Thai

The hospital across the river at ten past four on the fifteenth of July, in the rains: Dad, congratulations, a girl; how is my wife; Mum is fine, three kilos two hundred; can I hold her; support her head, Dad; come here, she has your nose; she's so small, I've cried twice already; Dad, sign here, the room is on the fifth floor: being called by your role instead of you.

The ward on the afternoon of the birth, the family round the bed with mangoes and sticky rice: let me see her, oh, ugly, so ugly; ugly, Grandma; we say that to a baby, nobody envies her; she's lovely, I brought mangoes for Nam; thank you, Nam's asleep; and the name, Grandma chooses, right; born in July, before Mother's Day, Mali, lovely, worth a kiss; Mali Reed, so worth holding: the little word that makes a verb worth doing.

The flat in Khlong San, a basin of warm water on the kitchen table and Grandma in charge: warm water, lift her up, slowly; like this; lower her in, feet first, one hand under the head; look, she's not crying; she likes it, wash from the head down; I'm afraid I'll drop her; hold her like a bowl of hot soup, lift her out, into the cloth; five minutes and I'm sweating more than the baby: the little direction words after a verb.

The flat in Khlong San at six in the morning after a sleepless night, Tee at the door with a pot of rice porridge from Aunt Oy: porridge from Mum, you look terrible; by the time she slept it was three; by the time I fell asleep she woke again; did you sleep at all; she cried the whole night, we walked the whole night; Bee says it lasts a month; eat while it's hot, I'll hold her; by the time you've finished, she'll be asleep; then I'll eat slowly: by the time, and the whole night.

The district office in Khlong San, a numbered counter and the birth report to make within fifteen days: the hospital's letter, please; born on the fifteenth; the father's name and nationality; Jack Reed, American; mother Thai, the child's name; Mali Reed, the father's surname; the birth certificate, the person reporting signs here; and two copies, please: a form's words, the formal twins of the family's.

The second window at the district office, the family's house registration book open on the counter: how is the child's name spelt; Mali, the horse m, the short a, the monkey l, the short i; and the surname; Reed, the boat r, the long i, the child d; real name Mali, and the nickname; Mali, the same, it's short enough; the fourth floor, Khlong San, she's in the book; now she lives here on paper too: spelling a name aloud.

The paediatric clinic at two weeks, the baby on the scale and the pink book open on the desk: heavier by four hundred grams; she cries less than before; good, the skin is less yellow; she feeds every two hours; a shot, I write it in the pink book; when is the next visit, doctor; at one month, fatter, louder; and the father a little thinner: up and down after an adjective, for a change.

A photo shop on Charoen Krung and a three-week-old who needs a passport photograph: white background, eyes open, mouth closed; she's asleep; wake her so that she opens her eyes; support her head so it doesn't tilt; are my hands in the picture; hold her still, don't make her laugh; three weeks old, whatever she wants she does; the first photo of her life, and she's frowning: the giving word after a verb, for so that.

A translation office near the embassy, the birth certificate on the counter: a translation of the birth certificate; yes, and the certification too; the certification is a stamp; and the copy; certified true copy; the English names, as in the passport; write them for me, for correctness; seven hundred in all, right: a verb or an adjective made a noun, with the two little words in front.

The Thai-speaking window at the embassy on Wireless Road, number fourteen called: the birth certificate and its translation; and the parents' passports; if incomplete, you must come again; is a photo needed too; in case the photo is rejected, bring two; when do the papers come; within two weeks; now she has papers in two countries: the formal if of a counter, and within for a deadline.

Arrivals at Suvarnabhumi, Jack's parents through the door and Tee's car outside: Mom sends her thanks for coming to get us; we're family, five bags; Dad asks me to ask whether they all fit; even six, put them in; tell your mom the baby's asleep; Mom asks me to ask how far it is; forty minutes if the rain holds off; Dad asks me to buy mangoes too; Aunt Oy has bought the whole stall: the verb that passes a word on through someone.

Aunt Oy's noodle stall at the head of the pier, Jack's parents at the table and Jack between the two families: sit down, no need to hold back; Mom asks whether this is the famous stall; even though it's small, people cross the river; even though we can't make out a word, we laugh together; Dad wants to see the boats; even though it rains, the boat has a roof; can your mom eat spicy; a little, she says she's brave: even though, with the little word that answers it.

The family's house behind the pier, Grandma sorting out what everyone is to the baby: what are your parents to Mali; grandpa and grandma on the father's side; Aunt Oy and Uncle Chai are grandma and grandpa on the mother's side; and Tee and me; Tee's an uncle, you're an aunt; and if Nam had a younger brother; a different uncle, Thais count who is older; Grandma is her great-grandmother, and Nam's a daughter-in-law: the words a Thai family has for itself.

The family's house behind the pier on Mother's Day, Nam's first, a jasmine garland in the baby's hand: on the occasion of Mother's Day, a garland is presented to the mother; I hold the hand for her; my first, don't make me cry; at school they kneel, at home a hug will do; one handed to Aunt Oy too; on this occasion Grandma too, three mothers; next year she'll kneel herself; next year she'll eat the garland: on the occasion of, and the three verbs of giving.

The kitchen of the house behind the pier, Grandma and Aunt Oy planning the first-month party: on the fifteenth she's a month old, we must tie her wrists; what do we need; white thread, we need the thread before anyone can tie; and the food, the tying first, only then the eating; who's coming; the whole soi and your parents; I tie first, then the hair is cut; learn the wish first, only then can you tie: only then, and then, the order of things.

