Amity สัมพันธภาพ

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST to hint that it was a great big secret in the making. They were making a lantern based on the design of hot-air balloons in the West. Song then told his people to shut the door, with the abbot left standing outside. The abbot, then, walked over to the chapel but could not get in since the door was locked by the elderly group. “Open up! Open the door!” “What do you want?” Nan stuck out his bald head. “Our group is making a lantern according to the old Fai Hin Monastery design.” “I want to see it. Let me go inside!” “Not allowed! You’ll see it at the contest. Just wait and see!” The door was slammed shut in the abbot’s face ... so he retreated to his quarters to sip tea. After a while, Daeng, Nan’s son, of the young party, gingerly walked up and asked for some tea. “How is the elderly group doing?” “They say they’re using the Fai Hin Monastery design.” “And what’s so special about that design?” “I have no idea.” The abbot spit a very red spit into the spittoon. “They need a very, very long tail and the lantern is called Naga Raja. It’s a very old design from the time of Maha Sami, the late abbot of Fai Hin Monastery. I don’t know the detail. The elderly group won’t tell me.” • 51 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST Daeng finished his tea, paid respect to the abbot and left. That afternoon, the hens were fully awake feeling pain in their wombs, as their eggs were ready for laying, so they cackled out loud. A dog barked. The wind rattled the chimes that invited to take a nap. But before the abbot fell asleep, bald-headed Nan came walking in plain sunlight. “How is the young group doing?” “They’re making a western-style balloon.” “And what’s that?” “I have no idea, Nan. Looks like they’re adding some secret chemicals, some gas and some ‘Star Wars’ thing. I don’t really know. Those young people won’t let me in.” All this time, both the elderly and the young groups were nervous. Both sides took turns visiting the abbot, pretending to come for the monastery’s scissors, knives, needles and threads, and many other necessities. The young came and the elderly went. The elderly came and the young went. Up and down, all day long, so much so that the abbot didn’t find time to rest. Hearing the sound of a wooden scoop scraping the bottom of a clay pot at the foot of the stairs6, the abbot looked down. When he saw that it was Daeng, his red spit went flying into the spittoon and he said, “The little novice 6 In the countryside, a water jar is often placed at the entrance of each house, usually at ground level, so that visitors can wash their feet before walking up the stairs and entering the house. • 52 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST isn’t here, Daeng.” “I’m not here to see the little novice. I came to see you.” “I know ... I know! It’s the same thing. You youngsters and the elderly keep coming to see me, so there’s no more water to wash your feet. The little novice isn’t here to fill the jar with water. Why don’t you go and fetch water first?” “I’ll do that later.” Daeng came up the stairs, his feet barely wet. When he reached the last step, he just sat down, not daring to go any further. “What do you want today?” “Nothing!” Daeng laughed gently. “So has the elderly group told you anything? Can you tell me anything at all?” “They asked me about the ‘Star Wars’ thing that you will put in your lantern.” “Well, it’s a kind of thick liquid.” Daeng gave the answer suggested by Song, the former city-wise student. “What about the Naga Raja lantern? What’s that like?” “I heard that the secret of the lantern is in the tail, which is really heavy. It’s curled up and will only be released when the wind is really strong. It can control the lantern and make sure it doesn’t turn upside down. And it can stay in the air for three days and three nights.” “Tough luckbeating the young group!” Daeng put on a • 53 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST serious look. “If the elderly know any better, they’d realise that the thick ‘Star Wars’ liquid can keep the lantern afloat for five days and five nights.” Daeng looked down below and saw his bald-headed father come out of the prayer hall and set foot towards the abbot’s kuti7 in bright sunshine. Daeng quickly went down the stairs. Nan came straight for the kuti. The abbot yawned with his mouth wide open, tears coming out of his eyes, but he still couldn’t have his nap. He shouted to Nan, “No need to wash your feet, Nan! Just come up! No water in the pot to wash your feet!” Nan came up the stairs and saw that one of the top steps was wet. He realised that one of the young men had come ahead of him, so he asked bluntly, “So have you found out what this Star Wars’ thing is all about?” “Those young lads said it’s a thick liquid that they’ll put inside the lantern, and it can float for seven days and seven nights.” “No worries!” Nan actually looked worried but was obstinate. “Good thing Chan has found the answer to it. With gun powder in the Naga Raja’s tail, our lantern will stay afloat for three days. But we’re adding twice the usual 7 Kuti: the abode for a monk in the compound of a monastery. A kuti usually is a small building with a single room. • 54 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST amount of gun powder and ten firecrackers, so the ancient design will float for nine days and nine nights.” The wind of November blew briskly, yellow leaves swirling. The following day was the day before the full moon, one more day before the Yipeng festival. The young and elderly groups’ lanterns were nearly finished. Each side was worried, dreading the other side’s creation and fearing to lose face. They knew that they couldn’t count on what the abbot learned about the other side. They did everything they could to find out the other group’s secret. That evening, the gentle wind felt cool on the skin. Little birds called out to one another from the treetops. Pigs began foraging. Chickens scratched and pecked the dirt on the ground. The sun’s last rays bathed the entire farmland with its paddy fields. Nan’s wife took a bath and called her children and husband to dinner. Nan was thinking of Upanikkhit the spy in the Mahosot Jataka. Daeng was thinking of the spy 007 in the James Bond movie. “Dad, I’m your son! May I respectfully ask you what the Fai Hin Monastery lantern is like?” “You have to tell me first! What’s the western-style balloon like?” “It uses gas, a complicated chemical formula. You need • 55 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST to combine minerals, edible substances and radioactive stuff. What about the Fai Hin lantern?” “Hmm.” Nan stroked his bald head. “It’s an old design. Some call it Naga Raja lantern or Fai Hin lantern. It’s been passed down from the time of King Tilokaracha’s battle against King Baromatrai of Ayodhaya, a long time ago. Legend has it that these two kings were battling each other with no sign of either side winning. So they made a bet on floating lanterns. Our king built the Naga Raja lantern, which stayed in the air for seven days and seven nights. So we won.” “Is it really true, Dad?” “Yes! The important part is the tail. It’s got a serious fuse and a bit of gun powder and firecrackers attached to it. The secret is in the gaseous smoke. It has to be solely tobacco smoke. