Thai

A Saturday morning at the noodle stall in the rains, a librarian who heard the river slot: Jack from the radio, aren't you; that's me, about boats; I run a story-reading circle; aloud?

Jack's first Tuesday at the reading circle in the public library in Khlong San: tonight the circle has a new reader; a foreigner reading Thai tales, this I have to hear; start the way every tale starts; once upon a time, long ago; slower, we have the whole evening; there was a frog living in a coconut shell; one day the shell cracked; good, your long vowels are long: how a tale opens.

After the reading at the public library in Khlong San, Teacher Somsak on the book's words and the mouth's: you read the book's word for so like the news; the book writes it that way; the book says one word, the mouth says another; the book's way or the mouth's; read the book's way, tell the mouth's way; so the circle reads one, tells one; tell one?

A Sunday at the pier, Tee with a camera and a plan: I'm making a film about the old boats; a film?

Saturday at ten in the children's corner of the public library in Khlong San, Fon in the front row: the children's corner, ten minutes; hello, today the tiger and the crocodile; uncle, why does the tiger want to eat the man; because he sang loudly; and the crocodile; he ran into the river and met a crocodile; why didn't he climb a tree; he didn't ask you first: how a grown-up speaks to a child, and the child's word for uncle.

The pier on a Sunday, Tee behind the camera and Jack holding the microphone: Dad, tell us about this pier; my father's, three boats, same as ever; please tell us about Mae Nuan; Father's boat, Mother's name; what was the river like then; full of boats, and no bridges; then why that face, son; I forgot to press the button: asking someone to tell.

Story night at the reading circle in Khlong San, no books: tonight, tell something from your soi; as soon as a snake came into the shop, everyone went out; Jack, your soi; as soon as I got on the boat, the boat left; then I fell in, after that Aunt Oy laughed; and in the end; in the end I never fell in again; wrong ending, in the end you got married: the words that put a told story in order.

At the library desk in Khlong San, Khun Wan with a book for Jack: this one, five hundred proverbs; when the water rises, hurry and scoop..

Jack's workshop on the canal in Thonburi, Tee behind the camera and Ton holding the light: tell the viewers where we are; viewers, this is my workshop; this is Mae Nuan, new ribs; say what a long-tail is; the engine on a long pole, that's the tail; this is the old engine, it still runs; this is Ton, he talks more than the engine; cut, keep the engine, cut Ton: the voice-over's way of saying this is that.

Story night at the reading circle in Khlong San, Jack's taxi story told twice: I told the taxi, the pier, it turned out; stop, you told the ending in the middle; did I; it turned out and far from it come at the end; tell it again, the pier for the end; he said fine and drove for an hour; far from it, I saw aeroplanes; in fact, the airport has a pier: the words that spring a story's surprise, and where they go.

A Sunday afternoon in the house behind the pier, the library's book of five hundred proverbs on the table: Grandma, which proverbs are yours; the river's: when the water rises, hurry and scoop; and when it falls; when the water falls, the stumps show, then you know who was honest; Mother, he's writing them down; this one: a hand that won't paddle dips its foot in the water; that one's about Uncle Chai, is it; enough, a full stomach takes nothing in: the proverb's command, a condition first, then the little word for let and a verb.

Grandma's kitchen behind the pier, sticky rice on the table: when I was still a child, they said play the fiddle to a buffalo; meaning; explain all you like, the buffalo chews on; and who was the buffalo; Chai, of course, in those days I explained Isan to him for a whole year; and now; back then a son-in-law ate, now he writes it down; when I was still a child, there was only rain: the words for a time long ago.

Aunt Oy's stall on a morning at the end of the rains, Nui's motorbike at the kerb: Aunt Oy, open a second stall; slowly, slowly gets a fine knife; as they say, when the water rises, hurry and scoop; which one wins; as the proverb goes, catch fish with both hands and both slip away; when the noodles come, the proverbs stop; not by the book, Jack; it is now: how to quote a saying.

The house behind the pier, Tee's camera on Grandma: Grandma, tell us how Mae Nuan came; it's told that Chai's father bought her with rice; really; I heard it from his mother, she didn't lie, she only forgot; and the name; they say he named her for his wife, the boat, that is; I heard you came on this one; I'm not in the story, I am the story: the words of hearsay.

The mouth of the soi, Nui on his motorbike and Tee arriving with the camera: Tee stood for an hour, just like a heron; a heron; stands for ages and gets one fish; but the express boat is like a postcard; like a postcard from the year I was born; you talk as if you'd rowed a boat; my father had a boat too; then you're in the film, as the heron: the words that compare.

The house behind the pier, Mali asleep on Nam's lap, Grandma telling the old tale her way: there was a man who went into the forest; because he sang, the tiger came; where did he flee; into the water, so he grabbed a log, and the log was a crocodile; Grandma, Mali's asleep; good, this bit made your mother cry; out of the tiger, into the crocodile; it had eaten, so it carried him across, the end: cause and result inside a tale.

