap herself, although we thought we had set aside some for that purpose.

Then, in the middle of a moonless night…

The lights and sounds of the world at that time seemed UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

335 to come only from the sky and exist only in the sky. The blood-curdling wailing of the sirens that night brought with it a current of suffocating violence, which shook you up and left you weak at the knee and weak in the head. I came to realise most clearly that war is a great opportunity to test man’s fear and bravery, for him to know once and for all of what stuff he’s made, and that the capable man is the one who keeps his cool in fear as in bravery, the two responses that rule any one of us. As the sky rumbled with the roar of bombers, the fracas of bomb explosions and the confused flak of the antiaircraft defences; as the sky was streaked with a series of dazzling explosions, giant beams of light probing the air like fingers and blazing red dots shot from cannons in quick bursts; as I stood watching the madness in the sky, rooted to the spot at the entrance of the shelter, I heard a shivering voice saying agitatedly from inside the shelter behind me, ‘Mr Jan – think – little boy feels cold – we’ve – only one blanket – too thin.’

Lamiat’s voice betrayed her anxiety for the little fellow.

Though it was shaking so much I could hardly understand her, her caring concern for the child was unmistakable.

That’s keeping cool in fear for you! She was almost scared to death, but kept level-headed enough to figure out that if she was cold so must the child in her arms. I took off the dark-coloured jacket I usually wore at night and wrapped it around her and the child in the dark, then on impulse drew her to my chest. She allowed herself to remain in my THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

336 embrace and if she had listened carefully she’d have heard my heart knocking against my ribs, because I, too, was afraid. I comforted her softly, while cursing Mrs Kaeo in my mind about the child.

And as if in response from the other end of the shelter, His Lordship complained, ‘With all that’s going on outside, how come Kaeo isn’t here yet?’ When I heard this, I began to wonder as well, because she was almost always the first to reach the shelter, as if she kept herself prepared for the occasion at all times. Tonight, Bangkok was being heavily bombed, and I knew shell splinters could kill even at a great distance from the point of impact. Worried and upset, I cried out, ‘I’ll go and look for her – what an irresponsible brat!’

I called out as I looked for her all the way back to the new house, but found no trace of her until I reached the house, where my oddly cautious nature made me go up the stairs noiselessly, and even more stealthily turn the doorknob, enter Mrs Bunlueang’s bedroom, and stop in my tracks at the foot of the bed…

Two white naked bodies offered a riveting sight, despite the lack of light in the room and the hellish atmosphere that was raging outside, but that sight failed to arouse my usual lust. I was aroused all right, but out of abhorrence. I couldn’t believe my eyes and prayed I’d wake up from a most upsetting nightmare. Two women who could have been mother and daughter were busily engaged in an unnatural and obscene interplay that UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

337 should have been struck by lightning. Mrs Kaeo, her back turned to me, was furrowing with her face to bestow pleasure to her friend and fulfil her own craving as well.

She was the active partner, doing what I always did to Mrs Bunlueang as foreplay before we entered the essence of the game. If I joined in, the whole scene would turn into a perfect pornographic picture as featured in those smutty French postcards.

Mrs Bunlueang was stretched languidly facing away from her partner. So, she was the first one to open her eyes and see me at the foot of the bed. The upper part of her body, which was free to express the whole spectrum of her feverish moods, instantly broke its rhythm, in a sudden dazed alarm, as if she also didn’t want to believe her eyes, nor her heart to wake up from the flight of fancy her glands fuelled. She called out my name in a voice as soft as the complaint of the mist. Both hands and arms, writhing and contorting a moment ago seemingly in great suffering, now pushed the other’s jerking head, as if to intimate refusal. The head paused for a while as though aware something was wrong. The arms and hands went to protect the white and bushy expanse as a sign of denial, but the head decided it’d have none of it and went back to furrowing with a vengeance. If I interfered and pulled her out, she’d kill me for sure. Mrs Bunlueang’s eyes, which were watching me from their slits all the while, were caught in a revival of her former mood. The hands that meant to reject now held to THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

338 induce, and the eyes wearily closed in toleration, as if they could resist drowsiness no longer.

Don’t think I had magic eyes that enabled me to see every single detail in the dark. While I kept repeating to myself, ‘So, that’s all it was!’ my hand accidentally switched on the torchlight as it was pointed in the direction of the bed, and I had to accept defeat. Torch switched off, hands dangling, I staggered awkwardly, bumping into this and that, and finally went out without forgetting to close the door. I tried to regain control of myself by attempting to read my own feelings. I realised with astonishment that the various emotions raging then – fright, surprise, anger, disgust and the like – were all laced with a black dose of jealousy.

I was jealous of Mrs Kaeo.

I envied a woman!

That’s really how I felt. I felt like I had been slapped in the face. I felt like I had been slapped in the face by Mrs Kaeo, and slapped violently, as a man does to slight, not as a woman does for a variety of reasons of her own. I may be blamed for thinking too much, since she was merely a girl, but don’t forget that girl had taken up half of my role in the game of love. To my unhappy feelings, she wasn’t a woman, but a homosexual – a homosexual equally at ease with either sex, and with each passing year the masculine part of her would get stronger till finally a man could kick her bottom without feeling much guilt.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

339 What I’m saying here sounds like I’m reading too much in the little I saw of that ghastly scene. That may well be, because I’m now writing about events that happened nearly twenty-five years ago, and at the time of writing, this is exactly how she has turned out to be. But in any case, she already had this kind of background with Saisoi, which was enough of a clue for you to figure things out.

Let’s say that at the time, I was as angry with Mrs Kaeo as I’d be with a man. That’s why I was jealous of her. As for my feeling towards Mrs Bunlueang in this matter, I was deeply hurt. I felt like she had betrayed me by being naughty behind my back without really meaning to. I knew, yet couldn’t help feeling offended for a long while. I didn’t go and see her for two or three months. During that time, I made up for the loss of the best sexual gratification I used to get from her by going on the rampage on a grand scale with His Lordship’s young and old protégées, both in the library by day and in their various homes in the compound by night. A hungry tiger like me had no problem hunting for food during the dry season. I overexerted myself deliberately, as a kind of challenge to myself – even with some I had never thought of in that context; neither did I leave untried those who were in their fifties; and there were even some who had never gone through His Lordship before but made themselves available to me. To sum up, there were only a few people I left alone: those who already had husbands and children, and those who were THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

340 of the same sex as I. Oh, I almost forgot Old Phum, who was nearly seventy. I excluded her not so much because of her age, but perhaps because I was afraid that, if Khein knew about it, he’d curse me with four-letter words from his wonderful stock of authentic Thai colloquialisms. I’m just joking, all right? Actually, I shouldn’t be joking about her because she died several years ago, and I was the one who arranged for her cremation. If I mention her, it’s because I loved her nature. ‘Oh, Mr Jan, this is chicken-feed. If you both like it, you go ahead and enjoy it together. Just say the word. And remember: as they say these days, it takes two to tango.’ This is what she told me once, the first time I came back from Phijit.

And what about Lamiat? Ah, my dear Lamiat! I didn’t, not right then. From that night in the air-raid shelter, I was confident that half of her heart was well inclined towards me, but at the time I wanted to preserve her goodwill for a while. Then what happened next? Since you want to know, I’ll tell you… At first, she was like Aunt Waht was with me for the little fellow, then later she was like Aunt Waht had been to His Lordship for me, and she has remained my housekeeper up to the present. Just as I had been a link of sorts between Aunt Waht and His Lordship, the little fellow Pree was a link of sorts between Lamiat and me. The difference was in several minor details and in the fact that Lamiat and I have no children. The major similarity is I care a lot about her feelings, and I don’t know why this is so.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

341 Talking about children, even though I’d like to have one, I refused to have any with any woman in the compound (I use condoms), not because I was prejudiced against any of them, but because I didn’t want a burden without the bonds of love. In Lamiat’s case, it seems she can’t have children, because I never used condoms with her, and I was never one for withdrawal either – no matter with whom! Lamiat is the only woman whom I’ve been on intimate terms with to the point I wouldn’t have minded if we had a child together. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so considerate to her.

But then, even though I am childless now, it doesn’t mean I never had any. That’s right, I mean my own child, not Pree Darra. I once had a child with a woman whose identity I doubt you can guess. I might as well tell you, since the story is about to reach that point anyway. I once had a child with Mrs Kaeo. I once had a child with a girl who was loath to having an affair with a member of the opposite sex. Did I want to have a child with her because I loved her? Of course not. I suppose it was because I had come to a dead end and could find nobody else. It started on the spur of the moment and was carried out automatically, at least on my part.