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Grandpa Chan. What about yours, Daeng? The radioactive stuff ... is it for real?” “Yes! You may ask Song if you don’t believe me. He studied in the city and got the formula from there.” “You jackass! Before you said it was ‘Star Wars’ liquid. Now it’s mineral, edible, radioactive stuff. Baloney!” “If I’m a jackass then you’re Jackass Senior. Before it was a few grammes of gun powder in the Naga Raja tail. Now it’s twice as much.” • 56 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST “Daeng, you stupid dog!” Nan was angry that his son called him Jackass Senior. “I’m your father! Don’t you call me that! The sin is going to come back and bite your head!” “But you called me names first!” “Don’t you dare contradict me, or I’ll kick you off the house with this foot!” Nan’s voice got louder as he became angrier. They screamed and shouted, got louder and louder, and their faces turned red and black. Nan’s wife got so annoyed that she interrupted and picked up the rice bowl. “You two are killing each other over the lanterns. No more dinner for you! Go and kill each other first and you can eat!” Nan’s wife took away the food, and father and son finally stopped quarrelling. The next morning, on the fifteenth day of the lunar month, the rooster’s voice could be heard from one end of the village to the other. The air was bitterly cold. Fires were started so one could warm one’s hands, and rice pots were placed on the stoves. The aroma of kaeng hang leh8 wafted around the village in the early hours of the morning. It was part of the age-old tradition of festivities that began after 8 Kaeng hang leh is a stew with (mostly) pork, peanuts, dried chilli, tamarind juice and fresh, grated ginger. [Editor’s note] • 57 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST the village had been established. The aroma travelled a long way, reaching the monastery where, at four or five in the morning, the abbot got up to beat the gong which could be heard resoundingly across the village. This time-honoured tradition had been upheld to this day. In the quiet hours of dawn, the sound of the gong that had been heard during the war with Southern Ayodhaya was still reverberating. Once the rice and the curry were done, the villagers began walking through the morning mist towards the monastery, carrying bowls of rice to offer to the local guardian spirits and their ancestors’ spirits. Then they entered the vihara, the prayer hall, to pay respect to the Buddha, lighting hundreds of candles that lit up the splendidly decorated base. The flickers and reflections together looked like hundreds of thousands of candles. The coloured glass pieces, arranged in a floral pattern on the base, reflected the lights in different shapes and angles. Candlelight shone on the serene face of the Buddha image. Its gaze lowered to reflect compassion. The serene face seemed to emanate loving compassion, wisdom and purity. One hand was placed on the knee with the palm facing up while the other hand rested on the other knee, fingers touching the ground. The faint aroma and smoke of the incense sticks and candles intertwined in a beautifully mystical waft. The villagers prostrated themselves • 58 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST in a gesture of respect, their hearts brimming with happiness. A moment later, the abbot accompanied by young monks and novices took their seats in the hall and began the morning prayers. They paid respect to the Buddha and paid homage to their ancestors. Then, Grandpa Chan recited a short prayer to invite the monks to begin the sermon by reciting it loudly. The Mahachat sermon had begun. Whoever listened to its one thousand stanzas might be able to meet a Boddhisatva, a man who would reach enlightenment and become the Buddha in his next life. It was late morning when the sun shone brightly and the air had cleared. The sky was as blue as blue dye. It was a bright, expansive blue, luminous and mysterious. There was not a single cloud in the sky. The resplendent sky was so clear that it seemed to have been washed by the gods. The sun was warm, and the cold morning air dissipated. At this point, multi-coloured, patterned shirts flitted about like butterflies pecking on flowers. They were here, there and everywhere, faces smiling. The grand Yipeng festival filled them with merit and bliss, calling them out to enjoy the fun. Villagers joined hands to embellish the processions; some performed an elegant dance, their waists bent, their arms gently curved, their eyes throwing coy glances at one another. The housewives’ lanterns appeared first, to the rhythmic • 59 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST beat of the drum and other instruments – crash! crash! ... clink! clink! ... boom! boom! The housewives led the procession, performing a gentle folk dance. Moments later, villagers from the western, the eastern, the northern and the southern ends of the village swarmed the monastery. Five floating lanterns had arrived. Then another procession featuring drums and gongs turned to welcome the Naga Raja Lantern. The aeodrum was struck, producing powerful sounds. The elderly men’s group danced energetically to the beat, pounding on their chests, elbows, arms and legs in a dance move called Top Maphap. Some leapt up high, jerking their knees and elbows in the ChorLorDok Kha move. The Naga Raja Lantern followed suit, still folded on a fishnet serving as support carried on shoulders but beautifully decorated with various flowers such as marigold, cockscomb and globe amaranth. The folks were as merry as can be. The lantern was taken into the prayer hall to be presented to the Buddha, while the elderly men rested. But the people in the procession didn’t rest. They went back out to welcome another lantern, the young men’s balloon. The young lads didn’t know the folk dance but were excellent break-dancers. They came jolting and twitching their waists, chests and shoulders, their heads beckoning to others. The western balloon came on a stretcher decorated with colourful paper and daisies as if it • 60 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST had been wrapped in a rainbow. Song had a boom box on his shoulder playing western music which was nearly drowned out by the folk drums and gongs. When everyone was ready, grey-haired and black-haired folks alike, all gathered at the ground in front of the monastery. The floating lantern contest was about to begin. The village head received one thousand baht from the district chief as the prize. Who would win it? “The young group is betting five against four!” “The elderly group is betting five against four! Who’s betting on our group?” Cacophony followed with people noisily placing bets. The young and the elderly groups’ rivalry became the day’s attraction. The housewives and the other four groups were merely sideshows. The