HAVE YOU HEARD of the academies of Siam? All right, I know Siam never had any academies, but let’s just suppose it did, and that there were four of them, and then listen.
I
Whenever they saw swarms of milky-hued fireflies rising up through the night sky, the stars would often say that these were the sighs of the king of Siam, who was amusing himself with his three hundred concubines. And, winking at each other, they would ask:
“Pray tell us, O regal sighs, what is the beautiful Kalaphangko up to tonight?”
To which the fireflies would reply gravely:
“We are the sublime thoughts of the four academies of Siam; we bring with us all the wisdom of the universe.”
One night, there were so many fireflies that the stars took fright and hid in their bedrooms, and the fireflies took over part of outer space, where they stayed forever and called themselves the “Milky Way.”
This enormous rising cloud of thoughts was the result of the four academies of Siam trying to solve a very peculiar puzzle: Why are there feminine men and masculine women? And it was the nature of their young king that led them to ask this question. Kalaphangko was virtually a lady. Everything about him breathed the most exquisite femininity: he had velvety eyes, a silvery voice, gentle, amenable manners, and an abiding horror of war. The Siamese warlords grumbled, but the nation lived very happily; everywhere there were dances, plays, and songs, following the example of the king, who cared for little else, which rather explains the stars’ misinterpretation of those sighs.
Then, suddenly, one of the academies came up with a solution to the problem:
“Some souls are masculine, others are feminine. The anomaly we have before us is a case of mistaken bodies.”
“I disagree,” shouted the other three. “The soul is neuter; it has nothing to do with external differences.”
Nothing more was needed for the alleys and waterways of Bangkok to turn red with academic blood. First came controversy, then insults, and finally fistfights. It wasn’t so bad when the insults began; no one hurled abuse that was not scrupulously derived from Sanskrit, which was the academic language, the Latin of Siam. From then on, though, they lost all shame. The rivalry turned very nasty indeed, rolled up its sleeves, and descended into mudslinging, stone-throwing, punches, and vile gestures, until, in exasperation, the sexual academy (i.e., that which espoused the sexuality of souls) decided to put an end to the other three academies, and prepared a sinister plan . . . O winds that blow, scatter forth these leaves of paper, that I may not recount the tragedy of Siam! For—woe is me!—I can scarcely bear to write of such a dastardly revenge. They secretly armed themselves and went to find the members of the other academies, just as the latter, sitting hunched in thought over the famous puzzle, were dispatching a cloud of fireflies up to heaven. They gave no warning and showed no pity, but fell upon them, foaming with rage. Those who fled did not flee for long; pursued and attacked, they died on the riverbank, aboard barges, or in dark alleyways. Altogether there were thirty-eight corpses. An ear was cut off from each of the leaders, and these were made into necklaces and bracelets for their own victorious president, the sublime U-Tong. Drunk on victory, they celebrated the deed with a great feast, at which they sang this magnificent hymn: “Glory be to us, for we are the rice of science and the lamp of the universe.”
The city awoke to this horrifying news. Terror gripped the masses. No one could forgive such a cruel and despicable act; some even doubted their own eyes. Only one person approved of it all: the beautiful Kinnara, the flower of the royal concubines.
II
Lying languidly at the feet of the beautiful Kinnara, the young king asked her to sing.
“I’ll sing no other song than this: I believe that souls have a sex.”
“What you believe is absurd, Kinnara.”
“So, Your Majesty believes that souls are neuter?”
“That is equally absurd. No, I don’t believe in the neuter soul, or the sexual soul, either.”
“But then what does Your Majesty believe in?”
“I believe in your eyes, Kinnara. They are the sun and light of the universe.”
“But you must choose: either you believe that souls have no sex, and must, therefore, punish the only surviving academy, or you believe that souls do have a sex, and must, therefore, pardon it.”
“What a delightful mouth you have, my sweet Kinnara! I believe in your mouth; it is the very fount of wisdom.”
Kinnara leapt angrily to her feet. Just as the king was the feminine man, she was the masculine woman—a buffalo in swan’s feathers. Just now it was the buffalo that strode across the bedchamber, but, a moment later, it was the swan that stopped and, tilting her neck, asked and obtained from the king, between two gentle caresses, a decree in which the doctrine of the sexual soul was declared legitimate and orthodox, and the other doctrine absurd and perverse. On that same day, the decree was sent to the victorious academy, to all the pagodas and mandarins, and distributed throughout the kingdom. The academy hung out lanterns, and peace was restored.
III
Meanwhile, the beautiful Kinnara had an ingenious and secret plan. One night, while the king was studying some papers of state, she asked him if taxes were being paid on time.
“Ohimè!” he exclaimed, repeating a word he had heard from an Italian missionary. “Alas, very few taxes have been paid, but I didn’t want to have the defaulters beheaded . . . No, not that . . . Blood? Blood? No, I want no blood . . .”
