CHAPTER 1

Scene 1.1 The Market of Vimaya

The field south of the Victory Gate buzzed. Market day had turned to festival, pushing the usual stalls of grain and dried fish to the perimeter to make room for the itinerant troupe from Yasodharapura. In the centre, a wooden stage groaned under local craftsmen finishing the last of the decorations.

A crowd of all sorts, spear-bearing guards, wealthy merchants, servants, and rowdy boys, jostled through the humid air. Near the gate, Pin struggled to maintain order as a young noble lunged forward on foot.

“The entrance fee must be paid!” Pin shouted, reaching for the man’s arm.

“I enter for free,” the noble snapped, eyes fixed ahead.

“And why is that?”

“I am a Guard of the Governor’s palace,” the noble declared, pushing past.

Pin turned to another man, Korn, following close behind. “And you?”

“I do not pay,” the second swordsman replied with a smirk. “Palace Guard.”

Nearby, a group of minor nobles had already staked out a spot on the dry ground. One pulled a short blade from his belt. “They won’t start for another two hours,” he said to his companion. “The gallery is empty. Let us practice.” They began a sharp, rhythmic exchange, the blades clattering in the heavy air.

Servants scurried through the throng. “Pst… Fai!” one called out, weaving between the people.

“Dice,” the first servant, Fai, said, pulling a worn set from his tunic. He sat cross-legged on the dirt. “Let’s play.”

“Yes, you rogue,” the second, Chot, added, joining him.

Another servant pressed a candle stump into the soft mud. “Subtracted a bit of light from my master’s stores,” he whispered, “beeswax!”

A guard leaned against a post. “Kind of you to arrive before the torches are lit,” he said, catching Mali, the snack-seller, by the waist.

“Everyone can see!” she protested, pulling away.

“No danger in a corner,” the guard laughed, drawing her into the shadows behind a stall.

On the ground, a man unpacked a basket of food. “If one comes early, one has time to eat,” he said, taking a deep swig from a bottle. “A drunkard must drink his rice wine… at the Lord Okya’s compound!”

Pan, a merchant leading his son Noi through the mud, glared at the drinkers. “Let us stand over here, my son,” he said, pointing with his cane. “One would think we were in a den of thieves. Drunkards… brawlers… gamblers!” He recoiled as one of the swordsmen jostled him into the centre of the game.

“By the gods!” Pan muttered, pulling his son away. “To think that in such a place they once performed the masterpieces of the old poets.”

“And the greats of the capital,” the young man added, trying to sound sophisticated.

A group of boys skipped through the crowd, singing a mocking tune. Pin glared at them. “No pranks, you lot!”

“Such suspicion, Khun!” one boy replied with mock wounded dignity. As soon as the gatekeeper turned away, he poked his friend. “Do you have the string?”

“With a hook. We can fish for a Pha Phok turban from a noble on the gallery. There are overhanging trees.”

In a darker corner, Dam gathered a small group of sharp-eyed men. “Now then, young scoundrels, listen and learn. Since this is your first time stealing…”

Up on the newly built galleries, pages were already causing trouble. “Hey! Do you have the frondes?”

“And the peas!” came the muffled reply, followed by a spray of dried peas that rattled against the heads of the crowd below.

“What are they playing today?” Noi asked, dusting his tunic.

“The Heavenly Apsara,” Pan replied. “By Achaan Barom. It is quite a piece.”

Near the makeshift buffet, Choed turned to Korn, pointing to a raised platform. “Look there, I saw the first performance in the capital.”

A pickpocket signaled his team with quick gestures. “The jade rings… the silk wraps…”

Pan continued his lecture as they moved toward their seats. “You will see glorious actors, and the Apsara dancers… Serey… Det… the beauties of the stage.”

“Light the lamps!” someone shouted.

The boys on the ground pointed. “Mali!”

Mali appeared behind a long wooden table. “Sweets, milk, fruit water, chilled juices!” she called out as the roar at the entrance grew.

“Make way, you brutes!” a high-pitched voice commanded.

“The nobles!” a servant whispered. “Even in the mud?”

