by Geoff Ryman
Great-aunty stands her ground like an old stake charred to a spear point, ready to defend. Map knows her type. You bounced back and forth across the border, didn't you, old woman, fleeing whenever the yuon shelled the forward camps, scuttling back into Thailand. The NADK kept going on the backs of women like you. The Americans gave you food, while we marched up and down Highway 6 stepping over people who slept in the road because that was the safest place.
Map turns to her. “You've had a lot of people here. Since the Book was found in the fields.” He waves over the hedge of trees towards the dike and the rice fields.
The old woman grunts, watchful.
"Have you seen any people around the village? Anything odd? Any old-timers come to the house?"
"Gaaaah!” the old woman mouths in disgust.
"Where is your nephew, Loak Saom Pich? He isn't here, I'd like to talk to him."
The great-aunty bends down and busies herself turning over the roasting bamboo. The wife lowers her head even more.
"When do you expect him back?"
The wife speaks, eyes still downcast. So, she doesn't want to be spared. Map watches her carefully, for any tremor, any wiping of the mouth. The young wife says, “My husband has gone to town to get some things."
"So he will be back this afternoon?"
"I....I expect so. I do not know. I....think he said he would be back tonight."
"Tomorrow,” says the old woman.
"Oh. So it is that kind of shopping. To the bars and the girls?"
The wife stabs him with her eyes. “No. He is not that kind of man."
"He spends all day in town, I know. Possibly in prayer. I will come tomorrow then."
Then the wife gives it all away: she wipes her mouth, wiping away the lie. She can't stop herself. “No! I mean, he has another farm, so he works there all day."
"And another wife, perhaps?” Map gives a smile that he knows is his least charming.
"Where are your manners, Maly?” croaks the old lady with a false, sideways simper of politeness. “Go get Loak Sergeant Tan Map some of our sugar, to show respect."
The great-aunty smiles like a dog baring its fangs. Round-faced and miserable, the young wife stands up. She rebalances her baby on her hip, and walks back to the house, swaying as naturally as a palm tree in the breeze.
The great-aunty says. “I know who you are."
"You know my name. That's not the same thing."
"You and your older brother were holy terrors. My nephew worried about people like you. What you did even to Base People; it was disgusting. He came this close to shooting you, more's the pity that he didn't. He knew you would end up a turncoat."
"At least I fought against Angka. Does he have the Kraing Meas?"
The old lady is more than ready. Her half-smile is grimly amused. She says nothing.
"People from around here say that old Khmers Rouges took the Book. They say everybody here knows that. If he has the Book, we'll get him. You can tell him that."
The old woman snorts in disgust. “I don't know what you're talking about."
"But you knew what I meant when I asked about all the people."
"Oh, that. They found something in the field.” She waves her hand as if all of that nonsense was nothing to do with her.
"Maybe I should stay and wait for him to come back. Maybe he'll have the Book with him."
"And if he had this book with him, what of it? Maybe he's been looking for it too."
Peasant cunning. Always so blunt, so smart, so dumb all at once. Map has to smile. William looks uncomfortable, scowling and confused.
The wife saunters back with a parcel of wrapped leaves. Palm leaf has been made into ribbons to bind it shut. “Home sugar,” she says with a twist in her voice that could mean: you need sugar, in your life, in your soul.
"Thank you,” says Map, pauses, and then smiles.
* * * *
Away from the house, Map makes William stop the bike.
By jabbing him in the ribs. Then he gets off the bike and without saying anything takes out a mobile phone.
"It's the same as mine,” says William, as if he does not notice how rude Map is being. “Luc Andrade gave it to you."
He's said something Map cannot ignore. “Yes,” says Map.
William sighs. “He made many good actions."
Captain Prey is now at APSARA HQ in a meeting. Map says to him, “Saom Pich is the leader, Saom Pich is behind all of it."
Prey asks, “Why do you think that?"
"Because he invented art theft. Ta Mok needed money and it was Pich who had the brilliant idea of cutting up the temples to get it. Having said for years it was the one thing we must not touch. I was there, remember? He's not at his farm, he's not coming back to his farm and that's because he's on a boat holding a gun to Luc Andrade's head."
Prey sighs. “Okay, Map, I'll pass that onto the army."
Map chuckles. “It would be more effective to throw it down a well."
"No, Map. They are restructuring the investigation, a new man is coming in to run it, and he might be more interested. If they decide to set up a roadblock around Leung Dai, I'll call you back, and you should get out of there."
"Can't do that. Someone has to watch the house."
"Map, you're a suspect."