During the period of two or three months that I didn’t visit Mrs Bunlueang, I tried to get rid of my pining for her by sampling the wares of other women night and day, even though I wanted to go back to her day and night. I was aware that sooner or later I must return to THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

342 her, but I had no idea what kind of miracle I was waiting for. Late one morning, I was enjoying reading Karmmanit in bed. (The books I selected to read in my sanctum were devoid of lust. In my lexicon, karmma, lust, means the strong desire to seek sexual pleasure only – nothing as ethereal as the lofty considerations of Karmmanit.) I picked up the sound of the door being opened, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t pay attention until my sixth sense told me there was someone else in the room. All at once, I took my feet off the bed, sat up and looked towards the door. Mrs Kaeo stood leaning on the doorframe, her face sullen, exactly like when she had come to see me in the small house. I was both surprised and displeased because, since this room had become mine, I had never allowed anyone to enter it, not even the servants to clean it. And Mrs Kaeo of all people! Even if she claimed that, as my wife, she had the right to enter my bedroom, I had no intention to allow her to do so, but then here she was.

My astonishment superseded all other feelings. That Mrs Kaeo came to visit wasn’t simply unusual: it was extraordinary.

‘What can I do for you? Do come in,’ I invited her politely. I forgot everything, even the scene in which she had been eagerly giving pleasure to Mrs Bunlueang that night, so I didn’t have a clue to what she was up to.

As she started to move away from the doorframe, I told her in haste, ‘Close the door. I don’t want anyone to see us together.’ I didn’t say this to pick a quarrel with UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

343 her, but to test whether I had the upper hand in what she had come to talk to me about. Then I knew I very much had, because although her face grew even more sullen, she dutifully closed the door – without a sound.

She wouldn’t sit down, which was my second request.

She went to stand in front of the window, tight-lipped, looking out. She acted as though she was weighing the pros and cons in her mind about having a straight talk with me or rushing back down the stairs. I gave her time to make up her mind. After a moment, she turned to me determinedly and went straight to the point.

‘I want to talk to you about what you saw that night.’

If both of my feet hadn’t been on the floor, I’d have fallen off the edge of the bed for sure. As I was trying to recover from the shock, she went on, ‘You shouldn’t be angry with Mrs B about it. It’s all my fault – it’s all my fault from the beginning. I don’t want you to be angry with her for what I’ve done.’

She really was the instigator, as I had guessed. ‘How long have you been – er – playing like that with Mrs Bunlueang?’

‘Since you left for Phijit.’

‘Why? How did it happen?’ I asked, pressing my advantage.

‘Because I like – I love Mrs Bunlueang as well.’ She didn’t hesitate to clarify her stand. Please note the words ‘as well’ in her sentence. ‘I had no one, and neither did Mrs B any more. She hinted she intended to leave Father THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

344 and return to her hometown. I knew why she was thinking of leaving. I know everything. So I decided to try – she wasn’t against it, so it’s been going on until now.’

‘Then how did Master Khajorn come into the picture?’

‘That happened afterward. I did it because I was angry at Father – not because I was pining for a cadet, as you blamed me before.’ She was being sniffy for the first time.

‘Why were you angry with your father?’

‘Because sometimes he came to sleep with Mrs B.’ The cheek of the girl! She didn’t give in, even to her own father.

I went back to the first topic. ‘Why are you telling me all this – about you and Mrs Bunlueang? You think there’s something I can do?’

At this point, she hesitated for a while, looking somewhat abashed. ‘I’d like you to go back to Mrs Bunlueang as before.’

‘As before?’ I wondered.

‘As before – can’t you hear?’ she said hotly. ‘Sleep with Mrs Bunlueang whenever you feel like it – as in the past.

The only thing I ask – let me have some happiness as well.’ She added needlessly, ‘Er – with Mrs B.’ I nodded that I understood. I understood what she said and I understood very clearly why she had come to see me this time. Since that night, she must have been deprived of something she used to have. Maybe it was that Mrs Bunlueang was so worried about me she wouldn’t play along any longer, or if she did, made it UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

345 obvious her heart wasn’t in it. So that, either there was no taste or the taste wasn’t as great as it used to be, and she couldn’t stand it, but then…

‘Are you here on your own or at Mrs Bunlueang’s request?’

‘I came on my own.’

‘Does Mrs Bunlueang know?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d like her to have the surprise of your visit. She’d be so glad.’

‘Yes, so that she’ll think I’ve crawled back to her?

Then, you’ll be exonerated from blame.’ I interrupted her as I knew her nature very well. She made as if to shake her head but checked herself and nodded instead.

‘Will you give me your word you won’t tell her about my visit?’ she asked anxiously.

I didn’t answer right away because I was reminded of something else. ‘How long have you known about Mrs Bunlueang and me?’

She made a sound like a laugh, but it wasn’t. In all my life, I’ve never known Mrs Kaeo to laugh with me. ‘A long time ago. Since before you went to Phijit.’

‘Which time?’

‘The first time.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ I really didn’t.

She bent her head and said haltingly, ‘Since after you left – for Phijit – the first time.’

This I believed and could guess the whole story. ‘Mrs Bunlueang told you, didn’t she?’

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

346 ‘What do you want to know all this for?’ she complained, annoyed.

‘I want everything to be clear,’ I replied, raising my voice.

‘Yes, Mrs B told me, and then she said that since she couldn’t sleep with you any more, she’d leave me and go back to Penang for good.’ So there you had it, Mrs Bunlueang’s ability to run things smoothly with her tongue! Damn it – but then…

‘But then, of late, since His Lordship went to stay with her, how come – why has she been playing so hard to get?’

‘How would I know what she thinks? I wondered about it as well, but I thought you two had broken up, since – well, I can see you’re going around a lot, isn’t that so?’

‘So, you know about this too?’ I said disparagingly.

She had spoken sarcastically, trying to ridicule me, but I couldn’t care less because my head was full of the puzzling pictures of the bathroom at the new house – the water jars with dragon patterns, the bathtub, the carpet, the lid of the septic tank…

Then I figured it out. I burst out laughing – Mrs Bunlueang had wanted a change of scenery away from the bedroom and sitting room; she wanted us to try something different from the bed and mattress, the shiny wooden floor, the sofa and chairs, the table and walls and everything else in there. Oh, what a wonderful woman she was!

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

347 I laughed and chuckled and laughed some more till Mrs Kaeo got annoyed.

‘You can laugh,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m leaving. Will you promise not to tell Mrs B about my visit?’

Being in a good mood, I was inclined to agree to her request. After all, we were on a par. Since she wanted something, I should ask for something in return, or else she’d take me for a sucker who could be taken in by the mere dangling of Mrs Bunlueang as a reward.

But what should I demand in return?

I looked at her while thinking hard. She was on the threshold of womanhood now, and this was the perfect time for her to give birth to a child.

That’s right! My tricky heart leapt with joy.

‘Agreed,’ I said to her, ‘but I must have something in return.’

‘What?’ she asked innocently, as she could not possibly guess what I had in mind.

‘A child – I want a child – my own child, and it must be born of a woman he or she won’t feel ashamed of later on – someone who can call me Dad for real. There’s no one else I can see. The woman I loved is dead (Hyacinth!). Mrs Bunlueang? She got herself sterilised.

Besides these two women in my life, the only one I can see is you.’ She shook her head vehemently. She was so shocked she didn’t yet feel angry as she had the right to be. She looked so pitiful I should’ve been ashamed of myself, but the more I spoke, the more self-indulgent I THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

348 became. ‘Don’t ask me to divorce you and find someone else to marry; that won’t work; I just couldn’t do it. I never go out in the world, as you know. You’re the most suitable, because after all we’re already married, and what’s more natural than having a child together? Even if you won’t love him, I will, and that’ll be more than enough. So? Do you agree? If you do, then I’ll do as you request.’

I was well aware that what I was asking from her was totally out of proportion with her own request, but I was so taken with my own idea I wouldn’t give up. At least, I couldn’t stop shooting my mouth off then. As for her, she kept shaking her head nervously. She understood I would go ahead with the plan I had just outlined, and now her fear was giving way to sudden anger.

