Sia Heng appointed Mother Pensri as the supervisor of his production line: a clever choice, pleasing the female workers and throwing the male workers off balance. There was less chance of any slacking or cheating with a woman in charge. He sat back in his little office at one end of the workshop, a pile of new orders on his desk, looking out over his small but lucrative venture. With time and patience, he told himself, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown. The Relic Committee had been awarded a business grant by the province, and with the exception of two or three dissenters had been easily persuaded to fund half the enterprise. Sia Heng had put up the rest and the profits were split down the middle. The Committee’s share would go into a community fund for local projects: festivals, student bursaries, road and drain improvement, and a new dustcart.
The workshop produced imitation relics, made from simple clay castings filled with molten metal. Uncle Daeng, out of work since selling his rice field to a rich neighbour, operated the small forge. A few Dai Noks worked on polishing and buffing the coins, packing the different sizes into tissue paper-lined boxes. The boxes were red, emblazoned with a golden dragon: Sia Heng’s logo of choice (he had been born in the Year of the Dragon). Average output was fifty relics a day but Sia Heng was ready to expand. Mother Pensri kept everyone up to speed, organized lunch breaks, checked numbers (for which she had a natural flair) against orders, calculated the wages, planned the staff rota and reported any enquiries to Sia Heng. She had wangled a part-time job for her husband too, sweeping and cleaning the workshop, which curbed the hours Uncle Nun could spend at the whisky stall. She made sure all his wages went straight to her. Demand for the imitation relics had grown; devotees from across the country, having read of the miraculous discovery in the newspapers, were flocking to the village to visit the sacred spot where the original had been found, and most of them wanted to buy a copy. There was talk of setting up a souvenir shop at the shrine. T-shirts, thought Sia Heng, commemorative plates, Kodak and Fuji film, cold drinks, snacks, maps and postcards. Foreign tourists will lap it up – it’ll put the village squarely on the map! He was planning a colourful poster of this year’s Songkran beauty queen cradling a relic in her lovely lap. But he would have to ask the Police Chief first. Sia Heng had even come up with the brilliant idea of levelling out the old steps and having a new walkway built to make the ascent easier for older devotees and tourists. It would mean destroying the original steps and cutting down some ancient trees, but business was business and change was inevitable.
Worship of the lingam in the old ruined shrine had flourished; several women had given up their market stalls to weave jasmine garlands for the worshippers. By the end of the day the lingam was often buried under wreaths of snowy-white blossoms. Aunty Wassana had considered moving her noodle stall up to the ruins – there was a fortune to be made – but she couldn’t navigate the steps. No one had listened to the Abbot when he pointed out that while the relic was a sacred Buddhist artefact, a symbol of Enlightenment – the lingam was something else altogether. So what? people exclaimed; where was the harm in worshipping both? The Abbot had tried to scupper the project right from the start. So had the Schoolteacher – so enthusiastic at the beginning, poring over his books to discover how old the relic was and where it originated from; but since the factory had opened the Schoolteacher had resigned from the committee. Had got to his feet during one meeting, Sia Heng remembered, and shaken his fist at me and the other members, calling us all capitalists, shouting that the fund should all be given to the school! Something about a school library? Who did he think he was? Anyway, what was wrong with the way things were turning out? Didn’t everyone benefit? Sia Heng shook his head with a wry smile, turning to look out the window. The weather had been close and humid for days now. It was agonizingly still in the valley, but dark purple clouds were coming in from the east, gathering over the mountains. He picked up a small white flannel from a pile on his desk and wiped his brow and neck, tossing the used flannel into the bin – a small enough luxury, but one that Sia Heng knew many women found irresistible.
“Sia,” said Mother Pensri, entering the office with a barely perceptible curtsey, “the Headman left a message for you.”
“What message, Mother Pensri?”
“The Relic Committee has called an emergency meeting. In twenty minutes. At the school.”
“The school? Why the school?
“No idea,” answered Mother Pensri, mopping her brow, “but the Headman looked quite worried.”
