Silk Umbrellas Read online

  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:

  Having knowledge is like having great wealth;

  You will never lack wherever you go.

  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.

  Kun Mere turned on the light behind them in the living room, illuminating the house and even a little distance into the jungle. Yet still no Ting.

  When Ting did arrive, Noi didn’t hear her footsteps on the path but rather sensed her presence at the bottom of the ladder. She went to the top rung. “Ting?”

  Silence.

  “Ting, is that you?”

  “Yes, Noi.” Ting exhaled the words.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m tired, that’s all.” With that, Ting climbed the ladder, emerging into the range of the light. She stood a minute, silhouetted in the doorway, her shape dark against the dark.

  Kun Mere set aside her embroidery, and Noi stepped backward.

  Stray pieces of Ting’s curly hair wandered loose from her comb. The pupils of her eyes were large and black.

  Kun Mere gestured toward the eating mat that Noi had left out for Ting.

  “Sit down,” said Kun Mere.

  Ting sat, crossing her legs in front of her.

  “How was the work, little daughter?” Kun Mere asked brightly, arranging Ting’s dinner in a bowl and setting it in front of her on the mat.

  Outside, an owl hooted — two long, smooth notes — then silence. Inside, a mosquito whined.

  Noi reached into her book bag and took out a schoolbook. She opened it and pretended to read.

  Ting paused for so long before answering that Noi finally looked up.

  The owl hooted again.

  Would Ting refuse to answer Kun Mere?

  At last she said, “I did the same thing all day. I used tweezers to balance a tiny part on a wire. Then I used a small tool to solder the part on.”

  “Was that all?”

  “Yes, Kun Mere.” Ting lifted her bowl of noodle soup close to her face and began to spoon it into her mouth quickly.

  Noi stared at her book. She’d never seen Ting so tired. Did Kun Mere really know what she was doing? The words on the page crowded together and drifted apart without making sense.

  After they were both in bed, the mosquito net drawn and tucked tightly, Noi reached for Ting’s hand. “How was it really?”

  Ting yawned so hugely that Noi felt her moist breath on her cheek. “Very boring. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “But do you?”

  “It’ll do for now,” Ting said. And then she was asleep, her hand limp in Noi’s.

  As Noi lay awake, turning Ting’s new life over and over in her mind, she overheard Kun Ya talking with Kun Mere in the kitchen.

  “That factory isn’t a good place for a young girl. It will cost her her health and youth.”

  Kun Mere was silent.

  “She shouldn’t have to go, my daughter,” Kun Ya insisted, her voice as muscular as her strong fingers.

  “I would go in her place, but the work needs a young person’s perfect eyes and steady hands,” said Kun Mere.

  A painful silence followed.

  Noi smelled smoke. Kun Ya had rolled a cigar from fresh tobacco leaves and was smoking, as she did whenever she wanted to think.

  “You must understand, Kun Mere,” Kun Mere finally addressed her mother. “Without her work, we don’t have enough.” Her words sounded like coins being counted out one by one.

  Ting turned her head back and forth on her pillow. No one ever talked against the advice of the household elder.

  The smoke from Kun Ya’s cigar made Noi sneeze. She muffled the sneeze with the blanket so that no one would know she was awake.

  “There must be other ways,” Kun Ya finally said.

  The aching silence. Noi wished the owl would hoot again to break it.

  Early Saturday morning, Kun Ya and Noi gathered the painted umbrellas and loaded them into the basket of the tricycle. Noi noticed that Kun Ya added her butterfly umbrella to the stack.

  “Will we sell it, then?” she asked shyly.

  “Why not?” Kun Ya asked. “It’s beautiful.”

  Noi felt a sudden longing to keep the umbrella. After all, the butterfly was the first thing she’d painted other than leaves.

  Kun Ya must have understood what she was thinking. “Don’t worry, little daughter, there’s plenty more where that came from. Here”— she touched the area over Noi’s heart —“and here.” She touched Noi’s hands.

  Noi felt a quick flush of warmth. She wanted Kun Ya to say more, but she had already mounted the tricycle and was pedaling away.

  “Ting won’t be going with us anymore, will she?” Noi called out.

  “I’m afraid not, Noi. Now she has to work on Saturdays.”

  Sadness passed over Noi like a cool wind.

  Once again, Noi ran alongside Kun Ya as she rode. Whenever the road went downhill, Noi put her feet on the back step of the tricycle and caught a lift as the samlaw coasted.

