by Ben Ezzell
Below, the new gardener jumped, startled at the sudden intrusion. Then, looking up the slope, the man responded quickly enough, “Krahp! I come. One moment.” He gave the smoking heap another poke with the stick before dipping the bamboo shaft in the river and climbing the bank.
Farmer’s Market, 11:50 AM
“Jasmine rice, basmati, sticky rice,” Nolan enumerated. “Long grain, red rice, sweet rice … Uh, I’m not sure of the last one,” he faltered, facing the long line of baskets, each heaped with grain, arranged in three stepped rows.
“But why three baskets of each?” Sarah wondered. “And three prices? Those are different prices, right? And so many kinds.”
“Staple food,” Bren suggested. “Like different kinds of bread, right?”
Nolan nodded.
“But why,” Rosalyn returned to the original question, “each in three baskets? They are all the same kind, aren’t they? And the prices are different, aren’t they.” While the Thai alphabet was quite unfamiliar, the numerals used for prices were the familiar Arabic symbols employed virtually everywhere and in any language.
Each mound of grain was marked with a small sign stuck in the rice with those on the highest step bearing the highest price and those on the lowest the cheapest.
“Three grades,” Nolan offered. “Whole grain rice is most expensive – fancy rice if you like. The middle row is less because it hasn’t been graded or separated. And the broken grains are cheapest – they’re used mostly for grinding into flour. No point in paying more if you’re only making pasta or flour.”
“How absolutely sensible,” Joan remarked. “But which are we buying? The fancy grade, I suppose?”
“Actually,” Nolan confided, “it would be more sensible to buy the middle grade. Just because we’re rich farahng doesn’t mean we have to be foolish. Expensive restaurants, of course, would never buy any except the finest. Not that their customers would be likely to notice.” He paused and smiled. “On the other hand, since the difference in price is really quite small – a few cents – I suppose we can afford the best? Boost the economy and all?”
Baan Orchid, 12:05 PM
“Ow my boorhe, krahp?” Khun offered the red and white box of Marlboroughs. The imported cigarettes were more expensive than local brands – too expensive perhaps for a simple gardener – but Khun’s preferences were well established and he’d given no consideration to the brand as a possible flaw in his disguise.
“Mai ow, kahp.” Tahm declined. “Not smoke.” He was leaning against one of the banyan trunks, looking at the river. Khun was behind him, sitting on the steps coming down from the smooth lawn at the top of the bank.
“You like work for Baan Orchid, krahp?”
“Kahp. Nice people, good job. Some farahng not always nice but most good people.”
“Young farahng much drunk,” Khun observed, adding a complicated pun comparing the young man to a water buffalo.
“It happens sometimes. Mai pen rhy.” – It doesn’t matter. – “What do you do before this?”
“Help Uncle in small shop,” Khun offered a fictional history. “Sell fish, vegetables, fruits. Uncle say get Saanpa come home, do job for Saanpa while not here. I think Saanpa have easy job, say okay.”
“Not so easy, mai kahp?” Tahm had noticed the young man’s limp and that he wasn’t as comfortable with the work as one would expect of an experienced gardener.
“Kahp!” Khun agreed readily. “But maybe chance see something of city, mai kahp?” That, he thought, sounded appropriate enough for a small town visitor.
“Expensive sometimes,” Tahm cautioned. “And,” he reflected, “too many jii khoh.” Tahm added a brief account of the stolen luggage, concluding: “Be careful, mai kahp?”
Farmer’s Market, 12:14 AM
“Not exactly up to health code standards is it?” Jeremy gestured at the large porcelain-finished metal tubs, each heaped with mounds of a coarse paste. From one tub to another, the contents varied in color, ranging from almost black with a reddish tint to browns, reds and greenish-brown to off-white. Each was draped with a loose piece of clear plastic.
“Depends,” Nolan considered. “In Seattle, perhaps no.” Seattle was the corporate headquarters for the Chez Watz chain. “In the States, I suppose it would have to be frozen or canned before sales would be permitted.”