elderly came parading out first with their Naga Raja Lantern, dancing to a traditional tune. The progressive young group jerked and jolted in a modern dance move. The housewives came dancing the Loy Krathong gig. When all the seven lanterns were ready, the village head instructed everyone to check their lanterns. “Remember”, announced the village head, “the lantern that stays in the air the longest will win one thousand baht!” The seven lanterns were ready. Forked sticks kept the lanterns suspended high, while all the members of the teams • 61 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST waved their fans and baskets to puff up the lanterns. The young group’s lantern was the most unusual as it didn’t have a tail dangling near the bottom – with a whole clay stove attached halfway inside instead. Nan took one look and laughed. How unorthodox to have a stove inside a lantern! “In these parts we don’t have lanterns with testicles dangling below like this!” “There’s no rule against a stove,” Song contested. “Isn’t that right, Headman?” “That’s right!” The village head had a deep draw on his cigarette, its lit end glimmering red. “Now, I’d like to know myself. Between the western-style balloon with a stove dangling like testicles and a Fai Hin lantern sporting a weighty tail, which one will win? Let’s ignite the fuel and fan the combustion for gaseous smoke inside the lanterns.” The elderly group mixed tree sap with sawdust and dipped a stick into the mixture as firewood. The young group started the combustion in their stove. Gaseous smoke puffed up each lantern to its full size. Other groups used grass; some used rags soaked in kerosene. The puffed-up lanterns were ready to soar into the air. The village head sounded the gong repeatedly, and one by one the lanterns chased one another into the sky. The vast, beautiful sky was absolutely cloudless. It was a clean, crisp blue. The gongs and drums below thrilled • 62 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST the crowd with their loud and quick beats. The housewives’ lantern didn’t get very far when it hit the top of a sugar palm tree and got stuck up there. The village head laughed to himself. He was in a jolly good mood. The lantern from the village’s northern end didn’t have enough gaseous smoke. Struck by the wind, it caved in and squeezed out its smoky heat through its top. The one from the village’s southern end turned upside down and fell to the ground. The western-end lantern swayed like a drunken man. As for the western-style balloon, it took a long time to go up as the stove was very heavy. The Fai Hin lantern seemed better off than all the rest. It glided gracefully as its gaseous smoke of smouldering tree sap was thick and strong. Soon, there weren’t even half the original lanterns left in the sky. The young group’s lantern was in hot pursuit of the elderly men’s lantern. Song and Daeng cheered and whistled. When the charcoal in the stove was burning fully, the western- style balloon soared right past the Fai Hin lantern. “Daddy Nan, Grandpa Chan, give us the one thousand baht.” Song and Daeng hopped and bounced like teenagers at a concert. The balloon headed higher and higher, spitting gaseous smoke. Nan and Chan looked up and cursed. When is the tail coming out? Naga Raja ... hurry up! Out with • 63 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST your tail, so that the fuse would light up the firecrackers and the lantern could shoot up high. The tail was supposed to keep the lantern afloat, but something must have gone wrong. Naga Raja’s tail wouldn’t come out, the fuse seemed dead, and high winds began tilting the lantern to the right. Gaseous smoke came billowing out, and the lantern wobbled and sank. “Daddy Nan, Grandpa Chan, give us the money. We’re going drinking.” The elderly folks’ lantern came spiralling down. Another two lengths of a sugar palm trunk and it would hit the ground, but the western-style balloon kept soaring. There was only one lantern left. Suddenly, it caught fire, flames flashing. The young folks’ lantern twirled and swirled, sending ash flying across the sky. “I knew it.” Nan knocked his chest laughing out loud. “This is what old folk said: Look before you leap or you’ll be sorry!” “The young folks won anyway,” Song claimed, his Ray Ban sunglasses on his forehead. “Ours stayed in the sky the longest according to the rules. We’ve won.” “The elderly folks won!” Grandpa Chan protested on behalf of his friends. “Ours stayed afloat longer. It may have come down first but it hasn’t touched the ground. So it’s still • 64 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST floating. Yours is on fire. We won!” “The young folks won!” “The elderly folks won!” The two sides got into a fight, neither side giving in to the other. They got so mad that they seemed to have grown horns and tails like two ferocious bulls, at the ready to charge and gore each other to death in a pool of blood. Each snarled and glared. The village head was afraid that things would get out of hand, so he raised his hand to intervene like the Buddha preventing calamities. “Now ... now! Stop quarrelling! You’ve both lost! The winner is the housewives’ group! Look, their lantern is still floating. But yours, one is on fire, the other grounded. So the housewives won.” “That’s cheating!” The young folks pointed fingers at the village head. “The housewives’ lantern got stuck on the palm tree but didn’t make it into the air. Our lantern went up the highest. We won!” “The housewives won!” Nan’s wife pulled up her sarong and walked towards the men.“The headman is right! Our lantern might not have gone up very high but it has stayed up the longest, up till now. The young folks’ lantern got burnt, and the old folks’ already came down. So we won!” “We won!” protested Daeng. • 65 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST “We won!” protested Daeng’s mother. They screamed and shouted at one another, their faces black and red. Each group was represented by Nan, or Nan’s wife, or else Nan’s son. The quarrel turned into a vocal boxing match. The headman tried to stop them but his voice alone couldn’t subdue the other three. At his wit’s end, he went inside the prayer hall and requested the abbot to go out and stop the fight. The abbot arrived on the scene, clapped loudly and shouted, “Listen! Listen! Fathers, mothers and all of you young folks, listen to me!” “Listen up! Listen to the abbot!” The village head joined him. But their voices were still drowned out by those of many young and old folks and housewives, so the abbot told the young monk to fetch the monastery bell. He rattled it loudly – ‘clang... clang... clang... clang... clang!’ – drowning out the cacophonous melee. With a stern face, the abbot looked at the elderly folks, young folks and housewives and then he exploded: “Stop fighting! As the abbot, I declare this year’s floating lantern contest void! There is no winner! As a result, the one thousand-baht prize money will be donated to the monastery! This is my decision! Does anyone see it any differently?” “Whatever you say,” the old folks murmured. • 66 •

