Amity สัมพันธภาพ

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Foreword Literature helps us share and define our common humanity and can serve as a bridge between cultures and peoples. This anthology is a truly collaborative example. The stories that appear in these pages are a testament to the friendship and strong people-to-people ties that exists between Canada and the Kingdom of Thailand during this 60th anniversary year of our diplomatic relations. Canada is a vast country of diverse landscapes, heritages and languages. The Canadian authors featured in this publication have drawn inspiration from this remarkable diversity of perspectives and backgrounds. We are particularly honoured to have the contribution of Cree author Darrel J. McLeod, whose personal story of suffering in Canada’s former Residential School system reminds us of efforts to advance reconciliation with Indigenous peoples. Canada strives to be an inclusive country that contributes to a more just and sustainable world. It is my hope that this anthology serves as a bridge between Thailand and Canada. I am grateful to the Thai Ministry of Culture for its leadership, as well as to the contributors and the Joint Committee on Implementation of the Thai-Canadian Literary Translation Project. Mélanie Joly Minister of Foreign Affairs of Canada •7•

Literary Treasures of Thailand and Canada Amity Over half a century of Thailand-Canada relations: the aspect of cultural connection has great merits on its own in people’s lives leading to recognition of each other. Literary works are savored for their treasured creation via gorgeously thrilling awareness and broadening of the meaning of whole wide world to reach their infinite interpretations. There is no boundary nor barrier to hinder the tenderness and earnest steps of literature for it is the humble basis of inseparable soul to soul links. All selected Thai short stories published hereby in honour of this celebrated occasion are quality writings of notable writers regarded as prestige of Thailand – national artists, S.E.A. Write Award, and Mekong River Literature Award winners. Anusorn Tipayanon profoundly writes about complicated life succumbed to mournful consciousness in Nocturnal Reverie, a story about dispersedly overlapping sentiments. The Floating Lantern Contest by Mala Khamchan exhibits a traditional event of northern Thailand culture in perspective of spiritual comparisons worth appreciation. An account of subtle awareness through mysterious dimension of acts that hurt one’s feeling and deemed as overlaying sentiment between right and wrong is shown in the short story that affects swinging moods, The Second Book by Duanwad Pimwana. •8•

“Nothing is above anything else.” This is the wonderful essence that human beings should communicate among themselves with love and eventual considerateness, the main concept in the short story, The Dumb’s Café by Chamlong Fangchonlachit. And, life is always meaningful as long as human breath still communicates to each other with pure amity on the basis of eternal existence. The Century Pavilion, the superb short story by Wanit Charungkit-anan, is thus the ultimate beauty of this short-story collection. On behalf of The Writers’ Association of Thailand, we hope that the short stories collection “Amity” will be the symbol of time that manifests the power of literature on living together with delightful wholeness and harmony, together with an understanding of the role of arts in creativity that will never die from awareness of logic of life... at any time. Respectfully, Sakul Boonyatud President The Writers’ Association of Thailand •9•

Table of contents 11 NOCTURNAL REVERIE 42 by Anusorn Tipayanon 69 Translated by Oraya Sutabutr 94 THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST by Mala Khamchan Translated by Oraya Sutabutr THE SECOND BOOK by Duanwad Pimwana Translated by Mui Poopoksakul THE DUMB’S CAFE by Chamlong Fangchonlachit Translated by Voranut Tansakul 121 THE CENTURY PAVILION by Wanit Charungkit-anan Translated by Bancha Suvannanonda





NOCTURNAL REVERIE by Anusorn Tipayanon Translated by Oraya Sutabutr • 13 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE The photograph could tell everything, although not very clearly. We see three men but only their backs. We see a column standing tall and a naked steel structure. There is no other sign. We see the lake, vast, no boundary, no shape. We know that photographs record time, but this photograph records a blurred image, a blurred moment in time. He looked at this photograph often, or whenever he had the chance. He knew that he should not have taken a photograph which lacked meaning, beauty and reason. But he still had taken it. What he had captured was not something someone saw, or something everyone saw in the image. It was different from what he could remember. He had captured an image that did not appear before one’s eyes but in one’s heart. The photograph was taken in 1942. In previous year, he had completed his studies at the Cartography School of the National Postal Services. He was twenty years old, strong and muscular, driven by ideology and courage to pioneer postal services anywhere. In his studies, he learned about other lands from novels and silent films. He read The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas so many times that he yearned to bring adventure to life. He read Majesty of Justice by Anatole France so many times that he yearned to bring justice to life. • 14 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE Before he was able to take the examination to become a postman, his plans were turned upside down when he was assigned a task more important than carrying postal bags, travelling around to set up telegraph poles and waiting for postal planes. At the time, Thailand had won back Indochina from France after sending troops into the area. France agreed to end the war by signing a peace treaty with Thailand, with Japan as the host, in Tokyo on May 9, 1941. Both countries vowed to honour the agreement on July 5, 1941. According to Section 2 of the treaty, the Thai Indochinese border would be adjusted from the north to the south. The Mekong River would