Fuck it, he thought. He stood, snapped up straight, rolled his shoulders. Conklin was chiding him in his memory. “I got me a fine young lady...the most wonderful smile...How come you ain’t got a gal, L-T?” “No time to commit, Conk,” he’d said, or, “Haven’t found the right lady.” But in his mind too, Huntley reminded him, “...in Neak Luong...she was missin ya. She was real concerned.”
Sullivan breathed deeply. Everything was such a clusterfuck. His “advising” had blown over and he’d been allowed restricted roaming privileges, but then “advising” had rereared its horrible head and he’d been reconfined. He squeezed his hands into fists, flexed the fingers back as far as they’d go, stretched his arms up until the ceiling fan ticked his fingernails, bent straight-legged and palmed the floor. He moved to the desk. They could have rotated him, to Saigon, to the World, even to the new training facility being built in Thailand, but they’d kept him in Phnom Penh writing and rewriting the same report until he was completely sick of thinking about it...until he was confused as to what was real, what he’d invented.
She is the right lady, he said inside. He repeated it in a nearly audible mumble, then again in a clear soft voice that sounded alien to his ears.
Sullivan sat, opened his box of thin airmail sheets, removed one and in French began, Ma Amante Vathana...He stopped. He had not thought of what to write.
Again, as you surely know, I have been restricted. I think of you every day. I think of the war, of what I’ve seen, of the psychic roller-coaster we are on. It is so good to be alive—why must some spoil that for all? Life is wonderful. It should be fun. Unconquered obstacles bring suffering and the wonder stops but that’s not necessary. It is not inevitable. Though I am not allowed to leave the capital I have been able to secure some supplies for the camp and orphanage.
Sullivan paused. He would not give her the full figures but would cut them in half. If the pilfering was less, she’d be elated with the extra.
Food is being rationed to the refugees here but much becomes sidetracked. I have been able to secure the return of 2,500 kilos of cassava flour but for it to be replaced into the system would cause the shipper and warehouse manager great loss of face. It is yours. Also, via the mother of an embassy employee, we have obtained materials to build and equip a health station for your camp. Since Ron Huntley left, other items seem harder to scavenge.
Again Sullivan paused. He had not seen Vathana for two months, not since agreeing to take the wedding photo album to her mother-in-law. The longer he was away the more he pined, the more he fantasized, the more perfect she became. Come to Phnom Penh, he thought to write. Come live with me. Come be my wife, forever. But he did not write those words. Instead he reread his last line and then continued.
I am again very afraid for you. There is a pattern to Communist revolution. (1) The corruption of the established regime leads to disenfranchisement of the masses which is a vacuum for insurgency—the initial blame lies with the old guard. (2) Idealists and nationalists, with good intent and reason, are attracted to insurgent agent-led associations. The revolution begins in the countryside. (3) Once victory over local or national government is achieved, the core Communists of the associations emerge. There is then a second revolution—the Communists attack the leading idealists and nationalists. This is what occurred in North Viet Nam in 1946 when the Lao Dong Party began its liquidation of non-Communist, anti-French nationalists—about thirty groups. (4) After the second victory the Communists become more ruthless and eliminate all non-Communist rebels. (5) After the third victory they disarm and purge all elements other than their own hard-core elite. (6) Finally the hard core directs a fourth revolution against the leader-less and unarmed masses—a revolution which stands the culture on its head—the communization of all property and all patterns of life. At this stage the population is reduced to serfs or slaves depending on the benevolence, or belligerence of the new regime.
Dear Vathana, enclave Cambodia is in stage two; “liberated” Cambodia, the reports we all ignore, is at stage four or even five! How can I urge you not to be seduced into the morass of sincere-sounding Communist altruism? What can I say to convince you it is only bait, a lure to bring you under their control? With what is happening across the border—ARVN intelligence has broken the NVA radio codes and the Communist army is being smashed—it is more important than ever that you remain independent. The depths of Communist deception are bottomless. I’ve told you before some of what I’ve learned. Now our embassy has picked up radio traffic of North Korean “engineers” directing Khmer Rouge units in combat against
FANK. And yet the key to our victory remains simple: destroy their urban political structure while counterattacking their main-force units in the countryside. (FANK is reorganizing to divisions, which is both beyond its leadership capacity and, since Chenla II, its spirit.)
