the medium | wimon sainimnuan by marcel barang

the medium WIMON SAINIMNUAN

the medium TRANSLATED FROM THE THAI BY MARCEL BARANG

WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM

1 At first cockcrow, Kharm got out of his mosquito net and went outside to wash his face on the platform. Myriad stars still twinkled in the sky. The predawn air was crisp and invigorating. He smelt the sweet scent of the cold season coming with the wind from the river. When he had washed his face, he removed the piece of chequered cloth from round his neck and dried his face with it as he walked to the inner part of the veranda. He sat down, reached for the tin lamp by the central pillar of the house and lit it. Ka-long pulled back the foot of the mosquito net and got out. The tousled long hair that framed her gaunt face made her look like a banshee. She looked at her husband for a moment then rose to her feet and took her pregnant belly to the back of the landing. Kharm flipped the lid of his snuffbox open and took out a piece of dried palm and some tobacco to roll himself a cigarette while staring absentmindedly into the blur of dawn. When he had rolled it, he tightened it up with his fingers and clipped it between the straight line of his lips, lifted the tin lamp and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette, one hand cupped against the wind. The heat made him screw up his face; he narrowed his eyes and frowned. He drew two or three times on the cigarette and choked on the acrid smoke of the kerosene. When he had THE MEDIUM | WIMON SAINIMNUAN

4 put down the lamp, he settled into his usual posture and smoked unhurriedly. His tense eyes were lost in the distance as if he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel the taste of the cigarette. At times he let out sighs without realizing it and they were as sad and tense as his face and eyes. The clatter of his wife lighting the fire to warm up the rice in the kitchen, the mumbling and tossing in his sleep of his four-year-old son, even the crowing of the cocks under the house failed to rouse him from his musings, until the stub burnt his fingers and he let it fall through a crack in the floorboards. He got up and walked off the platform, knotting his cloth trousers at the waist before going down the stairs and disappearing into the dim twilight. A moment later, the sound of logs being axed rose from the hillock at the back of the house. The noise woke up the birds, which started chirping in the bushes, and the chickens left their roosts under the house and came out to forage for food. The sow opened her eyes but went on lying on her side to let her young fall over themselves to reach her teats in a quaint concert of squeaks. The stars were fading as the silver and gold rays of dawn spread in the sky. Straining and grunting, the sow got to her feet. Her flat snout shrank and dilated as it stared at the bright red eye rising from behind the treetops. Kharm turned sideways to the pregnant sun and went on wielding the axe without paying attention to anything. By his side he had a pile of firewood already split. Behind WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM

5 him was a pile of round logs still to be split. In front of him a brown shorthaired dog with cocked ears sat panting, tongue hanging out, and quietly watched him cut the wood. Further out, there was the stable, whose two buffalo now stood staring at the sun, their tails occasionally flaying at the mosquitoes. Kharm set in place a log as thick as his thigh, then straightened up and lifted the palm-sized blade of the axe high above his head and then, heaving, swiftly brought down the full weight of the blade, which caught the log right in the middle. The log snapped asunder. A flying shard caught the dog, which jumped with a yelp then, whining, hobbled around in circles for a while. When it was done whining, it went back to sit in the same fashion, but a little farther away than before. The sun emerged from behind the treetops. Its orange light washed over the land, giving a mysterious green shine to the foliage and the grasses sprinkled with dewdrops and a sheen to Kharm’s sweaty body, which glistened as if wrapped in cling film. There was the swish of a dress coming close. Kharm knew it was Ka-long but he went on splitting wood. The swishing stopped by the pile of firewood and it was a while before her voice rose. ‘Go have a look at the bank, will you.’ Kharm bent over to pick up a chunk of wood and threw it onto the pile of firewood. Then he pulled himself erect, the head of the axe resting by his feet. His right hand held THE MEDIUM | WIMON SAINIMNUAN

