by R. P. Harris
CHAPTER THREE
Tua Encounters
an Elephant
“It’s an elephant!” Tua cried out, and rudely pointed her finger.
The moment she saw the elephant swing its trunk and flap its ears, her fears and doubts evaporated.
All Thais love the elephant, from the beloved king in his palace to the monk in his temple; from the baby in the crib to the granny in the hammock; from the tuk-tuk driver to the roti vendor; from the city dweller to the rice farmer. And Tua, being Thai from her toenails to the part in her shiny black hair, was no exception. Tua loved elephants.
Of course, Tua had seen elephants before. Elephants make an appearance in Chiang Mai from time to time to entertain the tourists or participate in some ceremony or another. But there was something about this elephant that was different.
For a start, it was young like Tua—but it was still plenty big, even so. Some elephants are so big that one is reluctant to approach them. They are bigger than cars, bigger than trucks, bigger than buses—at least the wild ones are, or so Tua had been led to believe. (Whoever had led Tua to believe this, she could not remember; so it is probably safe to say that she led herself to believe that wild elephants were bigger than buses.)
But Tua was not the least bit afraid of this elephant. The first thought that entered her mind was: I must go and introduce myself. She had an overwhelming desire to tell it all about herself, certain that it would be just as delighted to meet her.
What stopped her were the two mahouts.
A master mahout becomes one with his elephant. He is brother and sister, mother and father, and son and daughter to his elephant. He lives, eats, and sleeps with his elephant. He feeds it from his table, and bathes with it in the river. The mahout becomes an elephant, and the elephant becomes a mahout. The two are inseparable.
But just as there are all kinds of elephants, so, too, there are all kinds of mahouts. And these two mahouts were as scruffy as sewer rats, beady eyed and sharp of tooth. Whiskers grew in sparse patches on their cheeks and chins like mildew. They were both shifty, but one was long and lean, and the other was squat and pudgy.
There was something about the way the elephant turned its head from side to side and eyeballed the two mahouts that gave Tua pause. And when it caught her gaze, she very nearly tumbled over backward. It was as if it were speaking to her with its eye.
She sat down on the steps of the fountain to give this situation a bit more study and thought.
The short mahout was holding out plastic bags of sliced pineapple and watermelon to some farangs who, in turn, gave the fruit to the elephant. Nothing alarming about that, Tua thought. The farangs gave their money to the elephant, the elephant gave the money to the tall mahout, the short mahout gave the fruit to the farangs, and the farangs gave the fruit to the elephant. It is how the market economy works. But she recalled how Uncle Sip had told her that free trade was freer for some than it was for others, so Tua watched this business transaction more closely. And that was a good thing, too, for the elephant then did something extraordinary—even for an elephant.
After accepting a fifty-baht note from a farang, taking it with its trunk as easily as someone with an opposable thumb and four fingers, the elephant stretched as far as it could reach and dropped the note in the lap of a woman who, motioning with hand to mouth in a pantomime of hunger, sat begging on the street with her baby.
Both mahouts bristled like cats.
“Oh, thank you, chang, thank you.” The woman bowed her head to the pavement.
The farangs grinned nervously, clutched their bags, and reared back on their heels.
“Oh my,” said the short one.
“My goodness,” said the tall one.
“How sad,” said the one in between.
The mahouts snorted and snickered, as if to reassure the farangs that it was all part of the show.
“Did you see that, Nak?” said the short one. “The elephant gave our money away.”
Nak, the tall one, glared at the poor woman, and then smiled at the farangs. “Don’t give them any more fruit, Nang. We’re closed for business.”
After the farangs had gone, the two mahouts scolded the elephant and tugged its ears. Then they went over to the woman and, when they thought no one was looking, snatched all of the notes and coins in her lap.
“Have pity,” she pleaded, shielding her baby. “Have mercy.”
