Noble Lies by Charles Benoit

spoke.
    They were sitting on the old man’s porch, Robin and Mark together in the shade, Pim, her grandfather, and the boy leaning against the porch railing, their feet tucked under their legs, hidden from view. A large bowl of rice divided the groups, and a series of small plates—the pungent spices stronger than the smell of boiled fish—dotted the woven bamboo floor covering. The old man lay curled up in a droopy hammock. He had seen to it that the women of the household prepared a proper meal for his guests; and now, with the sound of pots being cleaned in the home, he drifted off on a well-deserved nap.
    The fish was filled with pin-sized bones and after two bites, Robin gave up, doubling up on the rice. Across the porch, Pim and her family seemed to race through the meal, shoveling mounds of rice into their mouths, spitting the little bones under the railing. Mark made quick work of the meal as well, his fingers long adept at mastering rice and curry. He could taste the subtle flavors in the simple meal: the coconut milk broth and the diced chilies, the earthy lemongrass and sweet tamarind sauce. The tea was weak but the old man had added two scoops of clumpy sugar, which helped explain his toothless grin. It was a good meal and Mark sensed that it was better than the old man and his family usually ate.
    â€œI want to give him something for the food,” Mark said to Pim as he sipped at his tea.
    Pim frowned. “Please, this is not necessary.”
    â€œWe ate a lot. It’s the least we could do.”
    â€œIf you do, if you give him money, you will insult him.” Pim shook her head, mumbling something to herself in Thai.
    â€œWhat was that?” Robin said, raising her chin as she spoke.
    â€œI said that Americans can not understand, that is all.”
    Robin chuckled. “Americans know a thing or two about generosity, or have you forgotten all those aid shipments already?”
    â€œWe can never forget,” she said, her voice changing, the words sounding less like a promise and more like a command. “That was a great kindness. That kind of kindness Americans know well. But they don’t know the small kindness. They don’t know náam-jai,” she said, the others looking over when they heard the familiar Thai word. “The juice of the heart.”
    â€œYeah, kindness. Okay, big deal. I get it.”
    â€œNo, Miss, you do not,” Pim said, countering Robin’s sarcasm with a gentle smile. “This man, he invited us to eat, not because he is kind but because we were hungry. If he did not feed us his neighbors would think less of him, and his family would be ashamed.”
    â€œThey’d lose face,” Mark said.
    â€œYes, but it is even more than that. The way he feels about himself—the way all Thais feel about themselves—it is all based on náam-jai. You can not feel good about yourself if you have not helped others who are in need.”
    Robin nudged Mark with her elbow, raising an eyebrow. “You buying any of this?”
    â€œExcuse me, Miss,” Pim said, waiting for Robin to look at her before she continued. “I have only known you for a short time but I can tell that you are a daring woman. I have met many American women and they are like this, too. Being daring, it is important where you are from; it is the way you were raised. You do not think about being daring. You are daring. Here, in Thailand, we do not think about being generous, we just do what we have been taught to do.”
    â€œWell Mark, it seems we’ve stumbled onto paradise, a little slice of heaven where everyone does kind and good things and no one is unhappy; and tourists don’t get overcharged just because they’re tourists, and bad men don’t lock up young women and force them to be hookers to cover somebody else’s debts. Nope, everything is just peachy-keen here in Thailand.”
    Pim’s shoulders drooped and Mark