‘You’ll never get to lay me, as I told you from the start,’ she said, while stepping back to bring herself closer to the door, but in order to reach it she had to go around my writing desk. I moved along behind her and let her ramble on. ‘There’s no way you’ll ever sleep with me. I hate you, Jan. I hate your bloody guts, damn you.’ I knew she didn’t mean to use such strong language with me because I was aware that, since my return from Phijit, she was scared of me, which I found rather pleasing.

As well she should, because she had done me a lot of harm and I was always ready to settle old scores with her if I could no longer stand her evil ways. And this time, she was ready to allow me to do so by any means UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

349 other than using her as a child bearer. She was thus willing to take chances by deliberately making me angry so that I’d cancel my plan, which she found abhorrent, and turn to some other violent kind of punishment instead. Knowing this, I remained silent and kept watching her, with no particular purpose in mind. If she bolted for the door, I’d let her go, and that would make her wonder. ‘I hate you, damn Jan. I won’t allow this to happen ever again, even with someone I’d love, let alone you. I’ve learned my lesson. Once is enough. So, give up the idea: you haven’t got a hope in hell.’

She was in front of my desk by then, and she hit on a new idea to goad me. She turned to the twin pictures I had brought back from Phijit and set on my desk, and made the most abusive, vulgar and disparaging remarks. What exactly she said I’ve forgotten now. Go back to the beginning of the story and find out for yourself. I really don’t remember right now. And this time, her ploy worked. What she said was far too much for me to endure. In two paces I was upon her, and slapped her across the face. She staggered along, stubbed her toe and fell sprawling on the floor.

It really worked, and way beyond that, too. My anger this time knew no bounds. It made me burn with sudden blind lust, and right on the floor I performed on her what criminal law calls rape. The fierce resistance she put up enticed me even more to achieve my purpose of impregnating her. At this point, something should be THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

350 noted: had she been an ordinary woman involved in normal intercourse, she’d have been thrilled all over as her inner flesh secreted the precious milk lubricating my way and sped me up to the final salute, but she deflected any climatic feeling by uttering words full of resentment. ‘If I ever get pregnant, you’ll never get the child.

Never, you hear? Never!’

Sex and I have never been well matched, right from the moment my life was conceived. I was born out of a crime committed on my mother. Later, out of the sexual frustration His Lordship suffered when his beautiful and wealthy wife, whom he had married out of necessity, died in labour, he was intent on blaming me for taking her life away from the wild sexual fantasies he had entertained. Thus I was hated so much I barely survived the twists and turns of my hardy life. When I discovered sex, I always misused it, starting with those premature experiments, and always used it carelessly, oblivious to nature’s objective, and indulged in it for the sole purpose of entertainment. But never mind that: most human beings also consider it as an entertaining pastime, and there’s nothing wrong with that. The problem for me was that I couldn’t have the right person to use it in a clean, proper way, because she had already gone to heaven (Hyacinth!), and when I made up my mind to use it for reproductive purposes, I used it wrongly again – with the wrong partner (even though she was legally my wife) and with the wrong approach, as I had to rape UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

351 her – and the end result more than matched the wrong I did. Nothing will ever torture my heart as much as that retribution.

I went to see Mrs Bunlueang that evening in the submissive way Mrs Kaeo hoped for. We met in the library.

I only told her that I couldn’t stand not seeing her any longer. Actually, she didn’t want to listen to any reason; the joy of being together was enough of a reason for her, because she felt that by going back to her I was forgiving her. In order to reciprocate, she volunteered the story of her abnormal affair with Mrs Kaeo. What she confessed was similar to what I had heard from the girl, and it was to her credit she didn’t try to blame her young partner.

She admitted Miss Kaeo had contributed to her decision to stay here, because she had no real wish to leave and face her destiny alone if it weren’t absolutely necessary.

Besides, she stated frankly that, whether I liked it or not, she’d keep on being Mrs Kaeo’s playmate until the girl found herself a new patron. She asked me to show some sympathy for Mrs Kaeo for the reason I knew well that she didn’t like men (but she understood it was out of fear of having to give birth again). Having said all this, she put her hand on my knee and asked whether I still despised her now that I knew the truth.

On my part, not only I had a liberal view on matters of this nature, but her brave confession and straightforward account helped me get rid of all my resentment against her. I also told her I was pleased to know she THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

352 was bisexual and hadn’t become homosexual like Mrs Kaeo. After that, in the discretion of her library, I let her know emphatically if without words that I didn’t despise that part of her she used to seek pleasure with both sexes, without worrying that Mrs Kaeo might turn up and watch us as in the past.

At this stage, His Lordship was the only one to be wary of, but I was reliably told by Mrs Bunlueang that, due to his deteriorating health, he had long taken to going to bed as soon as it was dark like a child, and besides, there was something else in his behaviour that was more childish than that. When I heard about it for the first time, I saw the irony of it but couldn’t laugh, because it was, in fact, a very sad and pitiful story. I became aware of it when Mrs Bunlueang let slip at the end that ‘I coddled him to sleep a few hours ago’.

His Lordship still hoped his impotence would go away some day. He tried to test his stamina with Mrs Bunlueang every night, and went asleep in desperation night after night. On some nights, he felt so bad about it that he was in tears and scolded himself. It was a frightening prospect for those like me who also indulged in sex in excess. Although his virility was gone, he couldn’t stop yearning for it. His craving was as strong as ever – and that was his retribution! In comparison, his condition was even more wretched than that of the old whose lust flashes back. And the flashback of lust that was his finest hope in the evening of his life petered out UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

353 when he came to a complete dead end. Just wait: the story will reach this point presently.

During that period, at the age of forty-five or forty-six, Mrs Bunlueang’s chores seemed to be never ending.

What with an impotent husband, a lesbian friend and an oversexed lover, she was kept so busy she hardly knew how to manage her time. Yet, it should come as no surprise if I told you she never looked happier and healthier. Regarding His Lordship, I think he was lucky to have a wife who had always understood her husband’s private problems, even in his ripe old age and pitiful condition. They were the perfect example of a couple going through thick and thin together.

I didn’t give up my intention to have a child with Mrs Kaeo and didn’t leave it to fate either. After I resumed my commerce with Mrs Bunlueang in a way that made it worth the two or three months of estrangement I had suffered, I informed her quite officially and firmly that I wanted to have at least one child with Mrs Kaeo. I talked in such a way as she’d understand my plan was in its initial stage and I had yet to put it into practice, but I also demanded that she didn’t stand in my way. After that, Mrs Bunlueang all too often had to wait and lay sleepless in the ground-floor library or in the upper-floor sitting room until late at night against her wishes. At first, Mrs Kaeo fought back as she had the first time, but the pain in her thighs forced her to give in every time.

After a few painful sessions, she decided to stop her THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

354 fruitless resistance, but even though she ceased to resist, she wouldn’t stop being malicious, although she was forced to give up abusing me and cursing the child that must be born because she couldn’t stand the slaps I gave her. One point that made me feel sorry for her was that, although her flesh at times betrayed her by responding tentatively to my ministrations, she showed no real signs of enjoying the pattern of sexual performance I forced on her. Her condition therefore was unfortunately incurable, because if she hadn’t been homosexual to the core, we might perhaps have found a way of becoming a real couple despite the odds, as I was well aware I didn’t hate her all that much after all – which shows that unless we had been a couple made in heaven, there was no way for us to live as husband and wife no matter how long we’d be married.

Brooding about this, I found it so strange I wanted to ask a fortune-teller whether it wasn’t after all some kind of union that was destined to last for the rest of my life, given that Mrs Kaeo was the only one with whom I used sex earnestly in order to achieve the chemical reaction that was the basic purpose of the exercise – and as soon as I found out her period had stopped, I ceased bothering her, without any lingering feelings.

Some eight or nine months later I came to realise in hair-raising horror how strong and cold-blooded her malicious will was. Yet, it’s only now that I perceive how she had suffused her pregnancy with malevolence UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

355 all along. What an utter fool I felt, me, who suffered from the deep-seated conviction I had caused my mother’s death by being born. While I was busy with the process of impregnation, every single time, I couldn’t help but worry, even fleetingly, that history would repeat itself when my child was born, and if Mrs Kaeo were to die while giving birth to the child I was procreating, then I’d have committed an abominable sin.

Therefore, every time I raped her, I prayed she’d be safe, but the outcome was the reverse of what I feared.

