The Sofa

The world is a canvas where paint glides on to a palette.

Here, pigments are pure, untainted. There is a richness in their clarity.

The shine.

The colour that gleams.

And in life, it is the knife cuts through it.

It was an hour before sunset when the meeting commenced.

The sofa sat like a plaintive in the dock, waiting for the jury's judgement.

The panel, ten of them, were assembled next to the sofa. There were three monks, four village elders, a teacher, a leading business man. and one woman, None of them had sat on the sofa, even the mustard robed monks, who instead squatted on some quire matting. The rest roosted on their haunches in a circle, speaking in low whispers.

It is an unusual canvas to hold court.

It consists of green and yellow fields as vivid and luscious, as the sky is blue. It is a paddy nestled in a flat based bowl and surrounded by purple mountains.

The Ferang had become a common sight sitting here, on his sofa, smoking his cigarettes, drinking a can of Singha or maybe a cup of coffee, hooked nose buried in a newspaper or a book. He had always said that he liked this place, that this was his perfect garden and in particular, he loved this spot more than any others.

And what a spot indeed. There is brook on one side of the vista and a dirt track, serviced by a small bridge that crosses through the paddy to the village beyond. Occasionally a moped or bicycle would travel on it, breaking the natural silence, which of course is not silent at all. In the distance, chickens, birds, monkeys, and even the sound of elephants can be heard, calling. There are the sounds of laughing children in a place unseen here, and the noise of heat and dust and fertility. The wellness of this place will take your breath away. It is 1995 but this scene, it was as old as memory, a picture from ancient Thailand.

Except, of course, for the sofa.

The sofa is leather and draped with a throw of blue cotton lawn, speckled with tiny orange flowers. Today, next to it, but not on it, the men smoked, and swigged beer. The monks crosslegged, picked their teeth, bickered and Pad, the only woman sat with her sewing and listened.

It was clear that the attendees had cemented their ideas of what should be done and it seemed that no one wanted to compromise.

The problem is that it covers a large area of the paddy which could be used to grow rice -one said.

Bah, its hardly any size at all -said another

It was evident that for some the ferang, was just a passing fad, now outgrown. For others he was just a man once known. For the majority, however, he was one to be revered, remembered, worshipped even. And amongst this group were surprisingly, the monks.

But it's not our paddy. It belongs to the ferang.

He gave it to the village…..

And the least we can do is honour his wishes and keep the sofa for his return!

What return?

Is he coming back?

Who knows?

And if he did and there was no sofa ……?

What would he do?

What could he do?

We owe him.

The sofa was almost as well travelled as it’s owner. an aristocrat in its own right. It had been manufactured in the Chesterfield factory, and commissioned for the library of the Beaufort home.

It had remained there for 80 years until its owner had left England 30years ago, in his work as foreign ambassador. It had since spent time in a Raj palace, a ranch outside Johannesburg, a partially bombed residence in Baghdad and several other addresses worldwide. iI had seated, Nelson Mandela, HRM Elizabeth 11, Gandhi and numerous prime ministers and diplomats. It had even welcomed the legs of Sir David Attenborough.

For the last 12 years it had dwelled here in the paddy, the last 3years untouched, waiting for him to return, Occasionally one of the locals would wipe the dust from its surface, and couple of times, the head man, Ban, had waxed and oiled the leather to protect its surface. In the rainy season, he had even covered it with a plastic sheet hammered into the ground.

For they had believed that their ferang, their English gentleman, would return, to sit amongst them, to talk with them, to guide them as he had done before.

What to do with the gifts and offerings? One asked looking at the flowers, toys and presents that surrounded the sofa for over time, it has become a sort of shrine, a memorial to be cherished. For it had belonged to him, the most exquisite, the most wonderful of all ferangs.

The ferang who was called Bill had helped found the village, He’d learnt their language, both Thai and the local Karen and in turn taught English to those who were interested, he socialised and advised Ban, the head man, and had philosophical discussions with the monks who came from far and wide to talk with him.

He asked only that they brought him a paper. The Times, the Guardian or the Telegraph. And despite being weeks old in some cases he would read hungrily the news of the world outside. It served to remind him of the life he had and would never have again, a life where the palette had been spoiled and however much one tried could never be purified

3 years on and Ban had reached a conundrum. The sofa was here but the occupant wasn’t.

There had been talk amongst the villagers.

It seemed that there were mixed opinions on the future of the sofa. And some were surprisingly outspoken.