  As they approached the tourist market, they reached the main highway. It was always clogged with a snarl of trucks and buses. Curls of black smoke rose and mingled together to form a haze. Noi covered her ears against the roar.

  People pedaled bicycles or tricycles like their own, or rode in the beds of small trucks. The tourists arrived in big buses or in cars.

  Some of the tourists were Thais from Bangkok. Others came from Japan. But the market was held mostly for the farangs from Europe and America. Each Saturday, Noi tried hard not to stare at these tall people with round eyes and light hair and skin.

  Monks also wandered through the market, their rubber sandals clicking against their heels.

  Kun Ya and Noi pushed the tricycle into the narrow lane of the market. They passed under the canvas awning that spread over the market to keep out the sun and, in the rainy season, the rain. Alongside the lanes were booths of things for sale: carved wooden elephants and water buffalo, silver bowls engraved with classic Thai designs, elephant bells, woven napkins and pillowcases, kites made of bamboo and paper, bamboo baskets, rolls of fluttering silk, landscapes embroidered with colorful yarn, Thai swords in sheaths. Several booths sold umbrellas, but none were as finely painted as Kun Ya’s.

  As Kun Ya wheeled the tricycle through the
market with Noi following, women called out to her. “Sell your umbrellas here today,” or “We’ll give you the best price.”

  But Kun Ya just laughed at the teasing. For many years, she’d sold her umbrellas only to Mr. Poonsub.

  When they got to Mr. Poonsub’s booth, Noi greeted him: “Sawasdee.” She bowed deeply, because Mr. Poonsub was almost as old as Kun Ya. His short, round fingers were heavy with silver rings.

  “Sawasdee.” Mr. Poonsub bent low to Kun Ya and glanced toward Noi.

  As Kun Ya and Noi took the umbrellas from the basket, Mr. Poonsub opened them one by one, sometimes saying nothing, sometimes exclaiming. When he got to the green child’s umbrella, Noi held her breath. But he barely opened it and seemed to accept it like all the others. After he had examined all of the umbrellas, he counted paper money and ten-baht coins into Kun Ya’s open hands.

  At a stand, Kun Ya bought Noi a cup of coconut-flavored drink. Noi sipped it carefully as they walked, letting the slippery pieces of coconut glide into her mouth. She liked to suck the sweetness out before swallowing.

  At home, Kun Ya gave ten baht to Noi and most of the paper money to Kun Mere. Kun Ya always kept a few notes for herself.

  Noi opened the lid of a tiny wooden box and placed the ten-baht coin inside with the others.

  Noi woke to the sound of downpour. Raindrops landed heavily on the banana leaves outside the window. She shivered and pulled her cotton blanket higher over her shoulders. School would be closed with such heavy rain falling.

  Ting’s side of the bed was empty. Noi got up quickly and opened the shutters just in time to see her sloshing to the bus even though the rain fell like a great gray waterfall. Ting held a banana leaf over her head with one hand and carried her lunch box in the other. Noi watched until she disappeared.

  Kun Ya came up quietly behind Noi. She rested her hands on Noi’s shoulders. “It’s not good to go out in the rain. She’s too young to do that.”

  “You’re up so early, Kun Ya.” Noi turned and put her arms around Kun Ya’s neck. Under her forearms, she felt Kun Ya’s thin shoulder blades, like wings, beneath her sleeping dress. “I wish Ting didn’t have to go to the factory.”

  “I know, little daughter.”

  “Please do something for her, Kun Ya.”

  “At one time I would have had that power, Noi. Things are changing.” She put a cool hand against Noi’s cheek.

  Noi could hear Kun Ya’s heart beating through the thin fabric — a sound like a faraway drumbeat.

  Kun Ya’s chest lifted as she said, “Since you can’t go to school, let’s paint together inside near the big window.”

  Just then, the sun broke through the clouds, shining brilliantly through the cascade of rain.

  After breakfast, Noi put on her plastic raincoat and went down the ladder, the rain thudding on her head and back as she descended. At ground level, the water already rose ankle deep. Underneath the house, she gathered an armful of umbrellas and pulled herself up, rung by rung, with her free arm.

  She went back down to collect the basket of paints and brushes.

  Noi spread the mat and laid out the umbrellas. Kun Ya sat down and slowly took an umbrella into her hand. “We must be still for a moment, Noi, and listen to the umbrella. Look at its color and the way the light touches it. Know the story it wants you to tell before you begin.”

  Kun Ya started to paint a quiet scene of lily pads. Then she turned and placed the umbrella in Noi’s hands. “Here, finish it for me, little daughter. The damp air makes me sleepy.”

