Eventually, Taew started to go over to Mitr’s shop for a friendly chat whenever Chong was there for a haircut. Chong wasn’t aware that it was anything out of the ordinary. He figured that it was normal for the two hairdressers to drop in on one another. But Mitr knew full well what was going on, and he was always crabby when giving Chong a haircut. Chong grumbled about how Mitr’s service was getting shoddier and shoddier. The barber was doing such sloppy work that whenever Chong came home from a haircut, the kids would make fun of the missing bits on the back of his head. Mitr even occasionally nicked Chong on the ear with his razor.
Taew then started to send the children from the neighborhood to take food or other little gifts to Chong after they had haircuts. The grocer, once he realized the situation, grew uneasy. He accepted a gift from her the first time, but after that, he had the children bring them back—though without success. Eventually, he admitted defeat and let the kids keep the gifts.
For three months, Chong didn’t get his hair cut at all. But one day he couldn’t take it anymore, even though he was still afraid to go to Mitr’s. At nine p.m., he closed up the grocery, having decided to drive into town and look for a barbershop. Kampol was staying with him that night, so he got to come along in the pickup to check out the town after dark.
Kampol was wide-eyed with excitement. He couldn’t sit still and was constantly looking left and right. Restaurants and bars vied for attention with their bright lights. Chong cruised down one street and up another. Eventually, he came upon a stretch of road where both sides were lined with barbershops and hair salons, ranging from fancy to old school to rundown. They found a parking spot, got out, and strolled around looking for a shop that seemed suitable, eventually settling on a timeworn, wood-front shop run by a middle-aged man, which happened to have no customers when they arrived.
“I’m going to go take a walk,” Kampol whispered to Chong.
“Okay, don’t wander off too far. And don’t cross the street.”
Kampol gave his word and was out the door. He headed straight for Cholchai Barber, which drew him like a magnet with its bright, blinking, color-alternating lights: blue, pink, yellow…blue, pink, yellow. At Sakdi Modern, there was a headshot of a man with a snazzy smile, a pompadour, and full sideburns. But when the lights flashed, his hairdo turned into a mass of curls. The lights flashed again, and this time his hair was stick-straight, cascading over his forehead and almost shoulder length in the back. The lights flashed again, and this time the hairstyle cycled back to the pompadour. Kampol kept walking, checking out one shop after the other.
When he reached the end of the small street, he turned around and ambled back, gazing across the street at the opposite side the whole time. He wanted to cross and have a closer look but didn’t dare since Chong had forbidden it. The other side of the street was all hair salons for women. Outside of one shop, which had only regular neon lights—nothing interesting—a group of five young ladies, dolled up in full makeup, were chatting. Kampol stopped and stared. He thought he knew one of the women, but he wasn’t sure because of the way she was dressed—she looked totally transformed.
Since he wanted to be sure, he yelled as loudly as he could: “Taew!” But then he lost his nerve, thinking he might be yelling at a complete stranger, so he ducked down and peeked at her from behind a navy-blue car.
Taew turned—as did the other four ladies. Still not entirely certain, Kampol kept spying on her, until he heard a stern “ahem” from behind him. He spun around to find a large, pot-bellied man, expensively dressed and sporting a gold watch. “Get the hell away from my car!” the man snapped. Kampol scuttled backward and hid behind another car instead. At the same time, he saw Taew cross the street with a plastic bag in her hand. She approached the man.
“Are you already leaving, sia? Why aren’t you spending any time with us tonight?”
“What are you selling, sweetheart?”
“Towels.”
Kampol listened from his hiding place: Taew was here to sell towels, that was what she was doing. He heard the man ask the price, but he didn’t stick around to hear her reply. He dashed off to tell Chong about the encounter.
“Really?” Chong asked, startled. Since his haircut had just wrapped up, he hurried out to see for himself. Without needing to get close, he recognized her; it was unmistakable. Yet he shook his head, incredulous.
“Go over there, Hia Chong. We should help her out by buying one of her towels.”
Chong dragged Kampol back to the truck and they headed home. The whole way back, the grocer’s brows were knit.