“Only for a few minutes,” a noble’s lackey replied as a group of young dandies pushed through.

Wut, a sharp-featured man, surveyed the half-empty area with a frown. “What! We arrive like common drapers, without disturbing anyone? Without stepping on any toes?” He spotted his friends in the crowd. “Sak! Seng!” They exchanged dramatic embraces.

“The faithful ones!” Sak laughed. “Yes, we arrive even before the torches are lit.”

“Do not speak of it,” Wut sighed. “I am in such a mood.”

“Console yourself, Khun,” Korn added, pointing toward a servant moving with a long taper. “For here comes the lamplighter!”

The crowd let out a collective “Ah!” as the first Fai Phao braseros were lit, their warm glow reflecting off the mud and the colorful silk of the upper galleries. Among the people entering the ground level was Chai, appearing slightly disheveled and smelling of rice wine, leaning on Sorya. Sorya, dressed cleanly, but so simply that it was shouting scullion, looked around with a worried expression, her eyes scanning the nobles in the gallery, over the moat of lord okya’s compound.

Scene 1.2 A Circle of Friends

“Chai!” Sak called, catching the eye of the man leaning on the younger woman’s arm.

“Not yet gray with wine, I see!” Seng laughed.

Chai chuckled, breath heavy with rice wine. He leaned toward Sorya. “May I present you?” At her nod, he turned to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen, the noblewoman Sorya.”

The crowd roared as the first great Fai Phao was hoisted toward the bamboo rafters.

Sak leaned closer, eyes on Sorya. “A charming face, truly.”

“Pah!” Wut dismissed with a wave. “Pretty enough, perhaps, but look at her Pha Khao Ma. That sash isn’t even silk, I believe its cotton.”

Chai continued. “My dear, the Khuns Sak and Seng.”

Sorya inclined her head. “Enchanted.”

“The lady just arrived from the southern frontier,” Chai explained.

“Yes,” Sorya said, her voice steady over the din. “I have been in Vimaya twenty days. I join Lord Okya’s retinue tomorrow.”

Wut’s interest shifted to the nobles gallery. “Look there! The Lady of the North.”

In the background, the snack-seller’s cry continued: “Green Mangoes! Milk! Sweets!” High above, flute-players tuned their instruments, a thin note cutting through the noise.

“Quite a crowd,” Sak remarked.

“Many,” Sorya agreed, her gaze fixed elsewhere.

“All the refined air of the plateau,” Wut added. The group named the nobles entering their boxes, draped in fine silks. Greetings were called out; fans fluttered.

“The wives of the border lords…”

“And the writers who love them…”

“Is the Court Council here?” Noi asked.

“Indeed,” Pan replied, pointing out figures. “Scholars, monks, elders of the Temple, scribes. Names that live in our songs.”

Wut straightened his tunic. “Attention! The refined gentlemen take their places.”

“Ah, Gods! Their titles are exquisite,” a noble sighed. “Khun, do you know them all?”

“I know them all,” Wut replied.

Chai pulled Sorya aside. “My dear, I came to do you a service, but the gentleman you seek is not appearing. I shall return to my vice.”

“No!” Sorya caught his arm. “You know every song and scandal in the village. Tell me for whom I am dying of love.”

The lead musician tapped his baton; the flutists began a soft melody. Mali passed with a tray.

“I am afraid he is too refined for me,” Sorya confessed, her voice dropping. “I do not dare speak to him. The language they speak today, so full of flowery words—it troubles me. I am a simple soldier. Look… he is always there, on the right, in the back. But the box is empty.”

“I am leaving,” Chai said.

“Stay!”

“I cannot. The drinks await. One dies of thirst in this mud.”

“Fruit water?” Mali asked, stopping.

“Fie.”

“Milk?”

“Ugh.”

“Rice wine?”

“Wait.” Chai eyed the tray. “I shall stay a moment longer.” He sat by the buffet; Mali poured a cup.

A shout went up as a stout man pushed through. “Bun!”

“Bun, the roast-master,” Chai explained to Sorya.

Bun, in a festival tunic, hurried toward them. “Khun, have you seen Yàa Mŭu Hrìng?”

