The Blind Earthworm in the Labyrinth

by Veeraporn Nitiprapha

  And Chareeya really didn’t seem surprised, just like Chalika had said. You should have told me yourself, Pran / Told you what? / About you and… Lika. Pran didn’t say anything. The city street was deserted and the blinking traffic light changed colours, presiding over emptiness and silence. We grew up together, I’m not a stranger – Lika is my sister, you’re like my brother. He still didn’t say a word. You’re treating me like a stranger. There was rancour in her voice, yet Pran remained quiet. He didn’t know how to respond.

  Never mind, it wasn’t necessary – she wasn’t under any obligation to understand him and he wasn’t under any obligation to explain the inexplicable or, indeed, to make any effort at all. It was just a Friday night that had caught him and Chareeya with too many unresolved feelings – he didn’t know what they all were or where they had come rushing from. And so, it became just another Friday night, like any other Friday night before Chareeya had come back into his life.

  And it was just another Friday night on which he imagined her standing before him, staring at him in the dark. There was a shimmer of light that grew bright and then faded into darkness, then grew bright again and faded again, like those traffic lights presiding over emptiness. Every time she reappeared in the bright light the distance between them grew wider and wider, and then she backed away from him one step at a time. Another step, and then another, until she disappeared forever into the dark void that had always been in his life.

  XXI

  Baby Seeds

  N ual, can you tell which of your children belongs to which father? Chalika asked out of the blue. Nearby, Nual’s five children from three fathers were cutting and wiping banana tree leaves to be used for wrapping desserts at the shop. Dissimilar in looks, shape, and complexion, they ranged in age from seventeen to six, and the only shared feature to indicate they were siblings was the wide, sincere smile inherited from their mother Nual.

  Of course I can. Any mother can / Have you told the fathers which ones are theirs? / No, I haven’t / Why not? / Because they never asked so why would I tell them? The kids all love all their fathers, and all the fathers love all their kids. What’s the point of knowing who came from who? Nual said, looking straight ahead, eyes clear as a pond.

  Listen, my grandma told me that children don’t belong to their fathers. Seriously, they’re like… Like seeds that have been in a woman’s womb since she was born. Chalika listened, amused. When we meet a man we love and he loves us, we’ll dream / What kind of dream? / That we want to be with him, become his girlfriend, something like that. And if we keep dreaming for a while, the dream will make the seeds grow into babies in our bellies.

  Come on, Nual! You make it sound like babies are pomegranate seeds! Chalika let out a hearty laugh, her head tilted as she looked endearingly at Nual. To Chalika, Nual was a friend and sister, almost like the mother she and Chareeya had never had. Likewise, Chareeya and Chalika were the family Nual had never had. She had lived in the house since before Chalika was born, since she was still a girl herself, and after fate had taken her on a whirlwind journey across half the country.

  Nual lived an ordinary childhood in the countryside until she turned twelve, at which point members of her family started to take turns dying. First, her uncle contracted a terminal disease caused by love. Then, another uncle fell sick with an outlandish malady that had no medical explanation and caused every bone in his body to rot and turn into a shapeless jelly, like old pillows, by the time his body was placed into a coffin. And that funeral was barely over when Nual’s father died after he got lost in his own sleep and couldn’t find his way back.

  The council of elders in the village unanimously concluded that these deaths were the work of the ravenous pob* ( The ever-hungry pob is a kind of Thai ghost or demon that possesses humans and devours their entrails.) ghost, that demon that can possess a human without anyone knowing; once it descends upon a household it can take the lives of an entire family, starting with the men and rounding off with the remaining women. Frightened by the evil invasion, Nual’s mother took her children and swam across the Mekong River to seek help from a Khmer witch doctor on the Cambodian side of the river. To ward off the pob, the shaman inked a blue tattoo of ancient Khmer hieroglyphics on Nual’s arm. It was a lengthy scrawl that ran from the inside of her elbow down to her wrist, and years later the letters would fade and become unintelligible as Nual grew up and her limbs lengthened. Though the tattoo remained there in the shallows of her skin, it was useless and, actually, just a reminder of the pain she had endured when the needle pierced her body, and of her inescapable tragedy.