The following week, all of Mitr’s clients were trying to console him: Taew had found herself a boyfriend, a sia even, a rich man of Chinese descent. The guy’s fancy navy-blue car was parked in front of her shop most of the time now. Once, as Kampol passed he spotted her boyfriend getting out of his car. Taew was waiting for him out in front of her shop with a smile. Kampol rushed over to them, thinking he had bragging rights.
“Do you remember me, sia? You saw me outside the beauty salon in the market, remember? When you bought a towel from Taew.”
Taew’s eyes grew wide. Her boyfriend narrowed his, staring down Kampol as if he had a score to settle with him.
Phra Soh
When monks from Samed Temple were out doing their morning rounds for alms, they would stop in front of Mrs. Tongjan’s home, without venturing farther in among the tenement houses. It was for a good reason: Mrs. Tongjan was the only one who gave alms with any regularity. For everybody else, it was something they did once in a blue moon, and so if they were feeling like giving they waited in front of their landlady’s house. The exception to the usual arrangement was during Buddhist lent, when the number of monks temporarily swelled, owing to a bunch of monks newly being ordained. Near Mrs. Tongjan’s housing community, there was only one monk who was a perennial morning fixture. The neighborhood folks never bothered keeping track of his rank. They simply referred to him as Phra Soh.
Phra Soh’s strict discipline inspired respect. Every time he accepted food, he said an entire prayer in a clear, loud voice, blessing the almsgiver. He was the only one who adhered to this practice. Everybody knew that Phra Soh couldn’t read and write, having never gone to school. Back when he was committing all of the prayers to memory, the first step he had undertaken was to record the chants on cassette tapes. Then he replayed them over and over, repeating the words to himself. Now, fifteen years into his monkhood, Phra Soh was louder than all of the other monks when he recited the prayers he’d long learned by heart. The people from the neighborhood adored him, admiring his determination. But his illiteracy prevented him from ever becoming abbot of his temple; even when it should have been his time, he’d always stepped aside and allowed a more junior monk to take the spot.
It wasn’t only the people of the neighborhood and his fellow monks that revered Phra Soh. Momo, Mrs. Tongjan’s ferocious dog, also loved him, acting like the monk was his master. Momo went above and beyond for Phra Soh, treating him like nobody else.
Very early every morning, Momo trotted out of the house with purpose. A short while later, he would lead Phra Soh back to where Mrs. Tongjan was already waiting with her serving bowl full of rice. When Phra Soh stopped, Momo would stop, too, sitting down by his side. Mrs. Tongjan would squat down and raise the bowl of rice over her head—Momo would never take his eyes off her throughout the entire process. After she had risen to give him the food, she would squat down again, waiting for the monk’s blessing. As Phra Soh prayed, Momo’s ears would stand erect, and he would whimper. Mrs. Tongjan, with her eyes squeezed shut and clearly moved, would raise her joined palms to her forehead once the chanting broke off. When she opened her eyes again, Phra Soh would already be on his way. Momo would keep his head bowed, walking behind the monk and wagging his stubby tail that was no longer than the length of a hand. He would go with Phra Soh about as far as where he’d picked him up—the same routine every day.
Monks out on
their rounds for alms either had temple boys walk behind them wearing alms bags on their shoulders, or they dangled from their own arms those saffron totes in which they transported the curries and other dishes they were given in little plastic bags. The last couple of days, Phra Soh had come with a new temple boy carrying his alms bag for him. The boy was Noi. Noi had vanished from home a week earlier. His mother, Kan, had gone searching for him, crying hysterically. Mrs. Tongjan had seen him each morning, but she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone because she didn’t know that he’d run away from home. It wasn’t until Chong spotted him one morning that Kan learned her son had gone off to live at the temple.
