A week later, Phosy, Pow, and their sister, Beybey, were in a covered truck heading across the country. Phosy felt something in his stomach that he would later come to recognise as betrayal. They’d given him away. The family he’d loved had handed him over to a stranger. He couldn’t understand it but life was travelling too quickly to analyse. They taught him things in the liberated zones. He learned how the French colonists had stolen their land. He learned how the rich landowners had taken advantage of the common people. He learned how to be angry and to punch his fist into the air and shout, “Liberation!” He learned how to shoot guns and kill. And, by the time he reached seventeen, he and his false siblings were junior officers in the new Lao People’s Liberation Army. All three of them were so entangled in the revolution they hadn’t found time to go back to visit the family that had raised and cared for them…and given them away.
Phosy rose fastest through the ranks. He had an inquisitive mind and, once he reached the position of colonel, he was transferred to military intelligence and trained in the art of espionage just outside Hanoi. With a new identity, he arrived in Vientiane in 1965 and began work as a carpenter. Other LPLA men and women had been trickled into the mainstream of royalist society, spreading their beliefs subtly from the inside, passing on intelligence, preparing for the day revolution would come. They became known as the mosquitoes inside the net, these sleeper agents, ready to sting when the time was right.
But, while he was waiting, something occurred that Phosy hadn’t prepared for. He fell in love. There was probably a whole chapter in the Indochinese Communist Party spy handbook detailing the dangers of falling in love whilst engaged in subversive activities. But Phosy was emotionally lost and in need of confirmation that someone might want him. He married and they produced first a boy, then a girl, and that old feeling of family returned to him. That warm comforting glow of belonging took over Phosy’s life. At times it seemed more important than nationhood. The revolution took a back seat to Phosy’s family.
But the revolution came anyway. It came swiftly on the heels of the Vietminh victory in Saigon and without the wholesale bloodshed that had been envisaged. And the Pathet Lao moles in their burrows in Vientiane celebrated quietly. The status quo had changed but there were still enemies. The new socialist government couldn’t decide what to do with its spies. Under the guise of re-education, Phosy and his colleagues were recalled to the north-east and new roles were allocated. He was away for three months and when he returned to the capital, his wife and children were gone. Gone, the neighbours said, to a refugee camp on the Thai side. They’d paid a fisherman for a night passage to Nong Kai. Gone because his wife was afraid of the communists. Afraid of what they might do to her. Gone because Phosy hadn’t been able to tell her he was the enemy.
Phosy left Vientiane and rejoined his unit in the northeast. Three families had deserted him. Phosy was a serial orphan. Love crumbled in his hands like hearts moulded from fine sand. Why invest? Why waste all that emotion? He’d met nurse Dtui. He’d liked her. He’d made her pregnant. He’d offered to marry her. She’d asked him if he could love her and he’d told her no, but he was prepared to marry her anyway. That had been good enough for Dtui and for him, companionship without fear of heartbreak. Then Malee had come along, the sweetest button of a babe. She had smiled and he’d remembered all the other smiles that had trapped him. He watched them together, Dtui and her baby, and he’d seen treachery in their eyes. He watched how she controlled the mind of the little girl. How would they break him, these two? Every day he was afraid he’d come home and find them gone. And the conflict was killing him, splitting him apart. On one side was the feeling that there was nothing on the earth so full of wonder as the love of a family. And on the other was the certainty that they would desert him. Either in death or in deceit they would go away and leave him without hope. How dare he tell them he loved them?
∗
Siri tapped on Civilai’s door at eighteen thirty Mexico City time. Civilai’s voice carried dully from the bathroom.
“Come in if you’re carrying food.”
Siri walked into the room. From the crumpled sheet and deformedly dented pillow, it appeared his friend hadn’t slept any better than he had. He walked to the window. The view was similar to that from his own. Grounds that had once been landscaped were now jungle. A giant lucky hair tree craved attention not two metres from the glass. The city wasn’t visible. Civilai walked from the bathroom wearing only shorts. He looked like a medical school skeleton with a paunch.
