Mrs Nong finished unpacking her suitcase, inspected a spotlessly clean kitchen, and walked along the street to Comrade Sithi's house. The maid knew her well and let her use the telephone. Mrs Nong called the Mahosot Hospital and had the clerk pass on word to Dtui that her boss could be arriving on an early-afternoon flight from Peking. The message Dtui received said, "Siri arriving 2 a.m. Wattay." And so it continued. It had been almost a week since the two old fellows had left on their Kampuchean junket. That wasn't such a rare thing in the region. Flights were unpredictable and communication was poor. But it didn't stop friends and family from feeling anxious.
So there they stood in the rain. None of them was really sure why they'd come. Siri and Civilai had flown back and forth, hither and thither countless times without so much as a crow on a fence post to see them off or welcome them back. But as they gathered, the welcoming committee agreed there was something different this time. None of them could explain what it was but they had all felt the same energy that inspired the decision to make the arduous journey through the mud to the airport.
The Shaanxi Y-8 touched down at exactly two a.m. It skimmed along the runway like a flat stone across a pond, then turned abruptly and taxied towards the terminal. Everyone watched as a portly middle-aged man in a plastic jacket, shorts and bare feet wheeled the portable steps to the plane. In an instant, the passengers began to disembark. A flock of Chinese somebodies alighted first and were met on the tarmac by ministry people with umbrellas. Then came Lao and Chinese in dribs and drabs. Then a pilot with a small suitcase. And only then, once those waiting had all but given up, Civilai poked his head from the aeroplane doorway and walked down the steps.
It took him thirty seconds or so to reach the terminal but, for the entire time, all eyes remained trained on the exit of the plane. Even when Civilai stood directly in front of them, dripping, he still didn't have the reception committee's full attention. Madame Daeng hadn't looked at him at all.
"Welcome home," said Mr Bhiku.
"Forget somebody, uncle?" Dtui asked.
"What?" Civilai replied without looking surprised at the question. "Oh, Siri? There was a slight hold-up. Diplomatic thing. He'll be catching a later flight. Decent of you all to come out to meet me on a day like this, though."
His words were a little too rehearsed. His smile too politician. His overacting seemed to chill the crowd more than the rain. It was as if he'd spent his entire time on the flight composing a light greeting.
"They didn't come to meet you," said Mrs Nong, stepping forward to brush raindrops from his shoulders. "I was the only one daft enough to come to welcome you back. This lot's all here for the doctor. Now they'll have to make the trip again tomorrow."
There was an awkward moment of silence.
"No, Madame," said Bhiku at last, "I am equally as joyful to greet elder statesman Civilai." He handed over the lotus he'd been holding and somehow the evil spell that hung around them was blown away. They smiled and patted Civilai on the shoulder. They all milled around him and spoke at the same time but, as they walked to the taxi rank, first Dtui, then Daeng looked back at the plane.?
It was late afternoon and Civilai and Nong were sitting at their kitchen table sampling the sugared dumplings he'd been given before leaving Peking. Nong had described her sister's attempts to grow straw mushrooms in her backyard. How the place smelt like a stable the whole time she was there and only two collar-stud-sized mushrooms to show for all that manure. Civilai had talked about their arrival in Peking and the food and their act for the hidden camera. He was delighted to see that his apology and promise to be a better husband had brought his wife home to him, but neither of them had been able to speak about the subject that smouldered in the background. Until suddenly there was no choice.
"Anybody home?" came the unmistakable voice of Madame Daeng. Neither of them was surprised by this visit. In fact they'd expected it earlier. Daeng's gauzy figure stood outside the mosquito-wire door.
"How did you get out here?" Nong asked.
"Siri's Triumph," she replied, kicking off her shoes and pushing past the flimsy door. "The idiots made me leave it at the gate. That one walked me over here in the rain."
She indicated the armed guard standing at the front fence. He nodded to Civilai and went on his way.