  Worse, the tattoo didn’t placate her mother’s fears. And old Grandpa Sam next door fanned the flames of panic when he told her that the talismanic scribbling on her children’s arms was in fact an archaic alphabet unused for three millennia. The pob won’t be able to read it – it won’t be scared away, he said wearily, shaking his head and walking off. Terrified that the pob couldn’t read the ancient writing and would abduct her son in his sleep as it had done her husband, Nual’s mother resorted to waking the boy every hour to make sure he couldn’t wander so far off in his dreams that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. So, the boy could get neither a full dose of sleep nor a sufficient fix of dreams. After a few days, he couldn’t bear it any longer and fell asleep while he was swimming, sinking sweetly and unfathomably into multiple layers of dreams in which he was asleep in each one. He woke up in the second layer of his reveries, couldn’t surface to consciousness in time, and died in a river no deeper than the height of his own chest.

  Late that night, both husband and son visited Nual’s mother in her dream. They seemed to glow with health, and she couldn’t believe that the two men who, when alive, had thought only about themselves would have the courtesy to drop by and bid farewell on their way to the next world. She interpreted their visit to mean that they had in fact come to take her with them to the afterlife. In panicked terror, Nual’s mother woke her daughter up in the middle of a starless night intent on fleeing with her one remaining child to face an unknown destiny somewhere else, without waiting for dawn to break. In great haste, mother and daughter gathered their belongings beneath a dim light that flickered on and off, the electrical circuit having broken down when those who knew how to fix it were already dead. A gush of wind swept through the house and Nual’s mother turned around to look but couldn’t recognise her own shadow in the throng of shadows dancing around her. Jolted by fear, she sprang up and tripped over her own legs. The shadows swayed restlessly as Nual rushed to grab her mother’s arm. In that critical second, the damned light went off completely and the mob of shadows leapt upon her mother as if they were yanking her back. The movement caused Nual to misjudge the distance between her and her mother so that her hand grasped nothing but air, leaving her mother to fall from their house-on-stilts and break her neck in the shadows’ embrace.

  The relatives were terrified and refused to take in the orphaned Nual for fear the girl would bring the pob to wreak havoc in their houses. Their solution, after all options had been exhausted, was to send Nual to live with a distant relative who knew nothing about the pob-induced calamity in the northeastern town of Mukdahan, hoping that the demon would leave the village to feast on the souls of those far-away people instead. From that day on, no one ever died in Nual’s village again. Decades later, the village was populated by old men and women who staggered around, sick and undying. Rumours spread that it had become the lair of a new species of immortal pob, and strangers dared not pass through the village either by day or by night.

  Not long after Nual moved to Mukdahan, the distant aunt she was with lost her job and sent her to work as a dishwasher with an acquaintance in Khorat. Soon, the patron in Khorat caught her husband making eyes at the girl and decided to nip it in the bud by sending Nual to a friend’s vegetable farm in Ratchaburi. Shortly thereafter, the farmer in Ratchaburi grew sick of Nual’s face for no apparent reason and shipped her off to work with a
sister in an orange grove in Nakhon Chai Si. But, just as Nual arrived, the woman took off to Bangkok and she was entrusted with yet another acquaintance who promised to find her work. After being packed off to another acquaintance of another acquaintance no fewer than eighteen times, Nual met Aunt Phong the cook when Mother was pregnant with Chalika and looking for a nanny to help around the house. Can a child look after a child? Mother had wondered as she looked at Nual, all skin and bone, taking the girl into the house out of sympathy.

  Her skin smooth and coffee-coloured, her voice as delicate as her name suggested* ( In the Thai language, the name Nual conjures up feelings of softness, warmth and beauty.), her eyes as clear as a pond, Nual was barely fourteen on the day Chalika was born. She had traversed half the country, still horrified by her near homelessness and haunted by a premonition that she would die while fleeing her own shadows like her mother. At that point, she dug in and vowed that she would never run away again, that she would be ready to accept anything, including the three boys who came into her life concurrently.

