In the Shadow of the Banyan

by Vaddey Ratner

  Big Uncle nodded, running his hand down the back of his head, feeling for his hair. His baldness made him look even thinner. It made his head appear huge and fragile, more fragile than a coconut, more like an egg that could fracture with a slight tap, crushed by the hand of sorrow, a wife’s remembered caress. He was still a giant, his silhouette towering over everyone, but something had broken inside him. Something stronger than bones. Something that had pushed this mythical yiak out of a storybook and turned him into my uncle, as if his size and bulk alone had given him the right to walk into any world, claim his place among men. Papa had called it mechas kluon—“a mastery of oneself.” Now this was broken and he shook and limped, frail as a shadow puppet, lacking the self-possession of a live being.

  He examined Mama surreptitiously, watching her whenever she wasn’t looking, and when she faced him, he turned away or looked down at his hands, nodding to himself, as if he understood something she had never even said.

  He’d remain like this for a long time, and I knew he would not talk about the others, at least not here, not now. He didn’t have to. Their ghosts invaded our every thought and silence, and whatever happened or would happen, I took comfort in us being together again.

  twenty-four

  Irubbed my eyes and found Mama and Big Uncle and Grandmother Queen still beside me. I didn’t remember having fallen asleep, but my first thought upon waking was that I’d dreamt them up. Then I remembered that just as I was about to fall asleep, Big Uncle had told Mama the name of the district he was taken to and, as it turned out, it wasn’t far from ours. Perhaps less than a day’s ride on an oxcart, he’d said. To think that all this time we were living so close. Fear, not distance, separated us, kept us from seeking one another out. “It doesn’t matter,” he was saying now. His voice was as real as the sunlight falling on my face. I blinked and shook sleep away, glad he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

  Around us people stirred in weary confusion. They felt their faces and the faces of loved ones, smiling when they were certain the sun had indeed risen and they were permitted to rise with it.

  There was some commotion by the road. A truck had arrived, and the Revolutionary soldiers guarding us were trying to sort something out with the truck driver and the soldier accompanying him. A crowd started to gather around them as the two sides argued.

  “. . . a delivery to a town called Ksach, in Kratie Province,” the driver was saying.

  “No, no,” said one of the soldiers guarding us, shaking his head, “they’re bound for Battambang Province.”

  The driver, a cheerful-looking fellow with a boyish face, suggested brightly that since Kratie was closer and he was going that way anyway, it would be easier to take us there than to Battambang.

  “The two provinces are in opposite directions!”

  “True, but at least we’re following orders.”

  “Even if it’s the wrong ones?”

  “Yes.”

  As if this made perfect sense, the four nodded happily, like little boys finally agreeing to the rules of a game. So Kratie it was.

  The soldiers ordered us to gather our belongings. One of them came along and poked Grandmother Queen with his gun to hurry her on. Big Uncle and Mama, each taking her arm, quickly helped her up and escorted her toward the truck.

  It was a strange sort of truck—a mishmash of different parts from different vehicles hammered and welded together to create what to me resembled a giant mangled dung beetle. I hadn’t seen a truck or a car or any other kind of motorized transport since the one that’d brought us a long time ago to Pok and Mae’s village. I’d thought anything with a motor—any machine—had been destroyed. The truck was rusted to the core; I didn’t know how it had even gotten here, let alone how it would take us anywhere.

  When our turn came to board, Mama and I got in first, climbing the metal bars roughly welded to the back panel that opened and dropped downward. Next, with the help of others, Big Uncle hoisted Grandmother Queen up. Then he himself climbed in. There were no seats or benches, just a bare metal floor with small holes where the metal had rusted out. We moved to the front, pressing close to one another so there was room for those still coming in. Grandmother Queen crouched in a corner among the elderly, while Mama and Big Uncle, with me sandwiched between them, stood against the side.

