Christopher SchutziusOne of my first English teaching jobs in Thailand was with lawyers at the Office of the Attorney General.
The venue was an upgrade from the bare, fan-cooled classrooms I had come to expect. A crystal chandelier hung over a long mahogany conference table. Oil paintings of former kings in ornate gold frames lined the walls. Refreshments were served on fine china. Tea and coffee were poured from a polished silver service—teapot and tray gleaming under the chandelier—that I was told had been a gift from a royal princess.
Beside the large doorway stood a uniformed security officer. His uniform was elaborate even by Thai standards—medals, epaulettes, a plumed hat with an ostrich feather. A silk eyepatch covered his right eye.
I decided he had once been an Admiral, wounded in battle. The nation had found a use for him. He never opened the door. He never closed it. It seemed his only duty was to stand at attention and keep an eye on the dishes.
The class proceeded as such classes do. The lawyers did not seem eager to improve their English, and I did not insist. The hours drifted with games and jokes. Laughter rose loudly. The teacups rattled. The Admiral did not.
On the final day, the Attorney General arrived to close the course. After a brief speech, he presented me with a matching teapot. I am not much of a tea drinker and planned on regifting it. The ceremony over, I returned to my seat.
Seven soldiers entered the room and stood blocking the doorway. All heads turned in their direction save the Admiral.
The squad leader advanced and advised the Attorney General that there had been a coup.
His last act in office was handing me the teapot.
Force was unnecessary. The Attorney General was ushered toward the door like a maître d’ guiding diners. As he exited, he looked at the Admiral.
The lawyers began speaking rapidly to one another. Their voices rose not in protest, but in calculation.
I remained seated.
The teapot was heavier.
The Admiral remained at attention.Next Story →