Sia Heng fiddled with one of the lucky ceramic Chinese cats on his desk. It sat up on its hind legs, a front paw raised, beckoning prosperity. Aiyaa, he thought, what are they fretting about now? Isn’t everything going along smoothly?
“Ah well, I expect it’s a storm in a teacup. Thanks Mother Pensri. And while you’re here – go and get me some noodle soup. This meeting might drag on for hours – they usually do. You know how I like my soup. Plenty of chilli. Aow, and some of those nice red bean dumplings as well.” He pulled out a large banknote and fluttered it at Mother Pensri. “And get some for the workers while you’re at it.”
Mother Pensri folded the note carefully, sticking it under her bra strap as she walked out the factory. Aunty Wassana will be furious, she thought with a smirk, at having to change such a big note. She opened her umbrella for shade from the hot sun as she walked across the street. Sergeant Pan and Sergeant Yud were perched on bar stools at the moonshine stall, drinking, crunching on ice cubes to keep cool.
“Mother Pensri! Got any tips for next week’s lottery?” shouted Yud.
“I’ve no time for the lottery these days,” she replied in a voice loud enough to reach Wassana’s ears, tossing her head and sniffing.
Sergeant Yud laughed, nudging Sergeant Pan. “It’s all change round here since that relic was discovered! I reckon the Police Chief is expanding his guest house too; heard he got another big delivery of wood last night,” said Yud, winking, “during the night, that is! How many bungalows is he planning to build?”
“Not for us to know, Yud. Just do your job and keep your mouth shut, you should know that by now,” said Sergeant Pan philosophically, raising a glass to his friend and downing the liquor in one swallow. “He probably expects a tourist invasion now the village is officially historical. Two more Widow Ghosts please, Lai.”
“Hey,” called Sergeant Yud, spotting the Schoolmaster riding past on his bicycle, “fancy a glass, Schoolmaster? A quick Widow Ghost before dinner?”
Sergeant Pan sniggered at the innuendo. The Schoolmaster carried on cycling; a folded-up magazine was tucked into the back of his trousers. A voracious reader, he subscribed to a wide range of publications: history, arts, politics, literature. The journal he had collected that day was about archaeology; he had become absorbed in the subject since the discovery of the relic. Flicking through the pages at the shop, he had found an article that he was most anxious to show the Relic Committee. They’ll be sorry now, he fumed, pedalling harder.
“No thanks, in a hurry!” cried the Schoolmaster, almost knocking Gop to the ground as he took the corner by the market too quickly.
“Where you off to, Schoolmaster?” shouted Pan.
“Relic Committee – special meeting!”
Gop, startled by the near accident, had dropped his day’s bundle. He bent down to pick it up, stuffing the bags and papers under his shirt.
“Ai Gop, fancy another day in the cells?” said Sergeant Yud, chortling. He clambered off his stool and started to give chase, lumbering towards Gop, arms outstretched. Gop turned tail and scuttled off, booty scattering on the road, scared they would lock him up again. Not that the occasion hadn’t provided him with rich pickings. While the village slept in after the handing-over ceremony, Gop had pulled down the red, white and blue bunting from where it sagged between the trees, laughing, dancing, dragging it along the road to decorate his sala. The district office grounds had been covered in scraps of food, cigarette butts, paper cups, discarded flags, all crumpled and trodden underfoot. After the governor had gone everyone relaxed: Lai opened up his stall and all the men got dead-drunk, including Uncle Moon, who was in such a bad state that he had driven the old dustcart into the river. The villagers had been without a dustcart for weeks now; many had started to grumble. Wasn’t the Relic Committee supposed to be using its funds to buy a new one? Why was it taking so long? In the meantime, Gop’s sala was stuffed full.
“There he goes,” wheezed Sergeant Yud, his hands on his knees, sweat pouring down his face, “Gop-Guu – the best public servant this village has ever had!”
Sergeant Pan laughed so hard he almost fell off his stool.