  At last the truck was loaded, with the young and brave perched high in what was normally the luggage rack. There were at least fifty of us, I thought. Maybe sixty. The driver turned on the ignition, and the truck wheezed and coughed like a cat trying to regurgitate a hair ball. After several false starts, the engine finally groaned with a steady hum and then slowly began to roll. Grandmother Queen suddenly cried out, “Wait! Wait for my son!” Mama bent down to comfort her: “He will stay behind with the others.” Grandmother Queen turned to the people near her and said, “Ayuravann, he’s my son, you see.” Toothless heads bounced up and down, nodding, “Yes, once we too had sons,” they told her. “We too had a family.”

  • • •

  Sometime in the afternoon we arrived in Kratie Province. The road became wider—smooth, no longer rough like a crocodile’s back but tar black and glistening under the sun, like the back of a python. We entered a town, a linear town, it seemed, for everything in it huddled along the edge of the river. The road widened even more, hemmed now with fruit trees—mango, longan, sapodilla. A yellow-columned temple appeared, with its doors and windows boarded up. Then we reached what appeared to be an abandoned market center where smaller streets and footpaths crisscrossed one another like woven strips on a rattan mat. We kept to our path, passing by a school, two long mustard-colored buildings facing each other, its playground noisy with children. A red flag bearing a golden image of the famed Angkor Wat flapped in the wind high above their heads. When they heard the cough and sputter of our truck, the children jumped up and down, squealing, “Gas, gas! Mmmm, doesn’t it smell good?” Boonk boonk! our truck sounded. Boonk boonk! The children clapped and cheered, delighted. Their teachers, also dressed in Revolutionary black from head to toe, seemed just as charmed. They waved, and our driver stuck his arm out and waved back.

  I thought maybe we’d slipped through some invisible crack during our journey and entered another world. I resisted the urge to close my eyes, afraid that when I opened them again these signs of civilization would have disappeared and we’d find ourselves back in the forest.

  We came upon a small wooden cart drawn by a pony-sized horse. The driver lifted his straw hat in greeting. Our truck slowed, groaning and shaking, and the soldier accompanying our driver stuck his head out to ask where the town center was, to which the other replied, “Straight ahead, the house with a large bronze bell.” The soldier thanked him, and the cart driver nodded, stunned by all the gaunt faces staring at him from the back of the truck. How we must’ve looked to him, like a truckload of skeletons, beings not quite dead, not quite alive.

  We picked up speed for several blocks before stopping in front of a spacious, tree-shaded courtyard. At the entrance, a large bronze bell hung from an intricately carved wooden beam held up by two round columns. In the middle of the estate stood a large teak house surrounded by smaller open-air pavilions of a similar style, with shingled roofs and spire gables.

  Our driver jumped out and announced, “I guess this is it!” He banged on the truck, laughing. His companion went to greet a group of men meeting in one of the open-air pavilions. They stood up, looking confused as they shot a glance in our direction. The soldier handed one of them a paper. The man read it and shook his head, looking even more perplexed. He indicated for the soldier to wait as he hurried toward the teak house and disappeared up the flight of stairs. A moment later he reappeared and joined the others in the pavilion, speaking to them in earnest, presumably explaining something important, to which they all nodded in agreement. Our soldier marched back to the truck and climbed in, gesturing for the driver to do the same, and, with the engine coughing and sputtering once more
, the vehicle began to chug forward, groaning with the weight of everyone’s disappointment.

  I closed my eyes, fighting back tears, ready to console myself with sleep for yet another long journey. Just then our ride abruptly came to an end. I opened my eyes and saw that we’d come to the part of the road where it curved and narrowed so that on one side was a row of houses, a mixture of traditional wooden structures and painted stucco villas, and on the other, a pair of giant flame trees leaning on a gradual incline toward the river, the ground beneath strewn with blood-red blossoms.

  The soldier ordered us out of the truck. We descended quietly, orderly, taking turns, afraid that if we behaved otherwise we’d be ordered back inside. We gathered under the flame trees, the river before us, brimming with the season’s rains, its strip of white-sand shore glistening under the afternoon sun, so bright my eyes hurt from looking at it.

