“Ready?” asked Kalaphangko.
“Ready. I’m here in the air, waiting for you. Please excuse my undignified state, Your Majesty . . .”
But the king’s soul did not hear the rest. Sprightly and shimmering, it left its physical vessel and entered Kinnara’s body, while her soul took possession of the royal remains. Both bodies sat up and gazed at each other, and one can only imagine their amazement. It was the same situation as Buoso and the serpent in Dante’s Inferno, but see here my audacity. The poet silences Ovid and Lucan, because he considers his metamorphosis worthier than either of theirs. I am silencing all three of them. Buoso and the snake never meet again, whereas my two heroes continue talking and living together after the switch—which, though I say so myself, is obviously even more Dantesque.
Kalaphangko said: “This business of looking at myself and calling myself ‘Your Majesty’ is very strange. Does Your Majesty not feel the same?”
Both of them were content, like people who have finally found their proper home. Kalaphangko luxuriated in Kinnara’s feminine curves. Kinnara flexed her muscles in Kalaphangko’s solid torso. Siam finally had a king.
IV
Kalaphangko’s first action (from now on, it should be understood that “Kalaphangko” means the king’s body and Kinnara’s soul, whereas “Kinnara” means the body of the beautiful Siamese lady and Kalaphangko’s soul) was to bestow the very highest honors upon the sexual academy. He did not elevate its members to the status of mandarins, for they were men given to philosophy and literature rather than action and administration, but he decreed that everyone must prostrate themselves before them, as was the custom with mandarins. He also presented them with rare and valuable gifts, such as stuffed crocodiles, ivory chairs, emerald tableware, diamonds, and sacred relics. Grateful for all these favors, the academy also requested the official right to use the title “Light of the World,” which was duly granted.
Once this was done, Kalaphangko turned his attention to the public finances, justice, religion, and ceremonial matters. The nation began to feel the “heavy weight,” to use the words of our distinguished poet, Camões—for no less than eleven tax dodgers were forthwith beheaded. The others, who naturally preferred their heads to their money, rushed to pay their taxes, and order was quickly restored. The courts and legislation were greatly improved. New pagodas were built, and religion seemed to gain a new impetus, since Kalaphangko, imitating the ancient Spanish arts, ordered the burning of a dozen poor Christian missionaries who were wandering those parts; the bonzes called this action the “pearl” of his reign.
What he lacked was a war. On a more or less diplomatic pretext, Kalaphangko attacked a neighboring kingdom, in what was the shortest and most glorious campaign of the century. On his return to Bangkok, he was greeted with splendid celebrations. Three hundred boats decorated with blue and scarlet silk went out to receive him. On the prow of each boat stood a golden dragon or swan, and all the boats were crewed by the city’s finest inhabitants. Music and cheering filled the air. At night, when the festivities had ended, his beautiful concubine whispered in his ear:
“My young warrior, repay me for the pangs of longing that I felt in your absence; tell me that the greatest of celebrations is your sweet Kinnara.”
Kalaphangko responded with a kiss.
“Your lips have the chill of death or disdain on them,” she sighed.
It was true; the king was distracted and preoccupied, for he was plotting a tragedy. It was getting close to the time when they should return to their own bodies, and he was thinking of escaping that clause in their agreement by killing his beautiful concubine. He hesitated because he did not know if he, too, would suffer upon her death, given that it was his body, or even if he would have to succumb with her. Such were Kalaphangko’s thoughts. But the idea of death cast a shadow over his brow, while, imitating the Borgias, he clutched to his breast a little vial of poison.
Suddenly he remembered the learned academy; he could consult it, not directly, but hypothetically. He summoned the academicians; they all came except their president, the illustrious U-Tong, who was ill. There were thirteen of them; they prostrated themselves and, in the Siamese manner, said:
“Mere despicable straws that we are, we hasten to answer the call of Kalaphangko.”
“Arise,” said the king benevolently.
“No, the place for dust is underfoot,” they insisted, their knees and elbows on the ground.