“I bet with a couple of chopsticks we could get a decent tune out of those ribs, brother,” Siri laughed.
Civilai ignored the taunt.
“Did you get your early-morning call?” he asked.
“I thought it was my imagination. It was a gunshot, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty close too, by the sounds of it. Perhaps they were killing something for breakfast.”
“Good. I prefer my breakfast dead. I’m starving. Do you suppose the restaurant’s open?”
“It’s on the itinerary.” Civilai picked up the single sheet of paper they’d given him in Vientiane. “‘Seven a.m. morning meal at House Number Two.’”
“Good, hurry up and put on a shirt so we don’t frighten anyone.”
∗
Breakfast in the spacious dining room was uncomplicated but tasty. Other delegates sat at other tables minding their own business with great deliberation. The only noise was coming from the three Chinese tables whose breakfast banter bounced around the dusty restaurant like early morning ping-pong balls. Mr Chenda, their guide, joined the Lao at their table but refused food. He had a copy of their itinerary and he proceeded to read through it, expanding politically in one or another direction from notes he’d made on the sheet.
“Before lunch,” he said, staring towards the door, “you will have the opportunity to visit your embassy. There, your ambassador will brief you on your country’s relationship with Democratic Kampuchea and the ongoing role we expect the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos to play in our development. You will sample a lunchtime meal of fresh food supplied directly from one of our cooperatives and then you will join representatives from other legations to visit our model collective in District Seventeen. You will return in time to change, whence you are invited to attend our grand May Day reception where you will have the great honour of meeting our respected and glorious leaders..”
“Including number one brother?” Civilai dared ask, not really expecting a response. But the guide became enlivened at the mention of the great leader.
“Brother Number One will most certainly be in attendance,” he beamed. “Our leader is excited at the prospect of exchanging views with our respected allies.”
“Does Big Brother have a name?” Siri asked. He noticed indications of a short circuit deep in the guide’s brain. His face shut down for a few seconds then rebooted.
“Tomorrow you will have the opportunity to visit a truly spectacular irrigation project where you will see what our peasants have been able to achieve, working hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder…”
“…heel to toe, thumb to nose,” Siri mumbled. He was becoming frustrated by the boy’s inability to answer questions.
“What?” The guide seemed angry.
“Nothing. Go on.”
“As I was saying. The irrigation project is an example of what it’s possible to achieve with nothing more than a love of Angkar, determination and hard work.”
“And Chinese funding,” Civilai added.
“They don’t believe in money,” Siri reminded him. “Isn’t that right, little comrade? You see? I was paying attention. But I didn’t catch Big Brother’s name. What was it again?”
The guide put both his palms on the table and pushed himself stiffly to a standing position. He still hadn’t looked either of the old Lao directly in the eye, but he glared menacingly at the condiment tray.
“You must be ready to leave from reception in ten
minutes,” he told the fish sauce.
∗
Considering the fact that Siri’s old map showed Hotel le Phnom to be no more than five city blocks from the embassy section of Boulevard Manivon, the limousine drive was curiously circuitous. As they pulled out of the hotel grounds, the first landmark his map said they’d pass was the Catholic cathedral. He’d visited it with his wife. It was gone. All that remained was a pile of rubble. They proceeded past the railway station which stood like a deserted castle and cut through a number of streets, none of which had signs. At every corner stood a sentry in black pyjamas with an AK47. They were men and women, old and very young, but all of them slouched and glared at the passing car. The limousine swung around the gangly Olympic stadium, one more example of the royal family’s nouveaux Khmer architecture of the sixties, and headed along an empty Sivutha Boulevard. Its old sandalwood trees pointed their dead or dying fingers as they passed. The streets and buildings they saw were all immaculately clean, windows smiled reflections of the early sun. The journey might have given a guest the feeling the roads had been closed off for their safety, the people told to remain in their homes, but Siri had goose pimples as he looked out of the window. Something was wrong here.