The day after Chong told her, Kan showed up in front of Mrs. Tongjan’s house to give alms and ask Phra Soh to take her son under his tutelage. The monk smiled but did not otherwise reply. Noi himself didn’t say a word, not even looking at his mother—he acted as though they were strangers. Kan didn’t speak to him either. Seeing Noi as Phra Soh’s disciple, she felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. It was something to be happy about. Not only would he have a roof over his head and food in his stomach, he would also receive the guidance and instruction of the monk. Down the line, perhaps Noi might see the light of dharma, get ordained, and receive his education that way; perhaps one day even becoming a monk as respected and inspirational as Phra Soh.
But for some mysterious reason, Momo didn’t like the look of Noi, even though they had never had any real interaction when Noi had still lived in the neighborhood. But now that Noi was carrying the alms bag for Phra Soh, Momo, when he saw the boy, greeted him with a low growl. Phra Soh had to call his name sternly to get him to behave. He would quiet down, but the look in his eyes said he still had it out for the new temple boy. Noi was nervous around the dog. When they got close to Mrs. Tongjan’s house, he would fall back five meters to let Momo and Phra Soh lead the way, side by side.
After the first month, Noi had noticeably transformed. He now wore a new shirt and pants that looked nice and neat—nothing dirty and shabby like before. His hair, too, was cut short and combed, and he looked different with his face clean and the happy glow about him. His feet, which had been perpetually bare, now had new shoes on them. But Momo’s animosity toward him seemed to grow every day. He growled even more fiercely, his hackles raised as if he were ready to sink his teeth into him. Noi kept on guard.
Kan came again to give alms so she could thank Phra Soh. “I’m so grateful, Venerable Sir. You’re making a decent person out of him. Oh…I’d love for my son to stay on and be ordained as a novice. Do you think he would be able to do that?”
“Have patience. He’s not ready yet. Let’s give it some time.”
Kan waied Phra Soh, bringing her palms all the way above her head. “Please look after him for me.”
Everybody had noticed Noi’s transformation, but no one had detected the changes in Phra Soh, even though they were there for anyone to see: a gloom had washed over him; he had the brooding eyes of a person who was burdened by something he couldn’t put down and that he saw no way out from under.
Phra Soh dedicated a great deal of effort to try and use his teachings to reform Noi. In the month that had passed, the money he kept in a wooden box had twice gone missing. The other monks had also started complaining about things that were disappearing. Most recently, the lock on the storage room had been picked, and several valuable items had been taken. Phra Soh was more distressed every day. It seemed his teachings weren’t taking effect quickly enough; there seemed no way to avoid getting the law involved. Still, Phra Soh hesitated—he felt sorry for Noi, who was only eleven and still just a child. He truly believed that young wood was still pliable.
Only Momo sensed Phra Soh’s heavy heart, how the weight of his worries exceeded what he could lift. One morning, as soon as he laid eyes on Noi, he bore his fangs and began taking slow, menacing steps toward him. No amount of admonishment from Phra Soh worked. Noi backed up one step at a time, but Momo didn’t relent. Phra Soh saw that the situation was going nowhere good.
“Noi, just put the alms bag down and go home. You can’t stay at the temple anymore. The police are coming today to investigate the things that have gone missing.”
Noi’s face showed that he knew he was in trouble. He took the tote off and laid it down. As soon as the bag was resting safely on the ground, Momo charged him. Noi ran, terrified.
Tail wagging, Momo carried the alms bag to Phra Soh. The monk took the bag from him, put his own arm through the strap, and pet the dog’s head affectionately. They walked on, side by side, with a new lightness in their steps.
Boats Are Bigger Than Trucks
On his piece of paper, Kampol had drawn a picture of a large white water truck and was busily coloring in a sky-blue stripe along its side. When he finished, he showed it to his deskmate.
“Somdej, look. This is my papa’s water truck. Isn’t it nice?”
Somdej craned his neck over. “Really? Your papa drives a truck? Is it that big?”
“It’s huge,” Kampol said, bragging. Then he leaned over to inspect his friend’s drawing. “What’s that? A boat?”
“Yeah, it’s my papa’s fishing boat,” Somdej told him. “It’s even bigger than a truck. Have you seen one up close? Have you ever been on a boat?”
Kampol shook his head. “I don’t want to go on a boat. I prefer trucks. Sometimes on Saturday or Sunday, I ride in the truck with my papa when he’s working. You want to come along sometime?”