“And what if I were to find you a solution to all of this?”
“What solution?”
“Your Majesty has decreed that souls are masculine and feminine,” said Kinnara, after first giving him a kiss. “Suppose that our bodies have been switched. All we need is to return each soul to the body that belongs to it. Let us exchange souls and bodies . . .”
Kalaphangko scoffed at the idea, and asked her just how they would achieve such an exchange. She replied that she would use the method of Mukunda, the king of the Hindus, who placed himself in the corpse of a Brahmin while a jester entered Mukunda’s. It’s an old legend passed down to the Turks, Persians, and Christians. Yes, but how was the invocation worded? Kinnara declared that she knew the wording, because an old Buddhist monk had found a copy of it in the ruins of a temple.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t actually believe in my own decree,” he retorted, laughing, “but go ahead; if it’s true, let’s switch. But only for six months, no more. At the end of six months, we’ll change back.”
They agreed to make the exchange that very night. While the city slept, they sent for the royal barge, stepped aboard, and let themselves drift away. None of the rowers saw them. When Dawn appeared, urging on the golden-red cows drawing her glittering chariot, Kinnara offered up the mysterious invocation. Her soul detached itself from her body and hovered in the air, waiting for the king’s body to become vacant too. Her own body lay slumped on the rug.
“Ready?” asked Kalaphangko.
“Ready. I’m here in the air, waiting for you. Please excuse my undignified state, Your Majesty . . .”
But the king’s soul did not hear the rest. Sprightly and shimmering, it left its physical vessel and entered Kinnara’s body, while her soul took possession of the royal remains. Both bodies sat up and gazed at each other, and one can only imagine their amazement. It was the same situation as Buoso and the serpent in Dante’s Inferno, but see here my audacity. The poet silences Ovid and Lucan, because he considers his metamorphosis worthier than either of theirs. I am silencing all three of them. Buoso and the snake never meet again, whereas my two heroes continue talking and living together after the switch—which, though I say so myself, is obviously even more Dantesque.
Kalaphangko said: “This business of looking at myself and calling myself ‘Your Majesty’ is very strange. Does Your Majesty not feel the same?”
Both of them were content, like people who have finally found their proper home. Kalaphangko luxuriated in Kinnara’s feminine curves. Kinnara flexed her muscles in Kalaphangko’s solid torso. Siam finally had a king.
IV
Kalaphangko’s first action (from now on, it should be understood that “Kalaphangko” means the king’s body and Kinnara’s soul, whereas “Kinnara” means the body of the beautiful Siamese lady and Kalaphangko’s soul) was to bestow the very highest honors upon the sexual academy. He did not elevate its members to the status of mandarins, for they were men given to philosophy and literature rather than action and administration, but he decreed that everyone must prostrate themselves before them, as was the custom with mandarins. He also presented them with rare and valuable gifts, such as stuffed crocodiles, ivory chairs, emerald tableware, diamonds, and sacred relics. Grateful for all these favors, the academy also requested the official right to use the title “Light of the World,” which was duly granted.
Once this was done, Kalaphangko turned his attention to the public finances, justice, religion, and ceremonial matters. The nation began to feel the “heavy weight,” to use the words of our distinguished poet, Camões—for no less than eleven tax dodgers were forthwith beheaded. The others, who naturally preferred their heads to their money, rushed to pay their taxes, and order was quickly restored. The courts and legislation were greatly improved. New pagodas were built, and religion seemed to gain a new impetus, since Kalaphangko, imitating the ancient Spanish arts, ordered the burning of a dozen poor Christian missionaries who were wandering those parts; the bonzes called this action the “pearl” of his reign.
What he lacked was a war. On a more or less diplomatic pretext, Kalaphangko attacked a neighboring kingdom, in what was the shortest and most glorious campaign of the century. On his return to Bangkok, he was greeted with splendid celebrations. Three hundred boats decorated with blue and scarlet silk went out to receive him. On the prow of each boat stood a golden dragon or swan, and all the boats were crewed by the city’s finest inhabitants. Music and cheering filled the air. At night, when the festivities had ended, his beautiful concubine whispered in his ear:
“My young warrior, repay me for the pangs of longing that I felt in your absence; tell me that the greatest of celebrations is your sweet Kinnara.”
Kalaphangko responded with a kiss.
“Your lips have the chill of death or disdain on them,” she sighed.
It was true; the king was distracted and preoccupied, for he was plotting a tragedy. It was getting close to the time when they should return to their own bodies, and he was thinking of escaping that clause in their agreement by killing his beautiful concubine. He hesitated because he did not know if he, too, would suffer upon her death, given that it was his body, or even if he would have to succumb with her. Such were Kalaphangko’s thoughts. But the idea of death cast a shadow over his brow, while, imitating the Borgias, he clutched to his breast a little vial of poison.
