I never associated rain with sadness like some people do, at least not when we’re talking about the occasional shower. Rain can be gentle and soothing in the summer, or dramatic and powerful in the fall; not necessarily sad, not at all. As a child, growing up in a remote area by the sea, bouts of rain often made for spectacular moments, with the wind picking up and the waves going furious, and these are memories that I cherish. Decades later, now in the city, sometimes I’ll watch a downpour from my balcony and again, the view from high up can be downright gorgeous.
So when I’m told that Bangkok apparently wakes to rain, failing to have seen it in person, a priori that picture can evoke many things for me, although as you may know, Bangkok is also slowly sinking, it’s a reality, and in such a context, with rain often comes flooding. The book makes ample use of this fact, and rain – well, water in general – is essentially of the sad persuasion, here. For the most part it translates into something bittersweet and introspective. These waters are troubled. They can be ominous.
This collection of short stories features recurrent characters. We meet and keep up with them through thinly sliced, subdued scenes, dozens of them in total, shuffled like cards in a deck and spanning different periods in time. The locations also recur, with the characters’ lives ending up crisscrossing each other thanks to them. At the heart of all this, the focus is set on ordinary people’s inner turmoil, as the tales are ones of hesitation, anxiety or regret. Hope also, on occasion, or redemption, but the general tone remains measured when that’s the case. Mortality, either feared or remembered, weighs heavily all along. There’s something ghostly about it all, even when ghosts aren’t mentioned, which sometimes they are.
As it is, I liked the writing – a beautiful prose, a serious voice, obvious talent on every page and a gem of a sentence here and there – but regretted the pervasive melancholy. Bearing such a title, it’s entirely fitting and I’m aware of it, but it often felt as if a muted color filter was applied to a series of pictures, conveying a washed out feel to the successive vignettes evoking them. In that sense, Bangkok Wakes to Rain totally lives up to its liquid premise: what we have here is personal drama in watercolors, with inspired references to political history and local etiquette as an occasional aside. I don’t know that I expected that. Not all the time, anyway.
The cover, which I love, seems partly to blame: it would be fair to say that before I knew anything about this book, I was first lured into wanting to learn more by a vibrant splash of emerald green with gold lettering on the front, which of course called forth ideas of lush jungles and foreign traditions. In seizing contrast, the stories within are very urban, very day-to-day, with generous servings of concrete, rust and unglamorous humanity. This is not the Thailand of travel guides, the Thailand of orchid blooms waiting for you on hotel pillows. It’s just not.
It’s not, but I’m okay with that part of the deal: I feel privileged not having been served touristic drivel, in the end, and I might even have learned a thing or two. I feel less privileged, on the other hand, never really having gotten to know the characters at all, other than superficially, even though they reappear on plenty of different occasions. I’m not sure how that happened. The timeline is convoluted, even a little tricky; perhaps a narrative delivered in fewer broken pieces would have allowed more time for personalities to truly emerge, more of a chance for bonds to form between the characters and me. I wanted to connect and I didn’t entirely.
Bangkok Wakes to Rain is an intelligent read, in fact it's an impressive first publication with natural talent on display, but the finely fragmented stories drawn in pastel tones and cement grays left me wanting, somehow. While the author himself is eloquent and ambitious, I missed a stronger voice on the characters’ part, I think.