* * *
The Schoolmaster paced up and down the empty classroom, the magazine rolled up in one of his hands. The article he had come across was about a shipment of antiques bound for Hong Kong that had been intercepted by customs officials in the Klong Toey port in Bangkok. Photographs showed uniformed men standing with straight backs and folded arms beside Buddha statues, ceremonial swords and daggers, stone images of the Hindu gods, antique jewellery. Individual photographic enlargements had been taken of the smaller pieces of plunder, and amongst them the Schoolmaster had spotted the familiar dull metal object. “Unbelievably Rare, Original, Ancient Metal Buddhist Talisman” ran the quote from a government expert. What are the chances, the Schoolmaster asked himself, of seeing two such relics in such a short space of time? He threw the magazine down on one of the desks and ran his hands through his hair. Could they both be genuine? Impossible. He had found nothing in his reference books to indicate the relic was anything more than a previously undiscovered original, probably left behind by a pilgrim monk visiting the remote mountain area. So which one was the fake? Not the one in the magazine – the experts would have spotted it straight away! In which case, who swapped it for a copy? He blew out a breath and gazed at the blackboard, which was still covered in the day’s lessons. Modern Thai history: democratic reform. Above the blackboard was a portrait of the King, flanked on either side by two flags; the red, white and blue national flag, and the yellow flag of Buddhism. Everything as it should be. He turned round. On the back wall there was a picture of Jit Phumisak – his treasured old photograph of the dead revolutionary. The Schoolmaster had pinned it up a few weeks ago out of scorn for the committee, for the factory and the whole sordid commerce of what was taking place. He knew his picture could be misconstrued. There was no mention of Jit Phumisak in the national textbooks, though every man, woman and child in Thailand knew by heart the lyrics of his revolutionary songs. The Schoolmaster decided to leave the picture where it was. He’d compromised enough. Let them see it, he seethed. He strode over to the window and watched them arrive: Sia Heng first, in his new Japanese car, with the District Officer in the passenger seat; the Headman on his noisy moped; the old Abbot on foot. There was no sign of the Police Chief. He’s probably too busy catching criminals, thought the Schoolmaster, snorting out loud.
He hadn’t given a thought to the seating arrangements, so the first few minutes of the meeting were spent in deciding who should sit where, which seat was higher (for the Abbot), whether the window should be left open and the fan switched on. The sky was now completely overcast; a strong wind had started to bend the trees lining the playing field, and the branches were being whipped back and forth. The first storm of the year was approaching, bringing with it heavy rain.
“So what’s all this about then,” said Sia Heng crossly, after matters of protocol had been attended to, looking at his watch.
“I think we should wait for the Police Chief, don’t you?” The Schoolmaster clasped and unclasped his hands, folded them under his armpits, sighed loudly.
“Aow, can’t we just get on with it?” moaned the District Officer. The meeting had interrupted his afternoon nap: his uniform was sticky, and his patience was wearing thin.
“OK, OK, OK.” The Schoolmaster got to his feet and unfurled the rolled-up magazine, opening it at the article. “How would you like a short history lesson, gentlemen?” he said, folding back the pages, “about something that happened not that long ago? Something concerning a certain relic of ours?” He held the magazine up, pointing at the photograph on the page. “A relic so ancient, so imbued with magic that it can turn up in two places at the same time?” He paused, eyebrows raised, before slapping the magazine down on the desk in front of the District Officer. “Just take a look at that, will you!”
The District Officer sighed, shrugging his shoulders at the other men. Holding the magazine at arms length, he narrowed his eyes to lazily glance at the page. After a few seconds, his expression changed. He leant over the page, eyes quickly reading through the article. He looked round at the other men, mouth hanging open. Silent, he passed the magazine over to the Headman. One by one the committee members took it in. The Headman cleared his throat. The Abbot shook his head sadly. Sia Heng looked like he’d swallowed a large chilli pepper. Forked lightning ignited the sky.
“Don’t you see?” said the Schoolmaster. “It’s all a sham. The relic in the provincial museum is not real!”
A loud peal of thunder made the men jump.
“But… how?” asked the Headman, throwing up his hands, turning to the others, “and when?”
“Don’t you mean who?” came the Schoolmaster’s sardonic reply.
“Aren’t we jumping to conclusions?” tried the District Officer.