This time, Mrs Kaeo’s delivery wasn’t assisted by the midwife. I hired a qualified nurse from a clinic located on the main road in front of our lane. At first, the delivery was to take place at home in the same room as in the past. Then, I don’t really know the details of what happened, but was told only the delivery was so difficult neither the nurse nor the physician who had come to assist her could handle it and they decided to transfer the patient to the hospital. The situation was so serious I redoubled my prayers. Finally, I was informed I had a baby girl, but it was stillborn and had died in the womb days earlier!

By all the devils! If not Mrs Kaeo then I must go to hell.

I believe she killed the child, but have no way to prove it. No one can tell the truth but her, but I’m certain she did it, in order to get back at me. She was determined to do so, even if she had to risk her own life in the process.

That much she told me – through the expression in her THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

356 eyes, which I knew her too well to misread. I cried and kept thinking of ways of making her suffer and die for what she had done, and though I eventually gave up that line of thought, I have hated her wholeheartedly ever since. That’s all there was to it. I wasn’t hardhearted enough to kill her. She still has the cheek to smile at me mockingly even now, as if she won’t allow me to ever forget this story.

Not long after that, I received a letter from Aunt Waht, the first and only letter I ever received from her in my whole life. It wasn’t sent from Phijit; it had travelled from Nakhorn Sawan. She informed me she was now a nun and was residing in a well-known monastery in that province. She said she was very happy and intended to remain a nun till the end of her days. (I was shocked, feeling as though I had heard her taking her final leave.)

As for the land I had inherited from Grandpa and asked her to look after for me, she said she had made final arrangements by selling it together with her own pieces of land for a reasonably handsome price. So, she was asking me to go there and handle the matter so that legal procedures could be finalised. As for the large amount of money that accrued to her, she had kept a little of it for her own needs in the future, and was leaving me the rest. A senior relative in Phijit whom I knew well would help me take care of these two matters.

So, I travelled to Phijit for the third time, and with the amount of money I received from both sources, returned UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

357 a fairly wealthy man. And that was the end of my ties with Phijit and my mother’s lineage. As of then, the affluent trading family who had settled down long ago in that province became extinct.

After I left Phijit, I went to visit Aunt Waht in her Nakhorn Sawan monastery and saw to my relief that she was indeed happy in her life as a nun. Once I was back in Bangkok, I took most of the money I had brought back and, with Mrs Bunlueang’s help, used it to buy shares in the same heavy-industry company in which His Lordship had invested my mother’s money to such good returns. Later, I was able to send a regular stipend to Aunt Waht and occasionally pay her a visit. The number of monks to whom I give alms every morning except on holy days has increased in keeping with my higher financial status, and this merit making has helped give some meaning to my life up to now.

Aunt Waht avowedly found serenity as a nun. As for me, I can sustain my life in its web of suffering by making merit. We both depend on the same Lord, but how markedly different our lives are.

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358

21 The web of suffering!

Why have I been moaning about it ever since I took my pen to write this story? Why do I keep complaining like mad, when my life, though it started most unluckily, has been so pleasant since then, especially concerning sex, the pinnacle of desire. To all appearances my life as a man has been perfectly happy. My development as a human being can almost be measured with a ruler – from an accidental birth with neither parents nor wealth to the life of a wealthy house and landowner; from a dispossessed orphan to the respectable citizen Jan Darra I now am. To outsiders, doesn’t it look as though I had more than the thirty-two organs of a normal body? So, what else am I looking for, that I keep moaning my life is full of suffering?

Whoever wonders thus doesn’t know the power of suffering, that is to say, doesn’t understand the complexity of human lust and desire.

I don’t suffer because I want something new. Those who start from zero like me have limited expectations.

Put in popular parlance to be more specific, I’m a modest fellow who knows his place in the scheme of things.

I’m not dominated by greed or lust to the point of creating problems for other people, as we are seeing in society nowadays. I’m pleased with myself about this in UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

359 the same way I’m pleased with Pree Darra’s obvious abnormality, in the sense that he can’t harm anyone even secretly, as do those who hide their insanity under respectable appearances. I’ve achieved utmost happiness in sex even at a time when I still had nothing. So long as I was able to have sex – whatever my social condition – you might say I was happy enough, but as soon as it was no longer possible, it caused immediate suffering, despite my exalted social status. From what I’ve just said, need I point out to you that lately I’ve begun to torture myself because I can no longer seek pleasure from sex – that my virility has disappeared as does menstruation in women at the onset of menopause. It’s worse in my case because it’s totally unexpected and, apart from happening much sooner than should be the case, if at all, I’ve completely lost the equipment required for such an activity, whereas menopause doesn’t prevent women from enjoying that wonderful game indefinitely. A desiccated male like me is condemned to superficial sensations for lack of a means to access real knowledge, and I keep praying feverishly for my last hope – the return of my virility.

As I said earlier, His Lordship and I were born to share each other’s fate and see everything happen twice. We reflected each other in our respective destinies. I won’t recapitulate once again the various duplications, but go straight to the final point, before I look at myself in a mirror and see His Lordship staring back at me.

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360 The triangular affair between Mrs Bunlueang, Mrs Kaeo and me went on smoothly for three years, then the attraction between the two women began to wear thin and finally faded out, due to Mrs Bunlueang’s own proclivities. As time went by, Mrs Kaeo turned more masculine and one day decided to wear her hair short in the style of the hero of a stage drama, to match her opennecked shirts and silk trousers. As for Mrs Bunlueang, who wasn’t a real lesbian, she was getting increasingly flustered playing man and wife with a girl who was so much younger than herself, and in any case found men more attractive and rewarding. Finally, Mrs Kaeo left and went to live on her own in the largest of the small houses in the compound. She had it renovated and furnished anew until it looked like the kind of home that matched her own standing. With her permanently gone from the new house, Mrs Bunlueang found herself single again, eager and willing to be only a woman to a man as she had been in the past, and that was the end of the triangular affair.

From then on, Mrs Kaeo acted as if she intended to be my rival in the field, trying to woo all the girls and women in the compound. A solitary tiger like me now had to contend with a lesbian, though not for Mrs Bunlueang any longer! I took this opportunity to give up all my partners in the compound for a while and stood watching her trick, cajole, order and in some cases threaten one and all to join her in her quarters. She only UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

361 selected unmarried women and girls as playmates – from very ripe to very raw, they all one after the other went to stay overnight with her, and she eventually found three or four to her taste who took turns staying with her. Lately, she has asked on occasion for two of them to keep her company. You can imagine how hectic those overnight stays must be.

As for the three or four girls whose disposition Mrs Kaeo liked, she ordered them not to sleep with me again and they seemed to obey her out of fear. At first, I felt disgusted, so called them up one by one and raped them. They had no reaction, but the one who acted as if she owned them had. As soon as she heard about it, she ran to me – not to curse me at all, but to make a straightforward request that I desist. Approached in this way, who could be hard-hearted enough to refuse? It’s a crazy world, isn’t it?

But then, it wasn’t long before those who had been persuaded to get out of my sexual arena began to stream back and coax me into helping them savour the taste of manhood again. As I said before, I’m not hard-hearted in such matters, but I wasn’t going to help them for free.

I asked each and every one of them to tell me in exchange the secrets of lovemaking between women.

There wasn’t anything much more than what you may have seen or can imagine, except for one thing, which…

Ah, don’t ask me to tell you, because it has nothing whatsoever to do with my story. Well, if you insist, I’ll THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

362 tell you in a few words. My dear Mrs Kaeo is a regular customer of an old Indian drug store behind Wang Boorapha. She often gets one of her old, illiterate servants to take a note to the store by rickshaw, yet it’s not medicine she’s interested in, but some special equipment ordered confidentially from abroad.

Come to think of it, Mrs Kaeo and I are equally weird.

In the evening of our lives, we get along peaceably enough, but we haven’t given up the bad feelings we have for each other – her hatred and malice, and my anger and despise. Throughout all these years and even now, we haven’t forgotten the many conflicts we’ve had: we just put them on a shelf in order to go back to our favourite pursuits unimpeded. Each of us can see what has been put away on either side, even though we may forget to look back at the shelf for long periods of time.

It’s as though we respect each other’s ill will, in the sense that we can always see those conflicts on the shelf.

Our lives at present are like two ghosts haunting the same deserted place. We walk past each other, each seeing the other but not himself or herself. Therefore, it’s impossible for a collision to happen between us again.

