Music of the Ghosts

by Vaddey Ratner

  Teera thinks back to her meeting with the Old Musician only a few days ago, six weeks after the long, heartbreaking revelation they’d shared in the ceremony hall. He seemed taken aback to see her return to the temple, to hear that she’d come specifically to visit him. For a long time they sat facing each other in mutual silence. Then, he said, “What I did . . . those many years ago . . . cannot be forgiven. Still, I am profoundly sorry.”

  They plunged into another silence. Finally, she said, “When my mother took her own life, I blamed myself. Rin, my baby brother, had just died, you see, and she was grieving. I should’ve found some way to pull her out of that awful despair, I thought. I was angry at myself, and, unable to bear this anger, I lashed out at the world.” The words flowed out of Teera, filling the gulf between them. “I’ve since learned something about anger and despair. You can always direct your anger at something—someone. And when you do, there’s almost certainly a response, and thus you have company, you’re not alone in anger. Eventually it grows and intensifies, depleting you of energy, but before that it can offer a certain seductive comfort.” She paused, swallowing, moistening her throat. “But with despair, you are alone. You grieve in solitude. You sink deeper and deeper into it, to where no one can reach you, and you have to gather all your strength to fight your way back to the surface. So, slowly, I’ve had to learn to let go of anger—to feel it but not to cling to it, as Amara taught me by her example—because whatever strength I have I must reserve for the fight against that solitary descent into grief.” Teera looked up and saw tears pooling in his good eye, a faint stream seeping from underneath the patch covering the injured one. “I am here because I’ve fought my way to the surface again.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment, a confluence of the inexpressible between them. A sudden intake of breath that sounded like a sob. From whom, neither could be sure. He nodded, and for a moment, Teera glimpsed her mother beside him—his younger self, Tun—both looking as they had that day when the two of them stood side by side at the riverfront releasing a sparrow, while she, little Suteera, sipped sugarcane juice on a bench behind them. In her remembering, Teera had mistaken him for her father. The heart, she realized as she stared at him, holds its own trial. It bears witness to what the mind easily forgets, and yet it forgives every act of love.

  She flips to the back pocket of her journal and pulls out the black-and-white photograph of her parents, turning it over to look at the tentative designation in Amara’s handwriting—1962? The year her parents married, this she’s always known, from her aunt’s recounting of the wedding festivities. She wonders now whether the picture was taken before or after. Could it be that the captured festive scene was a party during the weeklong celebration? If so, the Old Musician was part of the scene, somewhere in the uncaptured periphery, playing music with the ensemble sent, according to Amara, by the Ministry of Culture. A gesture honoring her grandfather, Le Conseiller, a dedicated patron of the arts, on the joyous occasion of his daughter’s marriage. They were all there, Teera realizes in astonishment.

  Then, as if acting of its own free will, the tip of her pen begins to blot out the year. It’s not important when the image was taken. She’d like to believe that somewhere in the uncharted periphery of time and memory they still are there, all together.

  Music is everywhere, voices warbling amidst the reverberations of activity. Again, Teera looks up from her desk and sees that the men are busy sawing and hammering, measuring distances with their steps, pounding stakes into the ground after a certain number of paces, organizing the tall metal poles, unrolling the tarps. They sing as they work, seamlessly finishing one love duet and moving on to the next, as if taking cue from their cell phones ringing every so often. Both duets, Teera notes, are from the past, from pre–Khmer Rouge days, but the words still resonate, speaking to the challenge of romance at a distance, forbidden connections—the hazards of dialing the wrong number, mistaking the voices of strangers for those of desired ones, longings across time and space. One group croons the girl’s lyric, another the boy’s. Allô, allô? Oun? . . . Ni peit chhkuat. Mien neak-na chhkuat? Teera laughs, recognizing the comical introduction of this “Hello” song as the caller misdials—“Hello, hello? Darling? . . .” and the voice on the other end responds, “This is an asylum for the insane. Do you have anyone who’s insane?” She wonders if it’s a parody of the “Hello Hello” song she’s hummed to Narunn.