“Then I will be the wind that lifts up the dust,” replied Kalaphangko, and, with a gracious, tolerant gesture, he stretched out his hands to them.
He then started to talk about a variety of matters, so that the main topic of interest should appear to arise naturally of its own accord. He spoke of the latest news from the west and the Laws of Manu. Referring to U-Tong, he asked them whether he really was as great a sage as he seemed; when he received only a reluctant, mumbled response, he ordered them to tell him the whole truth. They confessed, with exemplary unanimity, that U-Tong was one of the most sublime idiots in the kingdom—a shallow, worthless mind who knew nothing and was incapable of learning. Kalaphangko was shocked. An idiot?
“It pains us to say so, but that is what he is; a shallow, withered intellect. He has, however, a pure heart, and a noble, elevated character.”
When he had recovered from his shock, Kalaphangko told the academicians to leave, without asking them the question he had intended to ask. An idiot? He would somehow have to unseat him from the academy without offending him. Three days later, U-Tong was summoned by the king. The king inquired kindly after his health. He then said that he wanted to send someone to Japan to study some documents; it was a matter which could only be entrusted to a person of enlightenment. Which of his colleagues at the academy seemed to him most suitable for such a task? One can see the king’s cunning plan: he would hear two or three names, and then conclude that he preferred U-Tong himself to all of them. But here’s what U-Tong replied:
“My royal lord and master, if you will pardon my coarse language: the men you speak of are thirteen camels, except that camels are modest and they are not. They compare themselves to the sun and the moon. But, in truth, neither the sun nor the moon has ever shone on such worthless fools. I understand Your Majesty’s surprise, but I would be unworthy of my position if I did not say this with all due loyalty, albeit confidentially . . .”
Kalaphangko’s jaw dropped. Thirteen camels? Thirteen, thirteen! U-Tong’s only kind word was for their hearts, all of which he declared to be excellent; no one was superior to them in terms of character. With an elegant, indulgent gesture, Kalaphangko dismissed the sublime U-Tong from his presence, and remained pensive. What his thoughts were, no one knew. What we do know is that he sent for the other academicians, but this time separately, to conceal his intentions and obtain a franker exchange of views. The first to arrive, although unaware of U-Tong’s opinion, was entirely in agreement, with but one emendation, that there were twelve camels, or thirteen if one counted U-Tang himself. The second academician expressed the same opinion, as did the third and all the others. They differed only in style: some said camels, others used circumlocutions and metaphors that meant the same thing. However, none of them cast any aspersions on anyone’s moral character. Kalaphangko was speechless.
But this was not the final shock to greet the king. Since he could not consult the academy, he attempted to make his own deliberations. He devoted two whole days to this, but then the beautiful Kinnara revealed that she was going to be a mother. This news made him recoil from the crime he had been planning. How could he destroy the chosen vessel of the flower that would bloom the following spring? He swore to heaven and earth that the child would be born and would flourish. The end of the week arrived, and with it the moment for each of them to return to their original bodies.
As on the previous occasion, they boarded the royal barge at night, and let themselves drift downstream, both of them against their will, not wanting to give up t
he body they had and return to the other. When the shimmering cows of Dawn’s chariot began to tread slowly across the sky, they offered up the mysterious invocation, and each soul was returned to its former body. On returning to hers, Kinnara felt a maternal instinct, just as she had felt a paternal instinct when she occupied Kalaphongko’s body. It even seemed to her that she was simultaneously mother and father of the child.
“Father and mother?” repeated the king, restored to his former self.
They were interrupted by delightful music in the distance. It was a junk or a canoe coming upriver, for the music was fast approaching. By then the sun was flooding the waters and green riverbanks with light, giving the scene an air of life and rebirth, which to some extent made the two lovers forget this return to their former selves. And the music kept coming closer, clearer now, until a magnificent boat appeared around a bend in the river, decorated with feathers and fluttering pennants. Aboard were the fourteen members of the academy (including U-Tong), all chanting in unison that old hymn: “Glory be to us, for we are the rice of science and the light of the world!”
