“Get up, Dr. Charn! Get up! Let’s go—today we’re going to settle this once and for all.” The doctor was agitated and getting louder. “With a doctor like you, polite conversation won’t solve anything. It’s got to be settled this way. Come on, fight me!”
When Dr. Charn came to his senses and regained awareness of his surroundings, the first thing he saw, looking through the doctor’s legs, were people, a throng of them in the street crowding outside his gate. They stood hushed, staring silently.
The doctor quieted down when he sensed that something was off. He spun around and was met with countless pairs of gawking eyes: men, women, the elderly, even children. He froze, but the onlookers didn’t budge. Dr. Charn slowly got to his feet, chuckling to himself.
“How are you going to live this down?” he whispered to the doctor. “In ten years, I’m guessing no one ever saw you get belligerent, barking at someone like this.” Dr. Charn was standing behind the doctor; he would have relished seeing the expression on the saintly doctor’s face then. He noticed the man was trembling, as if he were furious, yet his hands hung limply at his sides and his shoulders sagged, as if he were spent.
Eventually, the doctor turned back around. Dr. Charn could hardly believe his eyes: the doctor wasn’t going to confront him but was evading the villagers’ gazes. As soon as he had turned, he stared at the floor, and tears began to flow.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, sniveling. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m still going to reiterate that I love this place, love the people here. I want to stay here, and I want those people to love me back. Is that so wrong, Dr. Charn? How can I stay here if they don’t love me anymore?”
“Don’t you realize yet, doctor, what’s slipping away from you now? It’s not love. What you’re losing, rather, is your pedestal.”
The doctor fell silent as he listened to Dr. Charn with dismay. He wanted to object but couldn’t manage a word.
“Why are you upset?” Dr. Charn continued. “Didn’t you say you were never after glory? Losing it now shouldn’t matter so much to you then.”
The doctor shook his head, tears still running down his face. “I’m not going to listen to you. You’ve never meant me well—I know.”
“But I’ve never meant you harm either. I simply think that we’re equals, no one more or less than the other. I believe that you’re a good person—a good person in your heart, certainly, doctor. But a laurel has sprung up on your head. It grew out of your good intentions, your generosity, out of the villagers’ love and respect. But it ended up taking on a life of its own, and it’s made you appear grander than your fellow humans, that’s what it is, doctor. But why, why does one human being get to look down at another, and why does that other have to then look up?”
The doctor still had some fight left in him. “Even if I’ve got a laurel on my head like you say, what’s wrong with that, when it grew out of goodness?”
“Once it’s emerged, it’s no different from one that came from evil,” Dr. Charn fired back.
“I don’t believe you, Dr. Charn. You’ve never had one, so how would you know they’re the same?” Those were the doctor’s last words before he spun on his heel and stormed off. The crowd made way for him and then watched him go.
Dr. Charn closed the gate after him, and went over to the old woman and motioned for her to get inside the mosquito net and go to bed. Then he grabbed the wild chicken, now curled up asleep on the door, put it in its tin bucket, and shut off the lights. He felt a sense of relief now that he had decided not to move away. The old lady’s son might never return, and since there was nobody living there, the shed next to the temple would probably collapse soon, if it hadn’t already.
THE NEXT DAY, the doctor went to work at the hospital. On his drive home, he brooded over whether to open the clinic once he got back. Self-doubt rose up inside him and brimmed over like water, and then it slowly receded again, with a struggle. His mind squirmed the entire time. If he opened the clinic and no one came, what would he do? What did people think of him now? Or was this fear an overreaction like the one before? He wanted to know if Dr. Charn had opened his clinic. If so, had any patients gone to see him? Or was he still thinking of moving away?
The doctor turned off the main street and onto a dirt road. Thick rain clouds were moving in from the east, while to the west, a gentle sun cast a warm yellow glow onto the surface of the road, which was muddy and unpleasant to look at. The sun shone on the doctor’s face, but only on the bottom half, because he was sitting up tall so that his eyes were in the shade.
THE WAY OF THE MOON
IN SILENCE, MY FATHER LED ME BY THE HAND AS WE made our way along the path. He had on an enormous backpack. I didn’t know what was inside, but it looked really heavy. With the full moon that night, we had no trouble seeing our way. Still, I kept a tight grip on the flashlight I’d grabbed as we’d tiptoed out the back door of the house, my father tugging at my arm. My father forbade me from turning it on, though, and I realized that if I did, my mother would instantly spot us and his plan would be ruined. I glanced back at the house, now with only my mother and little brother inside. The kitchen light was on; my mother was probably there.
“Are you worried Mama’s going to find us if we use the flashlight?” I asked, already certain of his answer.
“Yes, but there’s more. It’s important, too—how do you feel about walking like this, without the flashlight?”
“Is it because the moon’s so bright that even without the flashlight, we can see everything?” I said, glancing up at him. The moonlight was indeed very bright: I could see my father’s face perfectly. Bending down, he took the flashlight from me and put it in his hulking backpack.
“For me, it’s not just about being able to see. I prefer to hike by moonlight.”
I didn’t catch everything he said, but I knew that my father loved the moon and the way it glowed.
