In the Shadow of the Banyan

by Vaddey Ratner

  We inched forward, bumping into baskets, carts, cars, people, and animals. Beside us a woman pulled her injured husband in a wheelbarrow, her shoulders entwined in a cotton scarf tied to its handles, like an ox harnessed to a cart. Her husband lay on top of their belongings, his bandaged legs stretched out stiffly in front of him. Papa steered the BMW to the left, inadvertently blocking her way. The woman glowered, muttering under her breath, cursing us, I was certain. Finally, she let us pass, pausing to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

  Up and down the bridge people kept honking their horns as if this would make everything move faster. Two men got off their Vespas and started pushing each other back and forth, arguing over who had the right of way. A Khmer Rouge soldier strode toward them and the two men quickly separated, scrambling onto their mopeds, pushing forward with their feet against the ground, like criminals hurrying to escape.

  Suddenly there was no more room to move. In front of us the crowd became confused. People screamed and pushed one another. Some tried to go back, but there wasn’t even room to turn their bodies around. The crowd behind us kept pushing forward. Our car rocked back and forth as if we were on a swinging wooden bridge instead of a concrete one. Papa stuck his head out the window and asked a man standing next to our car, “What’s going on?”

  “They’re bringing prisoners through,” the man replied.

  “Prisoners? Who?”

  “Government officials and military people, those who tried to run—Here they come!”

  “Don’t look,” Tata ordered. “Keep your head down.”

  I lowered my head and then lifted it back up as a group of Khmer Rouge soldiers passed, escorting not several but one prisoner. He stumbled forward, blindfolded with a kroma, the traditional cotton scarf, hands tied behind his back. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, his face was bruised and swollen, his skin broken everywhere. He was a big man, but his injuries made him seem small and vulnerable. Khmer Rouge soldiers, two in front and three in back, hit and kicked him. The crowds pulled back and made a path for them. Everyone was silent.

  As he neared, I saw that both his ankles were tied with an arm-length rope, which had the effect of making him waddle instead of walk. With his injuries, it seemed, he couldn’t run even if he wanted to. He brushed past our car. The soldiers took turns whacking him with the butts of their guns to hurry him on. He didn’t retaliate or react but plodded on, dragging his despair with him. I kept my gaze on him until he disappeared from sight.

  The crowds converged and the noises returned. Everything and everyone pushed forward, trying to get ahead, get as far away from the possibility of capture as they could. Loudspeakers from either end of the bridge bellowed, “THE ORGANIZATION AWAITS YOU! THE ORGANIZATION WILL WATCH OVER YOU!”

  I looked everywhere for the Organization, but all I saw was confusion. Desperation. A man climbed the side barrier of the bridge and was about to jump when a soldier caught his shirt and yanked him back down. The soldier moved on. The man stood there shaking as the crowds moved about him, his life saved and ignored all in the same moment.

  When it seemed we would never get through, we came to the end of the bridge, and the road split in two. Papa turned left off the main road onto a smaller road along the river. Something caught his attention. A black Mercedes-Benz parked along the shoulder of the road. I recognized the car. Papa headed toward it. I stretched my neck, trying to see past the windows. Only when Big Uncle rose like a yiak, a mythical giant, out of the Mercedes, unscathed and stately, did my heart finally stop hammering.

  He strode toward us, followed by Auntie India and the twins. The boys bounced excitedly when they saw Radana waving the red ribbon.

  Papa turned to us and said, “Let’s get out of this mess.”

  five

  At sunset we arrived in Kien Svay, a small town just outside Phnom Penh. It had taken us the entire afternoon to traverse the short distance. Even so, it seemed we were among the luckier ones to have escaped the city at all.

  Our country house, Mango Corner, was the only French-colonial-style bungalow in a row of Khmer-style teak houses along the Mekong. Situated on a two-acre plot shaded by mango trees, it faced a small dirt road that rarely saw cars or motorized vehicles. Most of the town’s residents were fruit growers, rice farmers, or fishermen, and except for oxcarts or boats, they owned nothing more than a bicycle. Now it seemed the whole city had descended on the town and overflowed into our once quiet enclave as people from the city, seeking refuge for the night, parked their vehicles in any open space.