“Just because the relic was kept in the police station… doesn’t mean…” His voice tailed off.
“That,” said the Schoolmaster, “is precisely what it does mean. The Chief was the only one with access to the relic! He must have made a copy of it before the presentation ceremony! I bet he sold the original to one of his shady colleagues or something. What fools we were to trust him. And what fools we are going to look when this all comes out, when the provincial office discovers the precious relic is nothing more than a cheap imitation!”
“But,” pleaded Sia Heng, “no one has to know! It might never come out – I mean, how many people actually read these magazines?”
“Tho-oei! There’s no way this can be hushed up – not now – not with your factory and all the visitors and tourists and nonsense up at the old shrine! We will have to inform the provincial office straight away – before someone else does!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the Abbot enigmatically, casting his mind back to the presentation ceremony, “if the Governor didn’t know already.”
“You’re right, Abbot. News like this always travels fast. And the papers won’t miss the chance for a scandal.”
A loud knock rattled the classroom door. The District Officer leapt out of his chair with fright. Was it the Chief? Had he overheard? The Schoolmaster strode over and opened the door. Mother Pensri stood on the other side, hot, out of breath, and cross.
“Sia, Sia, how long are you going to be? An official from the Forestry Department is waiting to see you. Something about clearing trees for a new path up to the shrine?”
Sia Heng groaned, covering his face with his hands. Outside, the storm clouds burst.
* * *
It had been raining for three nights and days. The drains along the main road were overflowing. Children, warned to stay away from the fast-flowing river, crouched by the roadside waiting to catch the startled fish catapulted from the river by the dangerous current. Gop’s sala had flooded, and because there was no dustcart, the main street was swimming in debris. The garland sellers had deserted the old ruin, Aunty Wassana had been forced to close her stall, and Gop was nowhere to be seen. Lai was running odds on how long the rain would last. The storm had blown trees down along the mountain road, damaging power cables and phone lines: the electricity was off and telephones silent. Gimsia was selling candles at a tremendous rate. Everyone was starting to sneeze and shiver. The factory had been closed without explanation. The Dai Nok workers had nowhere else to go and were sleeping rough at the back of the market; Mother Pensri took them some food each morning.
The Schoolmaster, Sia Heng, the District Officer and the Headman were sitting in the Police Chief’s office. (The Abbot had wanted nothing more to do with it.) They had been waiting for ten minutes already, the air conditioning blasting out freezing cold air. They shivered, watching the Chief through the glass door; he was speaking to a sheepish-looking Sergeant Yud. At last the Chief came in.
“Well gentlemen, what can I do for you today?”
“You missed the committee meeting at the school,” blurted the Schoolmaster, unable to stop himself. “The relic in the museum is a fake – someone copied the original and now the original has turned up in Bangkok!” He threw the magazine on to the Chief’s desk.
“I’m sure there’s a very good explanation for… all this,” said Sia Heng, waving his hands around vaguely, horrified at the Schoolmaster’s tone of voice. The Chief sat back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest, ignoring the magazine.
“Em, um, perhaps someone… from the provincial office… you know, switched the relic… em, no, now that I think about it, that’s probably not the case,” mumbled the Headman.
“I hope you are not suggesting that the Provincial Governor was in any way involved!” said the District Officer, outraged, “I’ve known him for years and his record is impeccable!”
“Oh yes,” said the Chief dryly. He knew all about the Provincial Governor’s record. “I wonder who that leaves then?”
The Schoolmaster was on his feet before anyone could stop him. “That leaves you! You were the only one with access to the relic – it was passed into your safekeeping!”
The faces of the other men had turned pale. How could the Schoolmaster say such a thing? To the Chief? This was not the way to go about things, not the way at all. But he’d said it now! What were they going to do? He had implicated them all!
“Now, now, now,” implored Sia Heng, remembering the visa stamps in his Chinese passport were well out of date, “the Schoolmaster is not himself today, I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything, Chief.”