  Noi could see that Kun Ya had meant to continue the lily pads around the edge of the umbrella, making them grow smaller and smaller. She had watched her create this design before. But completing this painting was a far larger task than painting the butterfly.

  “You know how, Noi. It’s time for you to go further,” Kun Ya said softly.

  The thunderous beating on the tin roof almost hid her words.

  After Noi had finished the lily pads, her body full of the roundness of them, she turned to show her work to Kun Ya. But Kun Ya had lain down on her side and now slept. Noi crawled inside of the mosquito net. She pressed her face close to Kun Ya’s hair, which smelled of fresh lemongrass, and sang “Yellow Bird” very softly.

  From the kitchen, Noi heard the sound of one of Ting’s radios. The singer sang of lost love. Tiny bells played like drops of water falling.

  “Oh, look, Noi. Ting went off without taking her lunch,” Kun Mere said one afternoon after school.

  The lunch box sat on the kitchen worktable, a stack of three metal bowls clamped together, one on top of the other. Noi knew that the bottom bowl held rice; the middle, vegetables and slivers of pork; and the top, chunks of fresh pineapple. Ting would be hungry.

  “I can take it to her,” said Noi. “The rain has stopped.”

  “But the factory is a long distance and on a busy road,” said Kun Mere.

  Noi knew that it was Mr. Subsin’s day to come for the mosquito nets and that Kun Mere was anxious to finish sewing. “I can go.”

  The lunch box clattered in the basket of the bicycle as Noi rode over the bumpy forest path. She traveled through the village, past her school and the temple, following the map that Kun Mere had sketched. One of the temple dogs chased her, yipping at the tires.

  Finally, she reached the highway. Instead of going into the market as usual, she turned onto the shoulder of the busy road. Sometimes when the big trucks passed her they honked, and the wind they created blew hard against her.

  When Noi arrived at the plain factory building, she parked the bicycle. The building had no windows. Walking up the front steps, she carried the lunch box, the handle square and hard against her palm.

  “How can I help you?” A man in a white uniform opened the door and stood above her. He had a badge pinned to his shirt pocket.

  “I brought my sister’s lunch.” Noi held up the metal stack.

  “It’s past lunchtime,” the man said.

  “But she’s probably hungry.”

  The man looked at his watch. “Okay. They get a short break soon.” He reached for the lunch box, but Noi held on to it.

  “I’d like to take it to her, please.” She wanted to make sure that Ting got the lunch, and besides, now that she’d come this long distance, she wanted to see where Ting worked.

  “This way, then,” the man said, holding the door open wider. Noi passed in and followed him down a short hallway. On the wall hung photographs of the king and queen. The hallway led into a large room lit by cold-looking lights. There were four rows of workers, about ten in a row. At first, Noi couldn’t spot Ting, because each young worker had the same black hair pulled into a net and each wore a pair of thick magnifying glasses. A wide moving belt ran in front of each row. Metal boxes sprouting tangles of wires passed along the belt.

  She saw Ting bent over the belt like the other workers, accepting each box as it came to her. In front of her rested a cup filled with small bits of something. Noi scarcely breathed as she watched Ting lift the bit with a pair of tweezers and maneuver it onto the box. When the piece was settled, she used a tool that looked like a pen with an electrical cord attached and glued the piece on. All the while, the box had been moving toward her, in front of her, and then away from her.

  Except for the rhythmical spinning of the overhead fans and the ringing of the phones down the hall, there was no sound. None of the workers talked. Even the light was unwavering, as though the least flicker might disrupt the delicate work. Noi shut her eyes briefly. How could Ting do this all day long?

  She went up behind her and whispered, “I’ve brought your lunch.”

  “Thank you, Noi,” Ting said without looking up.

  Noi saw that she couldn’t look up. If she did, her unit wouldn’t receive its piece and the next worker couldn’t do her job. The belt would have to stop.

  How different this was from the days with the umbrellas — filled with light and shadow, breezes and laughter.

  Noi let her gaze shift from Ting to the others bent over their tasks. Most looked to be Ting’s age, out of school for a few years. But then she looked more closely. Some workers were younger than Ting. Some were very young. They looked almost as young as Noi herself.

  Suddenly, she understood — she, too, was destined to come here to the factory, to work here with the radios day in and day out. She might come as soon as she finished school. After all, why not? Why should she, and not Ting, be spared? Why would Kun Mere wait? Even with Ting working, Kun Mere and Kun Pa still worried about money.