I’ve never faced it.
Well, the truth is as dark as I am, and you live in me, the darkness.
She had read books – well, the first chapter of books – and then dropped them as if her fingers were scalded. There was no truth for her in books. The truth ahead of her would be loneliness, dreary adulthood, and penance.
Grow up.
The palm-leaf panels stirred like waiting ghosts.
All through the long bus ride back, she said nothing. Dara went silent too, and hung his head.
In the huge and empty hotel suite, darkness awaited her. She’d had the phone and the TV removed; her footsteps sounded hollow. Jorani and the driver had been her only friends.
The next day she did not go to Soriya Market. She went instead to the torture museum of Tuol Sleng.
A cadre of young motoboys waited outside the hotel in baseball caps and bling. Instead, Sith hailed a sweet-faced older motoboy with a battered, rusty bike.
As they drove she asked him about his family. He lived alone and had no one except for his mother in Kompong Thom.
Outside the gates of Tuol Sleng he said, “This was my old school.”
In one wing there were rows of rooms with one iron bed in each with handcuffs and stains on the floor. Photos on the wall showed twisted bodies chained to those same beds as they were found on the day of liberation. In one photograph, a chair was overturned as if in a hurry.
Sith stepped outside and looked instead at a beautiful house over the wall across the street. It was a high white house like her own, with pillars and a roof terrace and bougainvillaea, a modern daughter’s house. What do they think when they look out from that roof terrace? How can they live here?
The grass was tended and full of hopping birds. People were painting the shutters of the prison a fresh blue-grey.
In the middle wing, the rooms were galleries of photographed faces. They stared out at her like the faces from her printer. Were some of them the same?
“Who are they?” she found herself asking a Cambodian visitor.
“Their own,” the woman replied. “This is where they sent Khmer Rouge cadres who had fallen out of favour. They would not waste such torture on ordinary Cambodians.”
Some of the faces were young and beautiful men. Some were children or dignified old women.
The Cambodian lady kept pace with her. Company? Did she guess who Sith was? “They couldn’t simply beat party cadres to death. They sent them and their entire families here. The children too, the grandmothers. They had different days of the week for killing children and wives.”
An innocent looking man smiled out at the camera as sweetly as her aged motoboy, directly into the camera of his torturers. He seemed to expect kindness from them, and decency. Comrades, he seemed to say.
The face in the photograph moved. It smiled more broadly and was about to speak.
Sith eyes darted away. The next face sucked all her breath away.
It was not a stranger. It was Dara, her Dara, in black shirt and black cap. She gasped and looked back at the lady. Her pinched and solemn face nodded up and down. Was she a ghost too?
Sith reeled outside and hid her face and didn’t know if she could go on standing. Tears slid down her face and she wanted to be sick and she turned her back so no one could see.
Then she walked to the motoboy, sitting in a shelter. In complete silence, she got on his bike feeling angry at the place, angry at the government for preserving it, angry at the foreigners who visited it like a tourist attraction, angry at everything.
That is not who we are! That is not what I am!
The motoboy slipped onto his bike, and Sith asked him: What happened to your family? It was a cruel question. He had to smile and look cheerful. His father had run a small shop; they went out into the country and never came back. He lived with his brother in a jeum-room, a refugee camp in Thailand. They came back to fight the Vietnamese and his brother was killed.
She was going to tell the motoboy, drive me back to the Hilton, but she felt ashamed. Of what? Just how far was she going to run?
She asked him to take her to the old house on Monivong Boulevard.
As the motorcycle wove through back streets, dodging red-earth ruts and pedestrians, she felt rage at her father. How dare he involve her in something like that! Sith had lived a small life and had no measure of things so she thought: it’s as if someone tinted my hair and it all fell out. It’s as if someone pierced my ears and they got infected and my whole ear rotted away.
She remembered that she had never felt any compassion for her father. She had been twelve years old when he stood trial, old and sick and making such a show of leaning on his stick. Everything he did was a show. She remembered rolling her eyes in constant embarrassment. Oh, he was fine in front of rooms full of adoring students. He could play the bong thom with them. They thought he was enlightened. He sounded good, using his false, soft and kindly little voice, as if he was dubbed. He had made Sith recite Verlaine, Rimbaud, and Rilke. He killed thousands for having foreign influences.
I don’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve you for a father. But you were not my father in a previous life and you won’t be my father in the next. I reject you utterly. I will never burn your name. You can wander hungry out of hell every year for all eternity. I will pray to keep you in hell.
I am not your daughter!
If you were false, I have to be true.
Her old house looked abandoned in the stark afternoon light, closed and innocent. At the doorstep she turned and thrust a fistful of dollars into the motoboy’s hand. She couldn’t think straight; she couldn’t even see straight, her vision blurred.
Back inside, she calmly put down her teddy-bear rucksack and walked upstairs to her office. Aido the robot dog whirred his way toward her. She had broken his back leg kicking him downstairs. He limped, whimpering like a dog, and lowered his head to have it stroked.
To her relief, there was only one picture waiting for her in the tray of the printer.
Kol Vireakboth looked out at her, middle-aged, handsome, worn, wise. Pity and kindness glowed in his eyes.