  By now a group of townsfolk, noisy with gaiety, had started to trail us, offering greetings and help. In no time at all we learned we’d arrived in Ksach, a former merchant town in Kratie Province on the edge of the Mekong. “It’s a lovely place,” assured a round-cheeked woman, giggling nervously, as if she thought there was a chance we wouldn’t like it. “It’s the best!” a girl standing beside her declared with greater confidence. Mother and daughter, I thought. They looked like paper cutouts of each other, only one was big and one small, both with round moon-cake cheeks and eyes that thinned into brushstroke lines when they smiled. “Father!” the girl called out as a group of men, the same ones who had gathered under the open pavilion, hurried toward us. Seeing them up close, I knew right away they were the town’s Kamaphibal.

  But something was oddly different about them. The girl’s father grabbed Big Uncle’s arm in that personable and familiar way men held each other. “I’m Comrade Keng,” he said, full of enthusiasm and good cheer. “Welcome, welcome to our town!” They hadn’t anticipated our arrival, he explained, his tone apologetic. They were expecting a delivery of tools. But obviously a mistake had occurred, and now that we were here, an arrangement had to be made on the spur of the moment to accommodate us. He pointed across the street toward a yellowish stucco villa under a row of milk-fruit trees. “You’ll all be staying there, as a group, until everything is sorted out.” Then, as if noting our terrified look, he reassured, “Don’t worry, the district leader is aware of your arrival.”

  • • •

  We entered the shady grounds of our temporary home. The long branches of the milk-fruit trees made a leafy canopy over the ground and balcony. Purple and green fruits, waxy and perfectly round, flecked the glossy foliage. Under each tree was a marble bench, the seat covered with dead leaves and branches. A thick layer of dirt coated the mosaic marble, and a long line of ants marched down one bench and up the next.

  The villa stood several feet off the ground on rows of square columns. We climbed the front stairway to double doors that opened to a hallway extending all the way to what looked like the kitchen in the back. Inside, the floors and walls were covered with dust and cobwebs and dried bug carcasses. Except for discarded items lying oddly about, all the rooms were completely empty. “You can use anything you find in the storage rooms or closets,” a member of the Kamaphibal said as they led us farther into the villa. “There may be some old pillows and blankets, as well as dishes, pots, pans, and other odds and ends.”

  While the others were quick to grab the bedrooms, we ended up in the kitchen. It was a rectangular room with a side door that opened to the back stairway. The walls were scratched and scarred and, on one corner of the floor where an earthen brazier might have sat, a quarter-moon shape was burnt onto the wood. Beside it, a bamboo basket of kitchenware gathered dust and cobwebs. There was nothing else. In its bareness the room looked immense, and it was all ours. It was perfect.

  • • •

  Dusk came, the evening mirroring our bruises from the long trip on rough roads. We gathered at the town center, which, as we learned, was also where the district leader lived. At the entrance, a young Revolutionary soldier rang the large bronze bell to let everyone know the meeting was about to begin. The townsfolk seemed as anxious as we were to know our fate. Many came with food, in dishes and pots, which they put on a trestle table under one of the pavilions and covered with large banana leaves to keep the flies away until the meeting was over. I stared at the spread and swallowed repeatedly, wondering when I’d last seen this much food, fighting off the urge to run along the table and gulp down everything.

  The bell rang for the second time, and when it stopped, the Kamaphibal emerged from the teak house and descended the stairway. Leading them was a man, tall and broad shouldered, with a red-checkered kroma belted around his waist. He looked like an actor playing a village hero in a movie. As he strode into the courtyard, all eyes turned to him. “Where did he come from?” I asked, my voice breathless with awe.

  Big Uncle gave me a strange look. “There.” He nodded toward the teak house. “He lives in the house. You saw. He just came out.”

  “Oh.” I thought the man had dropped from the sky. He had the gait of someone who could float through mists and clouds. “But who is he?”

  Again, Big Uncle gave me a bemused look. “He’s the district leader.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A leader who’s in charge of one big area.”

  I thought he might be the Organization.

