His own knife; a short story by Chart Kobchitti

About the upper class and the klootjesfolk. Upper-class father and mother introduce their son to a banquet where you are only allowed to sit if you have 'your own knife'. That knife is the privilege of the upper class. There is also a gentleman in a cream colored suit that you better avoid…

This story has a dark side. Not for weak stomachs. I warn the reader…

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We went to the banquet; my son excited but also a little worried. The sounds of the piano echoed through the banquet hall lit by a chandelier. There were already some guests and you heard noises; people talking, ice cubes tapping against the glass and the sound of drinks being poured. A blood red carpet awaited the guests.

I did not see the host and took wife and son to greet the guests. Then to find our table as I had some business to discuss with my son and didn't want anything to go wrong when it was time for the banquet. Tonight was the beginning of an important period in his life and now we would learn whether he was of the same class as me, or whether he would fade away and become one of the bastards. We absolutely did not want that.

It was necessary for me to encourage and help him to be seen as a perfect model of our class. "Have a drink," I said, handing him the glass I took from the waiter's tray. "And drink slowly," my wife warned gently. She was afraid he'd be tipsy before it was time.

We got to our table. The table attendant bowed and pushed the chairs with thick cushions in front of us. He was polite and careful, but there was fear in his eyes.

The 'own' knife

I sat down, took my own knife from its sheath and placed it next to my plate. My wife opened her handbag and took out her own knife. It was slender and the handle was ivory. 'Take your knife and put it on the table' she said to my son. With trembling hands he picked up his knife and put it awkwardly in its place.

I had helped him choose his own knife. He had been given permission to own a knife and that is a special privilege that very few people get to enjoy. Look at the people who live in our city; only a small, select group is allowed to have their own knife. The other people are foot soldiers.

“You must take good care of it, son, because you must always use it. Remember, whether you're hungry or not, your knife must always be in order.' I have never forgotten my father's words and now I pass them on to my son. "Remember, your knife must always be sharp so that you can cut at any time."

'Father, I don't dare…' 'What are you saying, son? Look at your mother. She is one hundred percent female and has never shown fear. But, I was like that in the beginning too. Here, have another drink.' I took a glass off the tray.

The man in cream suit

I told my son 'Watch out for that man over there. When we eat later, don't get too close to him. He's a cunning man.' My wife barely noticeable pointed at him. "The man in the cream suit?" 'Don't look at him. He already draws his knife when someone walks nearby. Sometimes he cuts off someone's fingers; that has happened to so many people. Have another drink. It's almost time.' 

"Even if you do business with people who are allowed to have knives and interact with them, that doesn't mean you can trust them." added my wife. "So watch yourself when you go out to get food, and stay close to us."

The host

"Good evening!" I turned around and my wife gave a blow. "Good evening!" I stood up and shook hands. "Son, I would like you to meet this gentleman." My son greeted him with respect. 'Yes, this is my son. Just today he got the right to have his own knife.'

'Oh! Well, that is a very nice own knife!' He picked up the knife and rubbed it tenderly. "And it's very sharp too," he said to my son. "My father helped me choose this knife." “And he took you tonight to try it…” he said, putting the knife back. 'Yes, this is the first time' my son said.

'Fine! You have a nice seat, near the banquet table. You're going to have a nice evening, young man' he laughed and walked away. My son felt more and more at ease. 'He has a business and trades in foot soldiers; he exports them all over the world.' "Then he must be rich, father?" "He's darling, and tonight's host." 

My wife was going to tell him what own knife means. He sat listening disinterestedly. I had hoped he was a little more excited and worried that he might be one of the foot soldiers. His eyes did not show the desire that our kind of people have. He should know what a privilege it is to have your own knife!

Many people were willing to go out of their way to get their own knife. Some even sold their parents in vain to get their own knife. But my son apparently didn't think about that. I gave him two of my companies, so he was allowed to have his own knife. Maybe I did that too soon.

“Son, everything will be fine. Nothing to scare you about. We stay with you all the time….” My wife scooped this up for him. 'No, mother, I can't! It's disgusting. Repulsive.'

“If you want to be the black sheep of the family, that's okay. Up to you. But think about it first because it will change your whole life. You then become just as much of a jerk as the foot soldiers and if you get into trouble you can start selling your wife and children. People with their own knife will buy them up; they cut them up, drink their blood and eat their brains. And when the time comes, don't come to me! Not really!' I was sure I had to intimidate him and made sure to sound angry. 

“Son, did you see that? If the trader comes to us, how does that hoarseness come to an end?' my wife said contemptuously to my son. 'Mother, I know. That's why I find it disgusting. We must feel sorry for them.'

“Son, you talk like that because you haven't tried yet. Today I brought you along now that you have your own knife. At least try it and if you don't like it then I won't say anything more. OK, son?' I spoke softly, calming him down, but he didn't answer. 'Here, have another drink. It will make you feel better.'

It is served…

The piano music stopped. The lamps were dimmed. People sat at the table. The host walked to the center of the room. In a strong voice, so characteristic of our kind of people, he began to speak. 'Good evening, very distinguished guests. May I have your attention to invite you to the banquet I have arranged for you…'

My wife put the napkin on our son. My napkin was put on by the table attendant. Then my wife put on her napkin herself with a speed and dexterity typical of all women of our kind. Everyone was busy with the napkins. We were like chefs who were preparing to cut the meat so that the blood would not splash from the cleaver on our beautiful clothes…

'Hip Hip Hooray! Cheers went through the dining room. Then the light went on full and the right door opened… 

A man on a steel table was rolled in. Apart from a metal band around his chest, arms and legs, he was naked. His head was in a metal case tied to the table. The face was invisible and his identity unknown. Then a second table rolled in, just like the first, but now with a woman lying on it. 