  Closer, baby, closer. Move closer, baby, move closer… The three boys busily sorting santol fruit looked up on hearing the silky voice singing a hit country tune by Pumpuang Duangchan* ( Pumpuang Duangchan (1961-1992), daughter of a poverty-stricken farmer, became a legendary singer of luk thung (a style of Thai country music that chronicles the life and woes of the rural poor) and died tragically young.). They saw Nual with baby Chalika chuckling in her arms, gliding past them ever-so slowly in the shimmering sunlight that reflected off the river into the orchard, sparkling like an image from a dream. The three boys froze on the spot: love had struck them point blank and simultaneously.

  The boys drew straws to decide the order in which they would take turns approaching her. They agreed that if the girl succumbed heart and body to one of them first, he would get to have her. After rebuffing him until she became too tired and soft-hearted, Nual allowed herself to fall into Pang’s arms first. But she was such a sensitive and caring soul that she asked him to keep their relationship secret so as not to hurt Reow and Pan. Later, Nual fell for Reow and asked him to keep it a secret so as not to hurt Pan. Finally, she became sentimental over Pan since she didn’t want him to feel humiliated after what had happened between her and his two friends.

  As soon as everyone’s turn was complete, as soon as the boys detected the heat coming off each other’s bodies, as soon as the secrets were no longer secret, the three friends fell irredeemably for Nual. It was a clean sweep – such was her power. Even though their friendship had been formed in the orchard and their mutual feelings for the same women had compelled them to try and get out of each other’s way, they still couldn’t suppress their emotions, and none of them could resist Nual’s genuine and unconditional love. After they finished sorting santol fruit each day, the three boys would go their separate ways but they still took turns visiting Nual.

  Amidst that crowded love, Nual bound the three men together for life. Reow’s mother died yesterday, poor him – he doesn’t earn enough to organise a proper funeral, Nual pursed her lips, voice trembling, and Pang and Pan chipped in for the funeral costs. Pang had a motorcycle accident and broke his arm. Now he can’t work and he doesn’t have enough to eat, I’m so worried, Nual voiced her concerns, and Reow and Pan gave her rice and dried food so she could give them to Pang. Pan’s lost his job but he still has to send money home – he must be so stressed, she said gloomily, and Reow and Pang gave her some money to give to him, then they went around looking for work for their unemployed friend. Time and again, just like that, they helped each other out to satisfy the woman they loved. The three friends were supposed to stop being friends and had no reason to look out for each other but before they even realised it they had become sworn brothers who would die for one another.

  It was unfortunate that Nual had been terrorized by the pob as a child and didn’t have a chance to get a proper education; she was illiterate, but the schooling she had received from the uncertainty of life had taught her not to expect anything. Not only did she satiate her lovers fairly and with the kind of all-encompassing degree of love that only family-less people can offer, she also saw and accepted each of them for what they were. Reow’s compassion, Pang’s intelligence, Pan’s heated athleticism in bed – put them all together and it was a package that not even a fully educated and wealthy woman could hope to find in a husband.

  And so it went on like that, without any kind of urgency. Nual and her three husbands and their five children would be joined by twelve more grandchildren in later years, and would pass their lives without any of them ever once feeling inadequate or lacking.

  So, Nual, do you love all your children’s fathers? / Yes / Equally? / Yes, extra-equally!

  XXII

  The Shipwrecked Heart

  P ran never knew why he and Chareeya spent so much time watching emptiness move within the larger emptiness of that intersection. It was a small spot, barely visible on a map of the roads along the Chao Phraya River. When other parts of the city were still busy with traffic at that hour, the corner was deserted, hushed. A bend in the road was lined with three or four old shophouses with elaborate designs that evoked the elegance of the Victorian age. Besides that, there was nothing special about the place.

