The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  Preah-ang Buddha! When would this war ever be over? It has been twenty years! In twenty years, babies have been born, grown up, and become soldiers without ever knowing peace.

  Samnang could grow up to be a soldier too, cadging cigarettes and threatening people for money. Let's have forty years of war then, shall we? Shall we? Let's just keep going until there is no more Cambodia, until nobody wants it and nobody wants to live here.

  Map lifted up his gun and rattled off a burst of bullets into the air. A cloud of samosan birds rose up from the far shore. The few passengers ducked and screamed. The fishermen thought it was just high spirits and laughed. The silken water, the silver light returned. The Lake was not at war.

  h

  In April, the People's Republic of Kampuchea ceased to exist.

  It was renamed the State of Cambodia. By unanimous vote the National Assembly removed all mention of socialism, revolution, and Marx-Lenin from the constitution. Cambodians were allowed to own land privately. The private sector would provide what the state could not.

  Civil servants were told they must not expect their salaries to be sufficient. They were to get the rest of their living from private enterprise. More of them carried crates of cognac into rich men's cars.

  The hot season continued. The government wanted to make one last show of strength before the rains began. April heat had evaporated the tourists like water and army paperwork could wait. Map found himself volunteered to 5th Division in Preah Vihear.

  He went back to eating brown rice mixed with paddy and old dried fish. He patrolled listlessly and saw little action. He walked through elephant graveyards of Russian tanks, now just twisted metal. I can survive twenty years of war, he thought, but can I survive twenty-two? He tried to tell himself: the chances are still the same every time I walk onto a battlefield. The odds don't change on horse races the longer there are horse races.

  Map saw a boy blown up. Someone, maybe even their own army, had ringed a pond with trip-wired grenades. The little private went to fetch water. One moment he was walking, then, as if Map had blinked, he was on the ground. No boom, but a sound like rain: blood, flesh, dried grass. The boy crawled down the slope to the water.

  You drink too much water with wounds like that, you die, everyone knew that. The boy drank and drank. To avoid more grenades, Map followed the path of the boy's crawling down through the long grass to the bank. He sat with the boy and tried to give him a soggy cigarette. “Don't tell my father,” the boy pleaded. He meant, don't tell him I killed myself. The spirits of suicides never rested.

  Hey, have you heard? the joke went. The Soviet Union has announced its new support. They can't afford an army anymore. They are sending people to train us to run a circus.

  Cambodia is already run like a circus!

  No, no, you don't understand. In a circus the wild animals do not eat their trainers!

  The rainy season finally squalled in. Mud swallowed conventional warfare, miring trucks, tanks, and boots. Map was sent back to Siem Reap. Rivers flowed between the tents. Some of the men wore kramars as if they were going swimming. He saw one of his junior officers, Lieutenant Sinn Rith.

  Map told Rith his string of circus jokes. Rith's smile was sideways. He waited until Map had finished and said, “Is your friend still in hospital? I heard he's not that bad."

  "What do you mean?"

  Rith's face flicked downward. “Didn't you know?"

  "Know what? How would I know anything, I just got back!"

  Rith backed away. “Go to the hospital in town, Map. That's all I've got to say. Hospital in town."

  Map strode after him, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. “Hospital, what do you mean, hospital?"

  Rith flung off his hands. “Map, don't go crazy, you're a crazy guy. That's why nobody told you. You shoot off your mouth, you shoot off your gun, so people back off!"

  "Told me what?"

  "Go to the hospital in Siem Reap and find out. And leave your guns behind!” Rith gave him a half-push away. “Go on!"

  It was good luck. Siem Reap was a center of Vietnamese presence and they had built a good hospital for themselves. There were flights, and wounded men from the Siem Reap regiment were sometimes flown there for treatment. Map had no bike, but it was only four kilometres to the hospital so he walked with the rain driving down. He walked as if the rain were evaporating off him from the heat. Somehow he was at the hospital without knowing how he got there.