Ban had called the meeting in the paddy. iIt would be appropriate that the topic of debate, the sofa, should be present. It was early November and as Bill would have pointed out, the richest of all months both in colour and vegetation,. The rice plants were lurid in their greenness.

Perhaps we could store it somewhere until he returns?

There was a pause while the men considered the idea, and then, unanimous nods of assent.

It can easily be carried or towed by elephant. I can speak to the Mahouts - one of the elders suggested.

Where to? - Another asked

Can anyone store it?

There were many head-shakes.

None of them had space for such a large item.

What about the temple?- Ban asked the monks cautiously and was returned with a loud raucous laugh.

The temple is for the Buddha. If we take the ferang’s sofa it may never be returned for it will belong to him and to all who follow him.

On one of Bans errands, he’d passed the ferangs home and on a whim stopped. It was a typical Lana home, a traditional style three room, stilted house made with the dark and heavy timbers of the region.

It was obvious that Bills housekeeper hadn’t been to the house for a long time. The area was overgrown and the timbers in need of attention. Nature had taken back what had always been hers. He gingerly climbed the ladder to the entrance and found the door unlocked. Inside there were newspapers everywhere, piles of them, some nearly as tall as him. The little furniture that existed was pushed to the wall on the far side of this once communal space.

He’d picked a random newspaper and memories flooded in, of the hours spent learning English, on the sofa with Bill. And for what? He had no one to practice his skill with. He’d looked at the paper and willed himself to try to read it. He’d sounded out the letters of the front page headline.

D-u-k-e —d-i-e-s—s-u-c-c-e-s-s-or—-m-i-s-s-i-n-g.

He’d put the paper down, pleased with himself. pleased that he could read but equally pleased, that an idea was forming.

Why are we even discussing this? - the teacher interjected. The felang is blessed. He is the reason our village is happy and prosperous. His sofa should stay to remind us of our history. I say that we should celebrate his life.

Well I think we should burn the ant ridden piece of junk and be done with it. If the felang can’t even be bothered to take his property away, why should we clear up his mess? - the business man piped up. And all looked him and look away.

Bill had also found love of a kind. Her name was Nok and despite her mature age, had to his surprise borne him a son, Pete. He had found fatherhood confusing, muddled and had with Noks relief, spent more time away from their little house on stilts at the end of the village than previously ,and more time in the paddy with the head men of the surrounding villages and his own, Mai Mut.

Ban, you have 6 children. How do you distinguish your thoughts from the noise? he would ask.

And Ban would nod and agree and wonder what a man was for, if not to father the next generation. and how was this wisest of creatures so shortsighted.

By the time his son was was 7, Pete and Nok seemed to spend longer and longer periods in Chiang Rai visiting Noks parents. Bill had employed a maid to cook and keep the house tidy while he was alone and Nok seemed to be perfectly happy with the arrangement. Apart from Bill’s ever increasing assembly of newspapers, which he stacked in an obscure and complicated system of his own devising, the house was hers to arrange as she liked and the furniture hers to choose. She began to see her stays in Mai Mut as little holidays, and her husband as the caretaker of the holiday home. The arrangement suited them both, and Pete, knowing nothing different, enjoyed his trips to see his father as much as living with his grandparents.

Time slowed and Ban found himself zoning out of the banter. He watched the sun stretch across the horizon, the rice shiver in the breeze, the ants marching in columns across the leather of the sofa. This place, this magical, chaotic, piece of world was theirs because of the alliance between nature and man, one of whom was alien to this place but had cared for it like an adoptive mother. And surely this was to be celebrated? The sofa was nothing of this place but sat comfortably within it, reminding them that the world is bigger than ourselves.

He remembered the last time he had spoken to Bill, right here on the sofa. Nok was planning to return to Chang Rai. It was Pete's birthday. Pete had asked his father if he would come.

What shall I do? he had asked then. And Ban had replied that his son would only be seven once. And so Bill had gone.

But Bill hadn't come back.

Here one day, gone the next, with no goodbye or jee gan mai

Which was strange. As Bill had left his sofa behind.

His, house too, was as he'd left it. The pile of newspapers had grown. Visitors still arrived hoping to ind Bill.They would leave a newspaper in the hope that one day he would read it.

Nok had come to Mai Mut several times in the first year with little Pete. but she never told anybody where Bill was.

And so it was assumed that maybe he had gone home to England.

We could leave the sofa here, raise the legs on bamboo and then we could plant underneath…..