THE FLOATING LANTERN CONTEST “All right,” the young folks said. “This year it’s over. We’ll meet again next year!” “It’s up to you,” the housewives said. “We can give the money to the monastery, as the abbot advised.” “Very well,” the abbot said and spit red betel nut saliva. “Now that we’ve reached an agreement, we can have harmony in this village. We’ll certainly enjoy peace and prosperity in the years to come. I would therefore like every one of you to go inside the prayer hall, pay respect to the Buddha and listen to the thirteen sermons of Mahachat. We’ve just reached the Chulaphon chapter and we won’t finish the Nakhon chapter until midnight. Come! Let’s go inside the hall!” It was all over. The crowd followed the abbot through the door of the prayer hall and prostrated themselves before the Buddha. Grandpa Chan invited the monks to begin the sermon. When the crowd was quiet, the abbot took to the pulpit and led the people in prayer, in a resounding voice that echoed all around the prayer hall. • 67 •

MALA KHAMCHAN Mala Khamchan is the pen name of Charoen Malaroj who won the S.E.A. Write Award in 1991 for Chao Chan Phom Hom (Lady Jane of the Fragrant Mane), the beautiful tale of a pilgrimage through the Thai-Myanmar jungle in olden times. He was born on 12 February 1952 in Phan, a district of the northern province of Chiang Rai. He obtained a B.A. in Education from Chiang Mai University and an M.A. in Thai Inscriptions from the Faculty of Archaeology of Silpakorn University. He started writing stories while still in secondary school. His production since then has been sustained and diverse in form and in content, with a predilection for local lore, blood-thirsty animals and spirits, always in dense and sonorous prose often playing on different registers with a sustained use of dialect. His 1988 novel Khiao Suea Fai was translated into English as The Fang of the Fire Tiger. Mala Khamchan still works as a freelance writer. He was made a National Artist in 2013. 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 • 68 •

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. • 69 •



THE SECOND BOOK by Duanwad Pimwana Translated by Mui Poopoksakul • 71 •

THE SECOND BOOK Boonsong Jaisamak mumbled the address to the driver and climbed into the back seat. He was holding a brown paper bag on his lap. The driver pulled the rickshaw away from the curb and pushed himself up onto the saddle, tensing his legs as he began peddling. The breeze brought with it the stink of the driver’s body odor and the smell of alcohol. Boonsong quickly expelled his breath and averted his face, knowing his efforts were in vain. Eventually, he resigned himself to the situation and sighed. This guy probably hasn’t showered for three days, he thought. And he probably has alcohol pumping through his veins. Poor bastard. Gradually, the rickshaw picked up speed. The driver swerved and dodged adroitly, his judgment evidently unimpaired by the inebriation. Boonsong sighed again, this time at himself, his thoughts wandering back to days gone by. Even now, he still couldn’t believe that he’d ended up a man with nothing to show for all those years. He’d given it everything he had; there was nothing more he could have given. From here on out, he wasn’t going to hope, wasn’t going to persevere, wasn’t going to try and control his life anymore. Disappointment had ruined him beyond repair, and he couldn’t bear it any longer. The sky was overcast. The vehicles and homes passing by appeared cool on the eyes without the sun’s glare. Boonsong • 72 •

THE SECOND BOOK had known this town well as a child. His family had stopped here often, parking their pickup truck to shop for household items and agricultural supplies and stock up on dried foods, before dashing off to the farm, which was in a remote area and could only be reached via back roads. The last thirty or forty years had brought many changes, leaving him with nothing he recognized. This area had developed: nice shophouses lined the streets; the roads were neatly paved. It was easy to see and to feel the progress. But the decline and deterioration lurking within him were not so apparent. They were coldly and quietly eating away at his spirit, intent on making him suffer alone. Bitterly, Boonsong reflected on his life: if fate hadn’t cheated him, based on progress and protocol, he could have been the country’s prime minister by now. It hadn’t been unattainable or unrealistic. His current situation, on the other hand, he’d never imagined as a possibility. Once upon a time, Boonsong had been the right-hand man to the boss who controlled the eastern region of the country. Everyone in the inner circle knew he was the guy their kingpin trusted most. Boonsong’s dream of becoming editor of a local newspaper had been realized overnight, since it was in line with the boss’s own agenda to have a mouthpiece. And soon the voice put out by that mouthpiece received a countrywide boost when most of the local newspapers agreed • 73 •

THE SECOND BOOK to collaborate on the founding of the Thai Regional Press Association. Boonsong had served as the body’s president term after term. When he was thirty-two years old, he was elected for municipal council. Two years later, he ran for a seat in the provincial council and was elected without a hitch, given the boss’s support, financial and other-wise. In terms of their rapport, he and the boss were like partners in crime, and always knew what the other was thinking. Boonsong’s star had risen so high that he was above mingling with the other members in the boss’s entourage. He knew full well that many of them harbored resentment toward him. It hardly bore mentioning that a number of those people had been working for the boss a lot longer and were older than him. That was just how it was, and he felt no need to waste time thinking about such things. All his various responsibilities already kept him chained to his desk, and, more importantly, he knew he still had a lot to learn and needed to lay a stronger foundation in order to eventually run for parliament. Burned into his memory was the day that foundation, which he had believed was as solid as could be, had dis- integrated as if it had been made of sand: the boss was assassinated by an associate, who then put himself in charge. The abruptness of the event caught Boonsong by surprise. He found himself cut loose, adrift. The new boss’s power • 74 •

THE SECOND BOOK grew swiftly, and, improbably, his influence became even vaster than his predecessor’s. Consequently, Boonsong was left a caged mouse, scowled at with disdain. Nonetheless, he refused to give up and remained determined to make it to parliament. If he succeeded, it would mean he could truly stand on his own two feet, or so he told himself. Before the cutoff date for registering his candidacy, a young man with an arrogant air about him asked to run alongside Boonsong. He brought nothing to the table, hoping to receive Boonsong’s support and lean on whatever clout he had left. But Boonsong unceremoniously turned him away because he himself was in a place where he had to claw his own way to the shore. Not to mention his financial resources were too thin to support another candidate. And then the unimaginable happened, something that he would remember for the rest of his life: he suffered a humiliating loss in that election, while the young man pulled off a decisive victory. To this day, Boonsong could still clearly envision that rookie campaigning, how his rusted old pickup truck ran around town, clanking all the way. At one campaign event, the truck was parked under a tree, its owner standing on the roof with his feet planted in a wide stance, his hand holding a megaphone to his mouth, broadcasting his party • 75 •