My son asked why the heads were covered. 'That's what the law demands. We must not feel sorry for the people we are going to eat. We must not see their pleading face and hear their voice begging for their lives to be spared. You can't have any compassion for these low class people. This rabble was born to be eaten by us. If we're going to find this pathetic, then it won't be fun for us.'

Now that the bodies were full of light, we could see how the host had exerted himself. They were both fleshy and delicious looking. Completely clean shaven and washed clean. Nothing can go wrong with such an eminent dinner.

'Very distinguished guests, it is time for dinner and you are all invited to participate. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.' The host went to the back. All the guests stood up enthusiastically.

'Let's go too, otherwise we'll miss it' said my wife and took her knife. 'I .. I .. don't you dare…' my son stammered in a trembling voice. 'Come on, son. If you don't try, you'll never learn. Look, everyone is already walking.' My wife pulled my son to his feet. "Don't forget your knife," I told him sternly.

My wife took him along. 'Look, if it wasn't tasty people wouldn't crowd!' I was already at the table, grabbed a plate and walked over to the young lady. Had to wait my turn. Her breasts were already gone, the blood was flowing freely and she tried to tear herself away but the cuffs were tight..

I decided to cut away some flesh around the hips. I put a few thick bars on my plate and there was a lot of blood on them. Someone cut off a hand and blood spurted right into my face. The man said "sorry" and pointed to the arm that was still spitting blood. We had a good laugh about it together. He took the hand and put it on his plate; the blood was still pouring out. 'I like to eat the fingers. The ligaments are juicy and crunchy to gnaw on.'

It was very busy at the table; you only saw 'own knives' chopping and cutting. I cut another piece off the hip and put it on my plate. The stomach was now also gone and the intestines were out, covered in blood. I had no appetite for intestines and enough on my plate. Back to my table! On the way I heard a woman shout: 'Oh how nice! There are young worms in the intestines!'

My wife and son hadn't arrived yet, and the table attendant helped me change the bloody napkin. He was even more servile than usual; seeing all this frightened him and he knew he could end up like this if he didn't cater to my every whim.

My wife and son came back. Her plate was filled with meat in a pool of blood and I also saw some bones. My son was pale and I thought he was going to pass out. On his plate was only a big toe. 'Butthead! Is that all you could get?' I couldn't hold back; because of him I lost my face!

"Father, just keep calm," my wife said. "Our son hasn't done this before." I thought of the first time I went with my father and I acted just like my son is doing now. I calmed down a bit and got some sympathy for my son. 'Sorry, son! Why don't you take a bite?'

I showed him. Grabbed my own knife and fork and cut deep into the flesh. Chopped it up and put one in my mouth. Chew slowly so you enjoy the taste of every piece. 'Tender. Really tender. He must have fattened them up for a long time,' I said to my wife. "What did you say, honey?" She looked at me. Her mouth was red inside as if she had chewed betel. "I'm just telling you how tender the meat is."

"Yes," she said and took another bite. “I also have some ribs. Do you think I can keep one to straighten my nose with? Is that a good idea?' And she chewed on. "Up to you, honey." “Say son, why don't you eat? What are you waiting for? Eat, boy, it's delicious.' She spoke to my son while her mouth was not yet empty.

My son seemed to hesitate. He slowly sliced ​​off a piece of meat from the big toe, tasted it, and put it away. "Come on, try a piece. And don't worry about morals or ethics. That's more for the nerds. Eat well boy, your mother guarantees you'll like it.'

Somewhat unsure, he stuck his fork in the big toe and put it in his mouth. And the moment his tongue tasted the taste, his face changed! As if he had discovered something startling that he thought did not exist. Primitive ferocity appeared in his eyes and he looked hungrily at that big toe. He chewed it and enjoyed the taste of the human flesh he now knew. He no longer had that expression on his face, that expression of "so sorry for the foot soldiers."

My son chewed on the big toe until all the flesh was gone and only a bone remained. He spat out the nail. 'I told you you wouldn't be disappointed! And this is just the big toe!' My son finished and shouted 'I'm going to get some more.' "No, don't waste your time, there are only bones left now." I gave him a good piece of my meat and he didn't hesitate anymore but started to chew on it.

'You must watch your own knife, boy. That gives you the right to eat human flesh' I told him. He asked his mother for another piece of meat….

I looked at my son again. Though his flesh was exhausted, he clutched his own knife vigorously. He took a good look at the waiter and I could read what he was thinking in his eyes. 

I laughed to myself as I looked at the meat on my plate. Cut it into strips and chew it with the satisfaction and happiness a father finds in the blissful warmth of his family.

-The-

The writer Chart Kobchitti (ชาติกอบจิตติ, 1954) is a graduate of Poh Chang College of Arts and Crafts in Bangkok. His writings include Kham Phi Phaksa (The Judgment), which won him the South East Asia Write Award in 1982.

For an introduction to the writer and his work see this article by Tino Kuis: https://www.thailandblog.nl/cultuur/literatuur/oude-vriend-chart-korbjitti/  About his life and work at wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chart_Korbjitti. 

Source: Selection of Short Stories & Poems by South East Asia Writers, Bangkok, 1986. English title: The personal knife. Translated and edited by Erik Kuijpers. The year in which this story was written has not been found.