“The butcher of actors and poets,” Chai announced.

“Too much honour…” Bun muttered.

“Be quiet, you patron of the arts!” Chai laughed.

“Those gentlemen do frequent my shop,” Bun admitted.

“On credit!” Chai added. “He is a poet himself.”

“They have told me so,” Bun said.

“Mad for verses!”

“It is true that for a short poem…”

“You give a tart,” Chai finished.

“A small pastry,” Bun corrected.

“And for a song?”

“Khannom.”

“With milk,” Chai added. “Do you love the Apsara Dances of the Celestial Nymphs?”

“I idolize it.”

“You pay for your seats in cakes. Your place today—what did it cost you?”

“Four custard tarts. Fifteen buns,” Bun admitted. “Is Mŭu Hrìng not here?”

“Why?”

“Serey is playing.”

“That mountain of a man,” Chai remarked, taking a sip. “What does it matter to Mŭu Hrìng?”

“Are you ignorant?” Bun asked. “She took a hatred to Serey and forbade him from the stage for a month!”

“And so?”

“Serey is playing anyway.”

Sak, who had drifted back, shrugged. “He can do nothing against it.”

“I have come to see what happens,” Bun insisted.

“Who is Mŭu Hrìng?” Wut asked.

“A woman well-versed in the arts of the blade,” Sak replied.

“Enough. A cadet in the Guards.” Sak pointed to a gentleman, Kla, pacing the floor. “Kla can tell you more. Kla!”

Kla hurried over. “Are you looking for Mŭu Hrìng?”

“I am worried.”

“Is she not extraordinary?” Sak asked.

Kla’s expression softened. “The most exquisite of sublunary beings.”

“A rhymer,” Bun added.

“A duellist,” Sak said.

“A scholar,” Seng chimed in.

“A musician,” Kla added.

“And such a strange appearance,” Chai remarked.

“Bizarre, excessive, extravagant,” Bun said. “I do not think the most solemn painters could capture her. An embroidered Pha Khao Ma loincloth, and a sash that her kitchen blade lifts from behind like an insolent cock’s tail! Prouder than all the heroes of legend, she walks with an air… and a nose! Ah, my lords, what a nose. One cannot see such a feature pass without thinking, ‘She exaggerates!’ Then one smiles and says, ‘She will take it off…’ But Mŭu Hrìng never takes it off.”

“She wears it,” Kla said. “And she strikes down anyone who notices it.”

“Her knife is half of the shears of Fate,” Bun declared.

“She will not come,” Wut said.

“She will! I bet a Gaeng Oom Gai!”

“So be it,” Wut laughed.

A murmur of admiration swept through the crowd. In the gallery, a young man had appeared. He sat at the front, his elderly tutor behind him. Sorya, busy paying the snack-seller, did not look up at first.

“Ah, Khun! Terribly ravishing,” a noble breathed.

“A mangosteen that smiles with a flower,” Wut added.

Sorya looked up; her breath hitched at the sight of Preah Ponhea Chan. She seized Chai’s arm. “It is him!”

“Him?”

“Yes. Tell me quickly. I am afraid.”

Chai took a slow sip. “Preah Ponhea Chan… they call him the Prince. Precious.”

“Alas.”

“Free. An orphan. And a cousin of the Khmer rightful king.” An elegant noble, draped in a sash of high office, entered the box.

Sorya shuddered. “That man?”

“Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak,” Chai chuckled, eyes narrowing as the wine took hold. “He is infatuated with him. But he is married to the niece of a great minister. He desires to have the Prince ‘married’ to the daughter of a certain sycophant, Luang Sorasakdidecha… a man of minor rank and great compliance. The Prince does not consent, but the Governor is powerful. He can persecute a simple exiled prince, cut off from his protectors. Besides, I exposed his scheme in a song… he must hate me for it. The ending was quite wicked.” He began to wobble as he stood.

“No. Goodnight,” Sorya said, turning away.

“You are going?”

“To find Luang Sorasakdidecha. Maybe strangle his daughter.”

“Take care,” Chai warned. “It is he who will kill you.” He pointed toward the Prince. “Stay. He is looking at you.”