Suddenly he remembered the learned academy; he could consult it, not directly, but hypothetically. He summoned the academicians; they all came except their president, the illustrious U-Tong, who was ill. There were thirteen of them; they prostrated themselves and, in the Siamese manner, said:
“Mere despicable straws that we are, we hasten to answer the call of Kalaphangko.”
“Arise,” said the king benevolently.
“No, the place for dust is underfoot,” they insisted, their knees and elbows on the ground.
“Then I will be the wind that lifts up the dust,” replied Kalaphangko, and, with a gracious, tolerant gesture, he stretched out his hands to them.
He then started to talk about a variety of matters, so that the main topic of interest should appear to arise naturally of its own accord. He spoke of the latest news from the west and the Laws of Manu. Referring to U-Tong, he asked them whether he really was as great a sage as he seemed; when he received only a reluctant, mumbled response, he ordered them to tell him the whole truth. They confessed, with exemplary unanimity, that U-Tong was one of the most sublime idiots in the kingdom—a shallow, worthless mind who knew nothing and was incapable of learning. Kalaphangko was shocked. An idiot?
“It pains us to say so, but that is what he is; a shallow, withered intellect. He has, however, a pure heart, and a noble, elevated character.”
When he had recovered from his shock, Kalaphangko told the academicians to leave, without asking them the question he had intended to ask. An idiot? He would somehow have to unseat him from the academy without offending him. Three days later, U-Tong was summoned by the king. The king inquired kindly after his health. He then said that he wanted to send someone to Japan to study some documents; it was a matter which could only be entrusted to a person of enlightenment. Which of his colleagues at the academy seemed to him most suitable for such a task? One can see the king’s cunning plan: he would hear two or three names, and then conclude that he preferred U-Tong himself to all of them. But here’s what U-Tong replied:
“My royal lord and master, if you will pardon my coarse language: the men you speak of are thirteen camels, except that camels are modest and they are not. They compare themselves to the sun and the moon. But, in truth, neither the sun nor the moon has ever shone on such worthless fools. I understand Your Majesty’s surprise, but I would be unworthy of my position if I did not say this with all due loyalty, albeit confidentially . . .”
Kalaphangko’s jaw dropped. Thirteen camels? Thirteen, thirteen! U-Tong’s only kind word was for their hearts, all of which he declared to be excellent; no one was superior to them in terms of character. With an elegant, indulgent gesture, Kalaphangko dismissed the sublime U-Tong from his presence, and remained pensive. What his thoughts were, no one knew. What we do know is that he sent for the other academicians, but this time separately, to conceal his intentions and obtain a franker exchange of views. The first to arrive, although unaware of U-Tong’s opinion, was entirely in agreement, with but one emendation, that there were twelve camels, or thirteen if one counted U-Tang himself. The second academician expressed the same opinion, as did the third and all the others. They differed only in style: some said camels, others used circumlocutions and metaphors that meant the same thing. However, none of them cast any aspersions on anyone’s moral character. Kalaphangko was speechless.
But this was not the final shock to greet the king. Since he could not consult the academy, he attempted to make his own deliberations. He devoted two whole days to this, but then the beautiful Kinnara revealed that she was going to be a mother. This news made him recoil from the crime he had been planning. How could he destroy the chosen vessel of the flower that would bloom the following spring? He swore to heaven and earth that the child would be born and would flourish. The end of the week arrived, and with it the moment for each of them to return to their original bodies.
As on the previous occasion, they boarded the royal barge at night, and let themselves drift downstream, both of them against their will, not wanting to give up the body they had and return to the other. When the shimmering cows of Dawn’s chariot began to tread slowly across the sky, they offered up the mysterious invocation, and each soul was returned to its former body. On returning to hers, Kinnara felt a maternal instinct, just as she had felt a paternal instinct when she occupied Kalaphongko’s body. It even seemed to her that she was simultaneously mother and father of the child.
“Father and mother?” repeated the king, restored to his former self.
They were interrupted by delightful music in the distance. It was a junk or a canoe coming upriver, for the music was fast approaching. By then the sun was flooding the waters and green riverbanks with light, giving the scene an air of life and rebirth, which to some extent made the two lovers forget this return to their former selves. And the music kept coming closer, clearer now, until a magnificent boat appeared around a bend in the river, decorated with feathers and fluttering pennants. Aboard were the fourteen members of the academy (including U-Tong), all chanting in unison that old hymn: “Glory be to us, for we are the rice of science and the light of the world!”
The beautiful Kinnara (formerly Kalaphangko) was wide-eyed with astonishment. She could not understand how fourteen males, gathered together in an academy, could be both the light of the world, and yet, individually, a bunch of camels. She consulted Kalaphangko, but he could think of no explanation. If someone happens to find one, they would be doing a great service to one of the most gracious ladies in the Orient by sending it to her in a sealed letter, addressed, for greater security, to our consul in Shanghai, China.