The first-month party at the house behind the pier, white thread round the baby's wrists and the soi at the door: may you be strong, may you grow fast; the hair is cut, may you be easy to raise; may you sleep the whole night, for your father's sake; thank you all for coming; Master Wichai carved her a paddle; my parents wish her a good life and happiness; now the food, the mother eats first; and the father, who looks like he hasn't eaten at all: a wish for someone, with the two little words that open it.

The bench outside the house behind the pier, Grandma and Jack's mother comparing notes with Jack between them: in my day the mother lay by the fire for seven days; Mom asks what the fire was for; to keep warm, nowadays it's not done any more; these days there's the doctor and the pink book; in my day there were no books, we just knew; Mom says in her day the fathers waited outside; now the fathers go in too; and now Grandma has a phone too: the words for then and now, and not any more.

Jack's boat workshop on the canal in Thonburi, the Friday before a month at home with the baby, and Ton at the bench: I'm on leave a month, Ton, look after it for me; and the customers; answer the phone for me, say I'll call back; and the boat in the shed; varnish instead of sanding; and if the supplier comes; sign for the wood on my behalf, count the planks too; a month without you shouting: the word for instead and on behalf of.

The kitchen table in the flat in Khlong San, a notice for the workshop door drafted between Nam and Jack, with Ton reading over their shoulders: closed temporarily first; from the first to the thirtieth; reopens as usual on the first of October; and the customers; write contact Ton, and the number; apprentice, not boy; we apologise for the inconvenience; at the bottom, write Jack's Boat Workshop: the written Thai of a notice, which reads nothing like speech.

The ticket window at the central station, ten seats to Hua Hin and a pram: Hua Hin, Saturday morning, ten people, return; the express at eight, second class, air-conditioned; book two window seats; car five, the ten of you sit together; and the pram; folded, kept at the end of the car; and the way back; Wednesday afternoon, buy it now and keep it: the little word after a verb for something done now and kept for later, and the words of a ticket.

The flat in Khlong San the evening before the train to Hua Hin, bags open on the floor: nappies for four days, and extra in case; take umbrellas in case it rains; I've packed rice, extra in case your father wants some; Dad asks whether to bring his hat; buy one in Hua Hin, buy two in case; her bottles, her blanket and her toy monkey; in case we meet real monkeys; Grandma's bag has been ready since Monday, just in case: the little word for in case, and for extra.

The central station at eight in the morning, ten of them and a pram on the platform: the express to Hua Hin leaves from platform three at eight; as many as ten of us; and only four hours; in my day the boat took a whole day; Dad says only two minutes; your father's two minutes are as much as ten; everyone on, count, as many as ten; only ten, then Dad's missing: the two little words that make a number big or small.

Car five of the morning express, rice fields in the window and the conductor at the door: tickets please, ten and a baby; here, Grandma has them all; Hua Hin, car five, all correct; the further south, the greener; Mum says the more she looks, the more she looks like me; the more she sleeps now, the less she sleeps tonight; the more it rains, the slower the train; the more I listen to Grandma, the sooner we arrive: the little word said twice.

Hua Hin station at noon, the old wooden platform and two taxis for a family of ten: as soon as we got to Hua Hin she woke; as soon as we got off the train I smelt the sea; ten people, two cars, follow me; to the guesthouse by the beach; as soon as you pass the clock tower you see the sea; the station is beautiful, Dad wants a photo; as soon as the train leaves, take it; as soon as Grandma is in the car we go: as soon as.

The desk of a guesthouse on the beach road in Hua Hin, a family of ten and a pram in the hall: ten people, five rooms, four nights; two rooms downstairs for the elders; downstairs, eight hundred a night; a cot for the baby, please; the cot is free, with a baby bath; breakfast; included, two per room; per night, per room, per person, I can't count it: the little word for per.

The beach at Hua Hin at noon, a parasol, ten of them and a baby with her feet in the Gulf: Tee almost lost the parasol; Mali touched the water and Mum almost cried; Mali almost cried too, then laughed; Dad almost went in with his shoes on; we almost didn't come; Grandma's under the parasol with her feet in; I almost dropped my phone in the water; today there's only one word, almost: the word for a near miss.

The seafood restaurant on the pier at Hua Hin in the evening, a table by the water for ten and a pram: how many; ten, a table by the water; one big steamed fish, two dishes of prawns; stir-fried vegetables, one dish of each, not spicy; the soup, a cup each or one big bowl; one big bowl, ten small ones; the fish is fresh, one is enough; then two, my son-in-law's father is a big eater: the counting words of a seafood table.

The foot of Khao Takiab, the hill of the monkeys at the end of the beach, a corn stall and the family with a pram: the sign says no feeding the monkeys; careful, they snatch bags; I've told Mum to hold the bag tight; don't look them in the eye; don't run, walk slowly; one's on the car; careful, a baby monkey, the mother's near; Mum says in Seattle it's beware of bears: three ways to warn, on a sign and in speech.

Departures at Suvarnabhumi in the second week of September, the grandparents' bags on a trolley and the family round them: later, when Mali walks, we'll go; tell them to come back at New Year; tell your father I'll keep the boat; sticky rice, to eat on the plane; I'll send a photo every day; hug now, cry later; Mum and Dad send their thanks; no need for thanks, just come back later: a promise for later.

A phone call at the workshop on the last Monday of September, Mali on Nam's arm and the varnish drying: we'd like you to talk about the river; me, on the radio; Thursdays at seven, agreed; I'm on leave till October; then start in October; say yes, I'll hold her; fine, no problem; so it's agreed, Thursdays at seven: agreeing, as a word, a question and a summing-up, and the end of this level.