Bedtime at the flat in Khlong San, Jack telling and Nam correcting: once upon a time there was a small, small boat; smaller than that, a tiny, tiny boat; one day, plop, a fish in the boat; Mali likes plop, plop again; plop, the boat went to Grandma's slowly, slowly; and then crash; no crash, the boat arrived softly, softly, the end; you're a storyteller now, Jack: doubling a word to picture it, and the sound words of a tale.

A Tuesday evening at the public library in Khlong San, Teacher Somsak testing the circle: Jack, mend the pen after the cow is lost; too late, the foreigners have a horse; what does the saying warn; it warns us to mend the pen first; the crocodile, what does it teach; Grandma says the crocodile was kind; Grandma is wrong, and Grandma wins; it teaches that Grandma wins: the words of a moral.

Aunt Oy's stall on a slow afternoon in the rain, Nui under the awning: the first year I sold ten bowls a day; and then; and then the express boat moved to this soi, a hundred bowls; go on; Chai bought a second pot, and it fell in the river the first day; really; still down there, when the water drops you see the handle; when the water falls, the stumps show, and the pots: the listener's words that keep a teller going.

Loy Krathong night on the family's boat, the river full of lights, Tee filming, Grandma, Nam and Mali aboard: Grandma, say something to the camera; a boat sinks in the pond, where would the gold go; where would it go, Grandma; nowhere, it stays in the family; Jack's workshop, my film, where would it go; if you fall in, how would you film; let it go, Mali, who knows; who knows, tomorrow a boy fishes it out and sells it again: the question that needs no answer.

Father's Day dinner at the house behind the pier, the whole family at the table: as for me, I thought I could row; and Dad; Uncle Chai, he didn't say a word; I handed him the oar, that's all; the boat turned round twice; three, then I said one word, slowly; as for the oar, it has teeth marks; as for Dad, he says slowly to everyone: putting the topic first, with the little words that mark it.

The pier at night, the boats tied up, Uncle Chai and Jack on the planks: Father would take the boat out before dawn; every single day; every single morning, but New Year's; I used to sleep in the bow, on the rice sacks; and did you ever steer; from ten, Father said nothing; you never said anything either; I say a thing once, not twice: habits of the past.

Tee and Bee's flat near Wongwian Yai, the film on the laptop and no words yet: the film has no words, you write the script; me, in Thai; you read aloud every week; while the city sleeps, the river is already awake; while the city sleeps, the boat has already left; after the boat leaves, the market opens; before the sun is up, the rice is all sold; before the yard opens, the master chooses the wood: joining a film's sentences in time.

Tee's flat near Wongwian Yai, a microphone on the table and the neighbour's dog awake: from the top, a bit slower; while the city sleeps, the river is already awake; the dog next door is awake too; once more, louder than the dog; louder or softer, pick one; a bit louder, a lot slower; while the city sleeps, the dog is already awake; keep that one for the end: more and less after a describing word.

The old yard on Khlong Bang Luang, Tee behind the camera and Master Wichai on his bench: how many boats has this yard built; I stopped counting at two hundred, though my wife wrote them down; and now; one a year, even though nobody orders one; even though nobody buys one; but in the end somebody buys it; and who taught you to build boats; my father, though he said he only let me watch: even though, in its three shapes.

New Year's lunch at the house behind the pier, the whole table telling Nui's flood story with him: the flood year, I rode the bike into the water, see; he rode in, and there it stayed, the end; I told you it would stay there, didn't I; and you rowed the motorbike home, no less; I pushed it, see, water to the waist, with the fish; and the fish; Aunt Oy cooked them, of course; I did, the motorbike still smells of fish: the little words that colour a told story.

The flat in Khlong San the evening before the screening, Nam listening: rehearse it on me first; a boatbuilder came for one month and stayed six years; and in short; in short, the month was long, that's all; and the middle; the middle is a boat and a woman painting; and the ending; that's just it, the boat isn't finished, the end: summing a story up, and ending it.

The library hall in Khlong San in January, the children in the front row and the film about to start: welcome, everyone, to film night; let me introduce Tee and Jack; thank you, the film is short, the boats are old; let me thank Khun Wan and Grandma; Uncle Jack, is the frog in it; no frog, Fon, a crocodile; please be seated, lights off; in the film, Uncle talks slower: the word for may I before a verb, in front of an audience.

The library hall after the film, the lights back on and the circle asking: why is it that a man from Seattle builds Thai boats; it's not that I chose the boats; but the boats chose me; why does it end with Grandma; because the boat isn't finished; this time the ending came last; because I had a teacher; it's not just a teacher, he has a grandmother too: why is it that, and it's not that, but.

Grandma's table on the Sunday before Chinese New Year, the whole family and the whole year as one story: the story goes like this; I know this one; I came for one month, that month had a boat; and the boat, is she finished yet; new ribs, next cool season she goes on the water; a film too, don't forget; so it came to be six years, and that's how it is; not the end, next year I'm ninety, and Jack makes the speech: how things came to be, and the end of this level.