They eventually entered the diplomatic section of Boulevard Manivon from the south. The entire road had been partitioned off with a heavily guarded barrier blocking the entrance.
“We provide maximum security for our foreign representatives,” the guide told them.
“Who from?” Siri asked.
“I’m sorry?” Every time the doctor interrupted, the guide became more impatient.
“Who are you protecting them from? Didn’t you say you were at peace?”
“We are, indeed, a peace-loving nation, and the population has joined hands with us to form a unified democratic state. But there will always be insurgents out to embarrass us. We have enemies jealous of our successes. We need to remain vigilant.”
The limousine drove into the newly created compound and pulled up in front of an old sand-coloured colonial house. It was surrounded by a white wall like a temple. For the first time that day they saw people walking along footpaths, sitting on benches, locked in conversation. All of them foreigners. But Siri noticed the others; the silent, unmoving ones. They stood in strategic positions in their black pyjamas watching, minding. They reminded him of the ghosts who hung around temple fairs. They never joined in, were never seen, were not really there.
Both Siri and Civilai knew the Lao ambassador, Kavinh. They had fought campaigns together. He was only slightly taller than Siri and he too had been a fearless warrior. Yet they noticed immediately, as he walked along the path to greet them, that time had sandpapered the ambassador down to a spindle of the man they remembered. He had no spring in his step, no truth in his smile. Beside him was his own black-suited minder, a short-haired peasant with a sun-blistered face.
“Comrades,” said Ambassador Kavinh. “It’s been a long time.” They shook his unsteady hand and reminded each other of when and where they’d last met. But he was less than enthusiastic, not at all warm. He didn’t introduce the man at his side. He turned and led them back inside. Siri caught Civilai’s eye. Nothing was relaxed here. Nothing natural.
There followed a two-hour briefing, not from the ambassador or his diplomatic aides, but from the Khmer minder. He read from a prepared sheet. His Lao was heavily accented, comical at some points. But the old men found it prudent not to make comment. They sat on a circle of chairs in the front room of the embassy with their guide, the ambassador, two Lao aides and two more Khmer. Time became a heavy log towed by an ancient elephant. Siri could do no more than merely will it all to end. He took advantage of the opportunity by going over the case of the three épées in his mind. He had time to look at the circumstances through the eyes of each of the victims. And it was from the perspective of one of them that a completely different picture presented itself. He played a new hypothesis through to its gory conclusion and all the parts fitted. Only one question remained to be answered and, by the time they announced lunch, he was just a breath away from solving the mystery.
The fish and vegetables they served were fresh and, they had to admit, delicious. But the lunch table conversation was torturous. Every topic was a slow drip of water onto the forehead. Whenever light and jovial threatened, the Khmer would step in to redirect the mood in the direction of sombre and dull. There were no servants. The Lao diplomatic staff delivered the meals and collected the dishes without speaking.
It was during the distribution of the pumpkin custard slices that one young diplomat dropped a spoon on Siri’s lap. It was a minor inconvenience as there had been nothing on the spoon at the time. Siri reminded him that, as far as he knew, they didn’t teach the dishing up of pudding at the foreign diplomats’ school, but the young man made a terrible fuss. He bowed and threw his hands together in apology and berated himself. And, as he leaned over to right whatever wrong he thought he’d done, he dropped a folded napkin into the doctor’s lap and engaged his eyes briefly.
Siri finished his dessert, asked where the bathroom was, and excused himself. There was no lock on the bathroom door so Siri leaned against it and unfolded the white cloth serviette. In laundry pen were written the words:
Siri. Find an excuse not to go on the a.m. trip. Stay here. Urgent. Kavinh.
Siri pulled the chain, climbed onto the porcelain toilet and dropped the napkin into the overhead cistern. He waited a few minutes before returning to the table. His rendition of a man suffering from diarrhoea and stomach cramps was spectacular. He’d obviously seen his fair share of victims. The noises he somehow produced from his bowel region were frightening enough to make everyone in the room fear they might forfeit their own lunches. Siri was led to a camp bed in a back room, covered in a blanket, and left to groan. Knowing his friend’s solid constitution, only Civilai saw anything suspicious about the attack and he kept his doubts to himself.