"They always get super vigilant after a bombing or a murder," said Nong. She accepted Daeng's bag of longan with a nod of thanks. "I suppose that's always the way, isn't it? Putting the lid on the basket after the snake's out."
"Have you talked about it yet?" Daeng asked. There was obviously no space for preliminaries.
"Not yet," said Civilai.
"Then, where should we sit?"
They opted for the outside lounge suite with a view of the gnomes and the two-foot windmill. A plastic sunroof overhead showed the faint outlines of flattened leaves. Rain clung to low clouds. Daeng refused both small talk and a drink. Her determined eyes bore into Civilai's like steel drill-bits.
"I'm not supposed to — " he began.
"I don't care," she said.
"I know."
He leaned forward and rested his skinny elbows on his skinny knees. He began his story with their visit to the Lao embassy in Phnom Penh. That was the last time he'd seen Siri. He reached the May Day reception without interruption. He hesitated then, not for effect, but more like a visitor at the Devil's front door. Daeng egged him on with her eyes.
"It was obvious the guide knew something," he continued. "And I pushed him as far as I could to get it out of him. But all he'd tell me was that there'd been an incident. He led me down to the reception. I thought I might get some information there. The Lao ambassador was in the room but the minders were shepherding the crowd. They were deciding who should stand where, who should talk to who. I had my Lao-speaking guide all to myself and he'd obviously been told to stick to me. I was introduced to a couple of bigwig Khmer but I couldn't tell you who they were. They were as focused on not answering questions as the guide was on not translating them. They paraded us all through to the dining room and sat me at a table with people I didn't know, and, for the most part, couldn't communicate with. I doubt they could even — "
"Civilai!" said Mrs Nong, firmly.
"Yes, sorry. I wanted a chance to talk with Ambassador Kavinh alone. I could see him on the diplomatic table on the far side of the room. He made eye contact often. But there followed an hour of interminable speeches. Once they were over and the food was to be served, all us weak bladders made a run for the toilets. I saw Kavinh head that way and I followed. I thought my boy would insist on coming with me but he didn't. The ambassador was in the bathroom. There was a crowd in there, including the ambassador's minder. Kavinh greeted me and asked me how the afternoon went. He shook my hand. As he did so he palmed me a note.
"He was a very nervous man. Even jumpier than he'd been that morning. I got the feeling he feared for his life on a twenty-four-hour basis. He used the urinal and left. I queued for a cabinet. Once inside I read the note. I only had time to go through it once but the gist was this:
"Your comrade knows the truth about this place. He broke out of the embassy compound. They're looking for him. If they find him they'll kill him. Only diplomatic channels can save him. Tell the Chinese as soon as you get out of the country. It's your only hope."
"Oh, Siri, no," Daeng said, quietly.
"I was in a panic. I destroyed the note and went back to the reception. There were Chinese everywhere but I hadn't met one who could speak Lao or French or who would admit to speaking Vietnamese. I can't speak a word of Chinese. I honestly didn't know what to do. I didn't know who to trust. It's hard to describe to anyone who hasn't been there. There was an oppressive charge in the air like science fiction. The Khmer Rouge weren't…they weren't human. You couldn't talk to them. They were frightening robots.
"I endured the rest of the evening and they let me go to my room. There were mud footprints outside on the carpet The lock of my door had been
picked and left unlocked. I went inside with trepidation. I don't have what you might call luggage but nothing appeared to have been disturbed. I went across to Siri's room. That wasn't locked either but there was no sign of forced entry. There were no muddy footprints inside. Siri's bag had been upended onto the bed. He travelled light too but I remember he had a book with him."
"Camus," said Daeng, her voice crumbling like river salt.
"That's right. It was gone. Plus a notebook he kept. I don't know whether he'd taken his travel documents to the embassy with him but they weren't there either. I was lost.