“With preservatives added, naturally,” Bren contributed. “Or do I mean ‘unnaturally?’ Anyway, what is it? A dessert of some kind? Or a condiment?”
“These are pastes for some of the curries I mentioned. All made fresh, probably this morning. The whitish one is fermented soybean paste – perhaps a week old, kept cool but not too cool while aging. The reddish-pink is shrimp paste. You can get most of these in canned form in Oriental markets state-side but, here, we’ll buy fresh.” He turned to the vendor to negotiate price and quantity, finally exchanging a small handful of coins for two plastic bags containing scoops of the shrimp and the red curry pastes.
“And this,” Nolan addressed his followers, “pretty well concludes my shopping list. Tahm should be waiting for us with the van. Unless there’s something you’d like?”
“Lunch,” Tanya suggested. “That barbecued chicken over there is making my stomach feel shamefully neglected.”
“Plah should have lunch waiting when we get back,” Nolan counseled. “But I don’t think there’d be any objection if you picked up a couple.”
12:30 AM
“Ah! Gai yahng aroy mak, kahp,” Tahm commented as the party boarded the van – barbeque chicken very delicious.
“I hope that four of them will be enough,” Tanya worried, hefting the bag. “Should I have bought more?”
“I doubt that we’ll starve,” Nolan grinned.
“Something I was wondering,” Bren asked. “When you were talking about Thai table manners? And only using the fork for serving or as a scoop but not putting it in your mouth?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“Then what’s the etiquette for barbecued chicken? I mean, a spoon doesn’t really fit …”
“Think about it this way,” Nolan suggested. “The custom about forks is about the same as putting a table knife in your mouth would be in the States. Or in Europe, of course.”
“Or eating with your left hand in the Near East?” Joan guessed. “Except here it has something to do with knives and forks both being sharp? Of course, in medieval Europe and England, when silverware was rare, the host would often share his fork with an honored guest. I suppose it’s easier to carve a spoon out of wood than it is a fork. Does that have anything to do with it? But the chicken … That’s obvious. Even Judith Martin – Miss Manners – admits that barbecue is always a finger food. A functional consideration, is that it?”
“Well, I hadn’t exactly analyzed it like that,” Nolan admitted, laughing. “But, yes, I guess so. Incidentally, chopsticks are used for noodle dishes. If that’s a problem for anyone, go ahead and use a fork. Farahng – tourists – are expected to be a little odd anyway.”
Nolan’s joking permission was answered by a ragged chorus of: “Mai pen rhy!” meaning ‘no problem’ – an expression everyone had quickly adopted even if a few of the pronunciations were a little rough or oddly accented.
Baan Orchid, 1:15 PM
“Okay, ground chili, vinegar, honey, lime juice and fish sauce. And that’s it?”
“And bring to a boil, yes. But you’ll need to refrigerate it if you’re going to make any quantity. Still, it will keep for a week or so. Just bring it up to room temperature before serving. And the chicken should be roasted over charcoal for the smoked flavor. You might,” Nolan offered, “consider tossing a few lime leaves on the coals for extra flavor.”
“Mesquite? Or hickory?” Bren wondered.
“Maybe,” Jeremy suggested, “we could import tamarind chips. To add to coals.”
“Free range chickens, of course.”
“Served over the jasmine rice? With shredded dakon a
nd ginger? But a red wine, not white.”
“A full bodied St. Estephelle, maybe?”
“Or the Clos d’Bois.”
“Personally,” Sarah interjected, “while I know nobody will pay forty a bottle for Thai iced tea, I think the cold smoky flavor is the perfect compliment for gai yahng.”
“She’s right …”
“… of course but …”
“… unless we could market it …”
“… as a non-alcoholic, herbal infusion …”
“… and priced accordingly …”
“Come, dear,” Joan laid a hand on Sarah’s arm. “Let them argue it out. I simply must go back and buy those silks. I was dreaming all night that someone else had gotten them first.”
2:35 PM
“Kun Mam, kahp? I need go errand short time,” Khun wai’d respectfully. There’d been no chance to use the phone here – not privately. And he did need to call Baw so Baw could call the American farahng and tell him that there would be opportunity this evening.
