Silk Umbrellas (7 page)

The night of Loy Krathong, the night of the twelfth full moon, carried the first crisp hint of winter.

Kun Ya walked hesitantly, as though the cold air had gotten into her knees.

Noi held one of her arms, Ting the other, dressed in the festival clothes that Noi had ironed. Kun Pa and Kun Mere went ahead, talking softly.

“Look, Kun Ya.” Noi pointed out a cluster of earthen lanterns under the trees, the hanging lanterns close to the houses.

“And look,” said Kun Ya. She pointed to the
hinghoy
bobbing in and out of the trees, as though they, too, were celebrating.

When the path led into a clearing near the river, the
kome loy
, huge, soft, orange lanterns, floated freely in the sky. Noi saw the flicker of the fires that heated and lifted them. As the
kome
drifted away, so would bad luck.

Could those beautiful lanterns save
her
from bad luck? Noi wondered. Or was it just a foolish belief? In spite of all the ceremony, next year might she, too, come running from the factory when Loy Krathong was almost over?

As the path widened and joined another path, Kun Pa and Kun Mere greeted villagers on their way to the river,
sawasdees
rippling into the cold air.

Noi smelled the sweet, earthy river plants. Here and there, people were lighting their candles. The full moon rose over the horizon like a coin of good fortune.
Krathong
had already been set free, the dark shapes of the floating baskets and the tiny flames reflected in the golden, moonlit water.

“Listen, Ting.” Noi shivered with excitement. “People must be dancing. I hear a big drum and tiny cymbals.”

A boy chased a girl on the other side of the river, their giggles bouncing through the cold air. Another couple sat close under a low-hanging tree.

Noi stared into the current alive with flames. The spirits of water lived here — especially tonight.

She felt Kun Pa’s sleeve brush hers.

“You go first, Noi.”

“Oh, let someone else . . . ,” she started to say.

“I’ll come with you,” Kun Ya said softly.

With one hand, Noi held the
krathong
with its precious cargo, and with the other, she supported Kun Ya’s arm, steadying her. Damp grass brushed against Noi’s legs as she walked to the river. The touch was like the caress of the river spirits.

When they knelt together on the bank, Noi sensed her family standing behind her. Kun Pa leaned over her shoulder and struck a match, and Noi shielded the flame with her hands. First he lit the incense stick. The sweet smoke spiraled into the air. Then he touched the flame to the wick of the candle, holding it until the flame transferred itself.

Noi set the
krathong
on the water, balanced it, and, with a quick flutter of her hands, pushed it away from the bank.

“Mae Nam,” Mother Water, Noi whispered. She prayed that the basket would float on this river until it reached the larger river downstream. If the
krathong
arrived at that wide current, surely her dreams would come true.

“Mae Nam,” echoed Kun Ya.

The basket began its journey on the golden water. The
krathong
got caught in an eddy and swirled around three times before heading downstream.

When it joined the others, Noi suddenly couldn’t tell which was hers. She rose up on tiptoe, trying to fix her eyes on the tiny flame.

When the basket had surely gone, merged forever with the other
krathong
, Noi turned to see the golden moonlight reflected in Kun Ya’s eyes.

“You can’t do anymore tonight, little daughter. Your
krathong
is in the hands of the river spirits now.”

Yet Noi couldn’t help looking over the luminous water again, searching for a promising sign.

The next morning, Kun Mere handed Noi a silver bowl with designs on the sides. It was full of rice and bits of crispy dried fish.

Noi took the food and went down the ladder outside the house, balancing the bowl carefully with one hand.

Three monks strolled down the lane in bright robes the color of the sun rising behind them. Noi noticed the way the orange stood out against the green background of banana leaves and vines climbing up the coconut palms. Each monk carried a large silver bowl.

Noi bowed to them, kneeling on the soft dirt. As the monks held out their bowls, she spooned the food in, carefully dividing it into three equal portions.

After the monks had moved on to the next house, Noi stayed kneeling. She opened herself to the trilling calls of the birds, the breeze lifting the hairs around her forehead, to the lemony feel of the early sunlight.

When she rose, she approached the spirit house underneath the big tree. The spirit house was a miniature building raised to eye level on a single pole. Kun Mere had already lit incense here and laid out flowers and food. Instead of a Buddha, the shrine housed an Indian yogi with a long beard, a water buffalo, and a farmer wearing a big round hat.

Once Noi had asked Kun Ya why all Thai families had both a Buddha altar and a spirit house.

Kun Ya had taken a moment to think. Then she’d leaned forward and said, “Do you remember, Noi, when Srithon’s oldest son was sick? Srithon prayed to the spirits. But when it looked as if the son might die, Srithon went to the temple to pray. He prayed to the Buddha that his son would have a good transition between lives.”

Noi moved the farmer closer to the water buffalo and the yogi behind the fresh orchid flower. They led such simple lives here in the spirit house, as did the monks who wandered the road in their daily ritual of begging food.

Which could understand her complicated worries? She wondered if she should carry those worries to the Buddha who lived on the altar, or to the spirits who lived all about her.

“Here, Noi.” Kun Mere handed her a pineapple as she was leaving for school. “Remember, Kun Kru asked you to bring one today.”

Noi took the pineapple under her arm and cradled it, the prickly skin against her own, the spikes of the leaves against her neck.

In the afternoon, Kun Kru asked the children to place their pineapples on the desks. The room smelled sweet.