During the time I left the women of the compound to Mrs Kaeo, I went back full time to Mrs Bunlueang, as if to give her the kiss of life. She was about fifty by then, but her inner and outer charm didn’t abate with age. Every stage of her life has had its own appeal. The changes that took place in her simply moved her from one type UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

363 of beauty to another, like a beautiful landscape changing with the time of day: though light and colours keep evolving from one hour to the next, its beauty remains from dawn to dusk. The distressing signs of aging showed only in the form of some wrinkles on her face, and nowhere else – from the swell of her breasts to the spring of her toes, age had no hold on her. I can guarantee this because I’ve explored every inch of her body for so long, including in the evening of her life, when her beauty shines through under the moonlight.

In his old age, at a time when his body was degenerating fast, His Lordship was to see with his own eyes the exact reflection of what he had done to me when I was four years old.

Secure in our tower of lust, Mrs Bunlueang and I had long ceased worrying about his presence only a few steps away in the next room, as his daily routine at this late time in his life was circumscribed to a small perimeter. We thus had a safe area to seek pleasure in each other whenever the fancy took us, in the daytime and at night. That day, we chose the hour when he was having his midday nap and should have stayed confined in his room. Instead, he failed to remain within his secure area and, worse than that, lost his way, with fatal consequences. He opened the door, which we no longer bothered to lock, and entered Mrs Bunlueang’s bedroom, which was then the blissful setting of our deportment as we were right in the middle of the act.

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364 The spacious bed, which did not have a mosquito net, had its head against the wall opposite the door His Lordship had opened. The top of the bed was indeed against the wall, but its soft and bouncy mattress, about one cubit thick, had no longer head or foot, so fierce was the storm in the initial stage of our wonderful performance that had us thrashing and twisting and twirling in a hundred and one ways throughout the whole first half, as I lustily plied her waters. Right then, I lay in a direction which allowed me to see past the foot of the bed, so that I was the only one to see him. He opened the door and came in quietly and after only two steps past the threshold saw clearly what was going on on the room’s central feature. He stopped abruptly, took another unsteady half step under his previous momentum, and then stood there transfixed. At the very moment I saw someone coming through the door, I was startled with sudden fright, but not enough to stop what I was doing because in the same instant I knew who had entered.

My wave- and wind-churning machine went on functioning normally, but from the moment I caught a glimpse of him its rhythm automatically went on automatic. My heart was no longer in what I was doing: it had gone, along with my sight of His Lordship, and had taken some of the taste of carnal communion along with it, only to turn into delight as I became aware of another taste whose novelty was increasingly pleasing with each UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

365 pulse beat while our eyes met and held firmly as if caught in a lock.

Honestly, I had never intended, not even in idle thinking, to take my revenge on him in such a way for whatever grudge I bore. Indeed, I had had many occasions to nurse my anger against him in my heart after I knew for certain he wasn’t my father, and even more so as he was in my debt for the various misdeeds he had committed against me. Therefore, once I knew with absolute certainty from his own words that he wasn’t my real father, I had firmly resolved that one day I’d take my revenge for everything that had occurred. But much later, when we came to be part of the same family, I stopped thinking about it, and I even went as far as prostrating myself in front of him to show my forgiveness, as you may remember. What happened did so by itself and in a way that I couldn’t have conceived. Therefore, since it had already happened, I took it to mean that it was our common misfortune and that our fates would keep on being intertwined and would revive some of the old resentment I had pushed back as deeply as I could within myself without been able to get rid of it completely. He had hardly stumbled onto the gap before it all came out on its own, as I’ve already said: like a time bomb – a time bomb some unknown person had set! Me? No, it wasn’t me, because it was only then that I had become aware of what I was doing, but not quickly enough to think of stopping it, because I was foolishly THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

366 busy staring at those white, pulsating eyes, the same pair of eyes I had watched in the drab light when I was four years old. On that occasion, there had been the hiss of the winding lamp as accompaniment; this time, there was also an accompanying sound, but it was the whir of the fan near the bed.

As my mood dissipated, I couldn’t but feel sorry for him for a while – sorry that in the occasion he had created there was no one to close his eyes and shut out the wicked scene he had to watch. He thus had to put up with it all by himself, and I don’t know if he was thinking that his old misdeeds in his present life were catching up with him. After the very long time, an eon of time in my own perception, that our eyes craved for each other like that, he finally turned round and awkwardly went through the door in the same quiet manner as he had come in. When he had disappeared, it was as if only a mirage remained where I had seen him an instant ago and, without the evidence of the door left ajar, I probably would have sworn my eyes had deceived me, because how many people in this world would have their revenge in such a complete and suitable way?

That’s all there was to it. I didn’t care about how he’d feel or how he’d react to the new knowledge he had just received. I only felt sorry for him for straying in there all by himself, which was an accident that was beyond my power to engineer, wouldn’t you say? Everything did happen by itself.

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367 Honestly, that’s the way I thought, and I’ve believed so up until now – and not just when I had finished my act and came out of Mrs Bunlueang’s bedroom, which was about half an hour later, and found him sprawled out on the floor right in front of the door to his room. I felt sorry for him that the outcome had taken too great a toll on his body, which, again, was beyond my power to ordain.

He was still breathing, and when I went to turn his body over, I saw he was merely unconscious.

My brain began to work out an emergency plan quickly and efficiently. My first priority was to disconnect the latter event from the former, because I didn’t want anyone – not even Mrs Bunlueang – to be able to guess to what extent our personal fates were related. I thus carried him into his room and set him down on his bed, then went back to wake Mrs Bunlueang up and told her I had found him lying in front of his room, which was true. But I put things into a slightly different perspective by stating I had found him lying on his stomach across the threshold, his head turned towards the corridor. We agreed he must have woken up from his snooze not feeling well and was coming out to call Mrs Bunlueang, but had lost consciousness before he could do it. Actually, this could very well have been the case, except that some quirk of fate had sent him into Mrs Bunlueang’s room at the wrong time.

After that, I hurried back discreetly to the library, a THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

368 more suitable place for me right then, while Mrs Bunlueang swiftly went to call for Mrs Kaeo and asked someone to fetch a doctor.

Officially, I was among the last ones in the compound to hear the bad news about him, but the reality was much worse and totally unexpected. It turned out I really was the last one to learn on the following day that he was actually completely paralysed. Besides the fact that he was still breathing and his pulse was beating normally, only the movements of his eyes showed he was still alive, and it was through them, when I placed myself in front of them so they could meet mine, that he told me heart to heart we’d have to reckon with each other for at least another lifetime in the next world. My eyes answered in kind.

As for this life, the fate that has tied us together since a previous existence and sent us to be born as reflections of each other throughout our lives should have ended with the last mirage he had to witness in Mrs Bunlueang’s bedroom on that day. That should’ve been the end of His Lordship’s side, but things didn’t turn out that way. My guess was wrong, because the last mirage was for me, and what’s worse, I had to acknowledge it alone.

I’ve had one constant taste in women, which is that I’ve always felt a special attraction to older women. This is why I’ve never in the least forced my nature when repaying my debt of gratitude to Mrs Bunlueang in the UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

369 games of love, even in the evening of her life. Even though old age had inexorably weakened its mercy on the skin of her face and chest and on other recesses of her flesh, her intrinsic beauty and sweetness, which won’t disappear easily, helped revive her charm of yore and rekindle my desire almost endlessly. When the fluids in her body dried up, I held a farewell party for her with great sorrow. It was a small, private ceremony held the same evening as the large birthday party I arranged for her to celebrate her sixtieth anniversary. I prostrated myself on her mound, which by then was nearly barren, and wished her a long life so that she’d be my closest elder relative for a long time to come. She held my head and cried a little over the good old days we had shared, then smiled benignly as befitted the kindly elder relative she has been to me from that moment on.

At the time I bid farewell to Mrs Bunlueang’s erstwhile beauty, I must have been thirty-eight, and then… It was as though I had been born only to be Mrs Bunlueang’s sexual partner, because after two or three years of unrelenting consumption on my own, I became impotent just like that. As I said before, it disappeared gradually like menstruation in women at a certain age. But in my case, it was much too premature and my heart has kept yearning for a return to my former condition. It was similar in a way, but the outcome is more damaging for me, as I can’t consume or even be consumed.