Somdej shook his head. “Every weekend, I go clamming with my mama.”
“What?”
“Clamming,” Somdej repeated. “We dig for clams—Venus clams, to be specific—right outside my house. Do you want to go clamming with us?”
Kampol’s interest was piqued: “Outside your house—so we’re going in the ocean?”
Somdej smiled, bragging now, too: “If you come, I’ll teach you how.”
The prospect of going clam digging in the ocean—Kampol couldn’t stop talking about it for days. When the others heard, they wanted to come along, too, but Kampol told them he was the only one who had been invited. Chong seemed concerned. “Clamming in the ocean? Do you have to get on a boat? What will you do if you fall in? Are there adults going with you? How far are you going out? How are you going to eat?… Maybe you shouldn’t go.”
On Saturday, though, Kampol was ready to go early in the morning. Chong had packed him a lunch, and he’d found himself a bag to put the clams in. He waited for Somdej at the corner of the main road, where there was a little pavilion.
Somdej’s mother was petite and very lean. She was wearing a sarong and a kawgrachow top with a long-sleeved shirt over it. She and Somdej arrived on a noisy old motorbike. Somdej had his arms wrapped around his mother’s thin waist; Kampol got on, hanging onto Somdej in the same way. The motorbike zipped in and out of little alleyways, improvising a shortcut to the sea.
In front of Somdej’s house, there wasn’t what one would call a sandy beach. The muddy ground dipped into a shallow basin, which was littered with rotting seaweed. Beyond that was a bar of mud and black sand—broader than a soccer field. The ocean was a blue swatch far in the distance. It was low tide. To have the tide go so far out during the day was lucky for the clam diggers. When they dug at night the flashlights on their foreheads were the only source of light. There was a smattering of people on the sandbar. Somdej’s mother marched ahead, a rake slung over her shoulder. Somdej and Kampol, each with their own rake, ran after her.
“Like this,” Somdej told Kampol. He straddled the rake handle, which he gripped with two hands, and then he started backing up. As the thin strips of metal combed the sand, clams were pulled up from the crumbly surface. When his rake caught on something, Somdej would dig it up. It was sometimes a clam, sometimes not.
Kampol tried it. Every time he found a clam, he shrieked. When he finally looked up and around him again, he was surprised to see people everywhere, all with their own tools and
none of them paying attention to anybody else. Kampol watched the ones who were doing it differently than the others.
“Why are they doing it like that?” Kampol asked Somdej, pointing. A number of men held a spade or short shovel in their left hand, while in their right they carried a stick with a flat plate on the end, which they glided back and forth over the sand.
“They’re looking for gold that tourists have dropped.”
Kampol immediately felt his blood pumping. Not only were there clams here, there was gold. With any luck, he might find some himself. Kampol got right back to work; he raked and raked, keeping his head down, knowing that he was racing the other people, who also refused to take their eyes off the ground. The sky was clear; the wind whipped and the sun seared. Kampol was tired, and his arms were sore. He wanted to run toward the sea in the distance. But he fought back the urge because he wanted gold. Around him, there were more and more people all the time. The smooth areas, free of rake marks, became more and more scarce, while the raked, crumbled sand spread rapidly.
Close to noon, the clammers ran out of places to dig. People had mobbed the beach as if a big festival had been planned, so everyone wound up going home with only a few clams. When they went back to Somdej’s to put the rakes away, Kampol heard screaming and swearing coming from inside the house.
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve got to take a shit. Hurry, damn it!”
Somdej and his mother ran into the house. Curious, Kampol followed them up the stairs. Somdej’s mother was helping a man take his pants off. She pushed him up so he was sitting, slipped her hands under his armpits, and lifted him with all her strength. Somdej quickly stuck a chamber pot under him. That’s when the cantankerous eyes of the shitting man landed on Kampol. Kampol jumped and scampered down the stairs. He ran to the beach and sat under the shade of a coconut tree to eat his lunch. A moment later, Somdej joined him with a plate of food.
Bright Page 14