“I owe you my life,” Nang said, thinking of the unnamed hamlet south of Phum Chamkar where, by holding her skirt, he’d pretended to use her as a hostage and thus kept the Khmer Viet Minh agents at bay. Her closeness made him uneasy.
Nu stepped closer until their breaths mingled in the stale air of the warehouse. “It’s okay,” she whispered sweetly. Nu placed her hands at his hips. Nang thought of countermoves, of parries, of leg sweeps. Her touch was soft even though her hands were rough and callused. “It’s okay,” she whispered again as she slid one hand between his legs and gently squeezed him. Nang stood perfectly still. He was afraid, confused. A yothea was pure. A yothea was righteous. A yothea was desire not contrary to duty. Nu massaged the growing erection in his pants, “You like that, don’t you? I can tell.” Nang’s face flashed a silly smile. Nu unbuttoned his fly. Then she took his left hand and brought it to her breast. “It’s okay, Nang,” she said sweetly. “Squeeze me. Feel me.”
Nang squeezed Nu’s breast as she lightly stroked the hard rod pressing against his pants. For him the sensations were new. Her soft firmness, the nipple projecting into the center of his palm, the warmth. With his right hand he rubbed her hip, back to the hard muscular ass, down her outer thigh. She nuzzled her face into his neck and nipped him, then turned her head and gently bit his jaw, then his chin. As she did she slipped two fingers into his pants and touched, pulled at his cock. “I...I...I am of the Brotherhood of the Pure,” he stammered, confused.
“And I, of the Sisterhood of the Pure,” Nu purred. “That makes it okay. Two pure people can do this. It’s right for us. Undo my shirt.”
Nang raised his right hand to the buttons. Nu opened his pants. Immediately Nang dropped his hand. Nu grabbed both his hands and crushed them to her breasts as she thrust her groin against him. She grabbed his right hand and kissed the stubs. She licked them. She sucked them, all the time forcing his good hand under her shirt. “These”—Nu gasped, licked the stubs again—“these are a symbol of your love for our people and for Angkar.” Her left hand was strong, hard. With it she held his right wrist and jammed his mutilation into her mouth. Her shirt was open. She gyrated her breasts against his arm and chest. She grabbed his erection and pressed it against her pants. Then she backed half a step away to stare at the manhood in her hand as she roughly stimulated her own left tit with his two-fingered paw.
In Nang’s mind a floodgate holding back the long-inundated past creaked open, splashing his consciousness with humiliation. Some of the girls already saw me, a voice whimpered. Khieng and Heng held me.
Nu opened her pants. Nang’s erection wilted. Nu mashed his two-fingered hand against her pubic bush, mashed and rammed it back and forth opening her labia. “This is your first time, isn’t it?” Her mouth was wet, juicy. “I’ll make it very special,” she whispered. She pushed him down to his knees, circled him, removed his shirt and hers. She stood before him. Removed her pants, advanced, rubbing her thigh against his scarred face. Then Nu put a foot under his cock and balls and worked it side to side, back and forth, working her big toe to the rim of his anus. “You’re such a sweet boy,” she babbled. Again she held his right wrist, now working his stubs over her clitoris. As if moonstruck Nang bit her thigh, hard from thousands of miles of trail walking, bit her as she undulated against his hand and head. “Do you think, my lovely Nang,” Nu mumbled, “that that bastard in China does this? He steals a hundred thousand riels every month to wine and dine Chinese whores while we fight and die for the people. Ooo!” She rubbed his stubs hard over her clit. “Smell me! Do I smell like Sihanouk’s whores? Oh, my little piggy. Can you smell other men on me?” She grabbed his head and forced it between her thighs. “Smell me, Piggy. Snort me. Root your nose in me, Pig. Am I a butterfly? Ummm...!”
Nu backed away, panting, spent. She smirked at the mostly naked boy still kneeling before her. “Next time,” she said as she pulled her clothes on, “I’ll make it very special...for you.” Then she left.
For a moment Nang remained on his knees staring down the length of the warehouse. He felt used, dirty, humiliated. He felt excited. He could not think. Then his mind cleared as if he simply erased all thoughts, as if in so doing he could protect himself, maintain his biological integrity. Then he thought, where’s the forklift? There used to be a forklift truck in here.
