Chapter 19
I never, for one moment, dreamed that that visit to Mom Ratchawong Kirati would be the beginning of the final act of her life. How terrible it was that the curtain should fall so soon.
The marriage between myself and Pree, my fiancée, took place on the appointed day.
I shall not go into detail about how delighted my wife and I were with the scale and splendour of our wedding.
What did leave me feeling disappointed was that Mom Ratchawong Kirati did not attend.
She sent someone round with a letter that afternoon, saying she was ill and unable to be present.
She sent her best wishes and said she would come and visit me when she was feeling better.
I had already planned to take my wife on holiday to Hua Hin for a fortnight.
Before going, I took her to visit Mom Ratchawong Kirati at her home.
This was three days after the wedding. Mom Ratchawong Kirati told us she was feeling a little better and was planning to pay us a visit in the near future.
I could clearly see that she looked paler than before.
When I asked about her condition, she said she felt weak, but that on our wedding day she had had a fever, too.
She looked drowsy and did not say very much.
She asked us to tell her about our wedding day, and listened in silence, except for the occasional question, and to ask Pree how she had felt on the day.
We spent about an hour with her and then left, fearing she might not have enjoyed our visit, as she had not yet fully recovered.
‘She’s a sweet lady, and still beautiful,’ Pree remarked, once we were outside. ‘But there’s something mysterious about her.’
Two months passed. One evening in December a startling incident occurred and a mystery was revealed.
That evening I returned home from work and, before I had time to change my clothes, the maid came and told me there was a lady waiting to see me urgently.
I hurried down to meet her in the living-room.
It was Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s aunt, who was waiting with an anxious look on her face.
‘You wanted to see me urgently,’ I began.
‘Khunying is seriously ill,’ she said.
‘Last time I saw her, she was getting better, wasn’t she?’ I asked with a mixture of surprise and alarm. ‘What else is the matter with her?’
She told me that Mom Ratchawong Kirati had had mild tuberculosis for about two years.
Previously, it had been understood that if she received proper treatment, the condition would not rapidly worsen to a point where her life might be in danger, and that there was hope she might recover.
But over the last couple of months, the course of her illness had changed, and in the last two or three days, her condition had deteriorated alarmingly.
She had a raging fever and was frequently delirious, during which time she would talk of her trip to Japan with her husband, Chao Khun, often mentioning my name.
‘Whenever anyone comes to visit her, before I even have a chance to tell her who it is, she always asks if it’s Nopporn.
That’s what she asks when she’s fully conscious.
When I say “no”,’ she continued, ‘she gives a deep sigh and says nothing. When I asked her if she wanted to see you, she shook her head and even said, quite emphatically, “Don’t go round to Nopporn. Don’t go disturbing his happiness under any circumstances.
” But when more people came to see her, she asked about you again.
I’m sure she badly wants to see you, but I don’t know why she doesn’t want me to come round.
I felt so sorry for her and couldn’t bear it any longer, so I slipped out and came to see you.
But I didn’t tell her. I said the doctor had told me to go and buy medicine.
But the doctor knew the truth about where I was going. ’
I could scarcely believe it. Why had Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s condition deteriorated so suddenly?
And why had she kept calling out my name when she was delirious?
But everything her aunt said was true. When she had finished, I did not ask any further questions.
I was deeply shocked and concerned for Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s life.
We hurried straight round to her house. When we drew near, I was urged not, under any circumstances, to let her know that anyone had called me. I gave my word.
I was led into the living-room. A moment later the doctor overseeing Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s care came over to have a word with me.
He told me that the patient’s condition was beyond hope.
It was merely a matter of sooner or later.
I also learned from the doctor that Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s relatives had all expressed the view that there must be some special relationship between the two of us, and that for this reason she ought to have a chance to see me before she died.
I sat composed as I listened. Inside, my heart was filled with indescribable grief.
I waited for about ten minutes. Her aunt came out and told me that I had come at a good time, because Mom Ratchawong Kirati was conscious and her condition reasonably stable.
‘Is Khunying ready for me to go and see her yet?’ I asked.
‘Please just wait another moment. She’s getting dressed.’
‘Why does she have to get dressed?’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Didn’t you say she was very ill? Even the doctor said as much.’
She sat down and explained. ‘She is very ill, that’s right.
And I don’t know why she wants to get dressed.
I protested and pointed out that it was Khun Nopporn, a close friend, who’d come to see her and that there was no need to worry about getting dressed.
She smiled – the first time I’ve really seen her smile since she fell ill – and brushed aside my objections.
“It really is most essential for me to dress up nicely to receive a dear friend,” she said, and asked Suthan, her younger sister, to help her get dressed.
“Please dress me up to look really nice, the way you know I like. Please do my hair again and do my lipstick, the way I usually have it. And bring me some nice dresses from the wardrobe for me to choose. Suthan, please help me to look beautiful again, just one more time before I die.” She smiled weakly, but both Suthan and I wore sad expressions and could scarcely hold back our tears of pity.
In the end we had to give in to her wishes.
Suthan is getting her dressed now.’ As she spoke, tears came to her eyes, and I saw that she was trying to stifle a sob.
The doctor lowered his head and listened in silence.
‘She asked me, “Have you told him I’m very ill and close to death?” Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s aunt continued.