  As if sensing her thinking of him, Narunn pokes his head in the doorway and whispers, “The wind chime’s up.” He nods for her to listen, and Teera is suddenly aware of the melodic tinkling beneath her window. “Lah’s very proud that she showed me the proper place to hang it.”

  Teera smiles. “I’ll come down now,” she tells him, closing her journal. Narunn skips back down the stairs, the whole house vibrating with his steps, the wind chime jingling louder. Teera gets up from her desk, pausing mid-motion, remembering something. She opens the journal again, takes out the black-and-white photograph, and props it up against a stack of books on one of the floating shelves. “Your new home,” she murmurs to her parents, and the gathered throng, those seen and unseen. “One of many.”

  Outside, Lah points to the wind chime hanging from the eave extending over the patio. “Look, Ma-Mieng, it makes those croaking uncles stop singing!”

  Narunn bursts out laughing. It’s true. The rainlike song of the wind chime has serenaded the men into silence.

  “The Venerable Kong Oul will be happy to know . . . to see it here . . . like this,” Teera says, thinking of the gun the abbot gave to Narunn, its journey, this final transformation.

  “Let’s go see what’s cooking!” Narunn exclaims. “I don’t think we had breakfast.”

  Teera looks across to Yaya’s land, where the female members of the household are now fully immersed in culinary preparations, with pots steaming, flames leaping from the earthen braziers, the fragrances of spices thickening the air.

  “But, Pa-Om,” Lah reminds him, “we cannot eat before the monks!”

  “Oh, I’m sure Auntie Ravi has set aside some nibbles for us.”

  The monks have arrived, like a row of candle flames moving across the land, their saffron robes and yellow umbrellas lit by the sunlight. They enter the canopy and step barefoot onto the slightly raised platform, leaving their sandals in the grass, their closed umbrellas in a woven basket near the edge. The Venerable Kong Oul lowers himself on the cushion in the middle, his movement so tranquil and weightless that for a second he seems half afloat. Three novices assume their places on either side of him, Makara on his immediate right, a picture of stillness, spiritual discipline. The youth gathers the hem of his robe and tucks it beneath his crossed legs, his gestures restrained, deliberate. He faces the crowd but his gaze recedes inward, delving toward some deep place of solitude. Had Narunn not told Teera of the adolescent’s recent struggle to overcome addiction, she would never have guessed he’d been anything other than a monk, ordained at a tender age.

  Those congregated on the straw mats bow three times, murmuring prayers, then sit straight up again, keeping their gazes lowered, palms together in front of their chests, legs folded to one side so their feet point away from the monks. Most of the elders gather in front, among them Yaya, her shorn head swaying in a row of other shorn heads, their traditional black-and-white outfits juxtaposed against the monastic robes so that they appear like a string of moons below a sequence of suns.

  As it’s already quite late in the morning, the ceremony begins without delay, in order to give the ordained time to partake of their only meal before noon, the food specially prepared in their honor. The Venerable Kong Oul turns to Makara and gives an encouraging nod. Hands clasped tightly in his lap, Makara begins chanting, his voice tremulous, lips partially revealing a set of marred teeth, and only then does it become obvious he has yet to fully recover. Still, the Venerable Kong Oul has entrusted him with the principal chanting, filling in only when the boy falters with
his memorized lines or his voice becomes so strained as to verge on disappearing. It’s common for the abbot, Narunn said, to allow the most vulnerable novices to take ownership of their spiritual practice. In the case of Makara, it has so far proven the most effective path toward his recovery, diverting his attention from his own struggle to focus on the responsibility to extend care to others, learning in small measures to exercise again the neglected faculties of compassion and self-discipline.

  The other novices join in the chanting, a ripple alternating on either side of the elder monk, who dips the sacred brush into the font of water and sprinkles the audience, the earth, the air. The wind chime peals, echoing their incantation. Trees yield in supplication to the breeze.