The room was dark. On a table at one end two small candles in thick glass cups flickered red-yellow. Behind the table were four men, Met Phan, Met Yon, Met Meas and Met Dy. There were others in the room, along the side walls and behind him but in the darkness Nang couldn’t see them. By his side, having led him to the room blindfolded, led him through a labyrinth of twisting corridors, was his mentor, Met Sar.
“Comrade, you bring before the Center a candidate.” Phan’s voice was cold.
“I do,” Sar responded.
“Are you his sponsor?”
“He’s his own sponsor.”
“Let him stand alone,” Phan directed. Sar disappeared into the blackness.
“Candidate”—in Meas’s voice there was disgust—“who are you?”
“I am Met Nang,” Nang answered. The two dim candles in the darkness seemed to move, rise slightly then fall. The entire room felt liquid and Nang felt off balance.
“I know of no Met Nang who qualifies for membership,” Met Dy responded.
“I am Met Nang of Kompong Thom,” Nang, said more loudly. “I am the commander of Battalion KT-104.”
“A battalion commander? That’s all?” There was a pause. Then Dy added, “Who is his sponsor?” No one answered. “Take him out of here.”
“Wait. Ah, I...I’m my own sponsor,” Nang said.
The leaders talked quietly amongst themselves. What reached Nang’s ears was “Only a battalion comm...” “...104th? Lost half his strugglers, didn’t he?” “Perhaps he didn’t fight...” “I heard some ran.” “Okay. Okay.”
“We have but two questions for you.” Phan was harsh, sneering, speaking as if Nang’s presence were an irritant. “Why should we accept you as a provisional member of the Party?”
The candles tilted again and the room seemed to shift. Nang was unprepared. The first slogan that came to mind blurted from his mouth. “I believe in what Angkar has done for me, for all people and for all eternity.” Nang hesitated. No one spoke. To fill the void he added, “I believe Angkar is a gift to the people. I praise and adore Angkar.”
“Hump!” Dy leaned toward a candle. The light streaked eerily up his face. “What can you do to advance the Will of the Party?”
“I can fight.” Nang’s words were clipped. “I can struggle. I can use my will to drive others as Angkar directs. I know how to fight the Viet Namese. And the nationals.”
When Nang stopped Meas asked curtly, “Is that all you have to say?”
Nang felt his answer was good. He stuttered incoherently.
“Blindfold him,” Phan ordered. “Take him away. The Center will inform the candidate in a short while.”
Sar led Nang to a pitch-black holding cell. “Remain here,” he directed the boy. “Think only of how much you wish to be a provisional member and of how much you love Angkar. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Met Sar...”
“I’m sorry. You’re not allowed to talk now. Leave the blindfold on. I’ll return shortly.”
An hour passed before Sar returned. His steps were heavy. At first he did not speak but only opened the cell door and sat beside Nang. A terrible foreboding swept into the cage with him. “Nang.”
“Yes. What’s happened?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve spoken for you but there are problems.”
“Problems?”
“Have you ever....No. Never mind. I don’t understand but someone has given you a dagger and not a blossom. It must be unanimous.”
“Who? Huh? What?”
“I don’t know. You received a dagger. All the others have been accepted. You know them. Met Rin. Met Nu. Even Ngoc Minh who was trained in Ha
noi and surely is a yuon in Khmer skin.”
“I haven’t...”
“I know.” Sar sighed long and low. “Would you like me to attempt to talk to them again?”
“I...I...I don’t know. Would you?”
“Do you truly love Angkar? Do you truly wish to serve the Party?”
“Oh, yes. Yes!”
“Can you serve me with all your energies?”
“Met Sar, I’ve always served you. With all my heart.”
“Then I’ll try again. This has never happened before. Wait my return. If you don’t receive all blossoms you’ll be banished. It is so written.”
