The 9th Directive

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The place was halfway along Soi Suek 3 and I walked there from the main road where the trishaw had dropped me. It was a narrow street of shop-houses, roofed at this moment by the twilight.

There was no one in the gem shop except the small old Thai at the workbench behind the counter; he did not hear me come in because of the noise of the gem tumbler that churned at the back of the shop. There was no air conditioner and the heat was as bad as in the street. From a room above came the weird notes of a pinai.

I stood watching the old man. He was making a ring, setting an opal in gold. It was a cabochon stone and the blade of his burnisher closed the bezel deftly. The light of the hooded lamp reflected the gold and struck fire in the gem. When the bezel was pressed home he turned to look at his work under the lamp and saw me. I said at once: 'Mr Varaphan?'

He put the ring down onto the black cloth and made me the wai greeting with his hands, gently as a priest.

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