  The district leader went around and offered his greetings, calling everyone by familial terms—brother, sister, uncle, aunt, niece, and nephew. He held his palms together in a sampeah, bowing slightly as he went from one person to the next. I was completely dumbstruck.

  After he’d met everyone, the district leader went up to the stairway landing. “We didn’t expect you,” he said, addressing the crowd below. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re glad you’re here. Welcome!”

  The Kamaphibal, who had taken their places behind him, clapped. It was clear this was to be our new home. Everyone sighed with relief.

  Nodding in the direction of the river, the district leader continued, “The monsoon season is upon us and soon the Mekong will overflow, turning land into sea. But together we will build embankments to control this mighty dragon. Together we will demonstrate that through our collective effort, we can build with our bare hands a mountain ridge from—”

  Suddenly he stopped. A group of Revolutionary soldiers had appeared out of nowhere in an oxcart. They marched toward us. The lead soldier thundered up the steps and approached the district leader, whispering in his ear. The district leader shook his head; the Revolutionary soldier insisted, hissing into the district leader’s ear. After a moment, the district leader faced us again and said, “You must excuse me.” Without further explanation, he descended the stairway and, together with the Kamaphibal, left in a hurry, climbing into the oxcart waiting at the entrance.

  The crowd was abuzz. The lead soldier spun around and faced us, and I noticed a long, sickle-shaped scar running the length of his right cheek. “Quiet!” he growled, the scar twitching violently. “Only the newcomers stay! The rest of you leave!”

  No one moved.

  “NOW!”

  The townsfolk began to file past us, murmuring but not daring to meet our eyes, or his. They seemed to know exactly who the soldier was and their manners and attitude said this was not someone you argued with. Finally, when the last of the townsfolk were gone and it was just our group again, the soldier with the scar said, “Those of you with any family members missing, tell us your family history and background. Give us complete and accurate details—your real names, your relatives’ real names. Tell us how you got separated from them, when, and why—the real story. We’ll help you find them. But we can do that only if you tell us the truth.” He looked around, his eyes darting, the scar on his cheek quivering as if it were a live thing. “Now, those of you with missing relatives, raise your hand.”

  Slowly, people began to raise their hands. Every single person, it seem
ed, except Big Uncle and Mama. The soldier narrowed his eyes at us. I broke out in a sweat.

  twenty-five

  Our arrival at Ksach seemed like a deliverance. The town had rules and rhythm, a kind of logic that didn’t exist in Pok and Mae’s village. First of all, the morning after our arrival, we were given rice, cloth, and other essential items to get us settled in. Then in the subsequent weeks, as the whole town gathered to receive the monthly ration, we were each allowed one can of rice per day. To keep it simple, we were told, no distinction was made between a child and an adult, each received the same amount, the rationale being a six-year-old boy who worked hard might eat more than an ailing old grandmother who couldn’t eat much of anything. While market-style bartering was not allowed, a simple exchange of food or household items between neighbors and friends was acceptable. In our spare time we could grow vegetables or catch fish from the river to supplement our rations, but all livestock was the collective property of the town and reserved for communal feasting. Work began an hour after sunrise and ended an hour before sunset, at which time the large bronze bell at the town center would sound for all to hear. Children from ages five to eleven went to school, either in the morning or the afternoon, depending on our preference, and we could even switch back and forth. So off to school I went, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, depending on my mood, and in the month or two of my perfect attendance, all we learned were songs:

  Red, red blood showers the ground,

  Democratic Kampuchea our Motherland!

  Shining blood of our farmers and workers,

  Shining blood of our Revolutionary soldiers!

  The Red Flag of the Revolution!

  We didn’t learn to read or write a single word, and even though I already knew how, I never let on. It was clear we must keep quiet, keep what we knew hidden. So we carried on, making ourselves fit in, and this time around it seemed easier, perhaps because Ksach was a close-knit community, yet open and welcoming in a way Stung Khae never was. People walked in and out of one another’s homes as if they were one big family, exchanging dishes they’d cooked, borrowing one another’s utensils and tools, sharing news and gossip alike.