  Veasna was on a trolley with chipped white paint in a tiled room. A doctor was washing his hands over and over, and looked as if he was too exhausted to care who came in and out. Veasna's face was black and red, smeared with blood, and he had huge bandages on his cheeks and forehead. A pumped-up blood-pressure gauge was strapped to his arms. For just a moment, Map thought Veasna was wearing boxing gloves. Then he saw the clumps of bandages were too far up the arms, and that the swaddling of grey blankets below the waist was too flat.

  Veasna had lost both hands and both legs.

  "Hiya, Younger Brother."

  Map sompiahed in silence.

  Veasna still had his eyes. He tried to smile. This was to show acceptance of life as it now was. His chest, arms and stomach were covered in blackened dust. Map wanted to brush the dust away. They were tiny wounds, entry points for bits of grass or plastic.

  "I will find it difficult to comb my hair."

  "I'll comb it for you,” said Map.

  "You'll have to feed me too. I don't think my arms are long enough to reach anymore.” Veasna mimed a snapping mouth.

  Map lit a cigarette for him. He sat watching and then realized that he had to take it out again to flick ash.

  They sewed flaps of skin over the ends of Veasna's arms and legs. There was not much else to do for him. After a week, they sent him home.

  Home. Where would that be?

  Map used his belt to strap Veasna to his back, and he bicycled him back to the camp.

  He cradled him back into a hammock.

  Veasna rocked a bit and shook his head. “Sorry, Map. But I don't think I can get out. I think I would rather sit on a box or something."

  Furniture? In a tent? “I will try to find what I can."

  Veasna smiled and sompiahed.

  "I have to go work. I'll come back with food and something to sleep on, okay?"

  Veasna smiled and nodded, fine, fine.

  That evening, Map came back dragging a tin ammunition chest and a pillow. It was raining, but Veasna was sitting outside away from the tent and crouching behind a bush. When he saw Map, Veasna whinnied like a horse. A strange smile tugged skywards at one corner of his mouth.

  "I messed myself, Map.” He dropped down as if ducking a humour bullet. “I couldn't get my shorts down."

  Map found himself smiling back.

  "I'm really sorry to ask this, but could you find me something else to wear?"

  Map stole someone's kramar, and tied it quickly around Veasna. He used a stick to throw the shorts out into the bushes. Veasna walked on all fours into the tent, pulled himself up onto the tin ammunition chest, and rolled onto his back. “Clean and dry,” he sighed. “That's better."

  At suppertime, Map got Veasna a cup full of rice. They didn't want to give it to him. Rice was their wages. “It is for my buddy, he has lost both his arms and legs! You want to make him crawl in here to get it himself?"

  "He's telling the truth,” said one of the guys behind him in the queue.

  "So why does he need to shout?” the servers said, scowling. “No need to shout, eh? Don't show such disrespect to your colleagues."

  Map broke. “I don't have any respect for my colleagues! My colleagues leave their wounded out in the rain to rot!"

  Traditionally Cambodians eat rice by pressing it together with their fingers. How was Veasna supposed to eat?

  It made Veasna chuckle. “I have no idea how to eat this."

  He tried balancing the plate between his forearms, but he could not lean forward far
enough to reach it with his mouth.

  Map put the plate down on Veasna's tin box, and Veasna, kneeling on the ground, was able to lap at it. The plate kept slipping, and the rice spilled over the edge.

  "If we had some wire, maybe we could strap a spoon onto one hand.” Map used the word hand. “And you could hold the plate still with your other arm."

  "That's a good idea. We'll try that."

  "Come on, man, let's finish up,” said Map. He spooned the rice for Veasna.

  Then he combed Veasna's hair. He found his palm oil in his kit, and he slicked the hair down, and combed it into orderly streaks. As a finishing touch, he perched Veasna's sunglasses on his nose.

  "Oh, what a stylish person,” said Map, managing again to smile.

  Veasna gave a civet-like beady little grin. He leaned back on his elbows as if he was on a beach and chuckled.

  Map wrote to Mliss. It was a terrible letter to write, but he had to do it. He went back to the canteen so Veasna would not see. Map posted it and then realized that because the post was so unreliable, he would have to write it again.