Deaf to her cries, the mahouts walked away with her money, wrapped a heavy chain around the elephant’s neck, and attempted to lead it off. But the elephant refused to budge. Instead, it turned toward Tua and once again held her gaze.
“Did you see that?” it seemed to say.
It wasn’t until Tua nodded her head and mouthed the words, “Yes, chang, I saw,” that the elephant allowed itself to be taken away.
Tua hopped off the top step of the fountain like a cricket; ran over to the poor woman and handed her the twenty-baht note the farang had given her; bowed respectfully, palms together in a wai; and scampered after the elephant.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Elephant Beckons
Tua’s eyes fixed on the elephant: its swaying rump and its swishing tail. The tail seemed to beckon like a wave—like a curling finger. From time to time the elephant looked around its shoulder to see if she was still following. As the streets became alleys, and the alleys became paths, it grew darker and darker. Still Tua followed the switching tail.
“Come,” the tail beckoned. “It’s only a little farther.”
“Forward, brute!” Nak barked, as he struck the elephant’s hind leg with a bamboo stick. “Give my money away, will you? We’ll see about that. No money; no dinner.” And he struck the elephant again.
“I’m hungry,” said Nang. “What’s for dinner?”
“You’re drinking it,” answered Nak, and he passed a bottle behind the elephant’s rump.
Nang drained the contents and tossed the bottle back over his shoulder. It exploded with a crash near Tua’s feet.
“What was that?” Nak spun around, squinted his eyes, and cocked his ears.
“Just the bottle,” Nang shrugged. “It was empty.”
“Not that, you buckethead. Back there.” He pointed to the banana tree that Tua had ducked behind.
“I don’t see anything.”
As Nang peered into the darkness, the elephant lurched forward and jerked him by the chain.
“Whoa, there, you.” He stumbled backward. “Where do you think you’re going?” He struck the elephant another blow and followed after.
The elephant seemed to take no notice of these beatings. Its only concern was whether Tua was still following.
They came at last to a beach beside the River Ping, where the mahouts had made their camp. Nak attached the end of the chain to a stake in the ground while Nang built a fire. As the fire burst into flames on the shore, its reflection did the same on the river. Tua threw herself behind a log to hide from the sudden blaze of light. Trapped until the flames died down and the mahouts retired to their tent, Tua curled up behind the log, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
A chill woke Tua as if a cold, wet hand had reached out and shaken her awake. How long had she been asleep?
She slowly raised her head and peeked over the top of the log. The fire had burned down to glowing embers and the mahouts were nowhere to be seen. The elephant stood at the end of its chain, with its shackled foot extended in the air behind it, as if it were trying to pull the stake out of the ground.
“Hello, chang,” Tua whispered. She was about to ask if she could help, when she read the words in its eyes: “There you are! What have you been doing?”
“Kho thot kha. I’m sorry, chang,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”
Tua rose up, crept over to the tent, peeled back the flaps, and looked inside.
Both mahouts were fast asleep and snoring beside two empty bottles. A large pile of dung sat on the ground outside the tent flaps, like a
trap. Tua looked back over her shoulder at the elephant.
“Don’t look at me,” the elephant’s eyes seemed to say to her. “Now get this chain off my foot so we can get out of here.”
“Kha, chang,” she whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m coming.”
And that is how Tua found herself on the streets of Chiang Mai in the company of a fugitive elephant.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sizing Up the
Elephant
Where does one take an elephant—a fugitive elephant, at that—in the city of Chiang Mai? How does one hide an elephant? Elephants don’t fit into closets, boxes, or drawers. One can’t simply toss a blanket over an elephant and call it a job well done. Someone is bound to notice. Elephants, for better or for worse, draw attention to themselves.
After they had crept far enough away from the camp for Tua to feel safe enough to catch her breath and collect her thoughts, she looked the elephant over as if trying to gauge its true shape, weight, and height. She was trying to imagine it smaller, as if a smaller elephant would be easier to hide than a larger one. But whenever she managed to squeeze it in a box smaller than itself (in her mind, that is), the elephant flapped its ears (knocking the lid off of that imaginary box) and out came its trunk.