6 the tip of the handle loose at waist level. His other hand scooped the sweat from his brow down to his chin then went to wipe itself against the hip of his baggy trousers. He heaved a tired sigh. ‘What is it now?’ He sounded irritated. She wasn’t surprised. He had been like this since they had set up together. ‘The water – the water, you know. You should go have a look.’ Kharm looked beyond the house pillars at the riverbank and saw the current running swiftly. ‘It shouldn’t be coming up this fast,’ he said, then resumed his wood splitting with a will. Ka-long began to tidy up the pile of split wood. She wanted to say that this year there was going to be a big flood again, but she didn’t want to hear his gruff voice. The young boy came running to his father to report, ‘I’m up, dad.’ Kharm stared at his son and saw his face was still wet, so he chided him: ‘Why didn’t you dry your face properly first?’ The little fellow wiped his left cheek and then his right cheek against the sleeve of his shirt then ran away. Kharm shouted after him: ‘Don’t go play anywhere near the river, you hear? A flood’s coming and it’d take you away.’ ‘Do you think there’s going to be a big flood this year?’ Ka-long couldn’t refrain from asking. ‘Can’t you see for yourself? It’s rising fast.’ His voice was harsh, his eyes still on the log in front of him. ‘What are we going to do if there’s a big flood?’ WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM

7 ‘What can we do? We’ll get the things into the house, that’s what.’ ‘And what about the pigs and buffalo?’ She motioned with her head towards the stable. ‘This hillock’s too small.’ Kharm was quiet, thinking about what his wife had said. The plough handle, yoke, harrow, shovel, hoe, spade, sickle, spraying machine, cast-net, bamboo coop and the other small implements could be kept up there in the house, but the hillock wouldn’t hold the pigs, buffalo, chickens and ducks. He thought of the Khoak Phranang temple: if he took the pigs and buffalo to the back of the temple, the hillock here would be large enough to hold the chickens and the ducks without a problem. ‘You don’t have to worry.’ His voice was no longer tense. ‘You’ll keep the buffalo at the temple, is that what you’re thinking?’ she asked as if she had read his mind. ‘Yep.’ Her face grew more alarmed. ‘Don’t you know the abbot has forbidden it?’ Kharm turned to look at his wife. ‘How can that be? We’ve always done so.’ ‘Yes, but since Father Nian has come, he’s said it makes the temple dirty for the visitors. Last year some people took their buffalo there. He said the temple wasn’t a refugee camp for animals.’ Kharm’s face tensed up. He went on splitting wood THE MEDIUM | WIMON SAINIMNUAN

8 without saying a word. When he had got through the pile, he put the axe on his shoulder and left the hillock. Kalong shouted after him: ‘Where’re you going now? The water’s rising.’ ‘That’s why I’m going.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘To find a place for the buffalo.’ ‘With flooding like this, no one will be spared.’ ‘I got my own idea.’ ‘So where is it you’re going, then?’ Ka-long asked, worry in her voice. Kharm shouted back angrily: ‘The hillock at the back of the ricefield, that’s where.’ Ka-long stood up and stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears. She felt like telling him not to, but by the time she had made up her mind, he was too far away.

WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM

2 Since the rain of the Lent season had come visiting, Meik was again the victim of insomnia, which had left him alone ever since Pha-yia’s arms had started to keep him warm five years ago. Every night now, he felt his bed, pillow and mosquito net stiflingly hot as if he stood next to a furnace and it made him so agitated he couldn’t get any shuteye until deep into the night. Even when he was asleep, he kept seeing in his dreams that gorgeous body, that fair-skinned face with flushed cheeks, those ripe breasts and fully formed hips. Even before cocks crowed, he opened his eyes and stared into the dark, wishing the dawn to come quickly. When the sky began to light up, he went out of the house to shower, and by the time he returned Pha-yia had already warmed up the rice. He didn’t pay attention to his wife, who sat forlornly in front of the oven. He went inside to dress, and when after a while he returned to the veranda, he was terribly handsome, his hair so carefully combed you could almost count the strands. ‘Where are you going so early, darling?’ Meik stretched his T-shirt to make it fit better before he answered. ‘I’ll have a look at the rice to see if the birds and the rats haven’t damaged it.’ THE MEDIUM | WIMON SAINIMNUAN

