Mae had promised the monsoon would blow over before his birthday. Yet six days past turning ten, Panit was still squatting on the floor, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of unrelenting raindrops.
He tracked Mae’s stomp to the kitchen, bucket in hand, apron fastened tighter than usual. She wasn’t mad at him. The ceiling crack still leaked with the persistence of a burrowing beetle. She aimed the bucket at the drip and cursed the landlord, Mr. Chammali, and his repeated vows to patch the seam.
“Why does it matter? We’re leaving anyway,” Panit said.
Mae’s face darkened. “Where did you hear that?”
“Uncle Chaow said they’ll move us. Said the bulldozers will be here soon.”
“Uncle Chaow talks too much.”
“But it’s true, no?”
She dropped her shoulders, sighed. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“I grilled kidney sticks!”
“Ugh!” Then: “Mae, is it true?”
She strode six steps toward her son, crouched, cupped his cheek. Her hand was gruff and smelled of brine. “Come eat something. The sky will clear soon.”
On this occasion, Mae was right. By the time he had chewed his way through his second skewer, the gloom had lifted, and the rain had receded to a waning din.
He poked his head outside the front door. At least the storm had washed off the fish stench from the market. The weather had also thinned out the foreigners who pranced through the neighborhood like cockroaches on the prowl. He scowled. At least cockroaches did their business in silence.
Barefoot and shirtless, he inspected the muddy rivulets beside the house’s cinder blocks. Ten feet on, they merged into the stream that carried gifts from old Bangkok to the Chao Phraya River: a tuft of grass, a cigarette butt, a floating bag from one of those fancy shops. Before Uncle Chaow moved across town last spring, he used to take him for strolls along the harbor, where he would point to the long-tail boats. “My Panit,” he’d say, “one day I’ll take you back to Isaan, float down the Mekong on a paddleboat, and lay shrimp traps among the water lilies.”
Panit ran back inside, wet feet slapping on concrete. When he re-emerged, his arms carried the twelve origami boats he made from the special paper Uncle Chaow gave him for his birthday. Red and blue and gold they were, folded perfectly into symmetrical bows and triangular sails. He set them down, grinned. Tongue sticking out, he pinched the edges of the first boat and lowered it to the river.
He held his breath as the yellow vessel wobbled when it hit a ripple. But it straightened, sailed downriver. With a little luck, it would reach the gulf, or further, maybe to Koh Samui and all the other exotic places Uncle Chaow had talked about.
“Magnificent!” said the raspy voice with a thick, clumsy accent.
Panit turned, blinked at the afternoon sun.
A man stood at the corner with his head tilted, his grin framed by a gray goatee. “Can I see them?” he said.
Panit inspected the visitor in the khaki pants, white socks, and sneakers. His hands clutched a long gray tube that looked like a bazooka. But he wore a hard yellow hat whose plastic strap cut into the folds under his chin. Too chubby to be a thug. And too old. And not Thai.
Panit shook his head. “You’ll mess them up.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” The man slid off his hat, straightened his hair. He crouched beside him and beckoned with his fingers.
Panit paused before handing the stranger a golden boat.
The man settled the origami on his palm, rotated his hand as if he was examining an ancient treasure. His black eyes beamed. “What shall we call her?”
Panit shrugged.
“A boat must have a name, no?” He cracked a crooked smile. “How about Marion? My daughter’s name.” He inspected Panit a little closer. “She just turned nine. Must be about your age.”
Panit just stared. Maybe the stranger would sail his boat and leave him be.
“Marion it is.” The man pinched the boat’s tips and lowered it to the stream. But halfway down, his fat fingers crumpled the stern. No sooner had the boat touched the water, it sank to the bottom.
“Told you,” Panit said in a matter-of-fact tone.
The man scratched his face, peered over the edge to study the shipwreck. “I know I can do better,” he said with metal in his voice and beckoned with his fingers.
Panit shrugged, gave him one of the yellow boats.
The vessel met the same fate.
“Damn it,” muttered the foreigner. Before Panit could protest, the man reached behind him and plucked another golden boat.
One after another, each of the dozen vessels sank under the stranger’s fingers, transformed to soaked colored paper around a drainage grill.
The man slumped his shoulders. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I ruined your game.”
“It’s okay,” Panit said. “I can always make more.”
The man straightened his hard hat back on his head and beamed a smile. “Would you?” He pointed to the excavator arm peeking above the rooftops two blocks away. “You see that beautiful machine? I can get one of my guys to let you ride in it if you like. Or better yet…” He plunged his hand into his pocket and produced a coin. “Here! I’ll give you ten baht!”
Panit pushed off the floor and ran inside. Uncle Chaow’s special paper was gone, but he was sure Mae had kept an old newspaper somewhere.
A good story, well written. Enough local detail, language, etc. to give authenticity to the setting. While I would imagine a 10-year-old boy to be mercenary, I was a little disappointed Pantit hurried to make more boats for the man who just destroyed his, all for the money.
Ahhh… Heartbreaking. Well-told story!
I rarely comment on the stories I read on this site, but this one was so beautiful yet heartbreaking that I want to thank you for sharing it. Well done!