“It is true.” Sorya remained, her gaze on the box. A group of pickpockets moved closer.

“I am the one leaving,” Chai said. “I am thirsty.” He stumbled out.

Kla, having finished his circuit of the area, returned to Bun. “No sign of Mŭu Hrìng.”

“And yet…”

“Ah! I hope she has not seen who will do the announcements!”

“Start! Start!” the crowd began to chant.

Scene 1.3 The Governor’s Shadow

Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak descended from the Prince’s box, crossing the dirt floor followed by a swarm of sycophants. Among them, Luang Sorasakdidecha wore a look of smug satisfaction.

“A fine court you lead, Luang!” Wut called, bowing low.

“Pah!” Korn whispered. “Another ambitious man from the capital. The King’s Council has promoted Vimaya to a Class-Three city, and with it comes a Governor who does not care for the traditional rights of the local Lord Okya.”

“A man who succeeds,” his friend replied. “He has the King’s ear, while the Okya has only his ancient mud.” They moved toward the Governor.

“Such fine ribbons!” Yot remarked, gesturing to the Governor’s elaborate sash. “What color is that? ‘Belly-of-the-doe’?”

“It is the color of a Sick Foreigner,” the Governor replied dryly.

“The color does not lie,” Wut added with a calculated grin. “Thanks to your valor, the foreigners will soon feel quite ill on our borders.”

“I am going to the stage,” the Governor said, brushing aside the flattery. “Are you coming?” He led his entourage toward the raised platform. He paused. “Come, Sorasakdidecha!”

Sorya, poised for every word, stiffened at the name. “The Khun! I shall throw dust on his hair…” She reached into her pocket, but her hand met something else, the cold, quick fingers of Dam, the pickpocket. She whirled, catching him by the wrist. “What is this?”

“Ay!” the thief cried, trying to pull away.

“I was looking for dust!” Sorya spat.

“And you found a hand,” the thief replied with a pathetic smile. His tone sharpened. “Let me go, and I will give you a secret.”

Sorya kept her grip. “What secret?”

“Chai… the one who just left you…”

“And so?”

“…is approaching his final hour. A song he wrote offended a great man. A half-dozen roughs—I am one of them—wait for him tonight!”

Sorya’s eyes widened. “A half-dozen! Posted by whom?”

“Discretion…” the thief said with mock dignity.

“Where are they waiting?”

“At the Victory Gate. On the path he takes home. Warn him!”

Sorya released him. “But where can I find him?”

“Run to the kitchens! The eateries… leave word in each one!”

“Yes, I’m going!” Sorya cried, her anger at Sorasakdidecha forgotten. “The cowards! Six against one!” She looked back at the Prince’s box. “To leave him… now!” Then her eyes narrowed at the Governor’s pet. “And him! But I must save Chai!” She turned and sprinted toward the exit.

The Governor and his nobles had already disappeared onto the stage, where seats had been set aside for them. The market grounds in front of the stage was now packed to capacity, and a tense silence fell over the crowd as the three traditional strikes of a gong higher than a grown man sounded on the side of the stage.

“Snuff that lamp!” Wut’s voice rang out from the stage.

“A cushion!” Korn added, as it was passed over the heads of the crowd to the noble.

“Silence!” the watcher commanded. The gong sounded again, and a painted backdrop of a pastoral landscape slowly unfolded down. Four lamps hung above the stage, their light flickering as the musicians began a soft air.

“Is Serey coming on?” Bun whispered to Kla.

“Yes, he is the one who starts.”

“Mŭu Hrìng is not here.”

“I have lost my bet,” Bun muttered.

“So much the better!” Kla replied. A soft pipes melody began, and Serey stepped onto the stage. He was immense, draped in an elaborate shepherd’s costume that did little to hide his girth. He carried a set of pipes adorned with ribbons, and after a stiff bow, he began his lines in a booming, theatrical voice.

“Happy is he who, far from courts, in a solitary place, prescribes for himself a voluntary exile, and who, when the breeze has blown through the woods…”

“Scoundrel!” a voice boomed from the centre of the crowd. “Did I not forbid you for a month?”