Again Sar left. Nang began a long torturous wait. At first he was numbed by Sar’s pronouncements. “Never before...only you...banished...” Why? he asked himself. Why? Because of my face? My hand? What Nang did not know was that all of the candidates were being treated identically, all told the same lie—a ploy designed to deepen their commitment to Angkar Leou. Yet in Nang the questioning and anguish swiftly shifted, and in numbness other questions surged. A dagger? Who would dagger me? In his mind he visualized Meas grasping a tiny carved bamboo sword from the double basket and dropping it into the empty side. Banished! What would I do? Why didn’t Sar sponsor me? That bastard. I’ve been set up. Oh...Oh shit! I have been. Nu is accepted. She talked. I’m...I’m no longer pure. Nang squatted in a corner of the cell and hung his head between his knees. Do they know? Did she tell them? Bitch! Smelly stinking whore! Wait. Just wait! Banished! They can fuck dagger holes in the dead. Meas! Hump! “Who am I?” Who did he think I was? He didn’t know? Everyone’s heard of Met Nang. “I know of no Met Nang...!” What an idiot. Or was that Dy? They didn’t know I commanded a battalion? A battalion! Morons! Prepare the battlefield. Why didn’t I know it was a battlefield? I’m part of them! They can’t banish me. I can kill them. I’ll kill them all. They...They...They’re the ones who need be banished. Who need elimination! If they’re the best, I don’t need them.
Nang stood but the cage roof was low and he wasn’t able to stand without stooping his head. Still he tried. Then he knelt, held his head high, his shoulders square, but he saw in the darkness Met Nu’s nakedness, smelled her aroma, tasted her saltiness. The vision excited him but he hated it.
Two, three, four hours passed in solitary confinement. No word. No sound. No light. No water. Nang was thirsty. He needed to relieve himself. As the hours passed his thoughts vacillated but generally they moved further and further from Angkar, from the Movement, from the Brotherhood. They had already abandoned him. Now he mentally mourned the passing and prepared for banishment. A robotic cold swept over him. I don’t need them, he told himself. What a waste of my struggling....But I don’t need them. He relieved himself at one corner of the cage.
“Nang. Come, Nang.” It was Sar.
“Where...”
“Don’t talk. Let me check the blindfold.” His voice was flat, revealing nothing.
“Are they—”
“Don’t talk.”
Sar led the boy through the twisting maze to the darkened room. No one spoke but all around Nang could hear people shuffling, sniffing, breathing. Sar pushed him, guided him forward, to the side, then turned him to face away from the table. At each elbow he could feel another standing. Then, through the blindfold he could sense bright light.
“Candidates,” Sar’s sweet ceremonious voice bloomed in his ears, “remove your blindfolds.”
Nang shoved his thumbs under the cloth and lifted. The light was blinding. All around the room men were clapping, cheering, smiling. At his right was Nu, at his left Ngoc Minh, then Rin and three men he didn’t know. The applause grew louder then slowly faded as old members converged on the new patting them on the shoulders, grasping their hands, congratulating each with great sincerity. Sar grabbed Nang and hugged him and Nang raised his arms and hugged his mentor. As he hugged, his chin over Sar’s shoulder, he stared at his mangled hand and thought, I don’t need them. I don’t need any of them.
The next morning Nang appeared before Sar and Dy. Without recognition of the previous day’s event Sar said, “Your battalion will spearhead the drive east. There is a small town”—Sar pointed to a map of the Northeast—“here, called Phum Sath Din. Just beyond it there is an NVA headquarters and hospital complex. Rendezvous with the resistance. Ngoc Minh has more specifics.”
“You have reached the age of reason,” Chhuon said. He was sitting on the step with his youngest son, Sakhon, whom they called Peou. “From tonight, you can be my assistant.” The night was clear and dark without moon or lantern light. Only a single small candle burned on the low table in the central room behind them.
“Papa,” Peou said, his voice questioning, demanding, “was Grandpa an exploiter?”
“My father!” Chhuon immediately glanced back though he knew Hang Tung was not in the house.
“He rented land to farmers, yes?”
“No. The Cahuoms always worked their own land.”
“But you didn’t. I remember when you had a truck. You drove everywhere. We had fields, so you must have rented them.”
“Who tells you that?” Chhuon lightly put an arm about his son’s shoulder but the boy pulled away.
“They say in school everyone who owns land but doesn’t work it is an exploiter.”
“My cousins worked our land,” Chhuon said defensively. “I didn’t exploit them. When I was young I worked in the fields.
My father insisted all his sons go to school and each of us moved from the paddies to more important responsibilities.”
“My teacher says nothing is more important than growing rice.”
“What about obtaining the seed?”
“That’s what she says. Nothing’s more important.”
“Does she allow you to think about where the seed comes from? About those who develop new strains? About the men who ship rice? About those who build the boats in which rice is shipped?”
“She said, ‘Nothing’s more important than growing rice.’ I think she’s right.”