  As they stood watching the traffic lights change colours, as was their habit every Friday night, a car stopped at the crossroads. In that instant, just before Pran could start walking, and at the precise moment when the light turned green, Chareeya rushed out in front of the car, which had just accelerated in haste. The driver had to yank the wheel violently to avoid her and the car scraped past Chareeya, who lost her balance and fell in the middle of the road.

  Go die somewhere else, bitch. The car screeched to a halt and the enraged driver opened the car door to scold her. He was a young man, visibly drunk and unable to drag himself out of the vehicle. Go fuck yourself bitch, don’t get me into trouble. He turned to glare at Pran, who was rushing over to help Chareeya. Put a leash on your lady, mate, if she’s upset with you don’t let her mess with other people. He babbled a catalogue of expletives to cap off his ranting. Pran waved him away and lowered his head in a gesture of apology. The driver, still angry, slammed the car door shut and floored the accelerator. The car sped away, leaving Chareeya sobbing on an invisible X-shape marked on the road.

  Pran put his arms around her to help her up, supporting her weight until she was back on the pavement. He scanned her from head to toe for signs of injury. Are you hurt? / I don’t want to live, Pran. Tears streamed down her face as she spoke. Before Pran could say another word, she shook him off and started running as fast as she could, as if she was running into empty space. But it wasn’t empty space; she ran straight into a wall, hit the mass of bricks and collapsed backwards, slumping arse-first onto the ground. She carried on sobbing and Pran, confused by what had happened, stood transfixed, watching her. When he came around, he helped her back up again repeating, Charee, Charee.

  Chareeya didn’t reply. She just kept crying. A gust of wind from the river blew silently through the darkness, and then tranquility took over and all that remained was a trail of teardrops sparkling against the distant light of the stars. Pran grabbed her hand and held it tightly as they walked home, her tears falling all the way, and he didn’t dare say a single word. He felt a simmering anger at himself for having been so self-absorbed with his own pain, his own despair, so much so that he never asked how she was doing, how she was getting along, what her problems were, or who had put her in such a state. One wave of fear after another swept over him – primal and oppressive and suffocating.

  The garden radiated the familiar smell of burning leaves, an aroma of sorrow that wafted through the air all the way to the main road and caused a homeless man who had been sleeping at a bus stop to wake up and lose his mind, shouting and crying in such profusion that tears stained his soot-covered face like a meteor shower. And Pran found himself standing in front of Chareeya by
the room with the yellow door, deaf and mute, as hesitant as he had been the last time. And she didn’t ask him to stay and keep her company as he was hoping she would. Behind her, a grey shadow fell, shimmering, just like the last time, except there was no milky white butterfly in sight.

  Thank you, Pran, was all she said. Though he knew, unequivocally, that she wanted him to leave so she could lie down and cry, he didn’t budge. Chareeya stared at him for several seconds, then moved to close the door. Pran blocked it lightly with his hand. Go home now, Pran, she said weakly. The red bruise from her impact with the wall had become visible on her forehead. Pran was scared, his heart pounding too fast from the fear of having to leave her alone. Before she could protest any more, he took a step forward, occupying space just inches from the threshold so that she couldn’t close the door again. The grey shadow behind her flickered with greater frequency.

  Seeing him standing there, rooted to the spot and completely mute, Chareeya screamed with rage, Go away! She swung the door forcefully in his face and ran to the bedroom. Pran pushed the door with both hands and followed her. Chareeya slammed the door of her bedroom shut in his face. Pran growled as he kicked the door with all his strength. It sprung open and he stood, suddenly still, one leg propping the door up against the wall.

  Panting, glaring at him with the eyes of a cat, like on the day of the red praduu tree, Chareeya’s scream was fuelled by pure anger: Life has betrayed me! And with that she leapt at him, shoving him so aggressively that Pran staggered back as pain gripped his stomach. And yet, he ground his teeth and stepped forward to face her again. Chareeya howled like a madwoman and lunged at him again: Life has betrayed me! Can’t you hear me? It has betrayed me! The third time she leapt at him he took her in his arms. Life has betrayed me, don’t you get it?