The audience went still. Every head turned toward the source of the interruption.

“What? Who is it?”

“It’s her!” Sak cried.

“Mŭu Hrìng!” Kla gasped, his face pale with terror.

Scene 1.4 The Dances Interrupted

Serey, still on stage, looked toward the nobles in their boxes. “Gentlemen, help me!”

“Go on and play!” Wut called with a lazy wave.

Mŭu Hrìng, standing on a bamboo Krae in the middle of the market grounds, looked up at the stage. Her head cocked at a defiant angle, she rested a hand on the hilt of the large kitchen knife at her belt. “Listen, scoundrel!” she called, her voice ringing out. “If you play, I shall slap your cheeks until they match your costume!”

“Enough!” a noble shouted.

“Let the nobles keep their seats and their silence,” Mŭu Hrìng retorted, “or I shall let them taste my cane across their fine ribbons!”

“This is too much!” someone cried. “Serey, play on!”

“Let Serey leave this stage,” Mŭu Hrìng commanded, “or I shall trim his ears and gut him like a market fish!”

“But—” a voice started.

“Not gone yet?” Mŭu Hrìng slapped her upper arms. “Good! I shall go up there myself and carve this fat catfish!”

Serey tried to summon a bit of dignity. “In insulting me, Khun, you insult the Ghost of Tragedy!”

Mŭu Hrìng gave him a mock-polite bow. “If that Ghost had the honour of knowing you, she would certainly kick you from the stage with her own celestial boot!”

The crowd roared: “Serey! The play! The Dances! We want the dancers!”

“I beg of you,” Mŭu Hrìng said, addressing those around her, “have pity on my scabbard. If you continue, it will be forced to release its blade!” The crowd pulled back as her hand tightened on the handle of her heavy knife.

“Heh! Now…” they muttered, retreating.

“Leave the stage!” Mŭu Hrìng barked.

A voice from the back began to sing a mocking tune about the “tyrant Mŭu Hrìng,” and the crowd joined in, chanting for the play to continue.

“If I hear that song once more,” Mŭu Hrìng said, “I shall beat you all senseless. Who will be the first? You, Khun? No? You? I shall take your names. Approach, young heroes! Everyone in their turn! I am handing out numbers! Come now, who wants to open the list? A first duellist? I shall send them off with the honours they deserve! Let all those who wish to die raise a finger!”

Silence fell over the grounds. No one moved.

“Does modesty prevent you from seeing my steel naked?” Mŭu Hrìng asked with a smirk. “Not a name? Not a finger? Good. I shall continue.” She turned back to Serey, who was trembling on the stage. “I desire to see this stage cured of your presence. Otherwise…” Her hand moved to her knife. “…the surgery begins!”

“I…” Serey stammered.

Mŭu Hrìng sat down on her Krae and crossed her legs. “I shall clap my hands three times. You will have eclipsed yourself by the third.”

“One!” she called out, her hands coming together with a sharp report.

“I…”

“Stay!” a voice cried from the box.

“He stays… he stays not…” the crowd whispered.

“Two!”

“I believe… I am sure it would be better if…” Serey muttered, backing away.

“Three!”

Serey vanished through the stage sidedoor as if by magic. A storm of laughter and boos erupted from the room. “Coward! Come back!”

Mŭu Hrìng, looking satisfied, leaned back in her Krae. “Let him come back if he dares!”

Det, the lead of the troupe, stepped forward and bowed. “Noble lords…”

“No! No! We want Jom!” the crowd shouted.

Jom stepped forward, his voice a nasal whine. “You bunch of calves!”

“Ah! Ah! Bravo! Very good!”

“No bravos!” Jom snapped. “The fat tragedian you love has felt… unwell.”

“He’s a coward!”

“He had to leave!”

“Let him come back!”

“No!” “Yes!” The crowd was divided. A young man leaned toward Mŭu Hrìng. “But in the end, Khun, what reason do you have to hate Serey?”

Mŭu Hrìng, still seated, gave him a gracious smile. “Young goose, I have two reasons, each of which is enough on its own. First, he is a deplorable announcer who bellows like a water-carrier and weighs down the verses that should fly! And the second… is my secret.”