“I’m not really feeling too well myself,” Civilai announced. “I’m wondering whether something in the lunch was off.”
“I assure you – ” the short-haired minder began.
“But, at least one of us should make the effort,” Civilai decided. “I’ll carry our flag to your collective, comrades. Let’s hope my colleague is well enough to attend the reception this evening. I’d hate for this to turn into a diplomatic matter.”
He told them he wouldn’t push the issue with the Chinese as long as the doctor was given care and rest for the afternoon. The guide seemed almost relieved to leave Siri there. And so it was that Civilai and Comrade Chenda boarded the bus to District Seventeen and Siri did not.
Phnom Penh, under whatever tyrant or warlord, had always observed the colonial French custom of sleeping after a good meal. Those two hours during the hottest part of the day belied the claim that Kampuchea did not know worklessness. Comrade Ta Khev, the sun-blistered cadre attached to the Lao embassy, was no exception. As soon as the man began his customary afternoon nap, and the bestial sounds of his snoring could be heard behind the door of his room, the embassy came alive. One diplomat was posted in front of the cadre’s room. Ambassador Kavinh was kneeling on the floor at Siri’s cot, hugging him like a newly deceased relative. It was a desperate and unexpected gesture.
“Siri, Siri, my old friend,” he whispered.
“Kavinh? I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“My past is the only thing I can think fondly of,” he replied. It was a curious comment but Siri instinctively understood it.
“Come, we don’t have much time,” Kavinh said, climbing slowly to his feet. “And there’s a lot to do.”
Siri was led through the house to the larder. In the corner stood a stack of wooden crates. Those on the top contained cans of meat and fish. The lower boxes were apparently empty. Two of the junior diplomats quickly slid the stack to one side and revealed a large metal ring on a hinge embedded in the wooden floorboards. They prised the ring upwards an
d pulled. A heavy trapdoor lifted slowly and without sound and Siri found himself staring down into a black pit. The embassy staff looked at him and gestured that he should go down. Siri, it had to be said, had a problem with black pits. Some of his worst living nightmares had taken place in such places. He baulked.
“Really, Siri,” said Kavinh. “We don’t have much time before the bastard wakes up.”
“Oh well.”
A metal ladder led down into the darkness. Siri took a deep breath and began to descend. The ambassador followed close behind. Siri arrived at a concrete floor He stood aside and Kavinh stepped down. The trapdoor closed and Siri could hear the rearrangement of the crates overhead. The darkness was total and overwhelming.
“Bien,” said the ambassador.
There came a tinkle of glass, the strike of a match, and Siri saw a disembodied hand suspended in mid-air. It carried the flame to a wick and a dirty yellow light from an oil lamp bathed the cellar. Twenty eyes looked out of the ochre shadow.
“Good afternoon,” said Siri.
There was a long moment of hesitation before four men and six women stepped up to him, smiling, taking his hand, squeezing his fingers. None of them spoke.
“This is the real briefing,” Kavinh whispered. “It will have to be quick. But this is the information you need to take back to Vientiane when you leave.”
“Who are these people?” Siri asked.
“They’re Khmer. All of them. Some we found. Others found us. This room is ventilated and sound doesn’t carry. But we have to be careful. If they’re found we’ll all be killed.”
“But, why are they here?”
“Siri, you’re going to learn a lot today that will stretch your belief. Things so horrific you won’t sleep well for a year. We haven’t had direct contact with Vientiane for eight months. We have no phone here. We can’t travel without our minders. Every document passes through censors at the foreign ministry. So I haven’t been able to alert our government as to what’s happening. When I learned there would be a May Day reception and that a Lao delegation was invited, I knew it would be our best chance. Perhaps our last. I was so happy when I saw your name on the list, Siri. You’re exactly the type of man I need to fight for us, for the Khmer.”
Dr Siri Paiboun: Love Songs from a Shallow Grave (2010) Page 20