  In the back of the gathering, off to one side, Teera keeps looking across the land to Yaya’s house. She was inside their small house, changing into more appropriate clothes, when the monks arrived, and by the time she stepped outside, the ceremony was set to begin, so she was obliged to join and hasn’t yet had a chance to greet the Old Musician. Now a large, leafy banana palm blocks her view, so she can’t see to where he supposedly waits on the carved wooden platform under Yaya’s house, preparing himself for the invocation he will offer.

  While the land blessing ceremony is brief, joined by whoever wishes to observe the familiar ritual, the merrymaking will continue throughout the day, with friends and neighbors stopping in to offer greetings, to welcome Narunn to the neighborhood, to enjoy the evolving array of food. Teera has noticed a steady flow of guests arriving, many bringing their own specialties to contribute to the festivity. First they cluster around the cooking area, bantering with Ravi and the women in charge of the cooking, inhaling the aromas of the dishes they’ll soon enjoy. Then gradually they meander to the straw mats spread across the grounds, glad to be sitting in the sun on this refreshingly cool, windy day.

  From a distance she recognizes the young man in the wooden wheelchair, now in animated dialogue with the architect. Narunn asked the architect to bring Vichet here in his car, explaining the former runner’s disability, and also his talent with woodwork. Perhaps, Narunn hoped, the architect could make use of such talent. The two men appear to be hitting it off, Vichet gesturing passionately as he speaks and the architect listening intently, every so often responding with equal enthusiasm. It’s easy to imagine them discussing things like the pliability of bamboo and rattan, which Vichet is especially skilled at weaving, and their potential applications in home design. Mr. Chum arrives through the gate by the main road. He’d brought the monks and the Old Musician earlier in a borrowed van, and returns now accompanied by his wife, his young married daughter, and her husband and their little children. His second family, he’s always referred to them, as if the first might still be alive somewhere. He and Teera exchange a nod, and after a quick word to his family and a moment of collective recognition, they all nod. Teera wonders what he’s explained to them, what kind of family she might be in his eyes.

  Teera lets her gaze roam over to the pond where some of Yaya’s teenage great-grandchildren teeter on the edge, angling long sticks to pluck off the dry lotus pods bearing the hard, nutty seeds ideal for roasting over an open fire. She recalls Ravi explaining the purpose of the pond—to give the land “a breath of water.” Now, in the dry season, it appears to do just that, infusing every gust of wind with the smell of mud and rain. She hopes the Old Musician doesn’t find it too chilly in the shade under the house. This cool spell at the end of January has arrived auspiciously, according to Yaya, who believes it encourages all to seek the warmth of home and family. A perfect day for the ceremony.

  There’s a brief interlude between one chanted incantation and the next, as the monks pause to drink water from the glasses set for them. Narunn leans over Lah’s head and whispers to Teera, sensing her need to see the Old Musician: “Now is probably the best time to slip away.” Teera nods, telling Lah, “You stay here with Pa-Om,” as she gets up and discreetly makes her way toward Yaya’s house.

  * * *

  The Old Musician sees her approaching and, as on every prior meeting, her likeness to Channara sears him. He remembers Sokhon’s sudden revelation one afternoon during those weeks before his death. You ought to know she loved you as well. His friend had said this of Channara, as if to prepare him for what might come. Perhaps, the Old Musician thinks now, this was part of the reason it had taken him so long to return to the city. He feared he might indeed find Channara, and, after what he and Sokhon had endured, he had no wish to betray one love for another.

  Teera lowers herself onto the teak platform in front of him, arms outstretched, and the Old Musician expects her to gather the instruments he’s brought along. Instead, she embraces him. “Pa-Om,” she says, holding him a moment longer, as if to still his surprise as much as her own. Pa-Om, he repeats the word to himself, to be sure he has not mistaken it, to hold on to the sound.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, letting him go, “I know that you are preparing . . .”

  “No, I’m glad you came,” he says, his heart steadying with hers, encouraged by her calm, the kindness she continues to show him. “There is something I want to tell you. I’ve brought the instruments for your safekeeping. They are yours. I hope you will accept them now, as I will be traveling soon.”