“Growing rice is important, Peou, but...”
“It’s the only important thing.”
“Peou, you are still very young. What one sees is not independent of what one is.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“It is true.”
Dinner that night was rice from the new harvest, a tough dark grain with short ears cooked into a heavy paste with a few crayfish for flavoring. Chhuon barely spoke. His mother no longer ate with the others; his wife was trapped in bitterness and no longer looked at her husband. Without Hang Tung Chhuon’s conversation was restricted to chatter with his youngest son.
“Do you remember the beautiful white rice from before the war?” Chhuon asked.
“No,” Peou answered. “Before the revolution we didn’t have very much so I don’t remember it.”
“Oh, we had lots. More than...”
“No we didn’t.” Peou was staunch.
“Yes.” Chhuon responded. “We had wonderful rice.”
“That’s because you exploited your cousins.”
“Damn it!” Chhuon smacked his fingertips on the low table. “I did not exploit my cousins. You’ve got to resist their teachings.”
“You’re calling my teacher a liar.”
“Where do you learn these things?”
“My teacher says that exploiters will say that things were better before. That...” The boy became excited and tongue-tied.
Chhuon tapped his chest. “I...I am chairman here. The new seed is wrong. It’s old. It’s the wrong strain. Better suited for lowland provinces. Even the monks in the fields knew the seed was poor. I...”
“She said,” Peou, in tears, blurted, “exploiters would call her a liar. But she’s not. You’re the liar.” Peou jumped up jarring the table. He ran from the house.
Before Lieutenant Colonel Nui and Political Officer Trinh, Hang Tung made his accusations and displayed his timetable evidence.
“You�
��re sure?” Colonel Nui asked.
“I’m sure,” Tung answered. About them, in the NVA headquarters camp east of Phum Sath Din, was but a skeleton staff of logistics and personnel officers and workers. On the mountain below the main headquarters building the dispensary had been enlarged to hospital size. Operating and ward rooms had been carved into the earth and, aboveground, a set of hootches had been erected for convalescence.
Nui stood. He walked toward the wall, then back to Hang Tung then again toward the wall. In the village to the west there were now twenty Viet Namese families, almost one hundred people, or ten percent of the population of Phum Sath Din. They were dependants of cadre and officers with semipermanent stationing at the NVA headquarters, and their integration into the life of the village was nearly total. They lived in homes amid Khmer homes. Their children went to the new school with Khmer children. The wives “shopped” and received rations with Khmer, wives. And all suffered the demands of the army. Even Colonel Nui’s wife complained about the army’s needs and the lack of quality production materials. In perfect Khmer she chatted quietly with others while waiting in line for tins of rice. “The war demands more,” she would say, “and we produce less. With each new regiment coming south their needs increase.” To her husband she would say in private, “These people, these poor people. Must they sacrifice so?”
Nui turned, stopped. He looked at Tung. “You’re sure?” he asked again. How badly he wanted the Viet-Khmer integration to work. How badly he wanted liberty for all Indochinese under the tutelage of the obvious leaders of all Indochinese, the North Viet Namese. And how well it was working. The Americans had suffered heavy blows and were “bo-ing” Viet Nam, not simply withdrawing but discarding their ally.
“Colonel,” Cadreman Trinh addressed Nui. “Let me call him in for interrogation. Perhaps he’ll confess.”
“Of all men,” Nui lamented. He plopped down in the chair, exhausted.
Chhuon could not overtly disobey. It was not in his character, not in the national character. To even verbally contradict one in authority, or a friend or relative, was painful to both. For Chhuon his entire body would physically tighten, cramp, giving him painful stomachaches which would be followed by burning, and painful headaches which could cause his eyes to blur and his teeth to throb. Thus each directive he received from Hang Tung or Colonel Nui he followed, passed on and enforced. He had learned to keep quiet, to show no emotion, learned this as much to avoid the pain as to avoid ostracism or reproaches. When Nui was feeling harassed or was in an ugly mood, Chhuon assuaged his irritations by asking for and usually receiving extra work or extra compliance from the villagers. They too could not overtly disobey. When Nui was in a generous mood, Chhuon made requests for more lenient rice taxes or administrative control, for better rations, more oil and salt, or for less militarism in the civilian areas. And Nui, if it was possible, complied. On the surface their relationship was good. Too good.
For the Sake of All Living Things Page 61