  The army had given Map back his old clerical job. That meant he could stay and take care of Veasna.

  Map would check up on Veasna at different times of day, just to bring him food or tell him a little joke. The poor guy was bored out of his mind. Veasna didn't smoke because he couldn't afford to and there were no magazines or books to read. There were government or enemy radio stations, or maybe you could get cheap pop music from Bangkok, but none of the guys had a radio.

  All he did was lie on his chest in the tent, out of the rain. When the rain was heavy, Veasna would pull himself out into it, and wash as best he could.

  The other soldiers hated it. They thought Veasna made himself into a spectacle and tutted.Why didn't he do what anyone else would do, which was go away? Nobody liked to see his flippers; it was ugly, it was incomplete. It's too bad, said the officers, but it is disturbing, you know? Everybody who sees him is reminded it could happen to them. He should go home to his family or home to....I don't know, there must be places we can send people.

  It's that Map. He takes care of him like a mother. Without Map he would have to go away.

  Every day, Map would check for letters. None came.

  Veasna said, “Mliss, you know, she may not want to stay with me."

  How were they going to get him home?

  Map would answer, “Mliss doesn't know what has happened yet, probably."

  "Or maybe she just doesn't write. Maybe she should go back to her husband."

  "He won't want her, she has your baby."

  Veasna went quiet. “Maybe it would be better for the baby too.” He said quietly, “I could go and live with my mother."

  "I'm sorry, buddy, but your mother? It would be like snuggling up to a great big pike that eats small deer. No, no, Mliss has a good job; she gets money, maybe not a lot, but enough. What we need to do is find a way to get you to Phnom Penh."

  Veasna nodded, relieved, encouraged. “Of course that is why she can't come here! Clever girl. She has to keep her job to make money."

  Map silently pleaded, Mliss, Mliss. Write to him. Reply, please!

  Mliss, Mliss, I don't think you are quite right. Mliss, Mliss, I wish you could tell me what happened to you all those years, but I do not want to force you. Mliss, Mliss, I want to be close to you, and be an older brother to you. But you won't let me near; you won't let Veasna near.

  Are you even close to the baby?

  * * * *

  The sky brightened again. It was October, the dry season, and Map got volunteered back to Preah Vihear.

  Map shouted at Rith. “Who is going to take care of my brother! Answer me! Are you going to feed him?"

  Rith's smile looked lazy, his eyes half-closed. He did not like being shouted at. “Oh no. That is not my job. That is his family's job."

  "Fine. Good. Great. Get him back to Phnom Penh, then!"

  "The Khmers Rouges own both roads to Phnom Penh.” Rith leaned back in his chair. “Let Veasna take care of himself. Where you are going, you will have to take care of yourself. We can't spare you to take care of Veasna. Everyone else is going to the front, are we going to say, no we have made a special case of Tan Map, because his friend was blown up? Everybody has had a friend blown up!"

  So Map had to load up his backpack, and strap on ammo. Gunmetal felt as hot as a pan, the khaki uniform as rough as sun-warmed tent canvas. Map sat next to Veasna, and put his arm around him. Seen from the side, Veasna almost looked like a whole man.

  "You take care, Older Brother. Siem Reap is a pretty good place to be."

  Veasna saluted. “All alone in a base camp? The NADK are crawling all over Banteay Srei. This place is a target, not an army camp!"

  "Hmm. Nothing we can do."

  "Nothing we can do.” Veasna looked around at him, sunglasses still perched on his nose. “Whatever happens, you have been a true friend, a true brother."

  "So have you.” Map stood up.

  Back in ‘85 in the K5 camp, when Map lay shivering in the dirt, Veasna had knelt beside him. “I know a way out of this,” Veasna had promised Map. He carried canisters of gasoline out into the woods away from the camp, doused the ground, and set it alight. The forest fire billowed hundreds of feet up into the air. The minefields exploded, shooting up gusts of black air as if the earth were spitting out its dead. The fire cooked all the animals in it—snakes, civets, tortoises, monkeys, even one whole wild elephant. The thousand starving workers ate charred corpses for a week.