  To keep others out of Mango Corner, our neighbor, the caretaker of our property, had parked his oxcart in the entrance between the two rows of mango trees that gated our front yard from the road. When he caught sight of our cars, he rushed to remove the oxcart and let us through. “It’s a relief to see Mechas and the whole family,” he said, addressing Papa, his knees bent, head bowed, speaking the royal language. He quickly greeted all of us in the same way, and then again turning to Papa, said, “I didn’t know how much longer I could keep them off the property.” He motioned to the crowds in front of his own house. “I couldn’t turn them away, Highness.”

  Papa nodded, thanking the man. The caretaker waved to his teenage sons to come help with the luggage. We went inside.

  I headed straight for the double French doors that opened onto the colonnaded balcony. Beyond the row of coconut trees that marked the border of our property, the Mekong heaved like a waking serpent. Boats crowded the surface of the water as they would during the Water Festival, except I knew it wasn’t a festival of any kind. There were no colorful buntings or streamers decorating the boats and oars, no crowds cheering from the shore, no singing and dancing, no light, no music. There was only the sound of loudspeakers ordering people to keep moving, to cross to the other side before nightfall. “GO! YOUR COMRADE BROTHERS AND SISTERS WILL HELP YOU! THE ORGANIZATION WILL FIND YOU SHELTER! GO!” Hundreds, maybe thousands of people skirted the sandy shore. Khmer Rouge soldiers kept guard everywhere. When a boat appeared, a family would rush to board it, dragging with them what they could of their belongings—pots and pans, pallets and pillows. Bigger items—stuffed mattresses, tables, chairs, paintings—lay abandoned on the bank. I watched as boats returned emptied of passengers and as many more, loaded with people and belongings, headed across the river. Ants floating on leaves, I thought. As they moved farther away, they merged with the blue-black backdrop of the forest at dusk. I wondered what was on the other side of the forest. A new world? Maybe the edge of this one? I didn’t know.

  Papa came out and stood next to me on the balcony. I turned to him and asked, “Where are they going?” I feared that we too would have to leave, that the soldiers would come storming in and order us back on the road.

  Papa didn’t answer, staring instead at the river in silence, his eyes following the flow of people. He stood like this for a minute or two. Then a shadow crossed his face, and he finally turned to me with a look that mirrored my own confusion. “The Mekong is a powerful river,” he said solemnly. “So powerful that every rainy season it changes the course of another river”—he pointed in the direction of the city—“the Tonle Sap.”

  I knew the Tonle Sap River well, as did every child who lived in Phnom Penh. It stretched along the eastern edge of the city in front of the Royal Palace. The riverfront was a wonderful place for bike rides, kite flying, or an evening stroll. During the Water Festival in November, people would come from all over the country to watch the boat race and above all, to pay respect to the spirits of the water.

  “In the next several months,” Papa continued, “when the monsoon arrives, the Mekong will rise so high that the water will flow upstream through the Tonle Sap River into the Tonle Sap Lake in the northwest. Over there.” Again he pointed, this time in the direction far beyond the city.

  I paid close attention, expecting him to weave me a tale of the Underwater Kingdom where the mythical naga serpents lived.

  �
��Then near the end of the rainy season, the level of the Mekong begins to fall and the built-up water of the Tonle Sap Lake drains back into the Tonle Sap River, reversing its course.”

  I knew the Tonle Sap River reversed course. That was part of its magic. But I’d always thought it had to do with the direction in which the naga serpents were swimming. At least, that’s what Milk Mother had told me.

  “Life is like that.” Papa turned once again to the Mekong. “Everything is connected, and sometimes we, like little fishes, are swept up in these big and powerful currents. Carried far from home . . .”

  “If the river brought us here,” I ventured tentatively, “then when it reverses course, it’ll carry us back.”

  Papa gazed at me. Finally he smiled and said, “You are right. Of course it will.”

  I nodded, relieved.