"If Pich's old aunty creaks out of here on her bicycle I'm going to follow her. Something else you can tell the army. They should write down the identities of everybody who goes through roadblocks. They'll need to know everybody's travel patterns, who goes where, when."
Prey sighs. “I'll pass that on too. But as soon as the army think you're at Leung Dai, they'll go there to arrest you."
Maps folds shut his telephone and says without looking at William, “You better remember all of that, motoboy, because I'm not going to say any of it again."
They wait in silence, listening to the dust expand in the heat, the swishing of a cow's tail somewhere in the reeds, birds, a woman talking somewhere in a house.
William sits on his bike and wipes his forehead.
"Loak Sergeant. The old woman said the army has already been to the house. Maybe it is not news to Saom Pich that he is a suspect. So maybe nobody will go from the house today to warn him."
"Getting hot, huh?” says Map.
"We could go to the Lake..."
Map has to chuckle. “Nice and cool on the Lake."
"There were the shots on the Lake. Now that you know it's Saom Pich, you can ask people if they've seen him. You know, an old man with glasses."
Map stands, arms folded.
"You are not in uniform. Maybe people will tell you things they wouldn't tell the Army."
Map shifts, looking at his feet.
"Maybe you speak Vietnamese? I speak some Vietnamese. I bet the army don't, so we could ask all those people on the river or in the floating village."
Map turns to him. “I told you. You're paid to drive, not to think."
They sit and listen to the wind in the trees for an hour. The heat buzzes around them.
Finally the phone vibrates. Map opens it up and Prey says, “Map, do you have any evidence other than a gut feeling? Have you found out how Pich could know the Book was being moved?"
Map feels William's eyes on him. “No."
Prey sighs. “They say the roadblocks they have are enough. They did like your idea about names, though. They will tell their men to write down names of everyone who goes through the roadblocks."
Map says. “You have a pencil? Tell them this. Make sure they pass this on to all the roadblocks. Saom Pich may be using the name Chuor Preuk. It's what he was called for a while in the 1980s. Other family names of his wife and uncle are Kem and Ung. His cousins are called Soeun. Okay?"
Prey checks the spellings then says, “I'm telling you again, get out of there. Sinn Rith has been prowling about the place like a caged animal and suddenly he isn't here. He may know where you are, and if he shows up, he may arrest William too."
Map laughs. “That's a good reason to stay."
Map catches William looking. Could he hear all that? Map says good-bye to the Captain and then turns to William. “You should go home. I'll wait here."
"It's okay. I can stay."
"You should go. You'll still get paid."
William says, “I work for you. I will wait."
"There's not going to be any lunch. I'll be here all day and all night if I need to, with no food and probably no water."
"I've gone without food before,” William says.
He isn't leaving.
Sunlight creeps slowly across the track. It and the birds are the only things that are moving in the heat.
William clears his throat. “Loak Tan Map? You should get someone to watch here for you, so that you can look elsewhere."
Map chortles. “What, pay them seven dollars a day?"
"I have a girlfriend who lives here..."
"I get it, you'd like to visit your girlfriend. Okay, go ahead. I'll stay here and work."
William cuts him off. “Her family were ANS. They have no love in their hearts for Saom Pich. They had a land dispute with him; he took over one of their fields. They can see his house."
A Sihanoukist family in Leung Dai?
"They're smart people; the father was a soldier just like you; he fought in all the wars."
Map does not need to see another old soldier with a beautifully tended farm and family. This farm has a palm- and rice-wine distillery and a cloud of hens circling under the house. There are many children, all of them born after the mid-80s as life became possible again.
After the war, everyone else went home.
The girl, Sra, tries to look offhand with William. Maybe he's not been paying enough attention to her. Of course she's beautiful and of course William behaves like a civilized, educated man around her. Sra looks at Map like he's dirt, a peasant, but William explains. This man works for APSARA, he is in disguise, he needs your help.
He clears a space to let Map talk. The father is serious and seasoned. Map has never even met him before, but he likes him, the kind of responsible man you trust in war. Let William talk to children; this is men's business.
"Saom Pich. You think he took it?” the father asks.
"He's an art thief. I think he shot up the town. It's how he works."
"What do you need us to do?"
First off, Map told them, nothing obvious. We don't want you to get into trouble with these people. All you need do, all of you, is watch who comes and goes. Write down the time and what they look like and anything unusual about the bike. You know, if the bike is carrying firewood, or if it's old and rusty. Do you have a phone?
The family don't have a well and the daughters have to carry all their water on their shoulders. They don't have electricity and there is no road to their house; but they are modern Cambodians and of course they have a mobile phone, just like they have a TV attached to car batteries.