We walked for a long way. I tripped on tufts of grass more times than I could count and struggled on the uneven ground as I worked to keep up with my father. The ocean was getting closer; I could hear the waves. I felt that today I was fully an adult. I might have only come up to my father’s waist, but I was grown enough for him to let me tag along and really do something with him.
And then we reached the sea. My father had brought us to a white-sand beach, very small and very narrow, with a knoll of scary-looking dark rocks to one side. He spread a tarp on the sand near the rocks, put his bag down, and told me to sit tight. The ocean water appeared a shadowy gray, rather spooky. The wind was blowing so strongly that I started shivering as soon as I sat down, but before long my father returned with a heap of firewood. Together we tried to get a campfire going, but it took some time for the flame to catch. In my head I kept thinking about how I had to go to school tomorrow and that my father would probably have us head back soon. I lay with my head in his lap, looking up at the sky. Ribbons of clouds glided over the moon, strand after strand. Sometimes it seemed like the moon was drifting behind stationary clouds, but then the clouds would begin moving again as before. My father picked up his harmonica and began to play, the flames casting a warm glow on his face. The melody and the crashing waves nearly blended together into one sound. I lay gazing at his long beard as it shifted back and forth in the wind, and I was lulled to sleep.
When I awoke, my father was no longer playing his harmonica. Instead, he was singing a song. I thought I’d been asleep for hours, but seeing how the moon had barely moved, it probably hadn’t been very long.
“Do you have a lot of friends, Papa?” I sat up, and we started poking at the fire for fun.
“Yes, Son. Your papa’s got quite a lot of friends.”
“How many, Papa? Twenty?”
“Not that many. I have five dear friends.”
“Oh … well, I have more friends than you do. I’ve got thirty-three! Everyone in my class, they’re all my friends,” I said, wanting to brag.
�
��But I think I’ve got more,” he said, but I doubted it. How could five outnumber thirty-three? He continued, “I know that you don’t understand, but when you’re older you’ll learn for yourself that many of your friends will turn into mere acquaintances, and then you’ll have to go back and recount the number of friends you have left. The five friends I have, that was by my last tally.”
“When was the last time you counted?”
“When I was still a young man.”
“Wow! You haven’t made any new friends?”
“I look for new friends all the time, but it doesn’t come easily.” He left it there, and I didn’t say anything more, but the thought stayed with me. Wait until next year and the following year and each year after that; I was going to keep telling my father how many friends I had left.
We had been sitting there for a very long time, it seemed to me. I was actually getting nervous: my father might have forgotten that I had school tomorrow. The later it got, the brighter the moon shone. I didn’t understand why the moon enchanted my father so much. He never stayed home on nights like tonight. I couldn’t say whether he’d been out doing things like this during every full moon, not that we were really doing anything. We were just sitting around, but my father looked happy, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Our house is in front of the ocean, too. Why don’t you go sit on the beach there?”
“That place belongs to others. It isn’t ours, Son.”
“But other people go sit there, so we can, too, can’t we?”
“Yes, but this place belongs to us. Isn’t it better for us to come sit somewhere that’s ours?”
“Ours? Is it really yours, Papa?” I was overcome with excitement. I hadn’t known.
“Yes … mine, and yours, too. Do you feel like this beach is yours?
“I do, Papa. How long have we owned it?” I was thrilled, and my father seemed pleased to see me that way.
“We don’t own it in that sense, Son; just that right now, in this moment, the beach belongs to us, that’s all.”
My father said those words with a straight face. I didn’t like it when he’d try and trick me like that. In the past, he’d often told me, this here is ours, that there is ours, and I would fall for it and believe him every time. But sometimes, like tonight, I really did feel the same way, that this beach belonged to us, to my father and me.
My father probably noticed that I’d grown quiet, so he picked me up and put me on his lap. He cocooned me in his thick, roomy jacket, buttoning it up and leaving only my face exposed, like I was a baby kangaroo. Right away, I appreciated the cozy warmth.
It was really windy, so the flames ate through the wood quickly. The twigs had completely disappeared; only a large log remained, which probably wouldn’t burn all the way through even after the whole night had passed. Sparks were swirling in the wind. My father rummaged around in his backpack for a few things: there was a can of the beer he really liked, a juice box for me, two large rolls and six tangerines. No, he hadn’t purchased these items himself; he simply took from the refrigerator or the table what my mother had bought to have on hand. Only when I saw these supplies did I realize how hungry I was. My father was probably hungry, too. I slipped out of his jacket, and we finished it all off, except the beer.
My father was about as fond of beer as he was of the moon. On many occasions, my parents had fought about it. My mother said it was a waste of money, but lately she had been the one buying it, and I’d caught her drinking it a number of times when my father wasn’t home. Wait until I get a bit bigger, I thought, I’m going to taste it for myself. But I’d have to sneak around both of my parents, so it wouldn’t be easy.