serve as the boundary line all the way to the 15th parallel. From the west, the line passed the 15th parallel at Siem Reap and Battambang all the way to the lake at the mouth of Stung Kambot River. As for the lake, the boundary was marked by a circle with a radius of twenty kilometres from the mouth of Stung Kambot River to the mouth of Stung Dontri River. This demarcation had led to the establishment of a joint border committee consisting of Thai, French and Japanese representatives with a one-year term. It was good news. Not only did Thai people regain the land taken away from them, but it was also a chance for him • 15 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE to take part in setting up the border markers himself. He was born in Battambang and spoke both Thai and Khmer. Although he had always considered himself a Thai, the imprecise border line made him feel uncertain. Thus, after the announcement to recruit border marking officers had been published in the daily newspaper Pracha Nikon, he joined the first batch of men gathered at the Ministry of Defence. He filled out a form with personal information and took the weight and height measurements. But when the clerk asked to take a photograph of him, he refused, explaining that he was there to record information, not to be recorded in a photograph. That day, he became the official photographer of Unit 15 of the Border Demarcation Department with a mission covering the area from Stung Kambot to Phnom Tenot. His job was to photograph every single marker. His job was to photograph Thailand’s new territory. The Thai representatives in the Joint Border Committee were led by Luang Sitthi Siamkarn. The Japanese were led by Makoto Yano, while M. Delain led the French. Once the committee was established, the 15th Border Demarcation Unit began its work on October 21, 1941. During the first phase they were aided by the old French map, and they made substantial progress. Big border markers were set five kilometres apart, • 16 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE with small markers two point five kilometres apart. In fact, his photographs did not differ very much, each one just a photograph of a border marker in the middle of barren land. Every morning, he would rise before everyone else and walk towards the first rays of the sun. He would try to determine the direction of the rays, whether they veered towards the north or the south. As a matter of fact, the sun’s rays never changed. In summer, they veered towards the north, in winter towards the south. But he wanted to be absolutely certain, like a mechanic about his usual and familiar tools. Apart from himself, he never trusted anyone. This was a job that could not be done backwards, and he could not afford to make a mistake. He could die any time, next year or in the distant future, but the border would be there; photographs of the border would remain. By April 1942, the 15th Border Demarcation Unit was to take a break. They had to come up with a new map as they had reached the limit of the old map. There was to be a meeting in Hanoi to resolve differences over whether the remaining boundary should follow the natural terrain or continue as a straight line from the 15th parallel. By following the natural terrain, the Banteay Srei Temple would fall into the hands of the French. Continuing with the 15th parallel • 17 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE would bring the opposite result. Instead of killing time over chess and corn whisky like his colleagues, he walked into the forest nearby. Instead of photographing national boundaries, he killed time by photographing pillars of the forest. His 180 camera was used to record the majesty of the kings of trees – saphung1, krayaloei2, teak, teng3 and rang4. He liked photographs of the sun shining around the base of giant trees and spanning the bark all the way to the top of the trees beyond what he could see. At the beginning, his friends, out of concern for his safety, would look for him every evening. But when they saw that he took some food with him every morning and always returned at the same time in the evening, they stopped worrying. That morning, he waded through the humid forest mist. It had rained heavily all night and only stopped just before dawn. He liked this kind of morning. He liked the sun that touched the droplets of water on the lush green leaves. It reflected a cheerful rainbow. He knew that his photograph was black and white and could not capture the colorful sparkles, 1 Saphung: Tetrameles (Tetrameles nudiflora), a uniquely tall tree. 2 Krayaloei: a generic term for a variety of very tall trees, other than those identified, including such trees as dipterocarpusand oaks. 3 Teng: Taengwood ‘Balau’ (Shorea obtusa); a tall tree. 4 Rang: Dark Red Meranti, Light Red Meranti or Red Lauan (Shorea siamensis); a tall tree. • 18 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE but he still liked to look at that image with his camera. While he was photographing light on a salao5 leaf, a loud crackling noise was heard. Then he saw torrents of water racing down the mountain, shooting past the trees and abruptly crashing against him. He tossed his camera and tripod towards the bushes before being helplessly carried away by the water. He tried to find something to hold on to, but the second wave of water did not give him that chance. He knocked his head against a rock, and after that it was complete darkness. He woke up in the dark, and his hands could feel a mat on which he was lying. When his eyes became adjusted to the surroundings, he found himself in a small room. Looking around, he saw a door near his feet. He did not know how he got there or what time it was. His head was full of questions; then he heard someone enter through the door. The man was holding a lamp and, in Khmer language, he was told to follow the man. He had a hard time getting up and shaking off his dizziness before walking after the man along a narrow hallway with the dim light of the lamp guiding the way. They stopped in front of a blue wooden door. The man, who later was revealed to be Khmer, knocked on the door twice. A faint voice inside answered and the door opened. 5 Salao: Lagerstroemia (Lagerstroemia loudoni), a tree known for its beautiful bunches of pink blossoms. • 19 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE The room inside was bright with the warm midday sunshine. By the shuttered windows, two French military officers sat there, aged around thirty and early twenties. Before them was a large writing desk, where their tall caps were placed. Their blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight from outside. The Khmer put out his lamp and walked away from the dark hallway. The first French officer told him to sit down on the chair opposite of him before asking in Khmer, “Are you hungry?” His Khmer was so fluent that you could believe that he had spent years in this colony. He nodded. “Don’t worry. I won’t take too much of your time. We should be done before mealtime.” The two officers asked for his name, his hometown and the reason why he was there. Then they asked about his responsibilities and line of work, and he answered without hiding any information. Why should he lie since he was doing something legitimate, certified and written down in the treaty with oaths taken? He did not do anything wrong. He was performing an honorable task for his country, so that there would be a justified boundary line. The conversation continued for thirty minutes. The subject was quite ordinary, but he sensed that the French officers were satisfied by his answers. • 20 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE When the talk ended, one officer stood up and knocked on the door twice. The same Khmer man opened the door with the newly lit lamp. There were no more words. He got up and followed the man, or the strong smell of burning kerosene, back to his room. In the room, he found a bowl of warm water, a chamber pot, a wash cloth, a new set of clothes, and food, consisting of steamed rice, fresh vegetables, powdered dried chili, and fish soup. He gorged on the food hungrily. When he was done eating, he washed and changed his cloth then lay down on the mat. He stared at the lamp. Good thing he did not have to stay in complete darkness. But the downside was he did not know the reason why he had to be confined in there. He knew that the interrogation was not over, but he didn’t know when it would end. Perhaps tomorrow, in two days’ time, or else it could go on and on. He looked around and found that the room had no other exit except the door which he had entered. There was no window or shutters. There was no way for light to shine through, nor any access to the outside world; only the door and four dreary walls. The light from the lamp was dimming. Those people must have calculated how much kerosene he would need. Before the light went out, he saw smoke rising from the lamp • 21 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE towards the ceiling. There was an opening there to let in air. He was glad that the room was not completely closed from the outside, but why was it dark since it was daytime? He couldn’t come up with an answer. Perhaps the room was built inside another completely enclosed larger room. Perhaps! Or was it one of many small rooms inside a larger, completely enclosed room? He tried to sleep, but sleeping without knowing the time was difficult for him. How do I know if I should be sleeping right now? Maybe it was already night time, but was it late enough for sleep? He couldn’t be sure. He thought about it over and over until he heard some music. The music of a piano played angrily and ferociously, like the music of the monsoon season, the turbulence of the sky threatening the earth with its thunderbolts, lightning and storm over the high seas. The music went on for fifteen minutes before dying down. Silence enveloped the surroundings. He got up and walked around the dark room, to determine where the song had come from. Was it possible that it was coming from the room next door? But how could a prisoner be allowed to have a piano? A prisoner may be allowed to bring a book but certainly not a musical instrument like a piano. Absolutely • 22 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE not! It’s just not possible. He tried to find the origin of the mysterious music. The angry melody, in some parts, was still vivid in his memory, in the midst of the pitch dark surroundings (or even in his own thinking). Suddenly, he heard a faint sound, the voice of a woman which was both sweet and frigid at the same time. He thought it was his own imagination or perhaps he was dreaming. How could there be a woman in here? Her small voice repeated these words, “Did you like the song just now?” He kept quiet ... then asked through the darkness, “Who are you?” “Whoever I am is not as important as whether you liked that song just now?” He didn’t answer but peered into the complete darkness surrounding him. “You will never find it if you didn’t have it before.” The gentle but cold voice teased him with the classic saying that he knew by heart. “In that case, you must know the answer already. Is it necessary to ask me?” He asked her back. “It is a song that I have just composed, the first part,” she said. “May I listen to the next part?” • 23 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE “Not now. I don’t want you to hurry. You have time, don’t you?” “Yes. Only I’m not sure about my situation. I may have to leave today or stay in here forever.” “Everyone on this earth lives in uncertainty.” By now, he wondered if her voice was not somewhere near his ears but coming from inside of him. “You should rest. It’s very late.” “So you know the time outside?” “I’ve been here longer than you have. This is the first thing I’ve learned.” “Have I met you before? Can you tell me your name?” “What we can talk about is not eternal. Names that can be named are not eternal. Someone said that. It’s late, so you should rest. There are many things that you’ll have to do tomorrow.” “Good night.” He decided to bid her farewell. “Good night,” were her last words. When he woke up, everything was in place. The lamp that ran out of kerosene and the old food tray had been taken away. There was a new tray of food, a new set of clothes, a new wash basin and a new chamber pot. Everything was • 24 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE done without his knowledge. He relieved himself, washed his face, changed his clothes and had breakfast in the dark. He knew that it was morning, the door would open and the same Khmer man would enter with a new lamp. He waited for a short moment; then he heard the door being unbolted. He got up and followed the man to the room with the blue door. The two French officers were already waiting for him. Today, they asked him about the tribes in Cambodia. “How well do you know Khamu, Cham, Suai and Kula?” He told them as much as he knew. They tested his knowledge on the forest and wild animals. “How well do you know the slow loris, crab-eating macaques, leeches, crocodiles, lamphong6 and rattan?” He told them what he knew. Eventually the elder officer stopped the interrogation. He thought that the two French soldiers might have interviewed him for about two hours. But when he moved from the chair, he thought it might have been longer as his body was aching all over. On the way back, he thought of last night’s song and the mysterious conversation. He was reminded of a movie by Jean Epstein about an imprisoned philosopher awaiting his execution. While waiting inside a dreary prison cell, for the day he would be taken to the 6 Lamphong: Angel’s Trumpet, Devil’s Trumpet or Metel (Datura metel Linn.); ornamental shrubs. • 25 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE guillotine, the Lady of Wisdom visited him to keep him company with conversation and words of wisdom every night. The Khmer man took him back to his room. Everything was ready before he arrived. He finished his meal quickly, washed and changed before lying down on the reed mat. Soon after the lamp had gone out, the music began. Today, the song was as pleasant as the light rain of the forest. The vibrant rhythm painted the image of flowers in full bloom, butterflies flying around happily, and animals and birds exchanging calls. He let his mind wander in the imaginary ancient forest conjured up by the exuberant melody or until the song ended. It was the voice of the same woman, in the middle of complete darkness. “The song that I’ve just played...” “It’s the second part. Our song has reached its half way.” “Halfway?” “Yes.” “It seems very different from before. Would it be possible to hear the rest of it tonight?” “I’m afraid there’s no other way, except waiting. You should rest. Tomorrow will be another day of hard work for you.” • 26 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE “Good night,” he said hopelessly. “Good night,” she replied. When he woke up he thought it was earlier than the previous days but found that everything was in place like the previous night and morning. He relieved himself, washed, changed and sat down to finish his food. In a short while the same Khmer man opened the door and took him to the room with the blue door. There were three French officers. The new one was about forty. He stood by the window, looking outside, his arms folded. The light from outside shone along the outline of his body. He sat down on the same chair without their order. There was a map and a letter on the table. He looked at them, and at the sight of the new officer who was standing there. “Thank you for your cooperation for the past two days. Today will be the last day that we will talk.” “I’m free?” “Yes and no! Because you’re not here as a prisoner! Let me get to the point.” The other officer turned towards the standing officer who seemed absorbed by the view outside before turning back and said, “Have you heard the name ‘Andre Malraux’?” • 27 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE “No.” It was the truth. He had never heard that name as being a representative of the French on the joint border committee. “It’s not surprising. His name has been lost for over twenty years. If we don’t mention his name, he would be a missing person forever.” The officer who was talking to him turned to the one by the window, who was standing in the same position; then he turned back to him and said to him, “Malraux was a writer with the same nationality as us. He came here in 1923 and travelled to Banteay Srei. In awe of the splendid limestone architecture, as if he were under a spell, he took a sculpture to take back to France but was arrested in Hanoi. The sculpture was confiscated, and he was sentenced to three years in prison. Many intellectuals wrote to the French government, asking for a pardon. In the end, he only stayed in prison for one year, and his sentence was commuted. He returned to France and tried to find evidence to fight the case. But once he left Cambodia, the court dismissed his case and he was freed.” “Sounds like a hero from a legendary tale.” “The real legend is not that part,” the officer said, “but what happened afterwards. Malraux returned to Indochina • 28 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE and stayed in Hanoi. He began publishing a newspaper called Indochine to attack the French government and openly encourage public resistance against it. The newspaper had manymembers,andoneof oursoldierswhobecamefascinated by Malraux decided to join the underground movement. It is believed that this soldier was behind the movement’s strategy, but he was later assassinated by a Vietnamese. The important part was this officer under his command: Pierre Bourdieu,” the other officer continued. “It took us a long time to realise that Bourdieu had Malraux’s diary, which had all the information on his operations in Indochina. But we were too late as Bourdieu left the army two years ago and established an independent army consisting of a number of locals. They occupied Banteay Srei, although we do not know their motif for staying there. Bourdieu never contacted us, but any white man who went near the temple would be shot by a gun, a tricky device or some strange weapon, without any warning. Lieutenant Bourdieu is an extremely capable military officer. He speaks ten different tribal languages, and getting access to him is extremely difficult. Most people that we sent to him either got killed or disappeared. We have reasons to