“Do you want ride? Tahm is taking Kun Joan and Kun Sarah to shops.”
“Mai ow, kahp. Can walk to store down street.”
There was a bar on the corner, two blocks down. There Khun had marked a sign indicating a public phone. A cell phone would have been so much more convenient but a simple gardener did not carry a cell phone. If someone had found it …
No, better to use pay phone, Khun decided, feeling in his pocket for coins.
Night Market, 2:50 PM
“Thank you, Tahm, but, no, I believe we can shop by ourselves.”
“But I get good price. Carry many package.”
“It’s a girl thing,” Sarah insisted. “I think Kun Joan wants to try bargaining on her own.”
“Girl thing? Mai kow jy, kahp. Not understand.”
“Uh … mai pen rhy. Just … we’ll be fine. I’ll call if we need anything, ka?”
“Kahp!” Tahm accepted the dismissal reluctantly.
Somphet Reua Bar, near Baan Orchid, 2:55 PM
“Mai, I will call later. When is time, kahp!”
Khun hung up the phone, crossing to the bar to order a Carlsberg. Being a gardener was hard work – too much like being a fisherman or pushing a samlor. Still, he reminded himself, being gardener at Baan Orchid was paying very well.
One beeuh. Then he would go back to being gardener.
DragonTree.com Contents
Chapter Ten:
Chapter Ten:
Baan Orchid, Chiang Mai, Tuesday, February 6th, 4:27 PM
“Nolan? Are you busy?” Roselynn was standing in the kitchen doorway, blinking as she tried to adapt from the bright sunshine outside to the relatively dim interior.
“Not really,” he responded, kneeling by the stove and peering through the oven door. “Just making sure we have everything. I wasn’t going to start dinner for another hour. What’s up?”
“I want to talk to you,” Roselynn sounded excited – or stressed.
“Is there something wrong?” Nolan closed the oven he was examining and stood upright.
“Yes … no … I don’t know. I mean,” she took a breath, collecting herself. “I know in Europe they used to trap starlings, wrens and sparrows using nets and they’d roast them. And there are always quail and game hens and such but these are so small – it hardly seems worth it. And, yes, I know, customs are different here.
“So,” she paused thoughtfully. “I suppose its prejudice, right – like eating dog, maybe? Which I hope they don’t serve here, do they? Or monkey? Because I’m not sure I could eat monkey either. Those are the ducks, right? And I’ll certainly eat them, of course. But this is different, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Nolan suggested, “you should tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Oh dear, I’m not making sense, am I? But it’s the birds, of course. From the market.”
“Sorry? Birds?”
“That I bought at the market. I have them here – on the lanai. I asked Tanya to keep an eye on them. And when we came in with them, Kun Tahm and Kun Mam wai’d us and said something. ‘tam boone’? Is that like Tahm’s name or something? Or is it a recipe? I don’t understand. And I think the lady I bought them from said that too.”
Suddenly, the wrinkles disappeared from Nolan’s forehead, then others appeared on his face as he laughed. “It’s all right,” he tried to speak through the laughter. “Come on,” he took the woman by the arm. “You say they’re out on the lanai?”
“Yes but …”
“I’ll explain,” Nolan promised, still fighting laughter as he led Roslynn out in the sunlight. “Uh, yes, ‘tahm boon’. ‘Tahm’ means ‘make’ – it’s a nickname because Tahm makes things. But ‘tahm boon’ means ‘make merit’. And, no, it’s not a recipe – not for food anyway. It’s more like a blessing. A better translation would be ‘to acquire or create merit’. If you give something to someone – a mendicant or a beggar – you would say ‘tahm boon’. It’s recognition that what you’re doing is for your own benefit, not theirs – that you’re doing it to acquire merit. Oh, and don’t expect them to say ‘thank you’ – it would be impolite. Thanking you would imply that you weren’t sincere.”
“But the birds …” She picked up one of the crude cages from the table.
The cages looked rather like large pie plates crudely woven from coarse grasses. Two of the smaller cages had been made by folding them and lacing the edges together with more strands of grass. The two larger were made by lacing two of the grass pie-plates together. In all, the four cages were each different sizes, each one holding two to five small wrens.