Perhaps I go on too long. But it is because I worry about you and because I [Sullivan hesitated then finished the line] love you.
J. L.
PS: I was not able to give your album to Madame Pech but left it with your brother-in-law, Teck. He was very grateful and immensely kind.
Vathana entered quietly. She padded softly behind the audience looking into the dim room for her new friend, Ney Nem. At the front of the room, on a small raised platform, was Keo Kosol, the poet. Vathana spied Nem seated on a mat to the right. Quietly she moved to her and sat. Kosol began his newest ayay, “Broken Land, Broken Heart.” Nem squeezed Vathana’s arm in greeting, said nothing, stared at Keo Kosol.
Two hours earlier the rain had stopped, the children had lain down and fallen asleep and Sophan had gone to assist in the health tent. On Vathana’s sleeping mat was the unopened letter from Captain Sullivan. Vathana had had an urge to open it immediately upon its arrival but had instead denied herself the knowledge of its content, telling herself to conquer the passion and to strengthen her self-control. The letter remained unopened for two days. She stared at it. It was fat. As a New Year’s precept she’d vowed to refrain from sexual misconduct. Not seeing, not acknowledging Sullivan lessened her anxiety over their affair. The letter raised it. Perhaps, she thought, this is not self-denial.
From deep in the camp a radio began blasting Western rock ’n’ roll. She tried to shut her ears. Life was more complex than ever. Every day people were murdered—by bombs, by artillery, by terrorists. The camp population was again increasing. Neak Luong was again a government island in a war-torn sea. Vathana unsealed the flap, removed the pages, read, reread, returned the letter to the envelope. “...destroy their urban political structure...” she thought. “...idealists with good intent...” she thought. Sullivan’s arrogance irritated her. Perhaps it was something more. Perhaps, she thought, it was that he was American and she Khmer. I should stay with Khmers, she thought vaguely.
She dropped the envelope on the mat. With her left hand she smoothed her hair. Samnang’s noisy breathing in sleep mixed with the buzz of mosquitos and flies and the loud distant music. Since the New Year she had not allowed a single grain of sugar, not a single smile other than a compassionate softening of her features to a patient, to part her lips. Tonight that precept was over. When Sophan returned, Vathana kissed the sleeping children and left for the meeting.
Keo Kosol’s voice was very beautiful. His ayay, or talking blues poetry, to Vathana was the most lyrical and meaningful she’d ever heard. And he, older than she, gaunt, intense, was the most holy laic—layman—she’d ever seen. When he finished the sorrowful “Broken Land, Broken Heart” Vathana’s face glistened with tears. Nem put her arm about Vathana and whispered, “This next one is more frightful. I heard him last night at the Women’s Association meeting. I think it’s his best.”
Keo Kosol’s sonorous voice filled the vacant store, its deep bass resonating into every individual. “I wrote this poem,” he said; “after my first night in the Khsach Sa camp. My mother had been killed only that morning. My father was paralyzed in grief. It is called ‘S
truggle Against Fire.’ ”
“He lives in the camp?!” Vathana whispered to Nem.
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
No sound but the moth’s wing on the saffron-flowered hibiscus
No smell but the aroma of the blossom
Monks’ robes flutter in gentle Kampuchean zephyrs
Thmil sky fires saffron blood roar devouring moth flower
“Mother,” cries the child father brother...
Outside a posse of young “cowboys” ran by the storefront. Some shouted ugly words. Some screeched. Vathana reached to her neck. She unbuttoned three buttons, reached in, removed the Buddha statuette and kissed it. Kosol continued. Vathana’s concentration broke. She glanced outside. For days the city had been under internal siege by groups of old residents demanding lower rice prices. Since January inflation had increased fifty percent, food prices were up twenty-four. Many stores, like the one in which the Patriotic Youth Club and the Khmer Patriots for Peace were now meeting, had closed. Owners vanished. Shops were looted, stripped.