The beautiful Kinnara (formerly Kalaphangko) was wide-eyed with astonishment. She could not understand how fourteen males, gathered together in an academy, could be both the light of the world, and yet, individually, a bunch of camels. She consulted Kalaphangko, but he could think of no explanation. If someone happens to find one, they would be doing a great service to one of the most gracious ladies in the Orient by sending it to her in a sealed letter, addressed, for greater security, to our consul in Shanghai, China.
My friend, let us always tell stories . . .
Time passes, and the story of life
comes to an end, unnoticed.
—DIDEROT
Author’s Preface
The various stories that make up this volume are only a selection and could have been added to, had it not been advisable to keep the book within a reasonable length. This is the fifth collection I have published. The words of Diderot that appear as its epigraph serve as an apology to those who consider such a large number of stories to be excessive. They are simply a way of passing the time. They do not aspire to endure like the stories written by that same esteemed philosopher. They lack both the matter and the style that give Mérimée’s tales the status of masterpieces and make Poe one of the greatest writers in America. It is, of course, quality rather than length that counts with this kind of story, and the mediocre short story has one quality that gives it an advantage over the mediocre novel: it is short.
M. de A.
THE FORTUNE-TELLER
HAMLET TELLS HORATIO that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. This was the same explanation that the lovely Rita gave to young Camilo, one Friday in November of 1869, when he scoffed at her for having gone to consult a fortune-teller the previous day, although she put it rather differently.
“Go on, then, laugh. You men are all the same; you don’t believe in anything. But just so you know, when I went there, the woman knew exactly why I’d come even before I told her. As soon as she started laying down the cards, she said to me: “You love someone . . .” I confessed that I did, and then she carried on laying down the cards, and when she’d finished, she told me I was afraid you would forget me, but that this wasn’t true . . .”
“Well, she was wrong there!” said Camilo, laughing.
“Oh, don’t say that, Camilo. If you knew what I’ve been going through because of you, but then you do know; I’ve already told you, so don’t laugh at me . . .”
Camilo clasped her hands and gazed earnestly into her eyes. He swore that he loved her deeply and that her fears were pure childishness; in any event, if she had any fears, he was the best fortune-teller to come to. Then he scolded her, telling her it was unwise to visit such places. Vilela might find out, and then . . .
“Oh, he won’t find out. I made sure no one saw me going into the house.”
“Where is the house?”
“Not far from here, on Rua da Guarda Velha. There was no one around. Don’t worry: I’m not a complete fool.”
Camilo laughed again:
“So you really believe in such things?” he asked.
It was then that she, not knowing she was translating Hamlet into everyday language, told him that there were many things in this world that are both mysterious and true. So what if he didn’t believe her—the truth was that the fortune-teller had foreseen everything. What more did he want? Now she felt perfectly calm and contented, and that was the proof.
I think Camilo was about to say something, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to destroy her illusions. He had been superstitious as a child and even for some time afterward, full of a whole arsenal of irrational beliefs that his mother had instilled in him, and which disappeared when he turned twenty. On the day he stripped away all this parasitical vegetation to reveal the bare trunk of religion, he, since he had learned both lessons from his mother, wrapped them in the same newfound skepticism and, soon afterward, discarded them both. Camilo didn’t believe in anything. Why? He couldn’t say; he had no one reason, and so contented himself with rejecting everything. But even that isn’t quite right, since rejection is itself a form of affirmation and he could not put his disbelief into words; in the face of such mysteries, he merely shrugged his shoulders and carried on regardless.
They parted in good spirits, he even more than she. Rita was sure of being loved; Camilo was not only sure of that, but also saw how she trembled and ran risks for him, for example, by resorting to visiting fortune-tellers. Though he scolded her, he couldn’t help feeling flattered. Their meeting place was a house on the old Rua dos Barbonos, where a woman from Rita’s home province was living. Rita walked down Rua das Mangueiras toward Botafogo, where she lived, and Camilo set off down Rua da Guarda Velha, glancing on his way at the fortune-teller’s house.