THE SECOND BOOK platform. On the hood of the truck, there was a tin bucket with a paper sign that read: CAMPAIGN DONATIONS APPRECIATED. Boonsong remembered taking his wallet out and dropping in a hundred baht as a reward for the young man’s determination, without it occurring to him that the money could have had such unexpectedly far-reaching consequences. Boonsong only continued to regress. He tried one more election cycle but lost, so he went back to running for provincial council. He won by the skin of his teeth, but in the reelection he fell completely out of orbit. In the end, he failed to gain a seat even on the municipal council. At the same time, someone else became the president of the regional press association, and the handful of positions he held to enhance his social standing began to slip away, until all that remained was an editorship at a small newspaper that barely provided any income. And then came his final attempt. Boonsong swallowed his pride and went to see the new boss to ask for his support in his bid for a parliament seat. Even though he had already mentally prepared himself to be ridiculed and sneered at, he still came out emotionally obliterated. The outcome made it abundantly clear to him that he should quit politics for good. After this string of defeats, Boonsong lived every day of his • 76 •

THE SECOND BOOK life in a kind of stasis. He let his newest wife run the newspaper and support him. His days were eaten up by spiritless gardening, reading and sitting in silence, reminiscing about the good old days, going back to the time when the concept of a boss was meaningless to him, back to his childhood of both happiness and hardship. His family had been poor, his parents farmers. When school was in session, he would stay with his uncle at the house in the rice paddies, waiting for the rice-farming season to start; only then would his parents and older sister return from working the cassava farm in another province. Once the rice season was over, they would go back to work on the cassava farm, while he would wait, counting the days until he got to join his family. Sitting around like this, waiting for time to pass, made Boonsong feel as though he were a child once more. If it were school vacation now, he would probably be preparing to leave for the cassava farm. Memories of his youth reminded him of a dream he’d had back then, a dream that had fallen by the wayside. Later on, when he’d thought he was a grown-up, he had cast it aside, thinking it childish. His hopes and dreams had become those of an adult, and they were too big and important for him to concern himself with trivial matters. The rickshaw pulled up to the sidewalk. Boonsong looked at the small wooden street sign, recognizing the name as his • 77 •

THE SECOND BOOK destination. The letters were painted white against a blue background, and bits were missing. He got out of the rickshaw, paid the driver, glanced at the brown paper bag in his hand, and then started down the street. He counted the houses on the left-hand side one by one, each an old-fashioned wooden house on stilts, all similar to one another; and surrounding each plot, large trees grew, dense and disarrayed. He stopped in front of the seventh house. The front gate was closed, the house dead silent, with no hint of movement from within. Boonsong stepped toward it, but then paused nervously. Ever since it had first crossed his mind to do this, he had been constantly wavering, going back and forth until he felt only ambivalence. He stood in place, deliberating for the last time. Ultimately, he reminded himself that this was hardly the time to dither. He had made a firm decision several days ago, and it had cost him a considerable amount of time and energy to find himself standing in front of this house, which belonged to someone he didn’t even know. But the other half of his one childhood dream, left unfulfilled, had been left behind with this person... When Boonsong reached the stair landing, the front door opened. A middle-aged woman appeared wearing a dark blue sarong and a white blouse with red dots and puffy sleeves. “Excuse me, did you use to own an old bookshop that • 78 •

THE SECOND BOOK was next door to a fertilizer store in the market?” Boon-song asked. “A bookshop? No, not me ... Or ... Oh yes, my sister had a bookshop, but she leased the place to someone else ages ago.” “That must be it. I’d like to see your sister, if possible.” The woman eyed Boonsong. “What business do you have with her?” “If your sister’s home, may I come in? It will take some time to explain.” Still visibly skeptical, the woman nonetheless nodded and allowed him into the house. And at long last Boonsong came face-to-face with the person he’d been searching for. She wasn’t what he had expected: she looked like she could be twenty years older than him. He could vaguely recall that he had been about fourteen years old then, and he’d guessed that she hadn’t been over twenty. For the first time, it hit him how much faster women wither than men. He was fifty-two now, but the elderly woman before him appeared to be pushing seventy. Whether she would remember a minor encounter from a few decades back, he wasn’t sure. “What brings you here?” she asked Boonsong with obvious curiosity. He didn’t reply but instead took the object inside the brown paper bag out to show her. It was an old book. She • 79 •

THE SECOND BOOK barely gave it a second glance before she looked up at him, anticipating an explanation. The other woman brought him a glass of water and then sat down next to her sister. “You probably don’t remember,” Boonsong began, “but I bought this book from your shop ... let’s see ... almost forty years ago. The thing is, I bought just the one book—look.” He angled the book to show the two women the spine. “Volume one, you see? This book comes in two volumes, but I only bought the first. You probably understand now. I came because I’d like to buy the second volume. I—” “Sir, you don’t have to explain further. You might as well go. The bookstore was rented out to someone else a long time ago, and we can’t help you. It’s best you leave,” the older of the two sisters said, looking as though she’d heard enough. “Please let me explain. From what I’ve gathered, I’m positive that when I bought this book, you were still running the shop.” “What do you want from us? I hate to be blunt, but do you have a screw loose? Or maybe this is some kind of scam? I just can’t believe you’d come here asking for a book after forty years have passed, and from an old woman like me—I can hardly be bothered to remember things that are a hundred times more important than this! You’re wasting your time. Even if it’s as you say, we don’t have that book or any other book for that matter. You really should go.” • 80 •

THE SECOND BOOK “Please hear me out. I’m not crazy. I have my reasons, and I didn’t just show up here out of nowhere. I realize that too much time has passed, and that you don’t sell books anymore. But I came because I felt there was a fifty-fifty chance that you might still have the book. No bookstore would sell only half of a two-volume set to a customer—except you. You were kind. You sold it to a boy, knowing that he wasn’t a regular customer, as if you knew that that boy didn’t have enough money. You were confident that he would be back to buy the second book—‘Come back and get the second book soon,’ I remember you saying. But ... I didn’t come back, and I know that no one besides myself would have bought the second volume, and the distributor wouldn’t have been willing to take it back, so you must have held on to it yourself, just kept it around, without anyone reading it or wanting it other than me. I’m begging for your understanding and for your help thinking back a little to see if you’re still in possession of that book, if you’ve lost it, or if you’ve sold it by the kilo. Try to remember—please.” The older sister looked at Boonsong in such a way as to communicate the futility of his plea. The younger one had had her gaze fixed on him from the start, as if she were on her guard and listening intently. “Your story might be true, but I swear I don’t know anything about it. Whether I sold only one book or two, it’s • 81 •

