Silk Umbrellas (2 page)

Later,
thought Noi,
I’ll bring out the umbrella later.

Everyone sat down cross-legged on the mat and passed the bowl of rice, bean curd and pork cooked with garlic, the flat yellow omelet, and the tiny dish of fish sauce and chili.

Kun Pa didn’t seem to notice that Kun Mere and Kun Ya looked serious. “Srithon’s poor wife,” he said, serving himself a piece of omelet. “She keeps only female animals to save herself from going crazy with so many boys.” He ate slowly, clacking his big spoon against the dish. His work with Mr. Khayan had started early that morning.

When Noi was young, Kun Pa had planted the fields he rented from the landlord. Every night he came home with baskets of vegetables. Noi remembered washing the dirt off the crinkly cabbage leaves and snaky green beans as long as her forearm. When it was rice harvest, they’d always had fragrant jasmine rice to eat. Noi had helped Kun Mere pick out the bad grains that floated to the top when the rice was rinsed.

Kun Pa used to load the back of a little truck with the harvest and take it to market to sell. He returned from the market with coconut treats for Ting and Noi. They’d waited for him to come back and had jumped up and down at the sight of him, their mouths eager for the sweetness.

They’d had all they could eat, and not much need of money to spend.

Then suddenly the landlord had sold the farmland to a company that built vacation houses for city people and foreigners. Kun Pa and the other small farmers had had to find jobs. Now Kun Pa worked for the construction foreman, Mr. Khayan, laying bricks for those houses. But work was available only now and then.

“Work for Mr. Khayan?” Kun Mere had said at first. “How can you work for someone who’s destroying the farmland?” But in the end, Kun Mere, who kept the family budget, agreed that laying bricks was the only thing for Kun Pa to do. Throughout the village, women were in charge of all such household decisions.

Now whenever Kun Pa touched Noi, she felt how his hands had grown cracked and dry from handling the mortar. And in the evenings, Noi overheard him and Kun Mere talking about not having enough money.

Tonight Kun Mere said nothing when Kun Pa left after dinner to play chess with his friends. Usually, she would tease him a little about leaving. “Aren’t you going to the cockfights instead?” she might say. But tonight, Noi noticed that Kun Mere let him depart in peace.

Kun Ya, saying she was tired from the sun, went to her room.

Noi, Ting, and Kun Mere remained together on the mat, even though they’d finished eating. Usually, the three of them would get up and work quickly to gather and wash the dishes. But tonight something unspoken held them still. What had Kun Mere and Kun Ya been whispering about?

The room was lit with one bare bulb. It cast a bright light but also harsh shadows.

“Please clean up tonight, Noi. Ting and I have to talk,” said Kun Mere, uncrossing and crossing her legs with the opposite one on top. She looked down, her face washed with shadow.

Noi gathered the dishes. She tried to steady them, since their clatter sounded huge in the silence of the room.

Ting sat with her hands folded. Outside, thousands of crickets sounded together with one voice.

“Ting, I’ve arranged the job for you,” said Kun Mere as soon as Noi had cleared the eating mat.

“Is it the factory job?” Ting asked. Kun Mere had been talking about this job for weeks.

Noi filled the large bowl from a jar of rainwater, pouring smoothly, just as Kun Mere’s words poured out as though she had already practiced saying them.

“Yes, making radios. Many of my friends in this village have sons and daughters in the factory. It isn’t so bad.”

Ting said nothing.

The crickets’ song grew louder.

Noi glanced to see Ting trace the lines on the palms of her hands with her fingertip, as she did whenever she was distressed.

The factory.
If Ting worked there, she wouldn’t be able to help Noi and Kun Ya with the umbrellas.

“You’ll make money for the family. Your father and I won’t have to worry so much.”

That would be good, Noi thought. Her parents could talk about something else in the evenings for once.

“But, Kun Mere, I’ve heard that the chemicals make the workers sick,” Ting said. “And looking at the tiny parts for so long damages the eyesight.”

Noi plunged her hands into the cool water. Was the factory job a bad one, then? Surely, hearing that, Kun Mere would change her mind. She might say, “Well, never mind, then, I’ll find you something else,” and ask Ting to help her fold up the eating mat.

“If that were true, my friends would have told me about it,” Kun Mere continued instead. “Tomorrow the bus will pick you up.”

Noi turned to look at Kun Mere. Was she joking? Did she have a playful smile on her face? But Kun Mere’s face was down, her expression shadowed.

When Noi heard the first birds calling to each other across the jungle, she got up. She tied back the mosquito net, shook out the sleeping mat that she shared with Ting, then folded it into a neat pile against the wall. She opened the tall shutters to the trees outside. There was no glass in the windows, and the enormous banana leaves pressed close.

Ting had already left, headed for the bus stop and her first day at the factory.

In bed last night, Ting had whispered, “The factory might be fun. I’ll meet new people. I’ll earn money. Maybe I’ll even buy you something special.”

Noi had said, “Yes, it might be good.” But she couldn’t forget what Ting had said about the factory workers getting sick.

The sun rose, pulling a curtain of light across the sky.

In the bathroom stood a tall black jar of rainwater. Noi used the clear surface of the water as a mirror. Each morning before she bathed, she leaned over to look at her light skin, her thin arched eyebrows, and her straight, even teeth stained ever so slightly. Kun Ya said that the stains came from minerals in the drinking water.