believe that the establishment of the independent army was inspired by Malraux’s diary. Perhaps there is a hidden • 29 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE treasure somewhere that hasn’t been discovered, a valuable sculpture, or even a land that doesn’t appear on the map. In fact, Bourdieu is not really our concern, if there hadn’t been a new border demarcation campaign. If we let the joint border committee, whether Thai or Japanese, encounter this independent army led by a French soldier, our country will be accused of violating the treaty, and we will be condemned by the international community for failing to control our own army. What will happen will not benefit anybody.” He listened quietly to this incredible story. It had nothing to do with him. If Bourdieu wanted to stay there forever, that would be his own fate. If France were to suffer from humiliation, that was France’s problem. He felt no concern for the world outside. Having been cut off from the world that he knew for two days, he had changed the way he felt. If there was anything important at all, he thought, it was the nocturnal music that was still ringing in his ears. “What we need your help with is just to deliver this letter to Bourdieu. In return, we will give you a new camera and a set of equipment.” He nodded. “Thank you very much.” The officer answered with a smile. • 30 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE “But there is one condition,” he said. “Let me meet the prisoner in the next cell for just a moment.” The officer standing by the window turned towards him and spoke in French. Another officer translated those words into Khmer. “We hate to turn down your request, but it seems impossible because there is no one in the next room.” He was taken back to his room. He washed, changed, ate and lay down. He did everything as usual, but wary that tonight there might be no music or conversation partner in the dark. His concern was neither about delivering the letter to Bourdieu, nor about the new day in the big wide world outside the tiny room. Complete silence and darkness gave rise to a feeling of eternity and continuity. While his mind drifted in the mysterious world of the four-wall room and his solitude, the slow, lethargic music began. It was the song of sorrowful winter spreading along the horizon. It was a song of farewell, so that a reunion would take place in the future. The lively piano became quieter, then ceased. “I thought you had already left me.” “It is you who is leaving me.” “The song that you’ve just played...” “It is almost complete.” She paused. “It is the part before • 31 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE the final one.” “A farewell.” “Until we meet again.” He fell asleep with a happy feeling, not owing to freedom. Not the chance to resume his honorable duty, but it was the promise between her and him. The night passed by quickly. It was the first night that he could sense movements outside. He could hear the call of an owl hunting for a prey; he could sense the shadows of the trees waving at the edge of the forest. He felt the orbit of the moon and the clouds slowly gliding by. When he woke up, there was bright light all around him. He found himself lying on a soft bed, in a room with Windows on all sides. There was a table laden with all kinds of fruit. As promised, he received a brand new camera and a set of equipment. They were placed on the floor along with an envelope and a map. His old clothes, now clean and neatly folded, were by the night table. A Khmer man brought food in a tray. He smiled as he placed each dish on the table telling him its name. It was the first smile he had seen with a meal – samla morakot, green curry with chicken, niam, trayong, chek, banana blossom petal salad, min, gao and lao, wild • 32 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE chicken.7 After the meal, he bathed in a large bath tub in the middle of the room. He soaked in the water for a long time before putting on the border demarcation unit uniform. He put on the armband with a lonely, empty feeling. He put the envelope and the map in the camera bag and left the room. The door opened directly to the camp gate. There was no sign of anyone else, as if they had disappeared. He followed the map until he found the main route and headed directly towards Banteay Srei. On the way, he encountered many interesting things such as a teak tree that would take ten people to girdle arms stretched, a carniverous plant which could swallow a whole apoda bird, and monkeys that leapt from one tree to another in a galactic formation. But he was not interested in capturing those pictures. He just wanted to meet Pierre Bourdieu as soon as possible. He only wanted to deliver the letter as soon as possible. The last village before Banteay Srei was Poralsol, the same village that Malraux had visited. When he entered the village, it was absolutely quiet. Each house was occupied only by dust; some had a kettle left on the stove. In other houses there was an earthen pot with dried up rice. The bamboo 7 Names of dishes in the Khmer language • 33 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE wall was covered in spider webs. In one house he found the skeletons of a dog and a donkey as well as bones of chickens that had been devoured. Birds’ feathers were everywhere. He pushed ahead towards Banteay Srei. He felt no fear or uncertainty. He was well aware that he would not die. Pierre Bourdieu never shot Eastern people. And even if he shot him, he would not die. He would not die until he heard the last part of the song. He reached Banteay Srei at dusk. All was still. He walked past flaming torches and followed a great number of Khmer troops towards the temple. He saw Pierre Bourdieu lying very still on a hammock suspended between two large trees. Bourdieu’s eyes were closed like those of a newborn child. He had never met him before, but he knew that it was him as he was the only white person there. He stood next to Bourdieu for a long time, but he seemed to be in such a deep sleep that no one could wake him up. A Cambodian man standing near the hammock said to him, “My name is Pran. You should go and