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370 According to the theory I heard from that artillery soldier and explained right from the start, even a rough estimate assuming a fair amount of unaccounted for ammunition shows that, from the stock I was born with, I’ve used less than three thousand bullets! Thinking about it, I feel hurt as if I’ve been teased and grossly cheated by heaven. The worst torture is that I keep hankering after the flavour of sex, and must grudgingly respond to the craving. I try desperately to resume the meal, but all I can do is touch, smell and suck – the very condition I pitied His Lordship for at the time. But what drives me crazy is that it happened to His Lordship at fifty, but to me at forty.

This is why the last reflection of our common fate in this life is mine. And because of this, I see the face of His Lordship whenever I look in the mirror. I wonder if we must continue to be twins in hell as well.

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22 Such is the suffering I’m going through these days. My life was meaningless from the moment I was born until I found in sex a magic well that gave it purpose and inspired me to live on until I discovered its real essence, my love for Hyacinth. Since I lost that love when I lost her, sex became the only valuable item in my life, and I used it with the utmost reverence with Mrs Bunlueang.

Now that this is lost as well, my life no longer has any meaning, and what’s left of it is only a husk meant to float about on a vast ocean, waiting for the next cycle of birth and death. From now on, there’s nothing but death – death has become my ultimate aim, which means it is fitting that I should die. I thus want to reach that aim quickly to escape from the current awkwardness. That’s why I keep mentioning death. The last part of my life is like the last days of a criminal on death row – the longer the execution is delayed, the more he loses, because he remains in terrible torment indefinitely and for nothing.

Since I’ve been enduring this suffering and feeling sorry for myself, there have been times when I’ve thought of entering the monkhood, but I figured my intentions weren’t pure enough to do so without feeling guilty. It’d be as though I took refuge in religion merely to escape suffering. Ordination, if it’s not done for the sake of virtue, can only harm the cloth one way or THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

372 another. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. The truth is, deep down in my heart, I’ve the feeling I must fall in one of the categories of men whom the Buddha prohibited from being ordained and I don’t want my wait for death to be perhaps an even bigger sin. I’m promised to hell well enough as it is, and that’s why I keep making merit by offering food to the monks and paying respect to them, and grudgingly go on living a day at a time – in the company of the old woman who is the living shadow of my carnal love; in the company of the breathing corpse of my preordained rival; in the company of the sexually deviant woman who is my legal wife; in the company of the mentally retarded man who is my legal son (to protect his life born of others’ mistake as per court order, and to take care of his property as per the will His Lordship made out of spite some time before he fell paralysed); and in the company of love, as tangibly reflected in a hyacinth ring (I had it made when my financial situation allowed).

Maybe you’ll agree with me that a worthless life like this is no different from that of a monkey exposed to rain and shine while chained to a well-built platform with a roof entirely made of money. Wouldn’t you agree the poor animal won’t come to wish that lightning strike its nut to free it from its misery?

So that’s all there is to my story, the story of Jan Darra.

These are all the events in my life that I feel like UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

373 disclosing. I leave them to your judgment. True, this straight-from-the-heart account may look filthy and coarse compared to what other people write, but let me emphasise that I’ve written about the same things that they do. The difference is that the overflow of what’s repressed in my heart is the part ordinary writers don’t want to write about, stories they leave aside or overlook altogether. Therefore, what I’ve done here, if you think about it, is like rolling back my socks inside out; it looks strange, yet it’s the same side.

I started writing this public confession simply to follow my doctor’s prescription. My personal doctor, who also loves to put pen to paper, saw it as a possible way to treat my otherwise incurable affliction – that is, if I had a chance to express my pent-up feelings, it might improve my mental health and this in turn might improve my physical wellbeing (I mean, my sexual abilities). I agreed with him inasmuch as it was the last straw I could clutch in the vast ocean of life.

So, this is the reason why I sat down to beat my breast writing this story. Having written it, I want others to know about it, otherwise it would be no different from digging a hole and shouting my fury into it, as an old friend of mine once did. When he felt he had relieved his feelings, he refilled the hole even more compactly than before – and has remained half-crazy. Such a method is a total waste of time and strength. Therefore, if you’ve had the opportunity to read through these pages I have THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

374 written, let me extend to you my heartfelt thanks. As for those readers who want to tear me to pieces, please go ahead, but bear in mind I’ve written for therapeutic purposes.

Besides, you’ve got no way to know who I am or where I live, because I’ve changed the names of all the characters in the story. If anyone knows my real name, methinks it must be the god of death. Thus, I could be anyone you see walking in the street or sitting next to you watching a movie or pressed against you in a crowded bus. Let’s say that if you see a middle-aged man, good-looking, properly dressed and well off by all appearances, but sporting a melancholy look of total despair, no matter where you see him, in a posh restaurant, the latest night-club or the expensive car passing by, please think kindly of him. Bye for now.

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375

postscript The Story of Jan Darra is an anomaly in Thai literature. It is quite simply the only erotic novel of quality Thailand has ever had. In the literature of a Buddhist kingdom whose popula‐ tion has grown and multiplied by twelve in the last hundred years and which has long turned the flesh trade into a major service industry and foreign‐currency earner, erotic writing is almost unknown. This is only a paradox if one ignores the cardinal rule of the land, which is, do it but don’t make an issue out of it. Besides, prostitution is more akin to pornogra‐ phy, a coarse gut impulse, than to eroticism, a refined intel‐ lectual exercise. Pornographic writing there is aplenty, either in ‘white‐cover’ books that are periodically seized and burn‐ ed, or in the tolerated sub‐literary fight‐and‐fornicate fiction carried by a few magazines of popular reading or in the crass or trite short stories of the local Penthouse.

Eroticism has been present in Thai classical literature ever since perhaps the very first version of the Rarmakian, the Thai avatar of the Indian Ramayana, but more as a set of conventions than as a tradition. Scholars will point out the juicy parts in Inao, in Sunthorn Phoo’s Phra Aphaimanee, in the collectively written Khun Chang Khun Phaen, in Karkee‐ khamklorn to you, and will readily give the medal of valour to Lilit Phra Lor, of Ayutthaya times, in which a handsome prince beds two women at once (well, actually, one after the other; they may share the same bed but the other gently awaits her turn). These bot atsajan, or ‘amazing scenes’, invariably involve primal elements – sky, sea and earth taking over the wildness of lovemaking –; are gentler when gods commingle THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

376 and madder when humans mate; always have, shortly before the end, the partners forgetting themselves and the rest of the world; and end invariably in rain and more rain. But they last for twenty to fifty verses each amid thousands and thou‐ sands – tiny gems that sparkle with the fastidious corusca‐ tions of high language.

Utsana Phleungtham has stuck to this set of conventions, aware of the simple rule of erotic writing – don’t explain, suggest. In his book, breasts are almost always only called breasts (nom) in non‐erotic contexts; when they are the focus of interest, they are called by any other evocative name, save vulgar synonyms such as ‘boobs’. The author has also consi‐ derably enlarged the imagery, and given the purring quality of his convoluted if pellucid prose, meandering, discursive pace and odd mixtures of obsolete or technical terms, 1960s slang and the occasional self‐coined expression, it could be said that not a single line in his novel is but erotic in spirit. No other Thai novel is so completely immersed in the deleterious lure of lust – although some readers may feel that the narra‐ tor’s oozing angst and guilt considerably weaken the erotic charge.

This work of fiction also stood out in its time – the mid 1960s. From a literary point of view, the novel had no equal for a quarter of a century – with the possible exception of Bunluea’s Thutiyawiseit, an entirely different kettle of fish, though partly inspired by some of the same people we meet in Jan Darra. But – to write like our author – we’ll come to this in due time.

When western fiction triumphed over the local verse of courtly literature in the early part of this century, first through short stories, then through fully fledged novels, a UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

377 whole generation of writers∗ produced works of note from 1929 (The circus of life, by Arkartdamkeung Rapheephat) to 1954 (Four reigns, by Khuekrit Prarmoat [Kukrit Pramoj]).

Then, for a quarter of a century, politics ruthlessly interfered.

A succession of military dictators smothered free expression in the name of the fight against communism, and the Thai novel, along with intellectual creativity, was in the throes of death. It wasn’t until 1981, with the publication of Chart Korbjitti’s Judgment, that, military rule now ebbing fast and the communist threat becoming a thing of the past, a new generation of writers could again breathe and bring to life works of quality.