An old merchant behind her grumbled. “But you deprive us of the play! I insist…”

Mŭu Hrìng turned on her Krae toward him. “Old mule! The verses of Baro are worth less than zero. I interrupt without remorse!”

In the boxes, the refined guests were scandalized. “Ah! Oh! Our Baro! My dear, can one say such things?”

Mŭu Hrìng turned toward the boxes, her tone turning gallant. “Beautiful people, radiate, bloom, be the dream-bearers of our world. Enchant us with a smile, inspire us with verses… but do not judge them!”

Det stepped to the edge of the stage. “And the money that we must return!”

“Det,” Mŭu Hrìng said, turning back to the stage, “you have said the only intelligent thing. I do not wish to leave a hole in the troupe’s purse.” She stood up and pulled a heavy bag of coins from her belt, tossing it onto the stage. “Catch this bag on the fly, and be silent!”

The crowd gasped as the bag landed with a heavy clink. “Ah! Oh!”

Jom scooped it up, weighing it in his hand. “At this price, Khun, I authorize you to come every day and stop the play!”

The audience roared with laughter as the actors and dancers began to leave. Kla moved to Mŭu Hrìng’s side. “This is madness…”

Wut, the meddler, watched Mŭu Hrìng with a judgmental eye. He approached. “The actor Serey… quite a scandal. He is protected by the Governor himself. Do you have a patron, Khun?”

“No,” Mŭu Hrìng replied.

“You don’t have…?”

“No.”

“What, not a great lord to cover your name?”

Mŭu Hrìng’s hand tightened on the hilt at her side. “No. I have said it twice. No protector… but this protectress!”

“But you will have to leave the city?”

“That depends.”

“The Governor has a long arm!”

“Not as long as mine,” Mŭu Hrìng said, patting her blade, “when I add this extension to it.”

“But you don’t think to claim—”

“I think of it.”

“But—”

“Turn your heels now,” Mŭu Hrìng commanded.

“But—”

“Turn! Or tell me why you are staring at my nose.”

The man looked confused. “I…”

“What is so surprising about it?” Mŭu Hrìng stepped toward him.

“Your Grace is mistaken…” he stammered, backing away.

“Is it soft and swinging, Khun, like an elephant’s trunk?”

“I didn’t…”

“Or hooked like the beak of an owl?”

“I—”

“Do you see a wart on the end of it? What is so strange about it? Is it a phenomenon?”

“I had managed to keep my eyes from looking at it!” the man cried.

“And why, if you please, not look at it? Does it disgust you then? Does its color seem unhealthy to you? Its shape, obscene?”

“No, not at all!”

“Why then take such a disparaging air? Perhaps you find it a bit too large?”

“I find it small,” the man stammered, “very small, tiny, minuscule!”

“What? How? You accuse me of such a ridicule? Small, my nose? Stop!”

“Gods!”

“Enormous, my nose!” Mŭu Hrìng declared, her voice rising with poetic fervor. “Vile flat-nose, learn that I take pride in such an appendix. A great nose is the mark of an affable, good, courteous, and spiritual woman, liberal and courageous, such as I am. And such as you are forbidden to ever believe yourself to be, you miserable rogue! For the face without glory that my hand goes to find at the top of your neck is as devoid…” She reached out and slapped him. “…of pride, of flight, of lyricism, of spark, of nose, finally, as that which my boot goes to find at the base of your back!” She punctuated her words with a kick that sent the man scurrying away.

“Help! Guard!” he cried as he fled.

“A warning to the curious who find the centre of my face amusing,” Mŭu Hrìng announced to the room. “And if the prankster is noble, my custom is to give him a taste of steel before he runs!”

Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak, who had descended from the stage with his entourage, shook his head. “She is starting to tire us.”

Scene 1.5 The Rhetoric of the Nose

“No one?” Sorasakdidecha stepped forward. “Wait. I shall throw one of those traits at her…” He positioned himself before Mŭu Hrìng. “You… you have a nose… a very… very large nose.”