Noi plunged a dipper into the water, then lifted it to splash herself clean. After she’d bathed, she combed out her long black hair, then twisted it into a bun at the back of her head.

She dressed in her uniform of a blue skirt and crisp white blouse.
I won’t be wearing this much longer,
she thought, pulling the collar straight. Because she was eleven years old, this would be her last year of school. Most children in the village didn’t study beyond grade school.

Ting had been out of school for four years.

The house smelled of the morning incense that burned in a smoky plume from the altar high on the wall, where a wooden Buddha sat, his palms facing upward, his eyes downcast.

“
Sawasdee,
little daughter.” Kun Mere said good morning as though nothing had happened the night before.

“
Sawasdee,
Kun Mere,” Noi answered. Surely, Kun Mere knew the right thing to do with Ting. Hadn’t she tended the altar, placing fresh flowers and food and lighting the incense stick? Surely she was in harmony with the Buddha and would never do anything against his holy principles.

After breakfast, Kun Mere settled down to her sewing machine. She turned on the lamp and pushed the sewing machine pedal with the tip of her toe, making mosquito nets, the netted fabric billowing around her.

Once a week, Mr. Subsin collected the nets, carrying them to other villages to sell. He loaded the bundles into his tiny truck and took off, the jungle caressing the fenders, black smoke puffing from the exhaust pipe.

By sewing mosquito nets, Kun Mere brought a little money into the household.

Noi descended the wooden ladder. In the dim green light underneath the house rested the umbrellas that she and Kun Ya had worked on the day before, piled in neat stacks, waiting to go to the Saturday tourist market.

The butterfly umbrella lay somewhere in those stacks. Would Kun Ya include that umbrella when the others went to market? Was it good enough to sell?

The tricycle was already loaded with fresh umbrellas. Noi laid her hand on the top one, the silk cool against her palm. Today in the jungle, Kun Ya might paint colorful parrots with airy flicks of her wrist.

Noi walked alone to school, following the narrow forest path until it opened onto the road leading into the village. Ahead of her, a boy rode his bicycle, reaching up with one arm to touch the feathery archway of trees.

Noi walked slowly, stopping every now and then to look up. Above the canopy, clouds gathered, their misty whiteness forming out of the pale blue sky. She imagined mixing blues and greens and pure white to paint that sky.

No rain would fall yet, but the clouds signaled the end of the dry season.

When Noi rounded the last bend, the temple appeared before her. Even though she’d seen it all her life, she always caught her breath a little at the sight of the gigantic golden cone rising out of the trees. Built by an ancient king, the temple was covered with jewels and flashed brilliantly in the sunshine.

In contrast, the school attached to the golden temple was a rough wood building.

As Noi entered the grassy field in front of the school, she stooped to pet the temple cats and dogs. A tiger cat rubbed against her while a rooster ran screeching, chased by a black dog with short legs.

“
Sawasdee,
Kun Kru,” Noi said to her teacher at the top of the steps. She bowed to Kun Kru with the palms of her hands pressed together in front of her heart.

“
Sawasdee,
Nuan-noi.” Only her teacher called Noi by her full name. Kun Kru was dressed in a plain dark blue dress, her hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. She’d arrived just this year from a teachers college in Bangkok, the big city to the south.

At the top of the stairs, Noi slipped off her sandals and entered the classroom.

Intha and another boy, Go, had already arrived and laid out copybooks on their desks. Children of all ages came to the one big room to be taught by Kun Kru. Soon Jirapat and her brother, Thongin, his slingshot in his back pocket as usual, seven of Srithon’s ten boys, and Noi’s special friend, Kriamas, appeared.

Kriamas waved to Noi, then leaned forward to unload her satchel, her black hair falling over her cheeks.

Kun Kru, as always, had written sayings from the Buddha on the blackboard in her careful rendering of the swirls and curls of the Thai alphabet.

Noi opened her book and began to copy the sacred words. She enjoyed the copying, because it reminded her of painting. She made sure that the words looked nice on the page.

The moist air blew through the spaces between the rough-cut boards, ruffling Noi’s paper. In the temple, Noi heard the comforting drone of the monks chanting.

In spite of the early hour, the air hung close and steamy. Noi wiped her face with a clean square of cloth from her pocket. Each time new children arrived, the room grew hotter.

Noi finished and waited for Kun Kru to collect her book. She was happy with her neat penmanship. She smiled across the room at Kriamas, who also worked hard. Kriamas planned to become a teacher like Kun Kru.

Kun Kru motioned, and the children stood to recite the morning poem, which began:

As Noi sat back down, she wondered how Ting was doing in the factory. Did the poem tell the truth — was the knowledge that Ting had gained in school helping in her new job? At the factory, was it useful that she could copy the holy words of the Buddha with perfect lettering?

That evening Noi sat with Kun Mere before the tall window with the shutters open, waiting for Ting to come home. Kun Mere embroidered a cloth with red thread. Soon the factory bus would arrive and Ting would run along the lane, her footsteps quick on the soft dirt.

Gradually, dusk gathered under the trees, then entered the room, coming between Kun Mere and Noi. Birds flew from tree to tree, preparing for the night.

Noi slapped at the mosquitoes that came out after sunset and bit her ankles. Her palms reddened with blood. Why was Ting so late?

The jungle grew velvety black and the
hinghoy
, or fireflies, began to appear, zigzagging through the bushes, making the trees pulse with light. Sometimes Noi liked to catch one and hold it, glowing, in her hands. But tonight she could think only of seeing Ting.