Two jeeps sped by. Then an amphibious vehicle with large Black Cobra insignias. Vathana brought the statuette back to her lips, kissed it, whispered a prayer. Then she looked back to the stage. Kosol was staring at her fingers as they caressed the amulet between her breasts. He had finished “Struggle Against Fire.” People were congratulating him. Two lanterns were lit and the room became bright.
“May I have your attention, please,” someone began.
“Isn’t he wonderful,” Nem said to Vathana. All about them people were standing, talking, exchanging phrases of kindness and caring. Several women produced ceramic dishes with curried eel and rice and invited all to share.
The man on the platform again called for attentions then ceased trying to overcome the drone of individual conversations. Nem clasped her hands and beamed. “Mr. Keo...”
“Kosol,” he said, not looking at her but at Vathana.
“Kosol,” Nem said self-consciously. “I heard ‘Struggle Against Fire’ last night. And tonight. It’s so sad. So moving.”
“Did you like it?” Kosol addressed Vathana.
She still clutched the Buddha. His eyes flicked from her face to her breasts, then back. “Yes,” she said simply. “But I think I must hear it again.” For an instant she thought he looked like her father, thinner, not as old, handsome, better looking up close than onstage. “When the army went by I began thinking of...of the Americans. They’ve broken the North Viet Namese radio codes, you know. Their bombing has been devastating to the Communists.”
The man on the platform stood on the chair Kosol had read from. In smiling joyous tones he began ranting, “The citadels of U.S. imperialism shake with the sights and sounds of International Workers’ Day. Everyone must be mobilized...”
“Then I will recite it just, for you,” Keo Kosol said. He reached out and gently grabbed her wrist. “Where do you hear this about radio codes?”
“...as we stride toward the day in the future when all peoples of the earth shake off the yoke and seize power...”
Nem leaned slightly in, separating Kosol from Vathana. “We should listen to Mister Thun,” she murmured.
“We’ll be back in a minute,” Keo Kosol said confidently. With that he directed Vathana toward the door. “You are the Angel of Neak Luong, aren’t you? I’ve seen you in camp and at the hospital.” He ushered her out, into the street. Several blocks down, before the Office of the Mayor, a crowd had gathered. People were chanting slogans. The fringe looked turbulent. They walked toward the storm. One chant became clear. “We want rice! We want rice!” Kosol spoke in quick sentences, urgent phrases. Vathana felt secure in his confidence, felt as if she’d known him from life in Phum Sath Din.
“Phnom Penh doesn’t need to protect farms or farmers,” Kosol said. “It depends on America for food. It couldn’t give a damn if the entire country collapsed.”
He led her into the midst of the throngs, into the heart of agitation and vulnerability. “Tell me more, Angel. Of the radio, tell me more.” Vathana told him about the North Korean advisors directing Khmer Rouge units, about the coming FANK reorganization. About them people were pushing. At the fringe the most radical threw rocks breaking the windows. Police and army troops descended upon the crowd. Tear gas canisters popped and hissed. Now stampede, chaotic, not directionally away but swirling to avoid the gas and remain on the scene. “Goddamn government can’t do a fucking thing right!” Kosol raged, his voice booming in her ears. Suddenly a blast exploded inside the building. The windows flared orange, glass shards shot into the masses. Again the swirling bodies, now screaming. FANK troops opened fire. A dozen people fell. Now the stampede surged over them. Vathana fell. Someone stepped on her arm, another on her ankle. Above her hundreds of bodies hurled over and around, flashing shadow arms, elbows, torsos running, more shots, mouths shrieking. Then strong arms swooped her up, away, into the quiet of an alley.
“Immoral bastards.” Kosol seethed. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes,” Vathana cried. She was shaken, shaking. He held her. His chest was hard, his arms strong. She lay her face against his neck, grasped his arms, the arms that had saved her, had kept her from being trampled to death. She clung to him, pulled herself into him.
“Immoral foreign fucking bastards,” he snarled.
“What would you do, Louis?” Teck did not look at his friend but beyond into the restaurant’s best section where Japanese and Western journalists were eating, chiding one another, drinking heavily. In the courtyard the jacaranda trees were heavy with violet clusters. The waiter came with the wine, looked disgustedly at Louis in his rumpled civilian clothes, disapprovingly at Teck in his impeccable uniform. Teck gritted his teeth. He was certain the waiter assumed he’d brought this male prostitute into the dining room to soften him before the evening’s vice began. Fine, Teck projected the thoughts of the waiter. Fine for a foreigner but undignified for a Khmer.