The land line began to ring.
“Youl prom,” she told the ghosts. Agreed.
She picked up the receiver and waited.
A man spoke. “My name was Yin Bora.” His voice bubbled up brokenly as if from underwater.
A light blinked in the printer. A photograph slid out quickly. A young student stared out at her looking happy at a family feast. He had a Beatle haircut and a striped shirt.
“That’s me,” said the voice on the phone. “I played football.”
Sith coughed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Write my name,” said the ghost.
“Please hold the line,” said Sith, in a hypnotised voice. She fumbled for a pen, and then wrote on the photograph Yin Bora, footballer. He looked so sweet and happy. “You have no one to mourn you,” she realised.
“None of us have anyone left alive to mourn us,” said the ghost.
Then there was a terrible sound down the telephone, as if a thousand voices moaned at once.
Sith involuntarily dropped the receiver into place. She listened to her heart thump and thought about what was needed. She fed the printer with the last of her paper. Immediately it began to roll out more photos, and the land line rang again.
She went outside and found the motoboy, waiting patiently for her. She asked him to go and buy two reams of copying paper. At the last moment she added pens and writing paper and matches. He bowed and smiled and bowed again, pleased to have found a patron.
She went back inside, and with just a tremor in her hand picked up the phone.
For the next half hour, she talked to the dead, and found photographs and wrote down names. A woman mourned her children. Sith found photos of them all, and united them, father, mother, three children, uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents, taping their pictures to her wall. The idea of uniting familie
s appealed. She began to stick the other photos onto her wall.
Someone called from outside and there on her doorstep was the motoboy, balancing paper and pens. “I bought you some soup.” The broth came in neatly tied bags and was full of rice and prawns. She thanked him and paid him well and he beamed at her and bowed again and again.
All afternoon, the pictures kept coming. Darkness fell, the phone rang, the names were written, until Sith’s hand, which was unused to writing anything, ached.
The doorbell rang, and on the doorstep, the motoboy sompiahed. “Excuse me, Lady, it is very late. I am worried for you. Can I get you dinner?”
Sith had to smile. He sounded motherly in his concern. They are so good at building a relationship with you, until you cannot do without them. In the old days she would have sent him away with a few rude words. Now she sent him away with an order.
And wrote.
And when he came back, the aged motoboy looked so happy. “I bought you fruit as well, Lady,” he said, and added, shyly. “You do not need to pay me for that.”
Something seemed to bump under Sith, as if she was on a motorcycle, and she heard herself say, “Come inside. Have some food too.”
The motoboy sompiahed in gratitude and as soon as he entered, the phone stopped ringing.
They sat on the floor. He arched his neck and looked around at the walls.
“Are all these people your family?” he asked.
She whispered. “No. They’re ghosts who no one mourns.”
“Why do they come to you?” His mouth fell open in wonder.
“Because my father was Pol Pot,” said Sith, without thinking.
The motoboy sompiahed. “Ah.” He chewed and swallowed and arched his head back again. “That must be a terrible thing. Everybody hates you.”
Sith had noticed that wherever she sat in the room, the eyes in the photographs were directly on her. “I haven’t done anything,” said Sith.
“You’re doing something now,” said the motoboy. He nodded and stood up, sighing with satisfaction. Life was good with a full stomach and a patron. “If you need me, Lady, I will be outside.”
Photo after photo, name after name.
Youk Achariya: touring dancer
Proeung Chhay: school superintendent
Sar Kothida child, aged 7, died of “swelling disease”
Sar Makara, her mother, nurse
Nath Mittapheap, civil servant, from family of farmers
Chor Monirath: wife of award-winning engineer
Yin Sokunthea: Khmer Rouge commune leader
She looked at the faces and realised. Dara, I’m doing this for Dara.
The City around her went quiet and she became aware that it was now very late indeed. Perhaps she should just make sure the motoboy had gone home.
He was still waiting outside.
“It’s okay. You can go home. Where do you live?”
He waved cheerfully north. “Oh, on Monivong, like you.” He grinned at the absurdity of the comparison.
A new idea took sudden form. Sith said, “Tomorrow, can you come early, with a big feast? Fish and rice and greens and pork: curries and stir-fries and kebabs.” She paid him handsomely, and finally asked him his name. His name meant Golden.
“Good night, Sovann.”
For the rest of the night she worked quickly like an answering service. This is like a cleaning of the house before a festival, she thought. The voices of the dead became ordinary, familiar. Why are people afraid of the dead? The dead can’t hurt you. The dead want what you want: justice.
The wall of faces became a staircase and a garage and a kitchen of faces, all named. She had found Jorani’s coloured yarn, and linked family members into trees.
She wrote until the electric lights looked discoloured, like a headache. She asked the ghosts, “Please can I sleep now?” The phones fell silent and Sith slumped with relief onto the polished marble floor.
She woke up dazed, still on the marble floor. Sunlight flooded the room. The faces in the photographs no longer looked swollen and bruised. Their faces were not accusing or mournful. They smiled down on her. She was among friends.