  He lifted me up, and even though I didn’t like to be carried as if still a small and helpless child, I let him do it this time, too tired to resist. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, the sound of that gunshot echoing through my mind, like a thought beating against my skull. A question no one could answer. Why? Again and again, I saw the old man drop to the ground.

  • • •

  Inside we found respite from the heat and turmoil. It was cool and clean, thanks to the caretaker’s wife, who swept and dusted and aired out the house every day, always keeping it ready for us. She had brought out the silk cushions from the tall Chinese camphor chest by the living room entrance and placed them on the chairs and settees. I felt safe and protected among these brilliant colors. They reminded me of home and our courtyard with its profusion of flowers. I grabbed a cushion and settled into a low armchair by the doors. Nearby the twins were playing. They had dug out a broom from somewhere and were now riding it around the living room, pretending it was a horse. They zigzagged between pieces of furniture and luggage, making galloping sounds. Radana, waking from her car-ride stupor, slid down the teak recliner where Mama had put her and started to chase after them, demanding her turn. When they wouldn’t give it to her, she stomped her foot, crying out, “Mine, Mama, mine!” Just then Big Uncle walked in, a suitcase in each hand, and, seeing the distressed look on Mama’s face, boomed, “Attention!” The twins stopped, dropped the broom, and stood at attention, midget soldiers fearful of their towering commander.

  Papa chuckled. Big Uncle burst out laughing, then just as abruptly stopped, adopting seriousness again when he caught one of the twins fidgeting. He growled, and the twins straightened, their little chests puffed out even more. They seemed rooted to their spot now. Auntie India—nicknamed so for her dark-skinned beauty and melodious, lilting voice—placed a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling. On the antique settee Grandmother Queen and Tata exchanged amused glances. Big Uncle, certain of the boys’ obedience, went to one of the bedrooms to put away the suitcases, smiling to himself.

  Mama went about the house opening doors and windows. A sigh traveled her body and escaped her lips every time she pushed a shutter open. I got up and followed her, helping with the hooks and latches, mimicking her every movement and breath. She looked down and gave me a smile. As long as Mama smiled, everything would be all right. Papa winked, as if reading my thoughts. Then, reaching over the coffee table, he pulled on the long chain attached to the ceiling fan.

  We waited, holding our breaths in hopeful anticipation. But the wooden blades wouldn’t turn. As we suspected, there was no electricity. Even in the city, electricity was erratic.

  “The power line must be damaged,” Papa said, coming over to where Mama stood. He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll look for some lanterns in the storage shed.” He went down the side stairway, whistling, his steps light.

  I went over to where Grandmother Queen was sitting. Tata had left to prepare their room, and Grandmother Queen patted the cushion for me to sit down next to her, but as the tiles were cool against my feet I sat down on the floor instead, my head resting on her knees. “This is home, too,” Grandmother Queen said, caressing my hair. I nodded.

  The twins had resumed their game, riding their own invisible horses, chasing after Radana, who now had possession of the broom. The boys, four years old, were named Sotanavong and Satiyavong, but because next to their giant father they looked more like little bubbles hovering no higher than his knees, their long names were ignored, and we called them simply “the twins” or “the boys.” If you asked which of them was older, one would declare, “I am!” and the other would quickly add, “Only by fourteen minutes eleven seconds!” Then the two would elbow and punch each other, competing for supremacy, until someone like me came along and smacked some sense into them and told them how it really was: that two of them combined didn’t equal one of me. Needless to say, for this reason, they preferred to play with Radana, as they were doing now, pursuing her like warriors on their make-believe horses while she shrieked, a princess in peril. For the first time, though, I wasn’t annoyed with the ruckus they were making. The three of them playing—even as they wrangled over a stupid old broom—made everything seem normal, like all the other times we’d come here for a holiday.

  I stretched out on the floor, closed my eyes, and let the hard coolness of the tiles lull me to sleep.