rest. Bourdieu is not waking up today.” He followed the man to the lodging and slept like a log on a bamboo bench until the next morning. When he awoke, Pran took him to a nearby creek. After washing, he was taken • 34 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE to a large open ground in front of the temple where there was a long table covered with a neat, white cloth. Pierre Bourdieu sat at the head of the table with his men on guard. Bourdieu gave a signal to begin breakfast, but it was actually all the meals for the day as they ate and ate until sunset. Bourdieu walked to the hammock, lay down and closed his eyes. “I have a letter for you,” he said to him while standing by the hammock. “Keep your letter for now. Something important is about to happen,” Bourdieu replied with his eyes closed. Suddenly, the loud call of a bird broke out. The sound stopped everything. The entire forest was silent. The Khmer troops formed a circle and knelt down. They all looked up to the top of a tree as if in worship of a god. He looked at the treetop as well but with its spectacular height, he could not see the bird yet could hear its call very clearly. All was perfectly still, not even the sound of leaves or the wind. The call lasted for about five minutes, but it was the longest five minutes of his life. It went from a very high pitch to very low, from very loud to very soft. It was filled with feelings and emotions, sad, gentle, fierce, passionate, lonely and lively. It was filled with emotions of all seasons. Then the bird’s call stopped, and the natural sounds resumed. • 35 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE Bourdieu opened his eyes, took the envelope from his hand and smiled. His eyes were clear and his face beaming. “That was the call of a wilapulu bird, and it only takes place once every three years. I’ve missed it for years,” Bourdieu said. “How did you know about it,” he asked. “It was in Malraux’s diary. He wrote that those who heard this bird’s call would die in happiness. Malraux’s diary contained nothing political, only music and its beauty.” Bourdieu did not say anything else before he fell asleep on the same hammock as yesterday. The next morning, he arrived at the food table early, but besides Pran there was no one else. There were only two sets of food. No guards, not even Pierre Bourdieu. He ate with Pran quietly, hoping for Bourdieu to appear. He wanted to say goodbye and leave. But there was no sign of him. When they finished eating, Pran collected all the plates made from coconut shell, piled them on the ground, and set them on fire. In the large flame, he also put all of his clothes and stood there naked. “Where is Bourdieu? I want to say goodbye.” “There is no more Pierre Bourdieu,” Pran answered softly. “He shot himself last night, leaving a letter telling us to destroy everything.” • 36 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE He was stunned. Bourdieu seemed happy before they said goodbye last night. There was not the slightest hint of death. “You didn’t know what the letter said?” Pran asked. “I can’t read French.” Pran looked at him, tears running down his cheek. “The letter said, ‘Your family is in our custody. We will give you the highest reward and will take very good care of them. But do not let France see you again.’ ” He packed. There was no use to stay. Pierre Bourdieu was dead, and his troops had dispersed. His task was completed. He checked the time from the moon. If he headed north towards Stung Treng, he would catch up with the 15th Border Demarcation Unit at Don Khong. If he made it in time, he would be able to photograph the border marking in the middle of the lake for the first time. He continued his journey, although his goal this time was different. He need not hurry. It felt meaningless, like an empty glass or a withered flower. Along the way, he would stop to photograph things that interested him. He saw himself as a citizen of the world, not belonging to any land, like a stateless bird, a river on the border, a mountain range that spread • 37 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE across continents. Everything he encountered was the same as him. He photographed a butterfly that lived for one day by drinking the tears of a crocodile. He was fearless when he got close to the creature, as if he was breathing down its neck. He waited to photograph a tiger cub being born. His eyes met with the mother tiger’s, but he was not afraid. He ate all kinds of leaves to stay alive, from the deep green to the light green ones. He knew that many kinds of leaf were poisonous, but fear seemed to have left his body and soul because he knew that he would not die before hearing the last song. He caught up with his colleagues at Don Khong Pier fifteen days later. It was low tide, and one could see every islet and rock clearly. At first, everyone was surprised to see him. They whispered about him in Thai, Khmer, French and Japanese. He stepped calmly into the boat and carried on with his duty as if nothing had happened. The setting of border markers in the lake went very well. The committee ordered the boat to return to the shore. As he put up his camera to take a photograph, he saw her, although he had never seen her before. But he was certain that it was her. She was sitting by the piano in mid-air, her fingers on the keys. When their eyes met, she began to play that song – from • 38 •

NOCTURNAL REVERIE the first part, through second part, and to third part. And when she reached the last part, she began to sing along with the piano. It was the same music that he had heard in the forest, the same music that Pierre Bourdieu heard in the forest, the same music that everyone in the forest had heard. Only this time, he was the only one who heard her voice, which drowned out all other sounds. He photographed her. It was a photograph which he knew no one would see or understand. He took her pictures over and over again. The music had ended, but he continued to take pictures. The passenger boat took him to the shore while her image slowly faded away. • 39 •

ANUSORN TIPAYANON His notable books include: Poetry: Muang Yen (Cool City, 1991). Novels: London and the Secret of the Kiss (2001), 8 1/2 Richter: In Search of the Lost Blue Heart (2003), Chungking Sexpress (2015), Neutrino Romance (2016), Vayoung Amarit (Immortal Silhouette, 2019), City in the Mist (2021). Short Stories Books: H2O – The Phenomenon of Water Disintegration on a Piece of Paper (2005), Kheha-Watthu (Household Objects, 2007), Nimit Wikarn (Omen in the Night, 2011), The Southeast Wind of Love (2016), A Riposte in the East (2018). Long Short Stories: The Shadow of the Rain (2010), Morana Sakkhi (Martyr, 2010), Love Boat Sunk in the Coffee Cup (2011), Yoni Image (2013), Catru (2015), Cat on a cold flesh heart (2015), Lost Snow (2020). • 40 •

Features, Essays: Soul Stimulate (2005), Airport of Diverse Ideas (2009), Cinemaru: Cruise Ship of Cinema Names (2010), God-Silence (2011), People in the Background of Blurred History (2014), A Touch of Skin that the Eyes Can’t Resist (2015), Witch Hunt (2015), My Chefs (2019), Livelihood in the New World (2020). Translation Works: Crossing, by Rabindranath Tagore (1983), The Tibetan Book of Dead, by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and Francesca Fremantle (1991), The Myth of Freedom and the Way of Meditation, by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche (1999), The Music of Erich Zann, by H.P.Lovecraft (2010), Remarks on Color, by Ludwig Wittgenstein (2011), Columbus: The Four Voyages, by Laurence Bergreen (2014), Architecture: A Very Short Introduction, by Andrew Ballantyne (2014). Apart from writing and translating, Tipayanon is a guest lecturer and also teaches multiple subjects including Art Criticism, Film and Literature Studies, Architectural Design, Visual Culture, and Pattern of Perception at several Thai Universities. • 41 •

ORAYA SUTABUTR Oraya took part in setting up a volunteer group to promote green environment in Thailand through the name of BIG Trees Project some ten years ago with successive activities since then. And in 2020, the BIGTreesProject, an environmental conservation organization, was registered officially as a foundation under Thai Law, with Oraya Sutabutr as a committee member and secretary. She was also one of the writers in a Thai publication by Department of Environmental Quality Promotion (DEQP), Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, namely Green Economy: Following the Sufficiency Economy Concept of His Majesty the King toward the Sustainable Development, 2012. Her translation works of foreign materials included one from Barack Obama’s Change We Can Believe In, for Post Books, Post Publishing Group, 2009. Another item was Online Dhamma Wisdom, translated from a collection of writing works of V. Vajiramedhi, and published in 2011 by Pran Publishing. With regard to Thai literary materials, she made an English version, named The Rich Man’s Trick, from a Thai book, Ubai Setthi, written by Ngamphan (Jane) Vejjajiva, and published by Foundation For Children, 2003. • 42 •



THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST by Mala Khamchan Translated by Oraya Sutabutr • 44 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST The month known as Yipeng1 was approaching. Yipeng arrived with a gentle breeze. It felt cool on the arms. Young men and women looked forward to the festivities. What fun to meet, basking in the moonlight, stealing glances of one another! Old folks thought of merit-making, listening to The Mahachat sermon,2 dedicating merits to their next life. But in the last four to five years, the Yipeng festival had been as bland as the tasteless tip of a sugar cane. The once grand festivities had lost their charm. On the eighth day of the lunar month, drums were beaten and people gathered at the monastery. Had it been the sound of a rattle, they would have gone to the village head’s house. After the third round of drumming, the monastery was packed with villagers, young and old. Facing the crowd, the village head stood up and said, “Listen up! Listen up, my dear folks! Today, I attended a meeting with the district chief who said that this year is the Year of Revival of Thai Customs. The authorities are worried that our children will become all westernised, and Thai customs will come to an end. Since it’s almost Yipeng, he said we should revive the Yipeng festival.” 1 Yipeng is a festival celebrated by the population of northern Thailand, the historical Lan Na, on the full moon of the second – yi – month – peng – of the Lan Na lunar calendar, which roughly coincides with the Loy Krathong celebration elsewhere in Thailand. [Editor’s note] 2 The Mahachat sermon comprises thirteen recital sessions retracing the incarnations of the Buddha. [Editor’s note] • 45 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST The villagers gathered at the monastery sat in two separate groups in the prayer hall. The elderly men sat on the left side, the young men on the right side. The two groups hadn’t sat together for a long time. Behind the young and old men were the housewives and, next to them, the children, making a lot of noise. The village head looked at the elderly group and the young group then continued, “So what do you all think?” “The boys say we should have a float and beauty contest”, said Song, the young men’s advocate. Before he could explain, Nan, representing the elderly, interrupted, “The Yipeng and Nang Nophamat beauty contests have nothing to do with each other. It’s not the culture of these parts, and we shouldn’t have it.” “Who said so? Of course, they’re very closely related,” Song, who had attended school in the city, got up to object to the idea, pushing his Ray Ban sunglasses up his forehead. “Yipeng and Loy Krathong are very much the same thing! Here we call it ‘Yipeng’. In the Central Plains, it’s Loy Krathong.3 On the day of the full moon in November, 3 Loy Krathong is a festival celebrated in the evening of the full moon of the twelfth month in the lunar year that falls into the month of November, by and large. A krathong is a receptacle shaped like a fully blooming lotus blossom, traditionally made of a slice of banana stem or trunk, decorated with folded strips of banana leaf, flowers, one candle, several joss sticks, a tiny national flag, and one or more