Vilela, Camilo, and Rita: three names, one adventure, and no explanation whatsoever as to how we got there. So let me explain. The first two were childhood friends. Vilela took up a career as a local magistrate, while Camilo went into the civil service, much against the wishes of his father, who wanted him to be a doctor. However, his father died, and Camilo preferred doing nothing at all, until his mother found him a government position. At the beginning of 1869, Vilela returned from the provinces, where he’d married a very beautiful, but empty-headed young woman. He had given up the magistracy and come back to the city to set up a law firm. Camilo found him a house near Botafogo, and boarded the steamer to welcome him home.
“Is it you, sir?” exclaimed Rita, holding out her hand to Camilo. “You cannot imagine how highly my husband values your friendship, for he is always talking about you.”
Camilo and Vilela gazed warmly at each other. They were friends indeed.
Afterward, Camilo had to admit that Vilela’s wife entirely lived up to her husband’s letters. She really was both graceful and vivacious, with warm eyes and a delicate, inquisitive mouth. She was a little older than both of them: she was thirty, Vilela twenty-nine, and Camilo twenty-six. Vilela’s grave demeanor, however, made him appear older than his wife, whereas Camilo was an innocent in all things practical and moral. He had acquired none of the knowledge that normally comes with the years, nor had nature endowed him with the “spectacles” it bestows on some almost at birth, giving them wisdom beyond their years; in short, he lacked both experience and intuition.
The three of them became inseparable. Proximity led to intimacy. Then Camilo’s mother died, and in this disaster (for so it was) both Vilela and Rita gave proof of their great friendship for him. Vilela dealt with all the arrangements for the funeral, the mass, and the inventory of the deceased’s belongings, while Rita took special care of his emotional needs, and no one could have done it better.
How they went from that to love, he never quite knew. He certainly enjoyed spending hours at her side; she was his spiritual nurse, almost his sister, but most of all she wa
s a beautiful woman. Odor di femmina, the scent of a woman: that is what he breathed in from her and from the air about her, until it became part of his own self. They read the same books and went on walks together and to the theater. Camilo taught her chess and draughts, and they played every night, she badly, and he, wishing to make himself agreeable, not much better. I think you get the picture. Then came effects of a more physical nature: there were Rita’s willful eyes persistently seeking his and consulting his even before her husband’s; her strangely cold hands; the occasional unexpected exchange of glances. On his birthday, he received from Vilela the gift of a magnificent walking cane, and from Rita only a card with the plainest of greetings written in pencil. It was then that Camilo learned to read his own heart, for he could not tear his eyes away from that little scrap of paper. Banal words, but some banalities are sublime, or at least delectable. The decrepit old hansom cab in which you and your ladylove first rode together entirely alone is as fine a thing as Apollo’s chariot. Such is man, and such are the things that surround him.
Camilo genuinely wanted to escape, but it was too late. Rita, serpentlike, had encircled him, embraced him, squeezed him until his bones cracked and dripped venom in his mouth. He was dazed and defeated. Shame, fear, remorse, desire—he felt all of them, but the battle was brief and the victory divine. Farewell, scruples! It did not take long for the shoe to mold itself to the foot, and off they went on their merry way, arm in arm, skipping lightly over grass and pebbles, suffering nothing more than a few pangs of regret, for the moments when they were apart. Meanwhile, Vilela’s trust and affection remained unchanged.
One day, however, Camilo received an anonymous letter calling him immoral and perfidious, and saying that the affair was public knowledge. Camilo was afraid and, hoping to divert suspicion, he began to visit Vilela’s house less frequently. His friend commented on his absence. Camilo gave as his reason a frivolous youthful passion. Innocence bred ingenuity. Camilo’s absences grew longer and longer, until his visits ceased completely. A little amour propre may have played its part too; a desire to escape the husband’s kindnesses and thus alleviate the burden of his treachery.