  Veasna's cheeks had glowed cherry red as he watched the fire, but his eyes had glowed even brighter. Life will be wild, he seemed to promise; life will be fun.

  His eyes still glowed like that. Veasna grinned and pressed his forearms together.

  Map turned and marched away.

  He was gone a long time. No action in Preah Vihear so he got sent to help retake Pailin from the Khmers Rouges. The Khmers Rouges won, pushing them back. Then—and this was a very bad sign—Map was sent to help guard Kompong Thom.

  The new regiment gave Map time off to go to see his sister, and he was mad. He was going to tell her off. Why haven't you written to your husband? Okay, maybe you didn't get my letters to tell you what is wrong, but you should have written anyway!

  Map's anger was clenched like the white knuckles of a fist. His feet pounded up the steps to her room. The prostitutes leaned out after him. He heard Samnang crying.

  "Mliss!” Map struck the door just once. It foxed him and flew open. Then he saw that the lock was broken.

  Just inside the doorway was the statue of the fat cat with the mouse. It was broken, but had been repaired with Scotch tape. The tape had curled up yellow from the heat.

  He looked up and saw chipped plastic plates and torn clothing. The hook for the hammock was bent. Lopsided, as if on a sinking boat, Mliss lay very calmly in it. A scarf covered her head, as if she were a farm girl out in the fields. Her cheeks were swollen and purple.

  Her ex-husband.

  Map said immediately, “If I see that bastard, I will shoot him and stuff his body down a toilet."

  "His boss would come looking for you."

  "Has he touched Samnang?"

  Mliss was smiling. “I knelt over him. So he couldn't touch him."

  Map drew in a breath. It was as if he were heaven's anvil, to keep being pounded. He stood and closed his eyes and he knew, knew in his heart and liver.

  Map was certain that all of this was happening to his family because of him. It was his fault, because of the bad things he had done. He had done wicked things and had not earned enough merit to avoid bringing terrible luck down on everyone he loved. He could never earn enough merit. His soul was black with evil deeds. He was a pool of bad luck that drenched everybody he loved.

  "Mliss. Sister. I am so sorry for you. Pick up your clothes and whatever you have that is not broken, I will take you to live in the school with Madame."

 
Did anything matter to her? Without a word, as if tidying up after a meal, she began to put together some clothes, some toys.

  "Hold Samnang for me, will you?” she asked.

  Map jerked away. “I'm afraid I will hurt him."

  She left the baby on the mat. She had squirrelled away plastic bags and string. With dreamlike precision she set in order her few possessions.

  I must get away from them all and stay as far away from them as I can. Perhaps if I pray to be killed badly, then the luck will change. Maybe if I am burned in a fire, all of this will stop.

  The doctor-prostitute came in and sompiahed Map. “We heard the noise, is she all right?” she asked.

  "No,” said Map. “We are getting out of here."

  "We will miss her. She is a reminder for us of the good old days. We wish her well."

  Map nodded thanks.

  The prostitute hesitated. “Mliss never was a fallen woman,” she promised him.

  She was speaking as if Mliss were dead. He turned and looked at Mliss. She moved like a spirit, distracted, hungry, sketching a motion one way and then going the other. He asked the prostitute, “Does she talk about things?"

  The doctor-prostitute sighed. “Sometimes. Mostly not. What happened?"

  "Her husband, her new husband is alive but....disabled. A land mine."

  The prostitute bowed in respect of Veasna. “It will not stop until we are all dead."

  Map shouldered up a dozen crammed plastic bags and they walked to the school. Mliss walked looking up at the sky and the tops of the buildings. They came to the school, and its circular yard was full of children, running, swinging, kicking, and screaming. Mliss suddenly looked beautiful and elegant. The children ran up to her to say hello.

  "I am coming to live with you all,” she said, kneeling down so that she could smile into their faces. Their faces dropped limply, and their eyes stared when they saw the bruises.

  Map knocked on the side door and Madame called out anxiously from behind it.

  "C'est la famille de Mliss!" Map said.

  The door opened and Madame's face soured into horror. "Qu'est-ce-qui se passe!" she gasped.