Read Online The Thai Amulet by Lyn Hamilton - Free Book Online

should
wei,
but I’m never sure if it’s appropriate. There is something often referred to as the foreigner’s
wei,
a sort of halfhearted effort where the palms are brought up just below the chin, but there are so many conventions associated to whom and when one should
wei,
I usually just stand there wondering what to do with my hands. My discomfort was over in a second, though, because he reached out and shook my hand, then signaled for a waiter to bring me a glass of wine.
    “This is Prapapan,” he said, as a girl of about five or six dashed by. “We call her Oun. In English that would be Fatty,” he added. “That is because she was so tiny when she was born that we worried about her. We named her Fatty so she would grow big and strong. As you can see,” he said, as the little girl stuffed a handful of peanuts into her mouth, “we succeeded. That’s enough now, Oun,” he said indulgently. “I consider myself most fortunate at my age to have a little daughter,” he said to me.
    Chat was there, in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. A lovesick puppy expression came over his face the moment he cast eyes on Jennifer. Rather than standing beside her, he remained where he could just look at her. It was rather sweet. He caught sight of me watching him and blushed.
    “This is our son, Dusk,” Khun Wongvipa said, presenting a young man of about seventeen or eighteen. Dusit was rather pouty, if not borderline surly, but at a glance from his father, he spoke a few polite words of welcome and then went back to playing something on his handheld computer.
    Yutai, the family secretary, came over to say hello and to ask about my day, before I was introduced to another couple, Sompom and his wife, Wannee, a rather large woman in a silk sari, and their daughter, Nu. A young woman named Busakorn was introduced as a friend of the family. She was rather plain, it must be said, but she looked very nice in a red and gold version of the
phasin,
much like Wongvipa’s. She was accompanied by her father, Khun Wichai, a rather handsome man who I gathered was a business associate of Thaksin’s. All, even little Fatty, spoke English, to my great relief.
    Dinner was at a table set for twelve, but which could easily have accommodated twice that number. The table was low, Asian-style, but with an artfully concealed depression beneath, which allowed us to sit Western style, something for which my middle-aged bones were most grateful. We sat on gold silk cushions, with
mon kwang,
or pyramid-shaped cushions, also in gold silk, as arm- and backrests. An antique silk runner in red and gold ran the length of the table, on which were placed banana leaves, each topped with a single red lotus blossom, with orchids and gardenias strewn about the bases. Sprigs of jasmine had been twisted in little chains, which served as napkin rings. The places were set with brass rather than silver flatwear, gold-rimmed crystal, and china in a lovely red, green, and gold Bencharong. The rim was decorated with a stylized lotus blossom, really lovely, and it was all I could do not to turn one of the plates over to read the manufacturer in hopes of finding some to import for McClintoch & Swain.
    “I see you are admiring the china,” Yutai, to my left, said. “It is designed by Khun Wongvipa herself. The pattern is called Chaiwong, and for the use of the family only.” So much for the shop, but I did think Khun Wongvipa and I just might be able to do business if this was the sort of thing she came up with. “She also did the floral arrangements herself this afternoon.”
    “Khun Wongvipa is obviously an extraordinarily talented person,” I said. I was quite envious really, of everything: her obvious talents, her home, her antiques, her life of wealth although obviously not leisure. So enchanted was I by everything I saw, it took me a minute or two to notice that Khun Wongvipa and Busakorn matched the table. I’m all for the perfect table setting, but this, if