“You’re supposed to release them,” Nolan explained. “To make merit by doing so. Of course, they’ll probably fly back to the same place to be caught again …”
“Then … they don’t eat them?”
“No,” Nolan restrained himself to a grin. “But I believe it’s considered kind to feed them.”
“Sahmrahp nohk, ka,” Plah appeared from the kitchen, offering a plate with scraps of fruit and bread. “Tahm boon, ka.”
“For the birds,” Nolan translated.
“To feed them? Oh … oh, thank you.”
“No thank,” Plah corrected. “Tahm boon, ka.”
“Tahm boon,” Roselynn agreed, accepting the dish. “I … Yes, I see.”
4:55 PM
“Every winter, around New Year’s – the Chinese New Years, that is; the Thai New Years comes later – the bird sellers will be out on the streets. It’s not so much a business,” he explained, “as it is religious. The sellers weave the baskets, feed the birds to tame them and catch them, then bring them down to the market and sell them to passersby who take them home and release them again, acquiring merit by doing so.”
“But the sellers,” Sarah questioned. “Do they – uh – lose merit by catching the birds? Is that – ah – bad karma?”
“Not exactly,” Terry stepped in. “Because they feed the birds and because they’re helping other people to acquire merit, they also acquire merit.”
“Huh!” Bob snorted. “Like the opposite of a catch-22? Everybody wins?”
“And the birds get fed … and probably acquire merit, too,” Terry chuckled. “Buddhists don’t believe in zero-sum game theory.”
“Probably but, right now,” Nolan changed the subject, “I think its time to start dinner.”
“Fine,” Bob agreed. “But, tomorrow, I’d like to film this. They’ll still be selling birds tomorrow, won’t they?”
5:10 PM
Khun had the wire in his pocket. A short strand of stiff wire bent in a U-shape, the ends were stripped bare while the center was tightly wrapped with strips from a plastic bag.
For the moment, all he could do was wait.
He was occupying his time by sweeping the carport near the kitchen. Unlike the front part of the house which was raised, the kitchen and rear section was no higher than the ground outside. From the carport, Khun could hear – and, to som
e degree, see – what was happening inside.
Hearing, however, wasn’t helping much. The farahng all spoke English and they spoke too quickly, sometimes several talking at once.
Walking past the screened windows, Khun sniffed. Looking inside, he couldn’t see much – it was too bright outside and too dim inside – but he could smell soup on the stove. That was what he was waiting for.
Continuing past the kitchen, Khun stepped into the room behind, then knelt by the wall, feeling with his hands instead of turning on a light or allowing his eyes time to adapt.
Quickly enough, his hand brushed across the outlet.
Keeping his hand on the plastic panel for position, he fished the wire loop out of his pocket with his free hand. Then, holding the wire carefully by the knobby plastic wrappings, he fitted the two ends into the two round openings in the panel, jerking back suddenly as the outlet briefly spat sparks at him.
Scrambling up from the floor – he hadn’t really been hurt, only surprised – Khun stepped outside again, returning to the kitchen. Inside it was even darker than before, the farahng voices a mumble of confusion.
“What wrong?” Khun stepped inside, reaching for the light switch and clicking it several times. “Why light not work?”
“Kun Khun,” Nolan addressed him. “Do you know where is electrical panel? I think fuse blow.”
“Mai kow jy, krahp,” Khun responded mendaciously – ‘not understand’. “Is problem?” He stepped further inside, reaching for the second switch by the steps up to the front room. This one also clicked several times without effect. “No light,” he added quite unnecessarily.
“Mai pen rhy, kahp,” Nolan instructed. “I’ll find Terry … or Tahm.” He stepped out the door to cross to the other house.
Khun watched the man leave. Then, ignoring the remaining farahng – most of whom were also stepping outside where the light was better – Khun crossed to the stove, one hand dipping into his pocket as he bent to sniff the kettle slowly simmering on the burner.
“Aroy mak, krahp,” he commented, straightening and looking around. No one was watching.