10 Pha-yia shot him a dirty look, so incensed she almost opened her mouth to ask him why he had dressed for a temple fair if he was headed for the ricefield, but she didn’t want to have words with him. ‘Won’t you eat first?’ ‘You do that. I’ll be on my way. I’m worried about the rice.’ Meik, whistling, walked at a leisurely pace, afraid sweating would mar his appearance. As soon as he reached the way in to the hillock of the guardian spirit, he stopped and told himself he should go and pay proper respect to the spirit this time around. For two months now, since he had fallen for Nongpha-nga, he had merely bowed as he went by while asking under his breath for the guardian spirit of the sacred banyan tree to help him make his love for her come true. He left the red dirt road and took the dyke built to reach the hillock where the banyan tree stood. The closer he got the more certain he felt the guardian spirit would help him, as it had once helped him to get Pha-yia. He stood collecting himself in front of the shrine, looking at the tree trunk, which was so thick it’d take two men to girdle it. Long strips of ancient yellow cloth were wrapped round it. The branches had festoons of roots dangling all the way to the ground. Leis of fresh and plastic flowers hung off the trunk, the branches and the roots. At the foot of the tree there was a plaster image of the Buddha, head missing, as well as figures of palace WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM

11 people, elephants, horses, lingams and a dilapidated spirit house, all in a large heap, and all over that heap there were also bunches of incense sticks. Taking it all in, Meik had the impression he could feel its sacredness and miraculous power. As he knelt down, he chided himself for having forgotten to bring incense along but he reasoned it didn’t matter: the guardian spirit wasn’t offended because he had come with due respect and true faith. Meik prostrated himself three times, then, hands joined in front of him, cleared his throat a little. ‘O Lord of the banyan tree, Your servant here is in deep trouble. If You don’t help him, he’ll surely die. That is, he has fallen in love with Nongpha-nga, Headman Thongma’s daughter, who is from around here. He humbly asks for Your help once again, so that You bend her heart to love him as much as he loves her. If You help him achieve his purpose, he’ll present You with three pigs’ heads, plates and plates of white and red sweetmeat, hundreds of fresh leis and as many boiled fatted chickens as you wish. May You grant his request – er – and make it happen soon, O Lord.’ Meik brought his hands to his forehead and prostrated himself three times again, then used both his palms to sleek his hair to bring him luck. He felt certain Nongphanga would soon be his. As soon as he stood up, he was startled by a sturdy body standing by the shrine, scythe in hand. Meik tried to say something to hide his embarrassTHE MEDIUM | WIMON SAINIMNUAN

12 ment but it was as if his mouth was bewitched. The other wasn’t talking either, but merely went on staring at him with a dour face. Meik had to hold his breath before he could open his mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Cutting the grass.’ ‘What did you wish for?’ Meik thought Kharm was keeping a promise to the spirit by cutting the grass. ‘Nothing. I’ll keep my pigs and buffalo here.’ ‘Aren’t you scared?’ ‘Of what?’ Kharm still stared without blinking. ‘Of the guardian spirit, of course.’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘You mean you dare look down on Him?’ ‘I’m in trouble.’ Kharm’s voice was arch. Meik prepared to reply at length, but then thought better of it and left in a hurry. Kharm followed him with increasingly angry eyes, but then his anger changed to hurt when the picture of Pha-yia in Meik’s arms crossed his mind. ... Wimon Sainimnuan, born 1958, is a foremost, if contro‐ versial, Buddhism‐inspired Thai novelist and short story writer. Through his punchy writings, he pursues a double reflection on the nature of the individual and the social forces that mould and maim it. His novel on cloning, Immortal, won him the SEA Write Award in the year 2000. The Medium is the second volume of his Khoak Phranang quartet, which starts with Snakes and also includes Khoak Phranang and Lord of the Land, all available in English on thaifiction.com only.

WIMON SAINIMNUAN | THE MEDIUM