During that dreary quarter of a century, which saw the military in power, the economy booming, and the Vietnam War raging next door, the best pens of the realm tarried or else turned to romance or adventure stories. These two trends still account, alas, for the bulk of what sells today. The old masters fled into exile or kept mum or wasted their talent in tame tales that were pathetic shadows of their former achievements. As socio‐political comment was out, during the sixties especially, the young men and women of creative age who wanted to leave their mark in the literary field had no choice but to seek originality in hustling the language and exploring the margins of society. Sex themes were obvious choices. Of this jazz‐and‐beatnik generation, three writers stood out who excited young readers by their linguistic dare‐ ∗

Among these novelists, Bor Karkabart (Buay Buniarattaphan – 1888‐1955), author of lengthy historical novels such as Khunworrawongsa and Maha Theira‐ thong, has the reputation of an erotic writer, but again erotic scenes in his novels are short and far between and directly inspired by the bot atsajan of classical literature.

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378 devilries – the much‐forgotten Wit Sutthasathian, who wrote ‘swing’; the jazzy ’Rong Wongsawan, the beatnik‐cum‐play‐ boy of Thailand, who has turned into a word‐juggler extra‐ ordinaire but who, as a novelist, has never been able to come up with a decent plot; and Utsana Phleungtham, whose ‘fire in ice’ stylistic approach brought erotic themes into the realm of real literature.

At least since 1950, when O [Udom] Udarkorn published his notorious ‘Sanchartayarn Muet’ (Dark instinct), the story of a woman who ends up mating with a dog, there has been a steady trickle of erotic short stories, but precious few such novels, perhaps because in its brevity the short story is a more natural vector for erotic thrill. Yet, under the influence of western (and Japanese) blockbusters, sex scenes have found their way into Thai novels, but whether these increa‐ singly graphic scenes are erotic, pornographic or just plain sleaze is an open question. Only a few women writers (in the early days Suwannee Sukhontha in some novels, Yupha Lamphao and Rayong Weinurak; today Sireim‐orn Un‐ hathoop, Pramoon’s daughter) have tried to combine ro‐ mance and eroticism, yet not as consistently or successfully as Utsana Phleungtham.

Utsana’s only heir apparent today is a young woman writer, Sujinda Khantayarlongkot, whose early short stories and only novel so far (Daet Nao, Cold heat) are avowedly erotic in purpose and content.

Such authors as ’Rong Wongsawan (Sanim Soi, Thin skins), Marnop Thanormsee (Kinnarree Lui Flor, The kinnari wading across the floor) or, one literary grade below, Narong Jan‐ rueang (Theipthida Roang‐raem, Hotel angels), are consider‐ ed erotic because some or most of their novels take place in UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

379 the world of prostitution, but this is a misunderstanding. The location – brothel, bar, massage parlour – may be where the action is, but the treatment seldom arouses sexual musings.

In fact, the best Thai novel about prostitution – K Surangkha‐ nang’s Woman of easy virtue, published in 1937∗ – is anything but erotic. Similarly, mainstream romance writers have focus‐ ed some of their novels on sexual mores – sadism, maso‐ chism, male and female homosexuality – but always in a straight‐laced way that leaves no room for erotic feelings.

In the Thai Modern Classics selection of twenty novels, besides Jan Darra, the erotic dimension is present in only two, Chart Korpjitti’s Judgment (in the tantalizing cohabita‐ tion between Fak and the widow Somsong) and, to a lesser extent, in Wa‐nit Jarungkit‐anan’s Cobra.

Coming back to Jan Darra, there is more to it than peri‐ phrastic sex. Here is a microcosm ruled by lust and self‐ interest and pervaded, besides the heady smell of sex, by a disquieting Buddhist vision. The whole story is a Buddhist lesson, with three tenets: good begets good and evil begets evil; excesses are bad, only the middle way is the right path; and everything is illusion. The last point supports and ampli‐ fies the mirror effect that the author has contrived all along, as events repeat themselves from one male protagonist to the other, and by the same token change their nature and take on antinomic or redemptive values. This mirror effect is built into the structure of the novel: the rather off‐putting first couple of pages, which desultorily make the predictable linkage between Eros and Thanatos (with the oappartika thrown in as a bonus!), do set the tone, but they only find ∗

Translated into English by David Smyth as The Prostitute, Oxford University Press, 1995. Retranslated by Marcel Barang, thaifiction.com 2008

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380 their full meaning in conjunction with the last pages, thus increasing the impression of a closed microcosm. The world of Jan Darra is an allegory of life itself, with its perpetual ups and downs and final void and misery of frustration. ‘It’s true what they say: happiness and suffering are all in the mind.’

Jan’s is a world of reflections, in both senses of the word, where things happen in and through the eye of the other, which is also the essence of eroticism: Eros is the other.

Add to this the psychology of the narrator, a very sensitive and wary person used to deciphering his real intentions and those of the others, the double‐entendre, the discourse behind the discourse. In this, the novel proves to be thor‐ oughly modern. Very much of our times also is the sense of guilt and anguish projected by the personality of Jan Darra, who starts in life as the unwitting yet self‐indicted killer of his own mother and caps his sexual frenzy by turning into a wilful rapist, only to become impotent and await death as his final retribution.

The author’s lacklustre, quiet and impecunious life provides an improbable background to the novel, which he said was inspired by the goings‐on in the neighbour‐ ing palace of his childhood. He was born and spent his early years in a shophouse at the back of the Barn Mor palace, owned by the celebra‐ ted Morm Rarchawong Larn Kun‐ chorn. This aristocrat had no less than forty wives. His claim to UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

381 lasting fame is to have sired two half‐sisters, Dorkmai Sot and Bunluea, who became the grand old dames of the novel and of literary criticism in Thailand respectively, though the second is also a major novelist, perhaps as underrated now in her own country as her old‐fashioned half‐sister is overrated.

By extraordinary coincidence, then, three major Thai novel‐ ists, Utsana, Dorkmai Sot and Bunluea, found their real‐life models in the same fishpond, as it were, and went on to in‐ vent widely different microcosms.

‘I took all the houses and put them together in the same compound and used them all,’ Pramoon explained in a rare interview with a literary magazine∗. ‘This part happened in that house, that part in this house. Don’t ask me which is which. Everything is true. I lived there… I lived at the back of the palace. Right against the kitchen. The back wall which touched the kitchen had an opening for ventilation. I saw the kitchen of the Barn Mor palace, I heard everything when they quarrelled. Oh – they came up with really juicy stuff, but then when you entered from the front gate it all looked ever so proper. [One of my friends] was born there. He was there since he was only that tall, just like me. He lived inside the palace; I lived at the back of it. He asked me, “It’s the story of that compound, right?” Of that compound, I knew only the kitchen. So I’ve used that, the kitchen scenes. The chief cook, her helpers, how they lived together, how they quarrelled, I know everything. The back of my house touched the kitchen.

So, in my Story of Jan Darra, there’s the cook all right.’

∗

Thanon Nangsue, September 1985; the cover story on Utsana Phleungtham is the source of much of the information used here.

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382 Pramoon Un‐hathoop, alias Utsana Phleungtham∗, was born on 17 June 1920, the first of eight children of Un (a low‐level civil servant) and Pheurm Un‐hathoop. His first name was Pra‐ phatsorn, but it was changed to Pramoon to ward off the evil he suffered as a sickly infant: a local, still widespread super‐ stition has it that changing your name diverts misfortune by fooling the gods. Perhaps the gods were fooled: Praphatsorn may well have withered away; Pramoon promptly recovered.

Like Jan Darra, Pramoon was doubly lucky: he learned English almost as soon as he could read and write Thai (something exceptional in Thailand at the time, especially in the lower middle‐class), and he was able to develop and cultivate a passion for books: his native shophouse on Barn Mor Rd, at the back of the palace, sold newspapers, mag‐ azines and books on the ground floor. From an early age, Pramoon was a voracious reader, which may help explain his extraordinary sophistication as a writer – one who never completed his secondary education, and doesn’t let you ignore it: ‘Not bad, wouldn’t you say, for a third‐year second‐ ary student of yore.’ ∗

Utsana is sanskrit for un‐ha (his father’s name, Un, is a variation of un‐ha), meaning ‘heat’, ‘hot season’ or ‘warm’. Pramoon, ‘to bid’, can mean ‘to add’, which is the meaning of pheurm, his mother’s name. Pramoon used other pen names as well – Jao Jampee, Marlarthorn Un, Thong‐khamphaeo, PUT and Jorree. Since we are with names, it’s worth noting here that one of the subtle pleasures of the story is the names of the various characters, besides Jan and Pree: Darra means ‘star’; Bunlueang, ‘famed for her merit’; Waht, ‘drawing’; Wilaireik, ‘beautiful drawing’; Khajorn, ‘one moving in the air’ or ‘to dissemi‐ nate’; Kaeo, probably ‘apple of the eye’ as in kaeota; Saisoi, ‘necklace’, but soi may mean ‘to grieve’; Old Phum, ‘bush’ or ‘shrub’ or else ‘handsome woman’ as in phumphuang; Khein, ‘bamboo mouth‐organ’ (khaen), and Krathingthong, ‘golden gaur’ or ‘golden bison’. The less subtle of these names is Waen (“Miss Hole In One”), which means ‘ring’ of the kind worn on a finger.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

383 In later years, he became a noted translator of mostly second‐rate, bestselling American authors (Sydney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Louis L’Amour, Raymond Chandler…) and his rendition of Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat is considered a model translation. He also adapted short stories by DH Lawrence (notably ‘The woman who rode away’) and claimed Lawrence had the most influence on his writing. Paradoxically, exposure to English and American literature was a major contributing factor in his mastery of the Thai language.