My father got up and maneuvered the big log deeper into the flames. I was lying on my back, comfortably splayed out, my tummy and mood satisfied. He poked the fire with a stick to keep it neat, and a shower of fiery dots chased one another into the air, the wind as their vessel. I loved seeing them glimmering and glittering in the dark. But they vanished so fast. What a waste, I thought. If they had just stayed in the fire, they would have continued to glow for a long time. But if they really could return to the flames, they would no longer be the sparks I found so delightful.
“Papa, do you like the sparks that float up?” I called out to him. He was still sitting across from me, next to the log, tending to the fire.
“Of course. I’ve liked them for a long time. You’re starting to like them, too, aren’t you?” my father hollered back, smiling broadly.
“Yes, but how do we keep them in the air for longer, Papa?”
“Look at the stars in the sky. What do you think of them?” He looked up, and I did the same.
“You’re right. They look just like the sparks, don’t they?”
“Yes, Son, and they’ve been suspended up there for ages, just waiting for you to notice them.” My father kept his gaze skyward.
“You’re right, Papa. What a fool I’ve been.”
For the first time in my life, I carefully studied the stars. How incredible—they looked so alive. I spotted many stars that had just begun to peek through in the busy sky; some of them little, some of them large, those bodies of light crowding one another, competing for what little empty space was left. There were more stars out tonight than I’d seen on any other night, and I’d already thought they were infinite. We were silent for some time. My father lay down on the sand, resting his head on the long log, the far end of which was burning. The flame continued to crackle, sending more sparks racing up in pursuit of each other. I still liked watching them, but I had stopped feeling that they were being wasted.
The moon had moved and was now hovering just above the ocean. My father stood up, brushed the sand off his body, and came over to sit next to me. He appeared to be wide-awake. I, on the other hand, was getting sleepy and had almost fallen back asleep several times. He sipped the rest of his beer and played the harmonica for me some more.
“Is it difficult to be a writer, Papa?”
He stopped playing. “No, Son, but not everyone can do it.”
“If I love the moon like you do, can I be a writer?”
“Of course. You, my son, can surely be a writer—but the moon can’t be the only thing you love. You’ve got to love other things as well.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t have to choose right now, but you must first be a person who has love inside of him.”
“What are the things I have to do?”
“It’s probably along the same lines as how you’ve learned to appreciate the sparks and the stars. In the future, I’ll help guide you in the right direction.”
“And when will I be able to write?”
“Why don’t you try writing tomorrow? See how it goes, and we’ll go from there.”
“Yes, Papa, tomorrow I’ll start writing.”
My father got up to adjust the firewood once more and then returned to lie down next to me. I nodded off eventually, but I knew one thing: my father never slept a wink. Watching the moon, he never let his eyes rest. He must be waiting to catch it falling into the water, I thought. But even after I’d woken up, it was still floating in the sky, and even after the sun had risen, it continued to stay there suspended, glowing white like before.
MY FATHER LED me by the hand as we left through the back door. Together, we walked quietly along the path, his backpack looking like it had grown a little since last time.
“Why is it so dark tonight?” I asked as he clicked on the flashlight.
“We left a little too early today. The moon’s not out yet. What did you talk about with your mama?”
“Mama gave me a blanket to bring along. She said she doesn’t feel like writing me a sick note like last time.” I was smiling in the dark. My father probably was, too.
THE SECOND BOOK
BOONSONG JAISAMAK MUMBLED THE ADDRESS TO THE driver and climbed into the back seat. He was holding a brown paper bag on his lap. The driver pulled the ricks
haw away from the curb and pushed himself up onto the saddle, tensing his legs as he began peddling. The breeze brought with it the stink of the driver’s body odor and the smell of alcohol. Boonsong quickly expelled his breath and averted his face, knowing his efforts were in vain. Eventually, he resigned himself to the situation and sighed. This guy probably hasn’t showered for three days, he thought. And he probably has alcohol pumping through his veins. Poor bastard. Gradually, the rickshaw picked up speed. The driver swerved and dodged adroitly, his judgment evidently unimpaired by the inebriation. Boonsong sighed again, this time at himself, his thoughts wandering back to days gone by.
Even now, he still couldn’t believe that he’d ended up a man with nothing to show for all those years. He’d given it everything he had; there was nothing more he could have given. From here on out, he wasn’t going to hope, wasn’t going to persevere, wasn’t going to try and control his life anymore. Disappointment had ruined him beyond repair, and he couldn’t bear it any longer.
The sky was overcast. The vehicles and homes passing by appeared cool on the eyes without the sun’s glare. Boonsong had known this town well as a child. His family had stopped here often, parking their pickup truck to shop for household items and agricultural supplies and stock up on dried foods, before dashing off to the farm, which was in a remote area and could only be reached via back roads. The last thirty or forty years had brought many changes, leaving him with nothing he recognized. This area had developed: nice shophouses lined the streets; the roads were neatly paved. It was easy to see and to feel the progress. But the decline and deterioration lurking within him were not so apparent. They were coldly and quietly eating away at his spirit, intent on making him suffer alone. Bitterly, Boonsong reflected on his life: if fate hadn’t cheated him, based on progress and protocol, he could have been the country’s prime minister by now. It hadn’t been unattainable or unrealistic. His current situation, on the other hand, he’d never imagined as a possibility.
Arid Dreams Page 14