Ban interrupted Sok, the village elder currently speaking. He hadn’t heard a word of his argument and realised that he had no wish to either. He had come to a decision and he laid out his plans to the group.

The next few days were busy for Ban. It was nearly harvest and the village needed to organise the communal rice pick. The harvest full moon festival needed coordinating and applications for a doctors clinic were needing his attention.

In what seemed to be no time at all, the village had rallied, Bills house was cleared of newspapers and the double spreads distributed to all the village. While the men began the arduous job of harvesting the rice, and collecting the last of the fish in the paddy streams, the women and children made and collected flowers for arrangements, prepared huge quantities of delicious dishes, created boats and lanterns for the Full Moon Festival and readied and finished ceremonial garments and headdresses.

It took a week to clear the field. They worked around the sofa without any thought to lay down or sleep on it, choosing the ground when necessary reaping, stacking, handling, threshing, cleaning, and hauling made the old men hobble and the young men ache, but the rain had held off and the crop was good. There were just days left before the festival, so no time to rest as preparations for this most special of events needed to be put in place.

On the morning of the Full Moon, the sun dawned on the first clear and bright day for a couple of weeks, it had finally rained in the night and the world seemed cooler, clean and new. Ban met Pad at the paddy and together they began to coordinate the transformation of field to fiesta. Pink and yellow grass mats were laid on the floor, and on the east side benches with cushions. Lights were cabled to the west side and a stage erected for the Lana market where the ladies would serve hot and delicious foods in banana leaves. Parasols were erected in oranges and reds and turquoise and complicated flower and incense sculptures as tall as the men placed around the perimeter. The sofa was clothed in the mustard shawl of the monks and then bedecked with beautiful flower and banana leaf arrangements of white and pink and green. Enormous bronze Buddhas were wheeled in and erected. They stood in their various postures next to the flowers and candelabra, trays of incense before them ready to light.

It was while they were eating a picnic lunch that the black 4x4 crossed the bridge into the paddy and stopped. He and Pad were sitting slightly apart from the rest of the volunteers on a mat next to the sofa.They looked at each other in undisguised surprise. 2 men and and 2 women got out. He watched them stop and speak to one of the villagers who pointed at him and after removing their shoes, they headed his way. They were dressed in western clothes, however only one of the women was western. He stood to greet them. He bowed low for they have the look and poise of importance, entitlement and government.

Are you Headman Ban? Asked one man.

I am indeed. Replied Ban. How may I help you?

The man gestured to himself. I am Assistant Commissioner General, Prayut Chan-o-chaof, of the Police Special Branch Bureau and this is Mr Shukit Chaengyodsuk, who’s from the Foreign Office in Bangkok. This is Mrs Belesford- Bwown from England and her interpreter, Ad. We would like to talk to you, in private, if possible. His voice had the clipped commanding tone of a man used to being obeyed.

Bans stomach turned over. People like this meant trouble and Ban felt ill-equipped to deal with it.

Pad stood up, and bowed politely looking into Bans panicked face before excusing herself. He watched her shoo away, the congregating villagers to the furthest part of the paddy, barking orders and nitpicking at their bad manners.

Please sit, Ban indicated to the floor. He listened to interpreter echo his words in English and in response the felang, Mrs Bwown, looked around her and headed to the sofa. She shoved the flower offerings aside and plonked herself down with a sigh. Ban hid his shock as best he could. How dare anyone sit on Bills chair? Was this woman being deliberately rude?

The rest of the group had no choice but to kneel at her feet.

We have a few questions to ask you, The general said, contemplating Ban. Ban felt the weight of the look. He felt like a spider about be crushed.

We have reason to believe that you know a felang by the name of Lord William Beaufort.

Ban looked back at him blankly

I believe he had an arrangement with a village girl, Nok and they had a child?

Ban, in realisation began to smile and nod vigorously

Yes, yes, you mean Bill?

Bill?

The Western lady’s head began to to jerk like a strutting cockeral.

My brothers name is William, Bill is a common name.

How dare this little man call him that? Mrs Bwown crowed, not realising of course that Ban was perfectly capable of understanding her. The officials looked at her and nodded. Ban had an edited translation, recommending that he referred to the man in question as Lord Beaufort.

Ban apologised for his mistake but voiced his lack of understanding why these people were here and what he could do to help.

How well did you know Lord Beaufort -asked the General

We’re friends. We spent much time together.

Doing what?