‘I had to tell a lie for her sake, because I knew very well that she didn’t want you to know she was seriously ill.
She was pleased and said, “That’s good. Please just tell Nopporn that I’m not very well. Don’t alarm him.”’
When Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s aunt had finished speaking, the three of us were silent.
The room was filled with a desolate air of gloom.
After a while, she rose and went to see whether Mom Ratchawong Kirati was dressed yet.
About ten minutes later, she came and told me that Mom Ratchawong Kirati was ready and led me into the patient’s room.
As I approached the room, I felt a sense of sorrow and loneliness, as if I were visiting the corpse of someone I had loved dearly, rather than a still-living person.
Mom Ratchawong Kirati was lying down in the bedroom.
As I entered the room, I was momentarily taken aback.
I had expected to find a sick person near death, lying in a dark, stuffy room, full of bottles of medicines and two or three people sitting there, weeping profusely.
But I had pictured things quite differently from the reality.
It was about five o’clock and, inside, the room was bright with the late-afternoon light, shining through each of the wide-open windows.
Mom Ratchawong Kirati was sitting on the bed, propped up by a pillow, with her legs stretched out along the length of the bed.
A white blanket with a green Chinese-style pattern covered the lower part of her body.
She wore a blouse of the same colour and, on top of that, a black velvet jacket.
This was to prevent me from seeing any part of her body which might lead me to conclude that she was close to death.
Her hair and face had been carefully done and masked the extent of the deterioration in her condition.
At just a brief glance, the red triangles of her lips almost deceived me into thinking that there was nothing wrong with her at all.
On a small bedside table stood a crystal vase containing a bunch of fresh red Christmas flowers.
From the window by the bed hung two bird cages.
Rosefinches hopped about inside, chirping merrily.
Everything in the room had been arranged tastefully.
There was no sign that it was the room of someone seriously ill and close to death.
I almost began to think I had maybe been misled.
When she saw me standing there, Mom Ratchawong Kirati put down the book she had been holding to show me that she had been reading before I came in.
‘Nopporn, please come and sit here,’ she said, indicating a chair by the bed. ‘I’m a little unwell, so I have to receive you in bed.’
I was shocked when I heard her voice, because it was so hoarse and weak, I could scarcely hear her. I went and sat down quietly on the chair. ‘I’ve come to see you because I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘Thank you so much. I knew you hadn’t forgotten me.’ She smiled cheerfully while turning towards the woman standing at the head of the bed, keeping an eye on her. ‘That’s Suthan, my younger sister, who has found love and happiness in marriage, as I once told you.’
I bowed in Suthan’s direction.
‘Everyone can go off and have a rest now, including you, Suthan,’ said Mom Ratchawong Kirati.
‘Leave me alone with Nopporn,’ she added.
The others exchanged glances. I remained silent.
‘Please don’t be concerned, because I’m not seriously ill.
’ Suthan went over and had a word with her aunt.
A moment later, the doctor whispered to me not to talk to her for long or tire her out.
Once everyone had left the room, Mom Ratchawong Kirati glanced in my direction with a look of contentment in her eyes. I pulled my chair up close to her bed.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you today. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, even for one last time.’ She looked at me, her eyes never flinching.
‘I’m right here in front of you, now, and I’ll stay as long as you want me,’ I replied solemnly.
‘That’s impossible, Nopporn, because you’re not mine.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘That’s right. You wouldn’t understand because you’ve never understood me, right from the first day we met.’ There seemed to be a mocking look in her eyes.
‘Please tell me what else there is that I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t understand anything. Not a single thing. You don’t even understand yourself.’
I could not fathom her meaning. I looked at her uncertainly. She reached under another pillow and took out a sheet of paper. ‘This is a painting I did myself after I got back from Japan. I’d like to give it to you as a wedding present.’
I took the picture and looked at it with interest. It was a watercolour, depicting a stream which ran past the foot of a mountain.
Tall trees grew densely on the slope of the mountain.
On the other side of the stream was a small, uneven stone path which passed over an overhanging rock, rising and descending in places.
Creeping plants and wildflowers of various colours grew in a line along the rock.
Further down, on a large rock almost touching the water, sat two figures.
The scene was depicted from a distance. In a bottom corner, in small letters, was the word ‘Mitake’.
I wondered what Mom Ratchawong Kirati meant in giving me this small gift.
‘It’s not very good, Nopporn, but my heart and soul went into it, so it’s a fitting wedding gift for you.’ When I looked up and met her eyes, she asked, ‘Do you remember, Nopporn, what happened there?’
I recalled the incident at Mount Mitake quite clearly, and I was beginning to vaguely understand what Mom Ratchawong Kirati meant.
‘I fell in love there,’ I replied.
‘We fell in love, Nopporn,’ she said, closing her eyes.
‘You fell in love there, and your love died there. But for someone else, love still burns brightly in a wasted body.’ Tears trickled down beneath her closed eyelids.
Mom Ratchawong Kirati sat in silence, worn out.
I looked at that body with love and deep grief.
A week later, Mom Ratchawong Kirati died.
I was present during those last dark hours, together with all her friends and close relatives.
Before the end, she asked for a pencil and paper.
She wanted to say a final word to me, but her voice had gone, and all her strength.
Thus it was that on a piece of paper she wrote, I die with no one to love me, yet content that I have someone to love.