THE SECOND BOOK entirely possible that I’ve completely forgotten about it. What I do know is that I don’t have any more books. Now, will you be on your way?” Boonsong’s head sank, but he remained seated, refusing to budge. “I know you don’t believe me. You think I’ve lost my mind. It’s all right. I’d assumed it would be this way. In my life, I’ve never succeeded at anything. How I pity myself, myself in the past, in the present, and in the future—they all deserve pity. Before I came here, I thought, even though my life has been a complete failure, there was still something I could do. I was going to carry out one boy’s dream that had never been realized. That boy is me. I’m trying to fix my own life so that I can continue to live. But already from the start, I—” “What do I have to say to make you leave? Let me be frank, are you insane? Look out the window—it’s going to rain. The children are about to come home from school, and it won’t be long before the men are back from work. You have to leave before they get back. You have to go now.” “Yes, I’ll be gone, definitely. You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll be gone from my own life even.” Boonsong put the book back inside the paper bag, got up, and left without saying goodbye. The two siblings stood in the doorway, watching him walk away into the first splatters of rain, getting lashed by the wind. The older sister breathed a • 82 •

THE SECOND BOOK sigh of relief and went back inside. The younger sister, who stayed by the door, inexplicably sprinted down the steps and started chasing after Boon-song, even as lightning struck and the rain grew heavier. She caught up with him at the top of their street. Boonsong was astounded to see her. Blocking his way, the woman breathlessly told him, “The person who sold you the book was me. I was the one who sold that book. I need to talk to you, but not now. I’ve got to head back and make dinner for my family. If you take a right and keep walking, you’ll see a restaurant called Boonlom Pochana. Go and wait for me there. I’ll be there by seven.” Then she walked stiffly away. It took a moment before Boonsong had the wherewithal to turn around and look after her. In the haze of the pouring rain, he felt like the encounter hadn’t been real: in his eyes, she appeared as a blur. The rain carried on until dark. Boonlom Pochana was an open-air restaurant with only a roof and tables canopied by flowering plants. The employees had distributed a coil of mosquito-repellent incense under each table, which they lit and placed inside a perforated metal container. Boonsong nudged the coil under his table away with his foot so that the smoke wouldn’t get in his face. There was faint background music coming out of a speaker hidden somewhere. On his table, Boon-song had a couple of plates of food, the brown • 83 •

THE SECOND BOOK paper bag, now wet and disintegrating, and a liquor bottle and three soda-water bottles, all empty. The tall glass sitting in his right hand was half-full of pale-yellow liquid. Boonsong had his left elbow on the table, his head resting in his hand. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and his eyes were closed, peeling partly open every once in a while. The next time they did so, his head jerked, and he looked at his watch. He got up to go to the bathroom, washed his face, fixed his hair, and straightened his clothes, which hadn’t quite dried. When he came back, he called the waiter over to clear the table and then ordered a coffee. The middle-aged woman closed her umbrella and leaned it against the table. She placed something in front of Boonsong and slowly lowered herself into a chair. “I brought you the second book.” The woman pushed an object wrapped in newspaper toward him. She ordered a lemon tea from the waiter and then watched Boonsong unwrap the package, studying his face in eager anticipation. At long last, the second book was before his eyes. He stared at it in prolonged silence, then let out a deep sigh. “You really kept it. I can hardly believe it.” “I did keep it. It was just like you said this afternoon. I sold the first book to a boy who didn’t come back for the second, so I had to keep it myself.” “What I meant was, why did you keep it for almost forty • 84 •

THE SECOND BOOK years?” His tone was so earnest that he sounded upset. The woman looked at him uncertainly. “I thought you’d be happy to get the book, but you seem displeased. Why are you questioning my motives? You said so yourself that nobody was going to read the second book, nobody was going to want it. It’s because no one wanted it that it’s still here—that’s not so strange, is it? You’re the one who’s strange. You failed to come back, and then after almost forty years, you show up looking for it. I’m the one who should wonder. In fact, I knew that the books had to be sold as a set. I sold you only the one because I was sure you’d be back. I knew that other shops certainly wouldn’t sell you the second book alone. But you didn’t come back—I should be the one to ask why.” Boonsong slumped back in his chair, the epitome of someone exhausted. He waved a hand and said, “All right, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult. I’m in a phase where I’ve lost my footing, so sometimes my emotions get the better of me. Okay.” He sat up straight, took a sip of coffee, and adjusted his expression. “To start, thank you for selling me the first book, even though you weren’t supposed to. As a boy, I loved reading, and I dreamed of someday having my own library, like the one we had at school. But I didn’t have any money; my family was poor. From my meager allowance, I skimped and saved, thinking that I’d buy a book of my own and bring it with me to the farmhouse to read during summer • 85 •

THE SECOND BOOK vacation.” “Your family farmed?” “Yes, cassava for income and rice for ourselves. We lived in Chonburi but had a cassava farm in Rayong. Before we’d head out to the farm, my father used to stop at the market here in town to pick up some things. He would buy fertilizers and farming supplies at the store right next to your sister’s bookshop.” “Yes, I know it. That store’s still there. And so you bought the very first book for your dream library at my sister’s shop. But why didn’t you come back and buy the second?” “I wanted to—I desperately wanted to buy the second book. After I finished reading the first, my plan was that, in two and half months, when school started again, I’d get some money to go toward school expenses, and when my father stopped in town, I’d use some of that money to buy the second book.” “So what happened? Did your father not stop here then?” “He did, but I didn’t have the money. That day he’d dropped me off at home before taking the cassava to the warehouse. You see, he’d only give me money after selling them the cassava. I did try to go find the book at the markets near our house. There was a bookstore that had the set on display, but like you said, nobody was foolish enough to sell me the second book by itself, and I didn’t have enough money • 86 •