  • • •

  I woke and found Radana next to me on a bed with a mosquito net over us. I looked around the room, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. Quietly, so as not to wake Radana, I got up and went out to the living room. The house was mostly dark except for a muted glow from the kitchen. Hungry, I went toward the light and found Mama and my two aunts sitting on footstools. They were busy arranging foods, their faces illuminated by the kerosene lantern burning on the tile counter just above their heads. Auntie India was telling Mama and Tata something when she saw me standing in the doorway. “There you are!” she chimed, her voice melodious even when she said the most mundane things. “You must be starving!”

  I went over to Mama, needing to be reassured by her closeness. I had dreamt of Milk Mother, of her absence. She was a void as black as the night, and even though I felt her presence, I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t find her face in the darkness.

  “Everyone has had their dinner already,” Mama said, parting the wisp of bangs from my eyes. She pulled out a wooden footstool for me. I sat down and pressed close, my head against her shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked, lifting my face to hers.

  I nodded, wanting her to keep talking. Her voice calmed me, chased away the fears that lingered at the edge of my waking. She smiled and handed me the plate of fried rice she’d saved from dinner. I looked at it, hesitating, not sure if I wanted to eat now. “You’ll feel better,” she said, “once you’ve had some food.”

  “We didn’t think you’d wake up,” Tata said, squinting at me from where she sat. “The way you just lay there on the floor.”

  “Still as a squashed bug!” Auntie India chimed in, laughing.

  As soon as I took a bite of the food, my stomach grumbled with hunger. Surely we must have had lunch, but I couldn’t remember. Everything was a blur. How long had I slept? Had it only been one day from the moment the soldier banged on the gate? As I ate, the women resumed their tasks, sorting perishable foods from the dried and canned goods.

  Mama seemed to have gotten control of herself and was again the woman who could run a household by herself or host an extravagant New Year’s party without a drop of sweat on her silk. She was in charge now, telling my two aunts what was essential and practical to keep and what we could do without, like the bottle of brandy Auntie India had brought along for the men, or the unopened can of butter Tata had somehow managed to grab from the refrigerator before we left. Auntie India, nodding vigorously, deferred to all of Mama’s suggestions and instructions. Tata, even as she continued to hold herself regal and erect, conceded authority to my much younger mother and admitted openly, “What would we do without you, Aana? And yes, what was I thinking? Butter in this heat! I guess I panicked and grabb
ed what I thought would be impossible to find.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Mama laughed. “We can use it for tomorrow’s dishes—maybe make mango crepes for the children. Or we could trade it for real meat—some fresh beef from a local butcher, perhaps. Same with the brandy.” She gave Auntie India a teasing nod. “That is, if you haven’t told the men yet.”

  All three laughed. Then it turned serious again when Auntie India inquired tentatively, “Do you think it’s wise to leave the property, to trade or for any reason?”

  There was silence. Mama turned to me, as if not wanting me to hear the conversation. But before she could say anything, Tata said, “I know what you mean. It’s just too horrible.” She shook her head. “They’re everywhere, shooting people left and right. Barbarians, that’s what they are.”

  “They say anyone with glasses reads too much,” Auntie India offered. “The sign of an intellectual.”

  I looked at Tata and noticed her glasses were not where she’d always had them, hanging from the gold chain around her neck. Then I remembered she’d taken them off in the car sometime during our journey. Suddenly the whole day’s events came back to me—leaving the house, the crowded streets, the rash shootings and separations, the chaos everywhere.

  I stopped eating. Mama noticed. “Don’t you want to have some more food?” she asked, worried by my abrupt change of appetite.

  I shook my head. I felt sick to my stomach.

  • • •

  I found Papa and Big Uncle settled like two shadows in the low wicker armchairs on the balcony, a bottle of red wine on the coffee table between them. Except for a tiny glow from the cigarette between Big Uncle’s fingers, they were sitting in the dark, deep in conversation. Before them the Mekong coursed like a dark glittering snake as boats lit with torches glided across its surface. Campfires had sprung up along the shore. Here and there stood the dark silhouette of a Khmer Rouge soldier hugging his gun, keeping constant watch. From somewhere high in one of the coconut trees radio music crackled through a loudspeaker: