We arrived at the quayside at half past one. More than ten people, including both Thai and Japanese friends, had come to see Chao Khun and his wife off. We chatted together as a groupin the saloon, but I paid little attention to the conversation. I just glanced furtively over at Mom Ratchawong Kirati, so as to imprint the image of her face deeply upon my heart.
The end had come. The ship gave a blast on its whistle and a bell was sounded to warn friends and relatives to leave the vessel. Chao Khun and his wife bade farewell to all their friends in the saloon. When they got round to me, Chao Khun shook my hand and thanked me profusely. ‘I shan’t forget your kindness, young man. You’ve been most helpful to us.’
I felt my heart miss a beat at his last sentence and I did not know what to say in reply. I was the last person Mom Ratchawong Kirati said goodbye to. She held her hand out to me. ‘Goodbye, my dear boy.’ She spoke very softly, but even so, there was a tremor in her voice. Then she was silent, her lips pursed tightly together.
‘Please think of me always,’ I said.
‘I will. Always. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said, gritting my teeth. For the reputation of the woman I so loved, I had to try not to shed tears in front of the other people.
‘Goodbye.’
We followed the others out of the saloon. As we were about to leave the ship, Chao Khun got caught up in another round of farewells. In the midst of all this, I had one minute to be close to Mom Ratchawong Kirati, some way apart from all the others. She held her hand out to me for the last time. ‘Do you love me?’ I whispered, for the last time, too.
‘Hurry along now, Nopporn,’ she said, and then covered her face with her hand for a moment. ‘Hurry, I can’t stand it.’ She bit her lower lip. I did likewise. Our eyes were filled with tears, but we each made a supreme effort to fight them back.
‘Goodbye,’ I whispered finally. When I let go of her hand, I felt as if my heart had attached itself to her lovely palm.
13
When I realized that the woman I loved so much, the woman who had been such a close and constant presence, had gone far away, not just to a different district or a different town, where I might take a cab or train to see her, but to another country, and that I would not be in a position to overcome the obstacles to seeing her for a further five years, my grief and misery defied description.
On the train from Kobe to Tokyo, I felt torn apart when I thought of Mom Ratchawong Kirati. I travelled overnight, and how I missed her that night. When I reached Tokyo the next morning, I went straight to Aoyama District, to see her house. I felt as if I were visiting the grave of someone I loved dearly, as if Mom Ratchawong Kirati had died. The front gate, which was about chest height, was bolted. I undid the bolt and walked slowly along the gravel path, surveying the grounds in silence, recalling how we had sat here or walked there. The windows and doors of the house were all tightly shut. There was not a sound to be heard.
I sat down on the grassy mound beneath an overhanging vine where the two of us used to sit and chat in the evenings before Mom Ratchawong Kirati retired to bed. I still remembered her sweet yet penetrating gaze in the bright moonlit evenings. I had often felt disturbed when I had looked into those magnificent eyes. How long I was there, lost in reveries of MomRatchawong Kirati, I do not remember. The weather that morning was cool and overcast, with no sunshine nor sign of improvement. As I got up from the grass mound and cast one last glance around the grounds of the house, tears came to my eyes. Even though it had been only a place where she had stayed, I was filled with a sense of love and sadness as I left.
I returned home and, after the evening meal, instead of joining the rest of the Japanese family I was staying with in the sitting room to listen to the radio or gramophone, chat or read the newspaper, as I usually did, I excused myself and stayed alone in my room. I was unable to join them as they relaxed, because I felt for certain that I would not be able to contribute anything useful. My mind was completely numb, and I was preoccupied with just one thing.
I tried to find a way to relieve this obsession with Mom Ratchawong Kirati. I needed to find a way to unburden myself a little, instead of bottling up all my feelings to the point where they became unbearable. But there was no one I could talk to. I still retained sufficient sense not to tell anyone that I was madly in love with Mom Ratchawong Kirati, madly in love with a woman whose husband was my father’s friend. I still had enough self-awareness to realize that any such announcement would be damaging, both to myself and to the woman I loved. I certainly would not have received much in the way of sympathy. There remained only one way out, and that was to tell her how crazy I was about her. So that night I wrote a letter to Mom Ratchawong Kirati. What follows here, is that first letter.