THE SECOND BOOK after tuition to buy both.” “But you have the book now. You really didn’t even need to wait so long. I think you probably know, if you couldn’t find the book in stores, you could have ordered it directly from the publisher once you came up with the money, if they still had copies.” “Yes, I know, I know about all that.” Boonsong looked around restlessly for the waiter and then ordered another small bottle of liquor. “That’s not the problem. The problem is, I don’t actually want the book.” “What?” The woman stared at him, simultaneously about to scream and burst out laughing. “You don’t want it?” “I’m sorry. I really don’t want to discuss it anymore. It’s pointless.” The waiter mixed a drink for Boonsong and handed it to him. The woman looked fed up, so Boonsong eventually cracked her a smile. “Don’t make that face. It’s nothing strange, and I’m not crazy. People’s desires shift all the time, you know. If at fourteen I dreamed of having a library, that doesn’t mean at twenty I still had that same dream, and at thirty, well, my dreams were far different from when I was twenty! If as a child, I had wanted desperately to read a book and didn’t get to read it, after some time, even if that book had appeared right in front of my face, I wouldn’t have wanted to read it anymore. I’d have wanted to read a new book that’s more age appropriate.” He sipped his drink • 87 •

THE SECOND BOOK and sighed. “To get right to the point, the older I got, the less attainable the things I reached for became.” “What were your dreams once you became an adult?” “What were my dreams?” Boonsong said with a sneer. “Why, I dreamed of becoming prime minister!” The woman tried to stifle a smile and neutralize her expression as she continued listening. Boonsong threw back his drink and poured himself another. “Go ahead. Go ahead and laugh at me all you want! If you didn’t laugh, that would be remarkable. I can tell you the whole story. You’ll fall off your chair laughing. I probably don’t even have to tell you very much for you to get it. You see what kind of state I’m in. Yes—I dreamed of getting into politics, of becoming prime minister. Things were going swimmingly for a while, too. I was the boss’s confidant. My future was bright; I could do anything. I’d started off small, running for municipal and then provincial councils, and then from there, parliament. And what happened? Now you can start laughing. The boss died! I was like a dog falling down the stairs, tumbling one step at a time. In the end, no one even voted for me at the municipal level. I wouldn’t be so cut up about it except this rookie—you know the guy I’m talking about, the one who’s speaker of the house now? Him. He was even poorer than me; he had no one backing him, no one helping him. Hmph, how could this have happened! • 88 •

THE SECOND BOOK Why aren’t you laughing? Laugh! Oh, and there’s more. I also owned a printing house. I had my mistress handle the accounting, and that bitch stole from me. She took so much that I didn’t see the point of keeping the business, and ended up giving the whole damn thing to her. How about that?” Boonsong kept pouring himself drink after drink, his speech starting to slur. Tense in her seat, the woman mumbled as if unconscious of her words, “Then why did you come looking for the second book?” “The second book?” Boonsong feigned a surprised expression. “You haven’t forgotten about it yet? Just let it go. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s all a lie anyway.” “A lie? You were lying to me?” “Yes, I lied to you, even more to myself. Look, I’d hit rock bottom. I’d lost the will to go on, so I revived that silly little dream I’d had as a boy and tried to see it through. For one thing, I pity that poor boy. It’s not like I can’t remember how much he suffered, not being able to read the second book and see how it ended. And he never got to build his library. I told myself that if I could successfully follow through on this dream that had been left unresolved, I would go back and start pursuing my current dream once again.” “Well, you should be happy that you succeeded. You’ve found the second book. There’s nothing left unresolved now.” “But it’s a lie. I told you. It’s all meaningless. I was lying • 89 •

THE SECOND BOOK to myself. I fooled myself, fooled you, fooled all kinds of people that it was something important, you know? I acted like getting the second book was a matter of life and death! But do you know why? I’d assumed from the beginning there was no way I’d find that book again, and if I couldn’t find it, that would mean I failed, do you get it? I know you get it. It’s so much easier for me to keep living life as a failure, letting each day go by—like a stray dog. But you—you had to go and actually bring me the second book, telling me to have faith. How terribly cruel. What am I supposed to do? In my situation, what could I possibly do?” Boonsong broke into bitter laughter, his body swaying. Face flushed and hair disheveled, he turned to find the waiter and shouted for more alcohol. The woman looked at him speechless. She wasn’t angry: in his current state, he could hardly keep himself in check. She thought back to the time she’d watched the shop for her sister, and, with naive faith, had sold the first book to a boy. That boy had promised that he would return to buy the second book. The memory became clearer as she called it to mind. She remembered how she had then had to buy the second book herself, so as to make her sister think that she had sold the whole set, and after that she had volunteered to watch the store for her sister every day in order to wait for the boy, and wait she did until all the unsold books from that • 90 •

THE SECOND BOOK lot had been shipped back. Bitterly, she had had to take the book home. She had kept wondering, didn’t he want to know how the story ended? And then she had gone ahead and read it, even though she didn’t like to read. She had read it to get even with that boy. He would never learn what became of the characters, how the story ended. He would never know— but she would, and in her head she had compared their predicaments: Who suffered more, a person who knew only the first half of a story or a person who knew only the last? How childish, the woman thought, smiling to herself. She recalled how she had kept telling herself that she didn’t want to know the backstories of the characters, had kept stamping out the urge to go look for the first book so she could read it, and had kept fooling herself that she wasn’t suffering because of it. But whether that boy suffered, how could she have known? It was possible he had somehow gotten his hands on the second book and read it, and that was the reason he hadn’t returned. She had vowed to put the whole ordeal behind her by hiding the book somewhere in the house out of sight. Eventually, she had completely forgotten about it, for a long, long time, until today. Suddenly that boy had returned—it was a shame the man he’d become was such a wreck. He still didn’t know and didn’t want to know how the story unfolded in the second book, and how it ended. because now he lacked even the willpower to better his life in • 91 •

THE SECOND BOOK some small way. His little childhood dream ... what a shame. As the woman sat there observing the broken man who no longer wanted anything from life, a desire reignited in her. It had been left unsatisfied for an excessively long time, and now she had the opportunity: that first book, that young girl. No matter that today she could no longer remember the contents of the second book, she could still clearly recall the desire she had had back then, the desire to know the backstories of the various characters that appeared in the second volume. Forcing a smile, the woman eyed the two books on the table, took them in her hands, and said, “I’ll help ease your mind. If you don’t want the second book, I’ll hold on to it again.” She stood up carefully, her right hand hugging the two books to her chest and her left reaching for the umbrella. You don’t mind if I take the first book as well, do you? Since neither book is of use to you anymore ... but they’re still of use to me.” She kept her gaze fixed on Boonsong as she backed away from her chair, worried that he might have a change of heart. The woman opened her umbrella and hurried out of the restaurant. Boonsong set his glass down as he watched her walking off with the two books. It suddenly occurred to him what was happening. He scrambled to get up, knocking his chair over in the process. Scurrying after her, he yelled, • 92 •

