Silk Umbrellas (8 page)

Kun Pa nodded and laughed in short bursts of happiness as Noi revealed each painting.

Ting and Kun Ya smiled at each other as Noi’s secrets came to light.

“Oh, Noi,” said Kun Mere over and over. After the last one was brought out, she said, “I knew you loved color, little daughter. I just didn’t know how much.”

Although market day was sunny and warm, Noi grew cold as Kun Pa wheeled the tricycle between the stalls to Mr. Poonsub’s booth.

The women teased her as usual, begging her to sell to them instead. “Just this once,” cried one. “Where is your grandmother?” asked another.

“At home,” Noi called back. A wave of sadness passed over her. Kun Ya should be with her now.

Finally, Kun Pa stopped the
samlaw
in front of Mr. Poonsub’s table stacked high with Thai silks.

“At last,” Mr. Poonsub said to Noi. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Kun Ya is still tired.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for a pale lavender umbrella. He unfurled it, examining the delicate painting of a tree arching over a rice field, and then opened a yellow one. “Did your grandmother paint these?”

Noi felt her heart drop like a ripe mango falling from a tree. “No, Mr. Poonsub. I did.”

He opened one umbrella after another and left them spread, reflecting colors onto the bundles of silks.

Noi thought that Mr. Poonsub must be searching for an umbrella that he liked. Surely, she’d ruined them! Kun Ya and the others had been too kind to tell her. Or maybe Kun Ya’s eyesight had gone bad.

Noi felt shame spread over her, a redness as from a bleeding cut. She looked down at her feet in their dusty sandals. She sensed Kun Pa behind her, folding and unfolding his hands.

“Hmmm. These umbrellas do look different. But good in their way. The painting is fresh and lively,” Mr. Poonsub said at last. “You’ve inherited your grandmother’s gift.”

Noi let her breath out.

“Will you buy them, then?” Kun Pa stepped forward.

Without answering, Mr. Poonsub turned to his cash box and counted paper money and two ten-
baht
coins into Noi’s hands. “And a little extra for pocket money”— he counted out a few more coins —“until next Saturday.”

When they turned the corner, out of sight of Mr. Poonsub, Noi cried, “Oh, Kun Pa. He even wants to buy more!”

“Such a wonderful day!” Kun Pa hugged Noi close to him and laughed.

“And now, here’s this for Kun Mere,” said Noi when Kun Pa let her go. Carefully, she placed the bills with the coins on top into Kun Pa’s hands.

“This is yours.” Kun Pa handed back the pocket money. He put the rest in his embroidered money bag, then touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Your money will more than make up for that lost from mosquito nets.”

Kun Pa let Noi climb into the empty tricycle basket for the trip home. He pedaled down the busy streets and then onto the road into the countryside. They passed under a tree of trumpet flowers, the heavy blooms hanging downward.

“Please go back to that tree,” Noi asked, turning around in the basket.

Kun Pa circled and stopped.

Noi put her face right underneath one of the creamy trumpets. The inside blushed with pink. She ran her finger over the ruffled edge and breathed in a subtle, musky scent. She closed her eyes until she could feel the flower inside her.

Tomorrow she would paint the trumpet flower on a pure white umbrella. She couldn’t wait to show Kun Ya.

baht:
Thai coin worth about five U.S. cents

farang:
Caucasian foreigner

hinghoy:
firefly

kasalong:
white flowers

kome:
paper lanterns

kome loy:
floating lanterns

krathong:
basket

Kun Kru:
Teacher

Kun Mere:
Mother

Kun Pa:
Father

Kun Ya:
Grandmother

Loy Krathong:
Harvest Festival (literally “Floating Baskets”)

Mae Nam:
Mother Water

mangosteen:
a dark purple fruit with white inside

phang patit:
earthen lamps

rambutan:
a bright red fruit with white inside

samlaw:
a large tricycle

sarong:
a rectangular length of fabric used as a garment

sawasdee:
hello
and
goodbye

stang:
Thai coin worth about one-fiftieth of a U.S. cent

I would like to acknowledge Kanlaya Yaiprasan, whose work inspired this book; my husband, Panratt Manoorasada, who contributed generously to the story during its long evolution; Kruamas Woodtikarn, who assisted with cultural details; Gretchen Will Mayo, who shed light on the inner life of the artist; Irma Sheppard, who lovingly helped with the revision; and my editors, Amy Ehrlich and Deborah Wayshak, whose vision and insight guided my search for the story’s heart.

www.candlewick.com

www.candlewick.com