At first I felt outrage. How dare they do this to us? I decided that anger might be the key. Beasts respond to violence. I went down to reception. I made a lot of noise. Kicked over a pot or two. Insisted on talking to a senior official. Insisted on a translator. But, of course, nobody could understand me. When I tried to leave the hotel, the guards grabbed me roughly and spat some insults at me. I looked into their eyes, Daeng, and I saw my death. And I saw the death of others. I saw it so clearly it was as if I had already been killed. I went back to my own room and wedged a chair against the door knob. I was afraid. My legs were shaking. I was afraid for Siri but I was afraid for myself, too. I thought they'd be coming for me. If Siri was up to something they were sure to think I was involved. I didn't grab a gun and hold it to the head of one of my captors…"
Civilai's eyes had become as grey and damp as the evening clouds above them.
"That's what heroes do," he went on. "But I crept to my bed with the light blazing and I lay there all night wide awake. I lay there quivering like a coward. I considered all the things they might do to me. I'd seen the look of fear in Ambassador Kavinh's eyes. I had no weapon, only one last resort. They said they had no use for money but I didn't believe them. And I had dollars. At least I thought I did. I hadn't checked my secret stash. I took the bag into the bathroom and locked the door. I sat on the tile floor and couldn't stop my hands from shaking. It was half an hour before I was calm enough to peel through the layers of cloth in the strap of my satchel. And that's when I found the letter. It consisted of three single sheets. They had been folded and refolded into a three-centimetre square and wedged into a little plastic coin bag. Somebody had put it into my secret dollar compartment but they hadn't touched the money."
"Siri," said Mrs Nong.
"He's the only one it could have been," Civilai agreed. "The only one who knew. I thought about the footprints and the picked lock and I imagined he'd found his way back into the hotel somehow and come to leave me the note. That's what I wanted to believe. But the sheets were written in Khmer. The handwriting appeared to be from three or four different sources with signatures at the end of each segment. The last side comprised of musical notes on uneven, handwritten bars. What looked like lyrics were written below. It all meant nothing to me. I wanted to scream my frustration."
"Calm down, brother," said Madame Daeng. Mrs Nong had hold of her husband's hand. It trembled as he recalled that awful night. "There really was nothing you could have done."
"There was so much I didn't understand," Civilai went on. "If he'd found his way back to the hotel, why didn't he come down to the reception? Surely with so many people around he would have been safer than wandering alone through Phnom Penh. I had far too much time to think. I refused to go on their ridiculous irrigation tour the next morning. I told the guide I'd been asked to pay my respects to the Chinese ambassador. Of course it was out of the question. So I stayed in my room until it was time to board the flight to Peking. Even before we took off I was hustling the Chinese on board. I found one woman, one of the official journalists. She spoke Vietnamese poorly. During the flight I did my best to convey to her everything I knew and everything I didn't. She passed my story on to the Chinese delegation. Once we landed, at last I was able to agitate. I still carried a little clout in China from my politburo days. Some people remembered me. The Lao ambassador to Peking came to see me and together we went to the central committee where I repeated my story in the presence of an official Lao-Chinese interpreter. The committee members seemed, not upset exactly, more…frustrated. Like the parents of a naughty child."
"Would the Khmer listen to the Chinese anyway?" Daeng asked. Her voice was calm but not even her tightly clasped hands could disguise the shaking.
"They're the only people they would listen to. All their funding, all their weapons, all their credibility…it all comes from China. Their influence is enormous there."
"So enormous they could bring the dead back to life?" Daeng asked.
"Now, stop that," said Mrs Nong. "They aren't going to harm a delegate from an allied country. The worst that can happen is they arrest Siri for stepping out of bounds and put him in prison. They want to be seen to be strong. With Chinese intervention they'd have him out in no time. Right, Civilai?"
Her husband's face didn't convey the confidence she'd hoped for.
"What of the note?" Daeng asked. "The Khmer letter."
"We found a translator," he told her. "There's no shortage of Khmer royalists holed up in Peking. The Chinese like to hold on to different factions from this or that country and offer them immunity. They collect them like elaborate chess pieces in case they might come back into play somewhere along the line. They've got old Sihanouk sitting — "
"Civilai!" said Nong.