Village matters, he was one of the head men. We met socially, here in this paddy (the mens eyes raised) and he used to join us for dinner sometimes. His wife and son were friends with my wife and children.

Were?

Were, until he he left.

When was the last time you saw Lord Beaufort?

Can you tell me what’s going on? Ban asked

Maybe later, for now we’re asking the questions. Be sure that you answer truthfully, leaving nothing out, or you may find yourself in deep trouble.

And so Ban answered all their questions. He deliberately kept his English to himself as he reasoned that it may come in handy if things went awry. While he waited for the interpretations to take place he examined the westerner more closely. Of course felangs all look the same at first glance but this one showed definate physical resemblances to Bill. She was tall, slim and had a prominent hooked nosed. Her skin normally light, was as a barbecue prawn, inflamed from the sun. She looked hot, damp and uncomfortable, despite the coolness of the day and her legs and arms were covered in welts from a severe attack of greedy mosquitos. Her eyes were a similar colour to her hair and freckles covered her entire exposed skin. Unlike Bill whose expression was permanently thoughtful, his sisters portrayed an air of repugnance. Her nostrils flared and her mouth retained a tight sucking expression. it was obvious that she didn’t feel at home here.

When the questions were exhausted, Prayut suggested that he his companions visit the house of William. Ban watched Mrs Bwown tut as he directed them. They returned to their car informing Ban that he should remain there as they would be back later to speak some more.

Ban looked about him inspecting the decorations. It was 4.00 and the locals began to appear, bathed and dressed and ready to celebrate. The barbecue was lit and the Lana ladies had created a vision of food for the feast. Villagers, men women and children carrying their loy krathongs descended on the space, all politely removing their shoes to walk on the rugs. The monks arrived and took up residence crosslegged in rows on the benches, and after short time began their chanting. People drank and ate and watched the sun turn from gold to red and feral, little ones went from family group to family group. happy to play for they knew every face. At some point there seemed to be a common understanding that the entertainment should begin and, people turned in unison to watch the dancers, war drummers, acrobats and singers perform.

Ban sat with his wife and four children.He smiled and listened to his wife chatter about her day. He played with his children. He ate. But his mind was elsewhere. With Bill. Then with Mrs. Bwown and a feeling of loss overwhelmed him. The one man who could help him now, was the man who he was being questioned about. What had Bill done and what did it have to do with him?

The November moon sat above the crowds, an enormous white orb, that lit the sky. The monks began to chant again and the people took this as a cue to light their

krathongs/ banana leaf boats and place them into the stream so that the whole expanse of water became a path of twinkly lights.

Waist high paper lanterns were unfolded and candles placed within them. The locals had used the newspapers from Bills house to make them and a sense of loss or maybe nostalgia descended on Ban.

Ban stood near the monks and checked his watch. He called out the instructions and families readied their lanterns, one person on each corner, As the heat from the candle expanded the lanterns began to float and required the owners to hold them down.

Ban became aware of a world of newspaper print glowing like a x-rays on a light box. He was about to give the all clear when he saw the face of Bill. He was on one of the lanterns and underneath the text read M-I-S-S-I-N-G ——L-O_R-D

Ban his wife whispered. Whats the matter? Release the lamps!

He raised his hand and cried Happy Harvest and the villagers freed their lanterns and with them, the story of Bill. He watched them float up in the sky in their 100s -spectres that disappeared into the Moon. For after all, it is said that the lanterns allowed the bad, the sad and the broken to be lost and the world to be cleansed.

Headman Ban, said the clipped voice of the policeman behind him. Can I have a word?

Ban turned around and said

He’s missing isn’t he?

The policeman coughed and nodded

Presumed dead.

Nok is in the Woman’s Bangkok prison. She can’t be tried or released until we find Lord William, alive, or …….

Dead. - Ban finished for him

What does Nok say?

Nothing. She insists that he is where he loves most. His home in England has been searched as to his homes as a British diplomat. We have investigated his home in Chiang Rai and lastly this home here in Mai Mut. And nothing has come light.

You say that you were friends. can you think of anywhere he might have gone?

Ban shook his head.

No, i don’t think so.

He looked past the general and his eye rested on Mrs Bwown who had parked herself, once again, on Bill’s sofa. He had planned to move the sofa with all its flowers to Bills home tomorrow, A shrine waiting for his owner to appear once again.

But on second thoughts, in light of what he knew, he decided, he might leave it in the paddy for another year at least.