With a whine, the printer started to print; the phone started to ring. Her doorbell chimed, and there was Sovann, white cardboard boxes piled up on the back of his motorcycle. He wore the same shirt as yesterday, a cheap blue copy of a Lacoste. A seam had parted under the arm. He only has one shirt, Sith realised. She imagined him washing it in a basin every night.
Sith and Sovann moved the big tables to the front windows. Sith took out her expensive tablecloths for the first time, and the bronze platters. The feast was laid out as if at New Year. Sovann had bought more paper and pens. He knew what they were for. “I can help, Lady.”
He was old enough to have lived in a country with schools, and he could write in a beautiful, old-fashioned hand. Together he and Sith spelled out the names of the dead and burned them.
“I want to write the names of my family too,” he said. He burnt them weeping.
The delicious vapours rose. The air was full of the sound of breathing in. Loose papers stirred with the breeze. The ash filled the basins, but even after working all day, Sith and the motoboy had only honoured half the names.
“Good night, Sovann,” she told him.
“You have transferred a lot of merit,” said Sovann, but only to be polite.
If I have any merit to transfer, thought Sith.
He left and the printers started, and the phone. She worked all night, and only stopped because the second ream of paper ran out.
The last picture printed was of Kol Vireakboth.
Dara, she promised herself. Dara next.
In the morning, she called him. “Can we meet at lunchtime for another walk by the river?”
Sith waited on top of the marble wall and watched an old man fish in the Tonlé Sap river and found that she loved her country. She loved its tough, smiling, uncomplaining people, who had never offered her harm, after all the harm her family had done them. Do you know you have the daughter of the monster sitting here among you?
Suddenly all Sith wanted was to be one of them. The monks in the pavilion, the white-shirted functionaries scurrying somewhere, the lazy bones dangling their legs, the young men who dress like American rappers and sold something dubious, drugs, or sex.
She saw Dara sauntering toward her. He wore his new shirt, and smiled at her but he didn’t look relaxed. It had been two days since they’d met. He knew something was wrong, that she had something to tell him. He had bought them lunch in a little cardboard box. Maybe for the last time, thought Sith.
They exchanged greetings, almost like cousins. He sat next to her and smiled and Sith giggled in terror at what she was about to do.
Dara asked, “What’s funny?”
She couldn’t stop giggling. “Nothing is funny. Nothing.” She sighed in order to stop and terror tickled her and she spurted out laughter again. “I lied to you. Kol Vireakboth is not my father. Another politician was my father. Someone you’ve heard of . . .”
The whole thing was so terrifying and absurd that the laughter squeezed her like a fist and she couldn’t talk. She laughed and wept at the same time. Dara stared.
“My father was Saloth Sar. That was his real name.” She couldn’t make herself say it. She could tell a motoboy, but not Dara? She forced herself onward. “My father was Pol Pot.”
Nothing happened.
Sitting next to her, Dara went completely still. People strolled past; boats bobbed on their moorings.
After a time Dara said, “I know what you are doing.”
That didn’t make sense. “Doing? What do you mean?”
Dara looked sour and angry. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” He sat, looking away from her. Sith’s laughter had finally shuddered to a halt. She sat peering at him, waiting. “I told you my family were modest,” he said quietly.
“Your family are lovely!” Sith exclaimed.
His ja
w thrust out. “They had questions about you too, you know.”
“I don’t understand.”
He rolled his eyes. He looked back round at her. “There are easier ways to break up with someone.”
He jerked himself to his feet and strode away with swift determination, leaving her sitting on the wall.
Here on the riverfront, everyone was equal. The teenage boys lounged on the wall; poor mothers herded children; the foreigners walked briskly, trying to look as if they didn’t carry moneybelts. Three fat teenage girls nearly swerved into a cripple in a pedal chair and collapsed against each other with raucous laughter.
Sith did not know what to do. She could not move. Despair humbled her, made her hang her head.
I’ve lost him.
The sunlight seemed to settle next to her, washing up from its reflection on the wake of some passing boat.
No you haven’t.
The river water smelled of kindly concern. The sounds of traffic throbbed with forbearance.
Not yet.
There is no forgiveness in Cambodia. But there are continual miracles of compassion and acceptance.
Sith appreciated for just a moment the miracles. The motoboy buying her soup. She decided to trust herself to the miracles.
Sith talked to the sunlight without making a sound. Grandfather Vireakboth. Thank you. You have told me all I need to know.
Sith stood up and from nowhere, the motoboy was there. He drove her to the Hello Phone shop.
Dara would not look at her. He bustled back and forth behind the counter, though there was nothing for him to do. Sith talked to him like a customer. “I want to buy a mobile phone,” she said, but he would not answer. “There is someone I need to talk to.”
Another customer came in. She was a beautiful daughter too, and he served her, making a great show of being polite. He complimented her on her appearance. “Really, you look cool.” The girl looked pleased. Dara’s eyes darted in Sith’s direction.
Sith waited in the chair. This was home for her now. Dara ignored her. She picked up her phone and dialled his number. He put it to his ear and said, “Go home.”
“You are my home,” she said.
His thumb jabbed the C button.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18 Page 50