"Yes, right. Right. The translation. I'm not sure, as it stands, if it could be called evidence and I don't get the feeling the Chinese were particularly surprised by its content. But it made a lasting impression on the ambassador and myself. It was written by officials at the old royalist Ministry of Communication. They wrote of atrocities they'd witnessed and their treatment at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. I suppose it can be best summed up by the words of one young man, the one who wrote the song. He said his name was Bo something-or-other. His note was dated April the twenty-first, 1975. He was a musician and a junior official at the ministry. He said that he and many of his colleagues were patriots and that they remained at their posts even after the invasion in the hope that they could offer their expertise to the liberation forces. At first, the revolutionaries were kind to them and welcomed them into the new brotherhood. Bo and his fellows explained their work and taught the newcomers the skills they needed to operate equipment.
"On the second day of occupation the troops took the managers for what they called reorientation. They told the juniors it was necessary to teach them the ways of the new regime. Bo said he heard gunshots every day and night, not from a battle but from what sounded like firing squads or single shots. The young soldiers wouldn't let them leave the ministry building to go home to their families. Bo said that the Khmer Rouge were not like them. They were country people who had never seen cars. Never had electricity. It was as if they saw Bo and his kind as the enemy and Bo began to realise his life would be a short one. That was when he began to collect the testimonies and signatures.
"On the third day he watched them shoot his office mate in the forehead for no apparent reason. The guards left the corpse sitting there at his desk as a 'reminder'. Bo's final words were that he loved his country and he believed that this was a temporary madness, but he felt sure he would never see his fiancee again. She lived in Battambang and he prayed that the insanity hadn't yet spread that far. He wrote that his only regret was that he would never be able to watch the expression on her face as he sang her the song he had written for their wedding. "It's a poor substitute," he wrote, "but I have written the tune and the melody on the rear of this note. If somebody finds this letter, I would like her to hear it. I would like her to know how much I love her. And I would like the world to know what craziness has descended on our beautiful city. These people are not Cambodian."
Civilai sighed and slouched back on his seat.
"You think Siri found this note somewhere?" Daeng asked.
"So it would seem. And thought it important enough to risk his life getting it out of the country."
"Bu
t Siri couldn't read Khmer," said Mrs Nong, drying her tears with a tissue. "He wouldn't have known how significant it was."
"He would," Civilai and Daeng said at the same time.
"It's possible somebody gave it to him to pass on," Daeng told her. "But my husband had instincts other men don't possess."
Of course she'd meant to say 'has'.
19
THE THERAPEUTIC EFFECTS OF DYING HORRIBLY
Time has lost its meaning. Misery has lost its edge. The sounds I hear no longer bear any human elements. They are ornaments. They are jingles. They are pleasant, almost enjoyable bursts of spontaneous birdsong. My clarity has become a giddy drunken clarity. I see everything as a joke. A funny thing happened to me on my way to the cemetery clarity. As Civilai liked to point out, my smart-arse thyroid is playing up again. Somewhere inside I'm aware this is a symptom, the result of endless light and lack of sleep and poor nutrition. But there's really nothing I can do about it. I'm experiencing madness and it's funny. Move over Rajid.
What good has all this conservation of energy done me? I mean, honestly. What can I do? When they nabbed me leaving Civilai's room at the hotel, that was my chance. I had stashed my evidence and was on my way down to join the party when the black-suited monkeys were on me. I didn't see them coming. But I was fit then, still burning calories from Peking. I could have done a James Bond. There were only two of them. Thugs, perhaps, but I could have felled them with well-placed karate chops. A sprint and a dive headlong through the window at the end of the corridor. Parallel-bar routine through the branches of the strangler fig tree and head for the border. Blew that one.
Very weak now. Perhaps they'll do me the favour of killing me quickly. Perhaps they'll tire of the toenail-plucking and eye-gouging and just put a bullet in me. That would be nice.
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