Tua wanted to say, “Could you please put that thing away, chang?” but she was afraid it might sound impolite. Besides, where does an elephant put its trunk when it isn’t using it? It doesn’t have a pocket or a purse to put it in. And you might well ask, when does an elephant not use its trunk? An elephant’s trunk is never completely at rest. It reaches with it, like an arm. It grasps with it, like a hand. It breathes and smells with it, like a nose. An elephant’s trunk is always doing something.
The very next thought that stumbled into Tua’s mind was: What am I going to tell my mother?
She imagined herself saying, “Mama, guess what I found?”
That might work with a kitten or a puppy, but it wasn’t going to work with an elephant. And how would she get it up the apartment stairs? Where would it sleep? What does an elephant eat?
Taking the elephant home was definitely out of the question.
“I know!” Tua gasped. “I’ll take you to my Auntie Orchid. She’ll know what to do, she’s an actress. Plus she’s got a yard and a garden,” she added as an afterthought, trying to assure the elephant that she had its best interests at heart. And also that she was of sound mind and judgment, a girl with big ideas.
The elephant gripped Tua’s shoulder with its trunk and, turning her away from the river, gave her a gentle nudge as if to say: “That’s nice. Now let’s get a move on, shall we?”
“Okay, chang, I’m ready,” Tua called back over her shoulder.
CHAPTER SIX
Meeting Auntie Orchid
After following the River Ping in the dark, Tua found her bearings and led the elephant down back alleys and unlit streets until she came to soi four, where her auntie lived.
“Wait here, chang,” Tua said.
She stepped out of the shadows and knocked gently on the back door, imagining what she was going to say to her auntie. But before she had time to rehearse a speech, the door flew open and Auntie Orchid was standing in its place, wearing a red silk robe and green cold cream all over her face.
“Tu-ah!” she sang out, as if calling her in for supper. “What are you doing here?” she asked suddenly, as if she couldn’t remember inviting her over. “It’s late,” she declared. But that made it sound like she had invited her over and Tua was late in arriving. “Well, it’s not that late, I suppose,” she decided. “Come in, if you’re coming.”
“Kha, Auntie.” Tua bowed a wai, glanced over her shoulder, and stepped into the house.
“Was I expecting you?” Auntie Orchid asked as she closed the door behind Tua, thinking it best for both parties if she got this matter sorted once and for all.
“I have an elephant,” Tua said, ignoring the question. Then she began to relate the story of how she had rescued an elephant from a pair of rogues who were mistreating it, how they had stolen money from a poor woman and her baby, and what else was she to do?
“That’s nice, darling,” Auntie Orchid yawned. “Every girl should have a ‘special friend.’” The yawn reminded Orchid that it was quite late after all.
“Kha, Auntie. Can I show it to you?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
“I mean, may I show it to you?”
“Yes, you may,” said Auntie Orchid, “if you must.”
Tua opened the door and gestured with her head for her auntie to look outside. The elephant had moved out of the shadows and was standing on the porch, its trunk curled in front of its face as if it were about to knock on the door.
“See?” Tua turned back to her auntie.
Auntie Orchid clasped her hands to the sides of her head and flung open her mouth as if to scream … but she didn’t. She stretched out her leg and gently closed the door with her foot instead.
“Tua, darling,” she calmly asked, “would you please tell me why … there is an elephant standing on MY … back … porch?”
“I told you already, Auntie. There were two bad men being mean to the elephant and it asked me to help so I followed it to the river and—”
“All right, all right, I remember now. Slow down. Take a deep breath.” Auntie Orchid inhaled deeply, following her own advice. “First of all,” she continued, “that elephant is not an it; she’s a she.”
“It is? How do you know?”