At twelve, he entered a government secondary school near Wat Pho, and took English and French evening classes at another school nearby. Three years later, however, the Un‐ hathoop family moved to the Thon Buri side of the river.

As a child, Pramoon was curious and mischievous but a good student, and he liked to explore Bangkok with his friends. Much of this transpires in the pages of the novel in which Jan Darra explores the heart of Bangkok. Like him, upon turning sixteen, his excellent results at school soured overnight; a change in the curriculum didn’t give him a chance to further his education through the normal channels.

At eighteen, unable to gain access to university, Pramoon enrolled in a land surveyor’s course but quit after two years to become a journalist. He had hardly started writing feature articles and advertisements for beauty products, however, when the Japanese occupation of Thailand took place on 8 December 1941. The newspapers he sent his stories to were closed down and Pramoon returned home, where he stayed until he passed the entrance exam for the department of cooperatives. His first wartime posts for the department were just outside Bangkok (Samut Prarkarn, then Bang Phlee) be‐ fore he returned to the capital. During this time, he courted THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

384 Prayongsee Narkhanart, the younger sister of a well‐known journalist and publisher∗. Prayongsee devoted her life to teach‐ ing and ended her career as headmistress of the prestigious Lower Rajini School (‘And if a former alumna of Rarchinee School were to object…’). They married and had two sons and a daughter, Sireim‐orn Un‐hathoop, already mentioned.

As soon as the war was over, Pramoon went back to jour‐ nalism, teaming up with his brother‐in‐law. Over the next quarter of a century, he worked for no fewer than six publica‐ tions (most notably the weekly review of the daily Sayarm Rat) but had to give up in 1971 due to bad health. A heavy drinker, he was plagued with stomach ulcers since his mid‐ thirties. Surgery in 1959 took away one third of his stomach.

Four more operations were necessary between 1970 and 1973, and, until his death on 11 January 1988, he was in and out of hospital for other ailments and more surgery, reading English novels but no longer able to write. One wonders how much of his physical ordeal has coloured Jan Darra’s musings on death and the double and improbable case of impotence that ends the novel.

The distant, sad eyes behind thick‐rimmed glasses never changed, but the neat and fairly handsome man in his thirties and forties let his hair grow longer in later years as his face turned puffy with age, suffering and booze, giving him a slightly seedy avuncular look that befitted his sulphurous reputation as a literary sex maniac. Yet, journalists and writers knew him as a fastidious editor whose sense of lan‐ guage was the envy of everyone. A quiet man with simple

∗

Prayat S Narkhanart, better known under his pen name Nai Ramkhan, Mr Annoyed, which can also be understood as ‘the boss is annoyed’.

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385 needs and tastes, he kept to himself, spoke little but was always to the point. As a writer, he was incredibly fussy and would agonise for days over le mot juste, and some of his short stories were several months or even years in the making. His output (at least as Utsana) has therefore been limited – besides another, unfinished novel∗, only five thin volumes of short stories.

These stories vary considerably in length; some could easily pass as novellas. They all deal with relationships, and more often than not with sexual themes, in a way which can be titillating or tantalising yet is never vulgar.

Pramoon was 44 and a well‐known writer when he started penning The Story of Jan Darra, which was serialised in 1964 in Sayarm Rat’s weekly review, of which he was assistant editor at the time under Khuekrit Prarmoat, aristocrat, writer and politician and future prime minister. The novel raised a storm of jeers and few cheers, but Khuekrit deflated much of the protest when he answered a reader’s long diatribe asking him to condemn this ‘obscene’ story with only two words: ‘Phom chorp’ – I like it.

Printed in book form in 1966, the novel has been reprinted three times, in 1977, 1986 and 1991 – not counting alleged unauthorised editions. The latest Thai edition, on which this translation is based, was excellently produced but very shod‐ dily edited. Misprints come thirteen to the dozen; in several cases words have been dropped; and in others the wording is so contrived, improbable or even nonsensical that we had to ∗

Rueang Khong Weik Surisee Rjs, The story of Weik Surisee, Rjs, was supposed to be a mystery novel spanning a man’s lifetime. How much of it he wrote is not known. Perhaps as part of the mystery, the authors always refused to say what ‘Rjs’ in the title stood for.

THE STORY OF JAN DARRA | UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM

386 suspect poor editing – and work out our own solutions with‐ out access to any of the previous versions or, indeed, to the author. All correctable mistakes have been corrected as a matter of course (including Khein’s age when he meets Jan for the first time – he must be sixteen, not eleven as in the Thai version; besides the fact that Khein is older than Jan, who is seemingly fourteen‐fifteen by then, how many sexual experiences would a boy of eleven bring back from the countryside?).

There are also a few discrepancies in the text which are clearly the author’s, and which should have been ironed out with him during his lifetime. We have deleted a nonsensical notation regarding the heavy industry in which His Lordship invested most of his fortune, which, if it was ‘still in its infancy’ twenty‐five years from the time of writing, could not have ‘recently celebrated its fiftieth or sixtieth anniversary’, as the Thai text has it. Similarly, when Jan questions Mrs Kaeo about how long she has known of his relationship with Mrs Bunlueang, we changed her second answer, ‘Since you came back – from Phijit – the first time,’ to: ‘Since after you left – for Phijit – the first time,’ as it doesn’t make sense that Mrs Bunlueang would have waited three years to confide to Miss Kaeo ‘that since she couldn’t sleep with you [Jan] anymore, she’d leave me and go back to Penang for good’; besides, it is clear that, when Jan returns from Phijit the first time, after three years of exile, Mrs Bunlueang and Miss Kaeo are already on the best of terms. On the other hand, we left the bit about Khajorn being ‘promoted to the rank of general when he was just past forty‐five’. We know from early on that Khajorn is ‘one or two years older’ than Jan, who would thus be at least forty‐three when he writes his confession, UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA

387 although we are under the general impression from the con‐ text that he is only forty‐one or perhaps forty‐two at the time of writing (‘a little over forty’). Another problem of age we could do nothing about is the age difference between Mrs Bunlueang and Jan, which is presumably twenty years to begin with, then twenty‐one‐twenty‐two and twenty‐four near the end. Furthermore, in the chapter introducing several characters, Jan is fourteen‐fifteen, except in the section about Mrs Bunlueang, in which he is hardly ten! The deduc‐ tion comes from: ‘I’ve been wondering ever since how it was that His Lordship waited for so long before he took Mrs Bun‐ lueang and Master Khajorn to stay with him in the compound around that time. Since… my mother’s body had been cre‐ mated, he… had waited another four or five years.’ Jan’s mother was cremated five years after her death, which was also Jan’s birth. Five plus four or five is nine or ten, not fourteen or fifteen. Besides, if Jan were only nine or ten then, it would mean another five or six years before he made his move to introduce himself to Mrs Bunlueang, whereas the rest of the section gives the definite impression that it was only a matter of months before he did.

These are minor blemishes in a very intricate structure which the author has assembled with painstaking attention to detail. They are more than offset by the intricacy of the tale and the subtle links attentive readers will find between its various parts.

MARCEL BARANG

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388 PS: In 2001, the novel was turned into a movie, Jan Dara, by Nonzee Nimibutr (nonsee nimiboot), one of whose main posters spawned an irreverent, I mean irrelevant, variation.

UTSANA PHLEUNGTHAM | THE STORY OF JAN DARRA