THE SECOND BOOK garbling his words, “Give it back! Give the book back! Don’t take it. I want the second book!” Several waiters rushed him and fought to extract money from his pocket as he squirmed and wrestled. They snatched his wallet, but he didn’t care. He struggled to regain his balance in an attempt to chase after her but ended up falling on the sodden ground. Refusing to give up, he slipped and crawled through the mud, all the while blurting gibberish. From a distance, he could see her walking under her umbrella toward the light of the streetlamp, passing the pole, and disappearing, once again, into the dark. • 93 •

DUANWAD PIMWANA Duanwad Pimwana is one of Thailand’s preeminent contemporary women writers. She won the S.E.A. Write Award, Southeast Asia’s most prestigious literary prize, in 2003. Known for fusing touches of magical realism with social realism, she has penned nine books, including a novella and collections of short stories, poetry, and cross-genre writing. MUI POOPOKSAKUL Mui Poopoksakul is a lawyer turned translator. Her first book-length translation, The Sad Part Was, won an English PEN Translates Award. She is also the translator of Duanwad Pimwana’s Novel Bright. • 94 •



THE DUMB’S CAFE by Chamlong Fangchonlachit Translated by Voranut Tansakul • 96 •

THE DUMB’S CAFE I have found the place of my life. It was that evening after a stroll round Sanam Luang1 watching kites. I loved watching kites flying, catching the wind up there, like colourful birds of many different kinds flying high and low there in the sky. I could feel the happiness, the pleasure. Short of three days, it will be two full months since that day. It was a modest-sized cafe round the Ratchadamnoen corner, a three-minute walk from the Democracy Monument. If you don’t really look for it, you probably won’t notice it. When I got there, two tall lean guys were walking in. I paused, my eyes following them. Slowly the small wooden door was closing. I looked up at the cafe’s name board above it. A wooden signboard, “The Dumb’s Cafe”. I pushed the door and entered this unique coffee place. Adjusting my eyesight to familiarise it with the surrounding atmosphere, I could make out some tables and chairs, then chose to sit in the right-hand corner with my face turned to the counter. The next thing I experienced in this special shop was the quietness, and the coolness from the air conditioning, that seemed to penetrate every particle of the place. It was an exceptional kind of quietness deriving from the coolness in the place, just like when you add a bit of salt to enhance the 1 Sanam Luang (Royal Field) is the colloquial name for the Phra Meru Ground, the open space in front of the Grand Palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha in Bangkok’s historical centre named Rattanakosin. [Editor’s note] • 97 •

THE DUMB’S CAFE sweetness of sugar. Those two guys were sitting right next to the counter. They were having some beer, and with the beer something looking real white on the table. My seat made from rattan must have been bought from a trade fair organised by the Department of Corrections. Its backrest was tall and engulfing. The cushion, crimson red, was made of some course material stuffed with kapok; it felt rather soft under my butt. The coffee table was made from half log, like when you slice bananas lengthwise to make fried fritters. Polished and varnished, it had a smooth feel. A slim waitress served me a glass of cold water and some popcorn in a small teakwood bowl. Using the sign language, she asked me a question. I shook my head and gave her a smile. She went back to sit behind the counter. Occasionally, she’d throw me a glance. I put a couple of nice white popcorns in my mouth. Slightly salty. Nice buttery flavour. Tender and crispy without borax. Real nice. Ah yeah, the white something that I saw, at first, was this popcorn. That evening I left the Dumb’s Cafe at about 10 o’clock. I kept my visit to the cafe a secret, not wanting anybody else to know that some place like this did exist in Bangkok. If I had more free time again, I’d love to frequent the place. I’d try to avoid reception parties or hanging around with friends in some crowded noisy restaurants or cafes. I’d try to find more time for myself. • 98 •

THE DUMB’S CAFE The company I was working for was a dealer of imported air conditioners and electrical appliances. My boss was Khun2 Methi. Around forty-five. Large build, six inches taller than me. Fair. Clean-looking. Elegant. Always good-humoured. Yesterday morning he came in and handed me a file to go through. “Khun Kriangkrai, our company has the opinion that you’re the best choice for this training. Please study the details and let me know by tomorrow.” I went through the details in the file. The phone kept ringing. I told the operator that if anybody called me this morning, she was to say that I’d be in before noon. The file I got from the boss was nothing much but sales proposals, offering ways to heaven or means to success, or how to be top-notch sellers. If you wished to be a great salesperson, you absolutely were not going to miss this training. Same old topics. Same old logic. But with some little twists added. Made you feel active, enthusiastic, eager to participate - to advance on your career path, to develop your personality, so you’d move on to become a great seller, to beat your competitors. The next morning, my boss asked, “So, what do you have to say?” 2 Khun is the polite form of address of Thai people equivalent to Mr, Mrs, Ms or Miss. It is always followed by the person’s first name, never the family name. [Editor’s note] • 99 •

THE DUMB’S CAFE “I say yes – for our company,” I replied. He added, “For yourself too, if the company grows, making good profits. Just reminding you. It means security for you as well.” “Yes, sir! I forgot this fact.” “You know they often send me these things about marketing training courses, for me to decide whether I should encourage our staff to participate. Some courses are only forty- eight hours – not worth attending, not worth the expenses and the time. But this one, you just look at the speakers’ list, they sure will have new things to offer you. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, they have people like a university dean – that level, you see: a marketing honcho from an international corporation, a much-praised great administrator. Then there’s a marketing expert, and the most successful speaker on personality development. Don’t you know these people well?” “I do, sir,” I answered in a rather indifferent manner. “Um... you don’t seem to be quite active today. It’s only natural. I understand. I sometimes feel this way. Or is it because you’ve been working too hard? Or perhaps these are no more challenges for you. Believe me, after a good rest tonight, you’ll feel freshened up and fit as ever. You’d feel like plunging out to fight, to win again.” • 100 •