Mŭu Hrìng looked at him gravely. “Very.”

“Ha!”

“Is that all?” Mŭu Hrìng asked.

“But…”

“No! That is a bit short, young man! One could say—many things. By varying the tone—for example:

Aggressive: ‘I, Khun, if I had such a nose, I would have it amputated on the spot!’ Friendly: ‘But it must dip into your cup! You should have a special bowl made for drinking!’ Descriptive: ‘It is a rock! It is a stupa! It is the pinnacle of the Palace of Vimaya! What am I saying, a pinnacle? It is one of the Dângrêk Mountains!’ Curious: ‘Towards what goal does this oblong capsule serve? As a writing desk, or a box for scissors?’ Gracious: ‘Do you love birds so much that you provided this perch for their little feet?’ Truculent: ‘When you smoke, does the tobacco steam come out without a neighbor crying fire in the hut?’ Considerate: ‘Take care, your head being pulled by such a weight, not to fall forward!’ Tender: ‘Have a small parasol made for it, for fear its color fades in the sun!’ Pedantic: ‘The animal alone, that the scholars call the Celestial-Elephant-Dragon, must have had so much flesh on so much bone!’ Cavalier: ‘What, friend, is this hook in fashion? To hang one’s scabbard, it is truly convenient!’ Emphatic: ‘No wind can, O magisterial nose, give you a cold entirely, except the great monsoon!’ Dramatic: ‘It is the Rhinoceros when she bleeds!’ Admiring: ‘For a perfumer, what a sign!’ Lyric: ‘Is it a conch, are you a sea-spirit?’ Naïve: ‘This monument, when does one visit it?’ Respectful: ‘Suffer, Khun, that one salutes you, that is what is called having an estate on the street!’ Country-style: ‘Hey, look! Is that a nose? No! It’s a giant turnip or a dwarf melon!’ Military: ‘Point against a charging elephant!’ Practical: ‘Will you put it in a lottery? Assuredly, Khun, it will be the grand prize!’

Finally, parodying a tragic hero in a sob: ‘There it is, that nose which has destroyed the harmony of its mistress’ features! It reddens from it, the traitor!’

That, my dear, is what you would have said if you had a bit of letters and spirit. But of spirit, O lamentable being, you never had an atom, and of letters, you have only the six that form the word: DIMWIT! Had you the invention to serve these pleasantries before these galleries, you would not have articulated a quarter of the beginning of one, because I serve them to myself with enough verve, but I do not allow any other to serve them to me.”

The Governor tried to lead the stunned Sorasakdidecha away. “Khun, let it be!”

“Such arrogant airs!” Sorasakdidecha choked. “A commoner who… who doesn’t even have silks! And who goes out without ribbons, without finery!”

“I,” Mŭu Hrìng replied softly, “it is morally that I have my elegances. I do not dress as a fop, but I am more cared for if I am less coquettish. I would not go out with an affront not washed away, a conscience yellow with sleep, a crumpled honour, or scruples in mourning. I walk without anything on me that does not shine, bearing the unblemished white lotus of my own truth. It is my soul that I arch as if in a corset; and all covered with exploits attached in ribbons, twirling my spirit as if it were a mustache, I make truths ring like spurs.”

“But, Khun…”

“I have no silks? A fine affair! I had one left… from a very old pair. It was troublesome to me. I left it in the face of someone.”

“Rogue! Scoundrel! Ridiculous flat-foot!”

Mŭu Hrìng bowed as if he had just introduced himself. “Ah? And I, Mŭu Hrìng.”

“Jester!” Sorasakdidecha shouted.

Mŭu Hrìng let out a cry as if seized by a cramp. “Ay!”

“What is she saying now?”

“It must be moved, for it is falling asleep,” Mŭu Hrìng said with a grimace of pain. “That’s what happens when you leave it unoccupied. Ay!”

“What do you have?”

“I have ants in my knife!”

“So be it!” Sorasakdidecha cried, drawing his own blade.

“I shall give you a charming little slice,” Mŭu Hrìng said, pulling her heavy kitchen knife from its sheath.

“Poet!” he sneered.