  “Traveling?” She seems both delighted and worried. “But where, and with whom?”

  He tells her of his planned journey upriver to Kratie. A Cham couple has offered to take him on their sampan, as they will be heading to fish the valuable striped catfish in the deep pools along the northern stretches of the Mekong. “I will be safe,” he assures her, “well looked after by the husband and wife. They are kind people.” Abdul Razak is a skilled navigator, a seasoned voyager on the river, he explains, and the couple’s grandchildren are now with their parents, so there will be room for him on the small vessel.

  “Is it Chhlong? Are you going back to your mother’s home village?”

  “Yes.”

  They are silent, each afraid to say what they know in their hearts, to speak again of the suffering, the terrible loss he endured there. Teera feels that perhaps she understands his need to face that loss again.

  “When will you return to Phnom Penh?” she asks.

  He remains silent, holding her gaze with his one good eye.

  “I’ll visit you then,” she declares. “There’s so much of the country I’ve yet to see. I’d like to learn more, remember more . . . write it down.”

  “Write?” he asks, curious, taking the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Yes, I’ve always written things down . . .”

  He watches her blush at this admission, embarrassed somehow, as if the desire were a shameful illness, a transgression. Yet, it’s obvious to him that she’s inherited some part of Channara’s passion. He considers telling her that her mother was a brilliant writer, though she’d had to hide her fierce intelligence under a nom de plume. Tun Chan, he remembers. That pseudonym, the combination of their two names, was like a love letter to him in those years after she was married, and he would read everything she’d ever written under that name. He decides to keep this memory to himself, to let her continue instead—

  “Yes, you were saying, but now . . . ?”

  “Well, now there’s this.” She looks at her surroundings. “I need to capture it all somehow.” She turns from his gaze, mortified by the extravagance of her emotion, her unpolished words. Then more humbly, she adds, “Even if only in small glimpses, just for my own recollection, my own safekeeping.”

  Again, he watches her flush.

  Then, as if prompted by the last word, she’s reminded of the instruments before them. “These are as much yours as mine,” she says after a moment. “Which is why I want to ask your permission to pass them along.” She tells him about the ensemble she encountered in Siem Reap, describing each musician and each tattered instrument. “I’ll visit them again and see what else they might need for their music, but I t
hought I’d start with these—a gift from you and my father, from one ensemble to another.”

  Something floods his heart, rising to his throat, blocking it. Sorrow, happiness. At times he cannot tell them apart. He grieves now, more than ever, that Sokhon is not here to see for himself the woman his daughter has grown into, and at the same time, he is profoundly grateful to witness her in his friend’s place. Finally, he manages to say, “Yes, of course, these instruments deserve to be played. Your father would have wanted this.”

  “Thank you.”

  Just then Lah comes running. “Ma-Mieng, Ma-Mieng,” the child pants, out of breath, “Pa-Om is asking for you. The chanting is almost over. You must bring Lokta along.”

  They become aware again of the movements and sounds around them—the laughter and bantering, the clatters of cooking, the hum of conversations, the chanting, the wind chime. As they rise from the mat, she offers her arm so that he can more easily negotiate the uneven terrain.

  Beginning the slow walk together, Teera asks, “What will you offer the spirits of the land?”

  “I’ve decided on something short and simple. A smoat. Your father’s last composition. I hope you would agree that the words are most fitting for the occasion. When we occupy a place, we give thanks to the spirits that remain as well as the spirits that move on.”

  Teera nods, recalling the verse he’d shared with her. They walk together in companionable silence, Lah skipping ahead, her pigtails bouncing. They arrive just as the ceremony comes to a close, with the gathered throng bowing one last time to the monks, who remain seated. Teera looks across the land and sees a procession of food coming. Narunn helps the Old Musician onto the raised platform, where he sits at one corner so that he can see both the monks and the audience. The Venerable Kong Oul lowers his head and closes his eyes to listen, one of many unconventional gestures of respect the abbot has shown to this man others might easily mistake for a beggar.