Monday, 9 April 2007

Thai boy's keepsake


Teung, a performing arts student, is straight. So why, one hour after we met, did he give me a thumbnail picture of himself as a keepsake?

Teung, 22, also gave me his phone number, invited me to celebrate his birthday this month, and to watch him perform Esan music at Sanam Luang. He and his student friends are performing there in an activity to mark the Songkran festival.

Teung was sitting in full view of his student friends, who were drinking nearby. He did not feel embarrassed to pull out his picture.

At first I thought he just wanted to show me what he looked like, a few years ago when it was taken. But no.

‘I have two of them, and this one is for you,’ he said.

A couple of young strangers were sitting across from us when he handed over his picture. He wasn’t scared by what they might have thought, either.

Teung had a remarkable sense of stillness about him. Nothing flapped him – even when a noisy, intimidating group of former Thammasat students joined our table. He didn’t like them, but just fell quiet rather than saying anything.

He was most attentive. He sat close to me, so close that at times our faces almost touched.

He rubbed my leg, I patted his knee. I slapped his back when he coughed, and picked cigarette ash from his hair. He told me about his family life, his parents, his likes and dislikes. If I went to look up words in the dictionary, he quickly jumped in to ask if he could help.

At the back of the dictionary is a series of pictures of Thai classical musical instruments. He introduced me to each of them, explained how they were played, and how they were made. We talked about the Thai flowers, fruit, vegetables, palaces and statues which are also there.

Teung likes farang, I suspect. When he is not studying across the river, he teaches a Thai traditional instrument called a kim (or dulcimer, in English). He has taught for two years, which has given him an adult’s outlook on life which his younger peers might lack. He has learnt the art of negotiating with recalcitrant child students, who would really rather be somewhere else.

Late in the night, a song by ‘Bird’ Mcintyre was playing on the television.

‘Do you like him?’ I asked, meaning his singing voice.

‘He’s gay,’ he said.

‘You mean you don’t like gays?’

‘I can talk to them, and have gay friends,’ he said.

‘So, Bird’s voice…?’

‘He has a lovely singing voice.’

Mysterious.

When I arrived, Teung was drinking with a boy with funny teeth. The last time I saw him, Mr Teeth passed a remark to a friend that I turn up at Mum's shop to lie in wait for boys. He meant it in fun, of course. I was not meant to hear, but I did.

For most of the night, Teung and I drank alone. Eventually, however, Mr Teeth returned, as he was drunk and tired. I offered to take them home, as we live in the same direction, but Mr Teeth insisted on taking Teung instead.

I shall probably see them again. I wonder if Teung will remember giving me his photo- and what I am supposed to do with it now?

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