How to Pronounce Knife - Souvankham Thammavongsa Page 0,25
own. What might have taken only a few hours instead took four days. It was his opinion that using a machine was cheating. He did everything he could possibly do to ensure that his daughter’s wedding invitations were perfect and ready to be sent out into the scrutiny of the universe.
On the day of the wedding, Mr. Vong’s daughter wore a sleeveless white wedding dress. It was plain, without lace or buttons, but the fabric cascaded down her body like a fountain of milk.
But the groom was not there. Jilted.
When it became clear the groom was not coming, Mr. Vong’s daughter lifted up the bottom of her dress and ran over to him, furious. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it? The invitations. Something must have gone wrong!”
Mr. Vong tried to think of an answer, one he could use to explain how the wedding had come to this. “I… I found one invitation behind the door,” he said. “I must have missed it. All invitations must go out at the same time. It was just the one. I didn’t know the universe would be so cruel. I am sorry.”
It was not true, of course. Not even close. He had accounted for everything! And now, no amount of fuck-you-to-hells could make a difference to that boy. But how could he tell her that the boy she loved wasn’t kind or good, that he didn’t love her, that sometimes what felt like love only felt like love and wasn’t real. He couldn’t do anything about that but say, “Yes, yes, it was my fault. It is all my fault.”
Edge of the World
WHEN I WAS ABOUT FOUR, my mother and I spent our days sitting side by side on the couch, watching soap operas and eating chocolates and laughing. My mother’s laugh was loud and wild. She never covered her mouth, which would open so wide I could see the half-chewed chocolate mashed up against the inside of her cheek. She would only laugh this way when we were alone. With my father or in the company of others, she would giggle and put a hand over her mouth. I wanted everyone to see what I saw when we were alone.
My mother learned to speak English watching these soaps, and soon she started practising what she learned. When my father didn’t feel like eating, she would ask who he had been eating his meals with that he had no appetite? When a sock went missing from the dryer, she would ask where it went, and when he had no answer, she would accuse him of having an affair.
My father didn’t take my mother seriously. He tried to keep their talk light, saying he sure wished he wasn’t so busy working and that life really was as full of opportunities for affairs as she imagined it to be. But he would turn serious afterwards, saying, “You don’t know, do you. What it’s like for me at work. They all talk so fast in English. Barking at me all the time about keeping up. Sometimes I don’t even feel like a human being.”
My parents didn’t spend much time alone, and when they did, there were no Lao bars or cafés or restaurants for them to go out to. Occasionally, we were invited over to get-togethers at the homes of other Lao refugees. There were those who had been here a long time, like us, and there were those who had just arrived. These parties were where everyone went to dance and listen to music, play cards and eat, reminisce and talk about old times. They would laugh all night—sad, faint bursts of air—and shake their heads in disbelief at what they had made of themselves in this new country.
My parents went to these parties to hear the news from back home or to ask what had happened to those they left behind. Who was still there? Was their house still standing? And if they made it out of Laos, which refugee camp did they end up in? How long were they there? And where did they land? When my parents read the newspaper or watched the evening news, they never heard anything about what was happening in their country. It was almost as if it didn’t exist.
My father was often at the centre of these parties. A wave of laughter would crash in from the living room and when I peered inside he would be there, telling everyone his stories. The one everyone seemed to love