Tua hadn’t considered the possibility that the elephant was a she. It was an elephant. But now it was a she—like she was. Tua wanted to open the door and look at it—look at her—again.
“I know because I am a country girl. That is, I was a country girl. Of course now I’m Lady Orchid, ‘The Lotus of the North.’ And ‘Chiang Mai’s First Lady of Sooong’ (she trilled musically), ‘Comedy’ (she grinned toothily), ‘and Tragedy’” (she frowned forlornly). At the conclusion of this performance, she took an extravagant bow.
“I grew up in the country, and I know elephants.” With that, she flung open the back door and leaned out to look the elephant in the eyes.
“Look at that face! Isn’t she lovely?” Auntie Orchid batted her eyelashes at the elephant, perhaps a little enviously (for elephants have very long and beautiful eyelashes). Then she turned to Tua and added: “But that doesn’t mean she can come in the house.”
“No, of course not, Auntie.” Tua shook her head. “Where should we put her, then?”
Auntie Orchid imagined trying to explain to her neighbors why there was an elephant in her backyard.
“Alright,” she sighed, “but not in the bedroom. And we had better put down some newspaper,” she added with a shudder.
“Come in, chang,” Tua said. She was already thinking that she needed to give the elephant a name.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An Elephant by
Any Other Name
An elephant on the porch is not the same thing as an elephant in the kitchen. Elephants seem to grow larger indoors, somehow. One can’t help comparing them to the objects around them, like the refrigerator, the stove, and the kitchen sink. But an elephant is bigger than all of those objects, even a young elephant. And what’s more, an elephant is constantly moving: flapping her ears, swinging her trunk, swishing her tail, and rocking her weight back and forth and from side to side—as if swaying to music only she can hear. Kitchens with elephants in them are overcrowded rooms.
Tua and Auntie Orchid sat down at the kitchen table—which had to be pushed up against the wall to make room for the elephant—and contemplated the problem, each in her own way. Tua cupped her chin in her hands and rested her elbows on the table, while Auntie Orchid studied the ceiling for inspiration.
“What are we going to do, Auntie?” Tua sighed.
“We?” Auntie Orchid raised her eyebrows so high on her forehead that they looked in danger of rolling over the top of her head and sl
iding down the back of her neck. “We?” she repeated.
“Yes, Auntie: You, me, and chang.”
“You can stop calling her chang for a start,” she said. “We need to give her a proper name.”
“Oh, yes, please.”
Naming an elephant is not as easy as it might seem. Dogs, for instance, are quite happy with just about any name you give them. And if you change a dog’s name, even one he’s quite fond of, he’ll still come when you call. Cats, on the other hand, pay no attention whatsoever to the names we give them. They have their own names, thank you very much. That is why when you call a cat by the name you’ve given her, she looks at you like you’ll never be capable of learning anything. “Why do I bother?” her expression seems to say.
But elephants not only expect to be named: they demand it. And they are very particular about their names. Give an elephant a name it doesn’t care for, and you’ve got an elephant with a chip on its trunk. So you see the problem.
Growing up in the country, Auntie Orchid had known elephants that were happy with their names; and she had known elephants that were not at all happy with them. The last thing Auntie Orchid wanted was an unhappy elephant in her kitchen.
“Now before you say anything, Tua—”
“How about calling her Pohn-Pohn?” Tua suggested. “Pohn’s the name of my very best friend at—”
But before Tua could finish her sentence, Auntie Orchid flipped the tablecloth over her niece’s head. Flashing a grin at the elephant, she whispered, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s young, impetuous, and flighty—with an over- abundant imagination. She’s only teasing, ha-ha. It’s a joke. Ha-ha-ha!”
“Hey,” Tua said, clawing out from under the tablecloth. “What did you do that for?”
“I think we can come up with a name that’s just a nit noi more sophisticated than Pohn-Pohn, don’t you?”