“I cannot even begin to know,” Louis said. He smeared a thick gob of butter on the warm slice of French bread and shoved half of it into his mouth.
“If she were corrupt,” Teck said, “I would divorce her. Just like that! But the Communists wouldn’t have anything to do with her...if...if she were corrupt. It’s because she’s become a symbol of Khmer honesty for the whole city that she’s targeted. They’ll either corrupt her or eliminate her. But if they corrupt her, then I should...well.”
“And he himself brought the photo album?” Louis asked after swallowing. “What gall.”
“Actually, he was charming,” Teck said lightly. The journalists, more than usual, were acting like buffoons.
“Mister Tall-Nose?” Louis said. “Charming?”
“Sullivan,” Teck said.
“Eh. The blue-eye.”
“Yes.”
“The Western guy? His name is Su-van?”
“Sul-li-van. He’s an American advisor.”
“He’s corrupt?”
“I think he’s just naive. I rather liked him.”
“Teck!”
“Things happen in war, Louis. The whole East is cut off. Except Svay Rieng and Neak Luong. I...” Teck hesitated. Louis jabbed a second thick slab of bread into his mouth, Teck leaned forward, “put some in your pocket,” he whispered, “for later, mother’s paying a fortune for this table, we might just as well use it.” Teck cleared his throat, leaned back, sipped his wine. “You spied her at the demonstration?”
“Yes.” Louis plopped the remainder of the loaf into his jacket pocket. “Three people were killed. Seventeen wounded.”
“By the soldiers, eh?”
“Yes. All. Others were hurt in the rush. I don’t know how many.”
“He wasn’t there, was he?”
“No. She was alone, I think. There were people who helped her up.”
“She’s still my wife,” Teck said, businesslike. “I miss her. Look at me. I’ve made something of myself. She must come h
ere.”
“She was...ah...with the American.”
“You can say it. She was fucking him.”
“Do you want him killed?”
“What do I care? You like her, yes?”
“Yes! Ha! She’s too good for you, Teck. You want to give her to me? Ha!”
“Sure. I’ll ask her to fuck you, too. You need some good ass.”
“Teck. Don’t be a fool.”
“Eh. When the war is over, I’ll...”
“Go see the fortune-teller, Teck. That’s what I would do.”
Nang studied his face in the mirror. For months he’d harbored a new hate he could not identify. It festered in him. The infection encapsulated, pressured his entire being. Still he could not identify it. He repressed it, denied it. Soon Sar would have him back to work, soon the festering would be buried beneath one more layer, but now, in the lull, in the void, it expanded, seeking a weak route to the surface, silently screaming to manifest its repressed horror.
His eyes locked on Rin. How easy it was for Rin to change clothes, change looks, enter Phnom Penh. How easy it was for him to find a girl. The thought disgusted Nang. He tightened the tucks and folds in the krama he’d wrapped about his head turban-fashion. Again he looked in the mirror. Rin left. They’d barely spoken. Reth had left hours earlier. Vong was asleep. Their basecamp on the outskirts of Phnom Penh between the railroad tracks and the Tonle Sap River was little more than a refugee shack in an area of scattered hovels. Neither police nor soldiers bothered to patrol there and they were free to move, to bring in supplies, to carry lout Sar’s directives.
Nang grasped the rippled scar of his cheek with his pincer, squeezed, stretched the skin, searched for changes, for repair. Instead he saw a deepening of color in the valleys, an absence of pigmentation on some ridges. The landscape of his right profile was grotesque. He turned, looked at the image of the left side. He smiled. A handsome youth smiled back. He faced straight on. Looking back were the fused halves of two different people. “He raised his good hand, placed his thumb below his left eye and with the fingers extended, covered the scar on the right. The eyes, he thought. They are nice. The nose is okay...except right there. He adjusted his hand to cover the stabbing blade of scar tissue which curled onto the right nare. I could have a girl, he thought.
For the Sake of All Living Things Page 68
