How to Pronounce Knife - Souvankham Thammavongsa Page 0,23

at her big, round, intrusive face and said, “No, Missus Furman. We went Chick-A-Chee!”

The Universe Would Be So Cruel

MR. VONG STRETCHED his neck to peer over the heads of the wedding guests, trying to get a good view of the bride and groom. When he spotted them, he turned to his wife and daughter and made a bold prediction: “Ah, don’t they look lovely. Too bad it isn’t going to last.”

Mr. Vong had been invited not because he was a relative or because he was a friend of the family. The young couple had turned to him because he was the only printer in town who offered Lao lettering on wedding invitations. He was highly sought-after for his Lao fonts, his eloquence with the language, his knowledge of how little things can shape big outcomes. Sure, his clients could download the fonts themselves and print them out at Kinko’s, but that kind of lazy effort might signify a lazy marriage, one where their bond might break at the first sign of trouble.

Mr. Vong printed other things at his shop besides wedding invitations. He didn’t make much money. Most of his clients were the ones the bigger printers didn’t want to deal with—men and women who worked for themselves, who didn’t buy in bulk, who didn’t have time to be on the Internet, and who didn’t speak English (through hand signals and sounds, Mr. Vong found a way to communicate with them). He liked these clients best. The farmers with dirt under their fingernails from working out on the fields all day, the butchers who didn’t have time to change out of clothes stained with blood, the seamstresses who only had twenty minutes before they had to get back to work. They reminded him of himself—all of them doing the grunt work of the world.

The clients he didn’t like were the salesmen who came in wearing expensive business suits yet always asked him to give them a deal. He recognized them by the sheen of the watches on their wrists, their slicked-back hair and warm-weather tans, their perfect English. The way they looked at him like he was going to be some joke they’d tell a friend about later, calling him “buddy,” correcting his spelling. He always chased these men away with a “Fuck you!” Sometimes, when he was in a good mood and had time to spare, he would humour them, allow them in his shop for fifteen minutes, let them talk on and on and show him their graphs of sales and profits—some fancy business-school way of doing things. But eventually, he’d get around to yelling at them like he did the others who had come before. Those men were protected by their glass office towers and their secretaries and lawyers and cheating tax accountants, but in his shop, one he owned and operated alone, he was boss! To own a thing yourself, and to be able to say, “Fuck you! All of you all! Fuck you into hell!” It had been something that was said to him and it was fun to turn the tables and say it to someone else, to see them lose their cool and make a quick, fumbling exit.

Of all the things Mr. Vong made and printed at the shop, though, it was Lao wedding invitations that gave him the most joy. Mr. Vong took great care with his invitations. He made his own paper, every fibre dried and flattened in his shop, the process taking several months. He even mixed his own pigment, creating a final shade that was unique. He kept a record of all the colours and shades he had used in a scrapbook, little tiny squares with the names and date of each one. To use the same colour pigment more than once might invite the idea that no marriage was unique. He wore a headpiece with jeweller’s magnifying glasses attached and went over every single letter on the invitations. He was determined to get the smallest of details exactly right—a spelling error could be a sign that the couple was not perfect for each other. He was the guardian of their good fortune. And he was the best.

The engaged couple was very pleased with Mr. Vong’s care and expertise. When they saw the Lao language on their wedding invitations, its loops and swirls, its curlicues like ribbons, the couple squealed and said, “Oh Mr. Vong! Mr. Vong! We love these. They’re perfect. So beautiful. What are you doing in