My dear Khunying,
I almost went out of my mind as you drew away into the distance and I was no longer able to make out your beautiful face. I almost collapsed on the quayside when that tiny hand couldwave no more. I don’t know how I got back to Tokyo. I returned that same night, feeling dazed, as if I were drunk. I can’t get through another night without you unless I give vent to my feelings. I miss you so much, it’s driving me out of my mind. It’s overwhelming me. I must unburden myself.
I can’t swim across the seas to you, but I can reach you with this letter and beg you to listen to me one more time. This is no letter at all: it is a real person. When you reach home in Bangkok and take it out of its envelope, please understand that it’s not merely a missive from someone far off. It’s your Nopporn. If you should kiss it, just once, I shall feel the sweetness of that kiss, even though we are thousands of miles apart.
As I write, you must have passed Moji and must now be beyond Japanese waters. I try to picture you in my mind. Perhaps you’re sitting in the saloon, having just finished dinner. But I suspect that you don’t really want to be among a large group of people. You’ll leave Chao Khun to chat with the captain and other passengers. You yourself, perhaps, will go up on deck to be alone. In my mind it’s there that I watch your movements.
Tonight, there’s pale moonlight, but in the middle of the sea, there’s nothing for you to cast your gaze upon, except the ripple of the waves and the stars in the sky. Out there, in the middle of the sea, the world is only sky and water. Why have you gone up on to the deck? To think of me in peace, without any disturbance from other people? To think of home in Bangkok? Or to enjoy the soft moonlight and cool breeze?
Oh, what a fool I am! My imagination always tends to side too much with my wishes, leading me to seeing you in a way that leaves me agitated. But in actual fact, it’s most unlikely that you’d stand out on the deck in the breeze on a night like this. Even just off the islands of Japan, it’s too cold, and there’s no reason for you to stand out there alone in the cold like that.
If you’re in the saloon, you’re probably walking along theside of the boat, down below, where you don’t have to face too strong a wind. Perhaps you’re leaning over the railing at the stern, where it’s shielded from the wind, looking down at the sea and thinking about me a little or, perhaps, a lot. Your Nopporn is following you everywhere. Wherever you look, I’m there. Do you see me in the water? I’m like the wake that follows a ship. And that sparkle in the wash is the sparkle in my eyes. Can you see me?
If I could be granted one magical power, I’d wish that I might be so transformed, that I might enter your heart and always know what you’re thinking, and how much you’re missing your Nopporn. Surely it’s not the case, is it, that you wouldn’t be missing me at all?
I’ve just realized one awful truth, and that is, although I tried to ask you numerous times, you never gave me an answer as to whether you loved me or not. I know that your silence was not a sign that you rejected my love. But I wanted so badly to hear you say it clearly. If you were just to tell me you loved me, I’d consider it the most wonderful blessing I’d ever received in the whole of my life. I beg of you, can you grant me that wish?
You’ve already assured me that you won’t forget to think of me. But you should understand that I don’t want you to think of me as a child you might take pity on or play along with. I want you to think of me as – what shall I say? – can I say – the one you love most of all, or the only one you love? You may be wondering if I’ve gone out of my mind as I write this. I’m not sure, either, whether a person who misses someone with every ounce of his feelings and says as much in all sincerity is out of his mind or not.
I don’t want to end this letter quickly, because I feel that while I’m writing, I’m bringing my heart so close to yours, and that makes me feel a little better, no matter how far away from me you are at present. But I don’t know what else to write, becauseI’d only be telling you how much I miss you all the time. So, I should end my letter now and say good night, Oyasuminasai, my dear Khunying. Even sleep is something to be most grateful for, and you can be sure I’ll dream of you in my sleep.
With much love,
Nopporn
When I had finished the letter, I read it through several times. This was not to see how elegantly I had written. It was not my intention to write a letter to Mom Ratchawong Kirati in which style was important. The reason I re-read it several times was to savour, once again, the sweet flavour of my feelings, sufficiently to lift my spirits and ease my sorrow. I remember I went to sleep quite easily that night because I was so exhausted. I dreamed a hundred dreams, but they were all scenes from the same dream and of the same person.