coins. At dusk, people carry their krathong to the bank of a river, canal, lake, pond or other water body. There they raise their krathong while praying silently and, then, float - loy – it as an expression of gratitude to the goddess of water, Phra Mae Khongkha, accompanied by blessings for loved ones and hoping to get their wishes fulfilled. [Editor’s note] • 46 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST the tide is high, and men and women have fun sending floats onto the water. Haven’t you heard the song, Nan?” “And what does it have to do with the beauty contest?” “At your ripe old age, don’t you know anything? Nophamat was the one who initiated the float.4 Since we’ll have the Loy Krathong festival, let’s have the Nophamat contest, too. We can have the girls wear a sarong and grace the float.” “But the two festivals are really not the same,” Nan insisted, stroking his bald head. “The goal is not the same. For Yipeng, we listen to the Mahachat sermon, so that merit gained will take us to see Bodhisattva. Loy Krathong is not our tradition, and we shouldn’t do it, certainly not at the risk of abandoning our own.” The young and the elderly groups clashed head-on. Their conflict had begun during the last Salak Phat festival.5 Back then, the group of elders wanted to decorate the symbolic food tree destined for Buddhist monks as a swan-shaped boat carrying living things, beyond the cycle of birth and death. The group of young persons shook their heads, ‘Oh, what a bore! They had taken many training courses and were obviously more advanced in their thinking than the elderly people. How about something new and exciting such as a 4 Nang Nophamat was a legendary consort – nang – of a ruler of the Sukhothai Kingdom in the 14th century. It is believed that Nophamat initiated the custom of Loy Krathong. [Editor’s note] 5 Salak Phat is an annual merit-making festival in Northern Thailand where laypeople bring their offerings to the monks residing at monasteries, [Translator’s note] • 47 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST spaceship? But the elderly wouldn’t hear of it. The abbot ended up with the swan-shaped boat and the spaceship for his monastery. Since then, the rift between the elders and the younger ones had become irreconcilable. This time, the young and the elderly groups locked horns again. One wouldn’t give in to the other, and the village head didn’t want the conflict to plant the seed of disunity among his people. He raised his hand and said, “Now ... now ... being the referee, I say let’s have a fire rocket contest instead! It’s another ancient tradition that we can bring back, and I can ask the district chief for a trophy.” “Excellent idea!” The elderly voiced their support. “If it’s part of the Yipeng festival, we should adopt it.” “We young people will definitely lose to the old men,” Song said as he pulled down his Ray Ban.“The fire rockets are their toys. What about this, Headman?A fireworks contest?” “No, no! Fireworks? That’s crazy! I’ve never seen it, and fireworks are so expensive. We don’t want it!” “This is no good, and that is no good.” Song was getting angry. “How about a bald head fight then?” “You hairy head!” Grandpa Chan, himself bald-headed, exploded. “Watch your mouth! You’re talking about your fathers and mothers’ heads. Show a little respect!” “This is really getting out of hand!” The abbot got irritated. Observing that the village head wasn’t able control • 48 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST the situation, he spit into a spittoon and intervened, “You lot, young and old! You’re all just as pig-headed! Stop fighting! This is all very annoying! As the abbot, I have decided that this year we will have a floating lantern contest instead! Like it or not – but this is what we’re going to do this year!” On the tenth day of the lunar month, from village houses in the north and the south, the west and the east, people were out and about, busy feet shuffling everywhere. It was agreed that apart from the grand thirteen-chapter Mahachat sermon, the traditional floating lantern contest would be held with prize money of one thousand baht. Villagers living in close neighbourhoods made one floating lantern each. Four clusters of households produced four lanterns. There were also lanterns made by the group of housewives, the young villagers’ group and the elderly. In total, there were seven lanterns, each as large as an elephant, made from thin paper glued together into a big sheet almost the size of a chapel wall. Then the sheet was folded into a tube shape, its top covered with another piece of paper. The bottom end was open, with the base of the lantern attached to it by inserting an inner tube to trap hot air or gaseous smoke inside. The young and the elderly groups were so devoted to the competition that their camps were heavily guarded. The elderly group occupied the prayer hall, while the young group • 49 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST gathered in the chapel. They stayed away from each other, each group secretly designing their special floating lantern. Father Nan headed the elderly group, which consisted of Grandpa Chan and two or three other elderly villagers. The young group was led by Song the advocate, and Daeng, Nan’s son, with a few other young men as team members. Each group shut themselves inside along with their fiercely guarded secret. “May I take a look?” The abbot went from his quarter to the chapel. Song the advocate opened the door only slightly, poking out his head, his body blocking the view of the interior. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Our young group’s magical lantern will not only reach the sky but will soar high into space.” “What level of space are we talking about?” The abbot did not approve of their boastful attitude. “Pancha Sutthawat or Akanittha Phumi?” “What are you talking about?” Song looked confused. “Space is space. In the movie ‘Star Wars’, they don’t have any levels!” “You lot just don’t know anything, and you show off the little that you know, Song!” The abbot tried to look past Song’s head. Someone inside who was putting glue on the paper smiled mysteriously as if • 50 •