“That’s for certain!” said the Headman, nodding, “we all know what excellent work you have done since you came to the village. There is no suggestion that—”
“You hypocrites!” shouted the Schoolmaster, turning to the other men. “Why won’t any of you back me up? You know I’m right!” He pointed his finger rudely at the Chief. “I mean to take this further – I’ll be on the phone to your superior officer – you mark my words!”
The Chief cleared his throat. “Go ahead,” he said lazily, waving his hand at the Schoolmaster, “and phone who you like.”
The Schoolmaster jumped to his feet, upturning his chair. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” he threatened, barging out of the office, banging the door behind him.
The Chief sighed and smiled, leaning forwards, arms on the desk. “He’s going to have trouble making phone calls with the lines down, isn’t he?”
The others laughed nervously, a little too loud.
“How about some whisky, gentlemen? What with this bad weather and all, I’m sure we could use one.”
They nodded, relieved, as the Chief produced a bottle of foreign whisky and some glasses from a drawer. He went over to open the door, calling for Sergeant Yud. “Ice and soda, Yud! And while you’re at it, bring in the photograph!”
* * *
Everyone at the morning market watched him leave out of the corner of their eyes, struggling with all his bags and boxes of books onto the first bus. No one went forwards to help him. No one said goodbye. Mother Pensri stood next to Aunty Wassana, who was stirring her soup stock.
“Imagine,” said Wassana, as the bus pulled away, “putting up that picture in the classroom – filling the heads of our schoolchildren with dangerous revolutionary ideas!”
“I suppose.”
“Just as well he was found out in time! Turns out the Chief ran a check on him and he was involved in all that democracy stuff in Bangkok – you know, the student thing a few years ago.”
“Against the government?”
“Something like that. Anyway, he even spent time hiding in the jungle! I guess that’s why he moved up here – get away from all that trouble, thought he could hide away in the mountains. But your past always catches you up, eh?”
Mother Pensri wrinkled her nose, unconvinced.
“You know what my Ong always says? Bring back the military. At least you knew where you were with them.”
Mother Pensri sighed. She dug into her pocket for her notebook and thumbed through the pages wearily. “Any numbers for next week Wassana?”
The rainstorm had stopped the day before and the village was returning to normal: the hot sun was drying out the flooded main street in no time at all. Sergeant Yud and Sergeant Pan, on orders from the Chief, were supervising the clearing up of all the rubbish clogging the drains. The old dustcart, which only just escaped being swept away in the flood, had been pulled out of the river and was being patched up. It didn’t look likely that the village would get a new one now.
Sia Heng had gone to stay with his cousin, at least until the scandal died down. He planned to sell the stock of relics at the Chatuchak weekend market in Bangkok at discount prices. The Headman and the District Officer had taken to their beds, having fallen ill with frightful colds. The Chief had informed the Provincial Governor that the Schoolmaster must have swapped the relic for the fake one during the time he had spent examining the original, supposedly to find out its origin. It was thought the Schoolmaster had sold the original to a dealer, contributing the proceeds to Communist Party funds! The Provincial Governor had contacted the Department of Education; the Schoolmaster was immediately stripped of his position. Lack of concrete evidence meant he had escaped prosecution, but he would never teach again. A new teacher had been appointed – a woman this time. The original relic, the authorities had decided, would be retained in the National Museum in Bangkok. Since the story had hit all the newspapers, visitors to the village had petered out. The Abbot had organized a special sermon on the evils of theft to coincide with the Lent Season, but few people attended. Morale was low now that the village was no longer a famous historical site.
Gop had been found inside the locked up factory, surrounded by neatly stacked piles of imitation relics, all pulled out from their boxes. He had survived on a bag of red bean dumplings. He had taken over the old shrine again, now that it was quiet. It had taken him several days to clear away all the mess left behind by devotees. He leant back against the cool lingam, naked now of all its frothy white blossom, watching the spiders and beetles creep in and out from under the huge stones. Fresh storm clouds were starting to gather, darkening the sky. An overripe jackfruit hung heavily from the big old tree, rancid, rotting slowly in the heat. Gop’s eyelids started to droop, and his head fell to the side. The dreams began: the voices loudly accusing.