Even the boys had brought pineapples. If the school had been bigger, the boys would have gone with a male teacher to learn how to weave fans or baskets out of bamboo. But since there was only Kun Kru, they, too, learned how to carve fruit.

Kun Kru held up a photograph of a pineapple shaped like a bird. Then she took her own pineapple and sliced off the skin, the tough diamond shapes falling to the table. With quick, practiced strokes, Kun Kru transformed the yellow block of fruit into a feathery bird. The room smelled even sweeter.

When Kun Kru finished, Noi and the others took out their pocketknives and set to work.

Noi cut carefully, making sure that her knife didn’t slip. She enjoyed the different shades of yellow inside the pineapple, including the pale, almost white, streaks. She felt saturated with the golden colors. The juice stickied her fingers.

“It’s coming along nicely, Noi,” Kun Kru commented as she circulated among the students, helping guide a knife or make a suggestion.

At the end of the afternoon, Kun Kru displayed all of the carvings on a large table. The birds looked crisp and delicate, as though they would bring goodness to whoever ate them.

Yet flies were beginning to circle the pineapples.

Suddenly, Noi recalled Ting bringing home a watermelon carved into the shape of a swan, even the green-and-white rind part of the design. Everyone had gathered to admire the swan’s long, arched neck, its perfect wings.

But that skill was of no benefit to Ting now. While the other children wrapped their pineapples to take home, Noi decided to leave hers behind for the flies.

The next day as Noi and Kun Mere were scattering vegetable peelings for the chickens, Mr. Subsin came down the path on a motorcycle instead of in his truck. When he stopped, he put his feet on the ground but didn’t get off the motorcycle. “I can’t buy any more mosquito nets until the next rainy season,” he announced. “The villagers in every direction have enough for now.”

“What about the ones I’ve already made?” asked Kun Mere.

“Keep them. I’ll be back next season.”

Noi glanced quickly at Kun Mere. She was staring down at Mr. Subsin’s feet — one on the ground, the other balanced on the pedal.

After Mr. Subsin roared back to town, leaving the bushes shaking on either side of the path, Noi watched Kun Mere climb slowly up the ladder into the house. Noi followed her through the big front room and into the kitchen.

Kun Mere took a head of garlic and began to break off the cloves, cracking them loose with more force than usual.

“Will there be enough money now?” Noi asked.

Kun Mere flattened a clove with the side of a heavy knife, releasing the strong garlic scent into the kitchen. “It will be harder to buy what we need.”

Noi slipped into Kun Ya’s room, where the umbrellas were stacked in the corners. She knew the paintings by heart. She rested her hand on a pale green umbrella and recalled how she’d sat in the forest when the rain had paused, watching a family of chipmunks climbing in and out of their holes or skittering along branches, their fluffy tails raised like flags behind them. Sometimes she closed her eyes and sensed the way the little animals traveled — the darts and then the careful pauses, the darts again. When she understood the chipmunks, she’d painted three, their nervous movements in every stroke of her brush. Even after she’d finished the painting, she’d lived the rest of the day with the feeling of the chipmunks’ scurries inside her.

She wasn’t sure that Mr. Poonsub would accept the umbrellas, but the time had come to see. He might look at one and laugh, his heavy stomach moving up and down. He might treat her like a child playing at selling umbrellas. Even the women might scoff at her childish work.

But she couldn’t wait any longer. If her painting proved good enough to make money for Kun Mere, then surely Kun Mere would let her be an artist.

Noi found Kun Pa underneath the house, sharpening his long knife with a stone. She waited until he had finished and replaced the knife into its wooden sheath. Then she spoke: “Kun Pa, will you take me to the tourist market on Saturday?”

“We have no money to buy anything, Noi,” he replied.

“No, I mean to sell something.”

He looked at her with his thin eyebrows lifted.

“Kun Ya has been too tired to paint umbrellas, so I’ve been painting them for her,” Noi continued. Would he be worried that she’d spoiled expensive umbrellas and used up the paints?

“Well, let’s see, then,” Kun Pa finally said.

Noi climbed the ladder, then entered the house and Kun Ya’s room. She selected the brown umbrella with the elephant on it, opening it partway to make certain it was the one she wanted. In the gloom, it cast a rich, bronze light.

“That’s an especially beautiful one, Noi.”

Noi turned to see Kun Ya leaning up on her elbow in bed. “I thought you were asleep. I’m going to show this umbrella to Kun Pa.”

“I’m so glad, Noi.”

Kun Pa met her at the ladder. As he climbed up, Noi unfurled the umbrella. The elephant sprang to life, filled with vigor, reaching forward with its trunk to Kun Pa.

That evening after dinner, Kun Pa said, “Bring out the elephant umbrella again, Noi. Show the others.”

Noi carried the umbrella into the living room, where everyone still sat around the eating mat. Just before she opened it, she looked at Kun Ya, who nodded slightly. After she had set the umbrella on its side on the floor, there was a long pause until Kun Mere said, “Where are the others? Your father says you have more.”

So Noi brought out all the painted umbrellas. She went back and forth to Kun Ya’s room to carry them one by one, springing them open when she entered the living room. The silk petals spread in the jungle night, under the light from the bare bulb. Soon the umbrellas rested like a company of proud flowers in the living room.

As Noi looked at the umbrellas, she traced her journey from one to the next: that day the flock of small blue birds; or the day of bright sun mixed with dark rain, the playful monkey in the tree . . . The umbrellas told the story of her life these past months.