"Okay. If Saom Pich himself comes home, you give me a call right away. Okay?"
As they leave, the father asks, “Is it true that the Book was written by Jayavarman?” Map says yes, and the farmer shakes his head. “The idiots."
Back in the field, William says, “Many people want to help you, Loak Tan Map."
Map can't stop himself having the obvious thought: It's you they want to help, William.
Okay, this is a nice, smart boy. It changes nothing. I owe him a blood debt, and I should not be sitting here pretending to be his boss or pretending to be his friend.
"Do you wish to go to the Lake now, Sergeant?” William's voice is so light and breezy, you'd almost think Map had suggested it himself.
The damnable thing is that the kid's right. Map says curtly, “Okay."
William takes a footpath back, his rear tires slipping sideways in the dust. They hear motorcycles roaring up the main road and turning off to Leung Dai: Sinn Rith.
* * * *
Closer to the Great Lake, the land flattens out and even at the end of the dry season the fields are streaked with water that looks like shards of mirror.
At the crossroads in front of the gateway to a hillside road, army vehicles again block the traffic. Map sompiahs, and produces the ID card, and again they are waved through.
Okay, reasons William, ID cards are not always accurate. He lived with another family for a while and his personal name could be different. So no Tan, no Map. He's kept it like that because he is a criminal. He looks like a criminal sometimes.
The road becomes an elevated dike. Palm-leaf shacks cluster along its edge, lining the road, the houses of people who did not find farms after the wars. These houses have no stilts nor floor, only an open entrance. Men squat in doorways, washing themselves. They sit in hammocks, staring.
Ahead, the dike is washed out and there is no bridge across the breach. Truck tires have milled the mud into patterns like woven reed. Only a single plank of wood crosses over the morass. A boy stands in a punt offering to take the bike around it on the river. He smiles with embarrassment when Map asks the price.
With the boy, Map is gentle, smiling and chiding. “How much?” he repeats, miming astonishment. The boy's white teeth glow like lamps against his weather-beaten face. He says the price again in a shy voice that trails away, like the direction of his gaze.
Map says, “Oh, that is a very good price.” He turns to William, suddenly merry. “I am the bong thom here, yes?” He takes off his flip-flops and gives them to William to hold. Then coughing once as if summoning the courage to ask a girl to dance, he hauls William's motorcycle up onto his shoulders. He holds it in place with the heels of his hands. The torn fingers, even in gloves, arch away like claws.
William yelps in surprise and jumps back. “No, Mr. Tan Map, don't do that! You will hurt yourself!"
And my bike!
Map carries the motorcycle on his shoulders, wobbling barefoot across the single plank of the walkway. Even the punt boy laughs, leaning backwards then twisting around on his heel in surprise.
"Thank you!” calls Map from the other side. “That was a very good price for a punt.” A crowd of men laugh. Map goes up to them to cadge some cigarettes. “Only one, for lifting a bike!” The men give him more, and he lights up. He asks questions. Have any of them seen an unfamiliar boat? Maybe yuon or Thai? Any small boats that go in and out at strange hours? Seen an old guy with half-moon spectacles?
The men shake their heads, no. Just fishing boats from around here. Yes, they heard the shots, but they'd seen and heard nothing after that. The army has been all around here asking questions.
Map gets back onto the bike. He only says two things to William. First, “Don't call me Map where people can hear.” Second, “Take us to the boats.” Then he stays silent.
The river widens and deepens and is lined with shops and big tourist ferries to Phnom Penh. The first shop they walk into faces the river, not the road. The dock is cushioned with old car tires. Bottled water and gas canisters line up under plastic covers. Inside the shop, on the countertop, there are pickles in glass jars and hot coffee in thermos flasks. Glass cases hold AA batteries, shampoo, fruit juice, oil, and medicaments of all kinds. The toilet perches out from a gangway, directly over the river.
The owner is a bustling middle-aged woman who is sweeping the floor. Map shows her his police badge and asks questions. Any new boats show up to buy supplies? Anybody new in charge of a boat who doesn't look like they know what they're doing? Anybody slam into the dock, or anything like that? An old guy with glasses?
The woman is polite, her face closed. Map looks poor, solemn and dangerous. People are afraid of you, William thinks, you look like a ruffian. They want you to go.
Teacher Luc could be wounded, could be shot, he could be dying. He could be lying alone in a boat wondering if he has any friends.
And you don't know how to talk to people.
William says to the woman, “Isn't it beautiful here now, with the lotus fi
elds so near?"
The woman nods. “It's the one good thing about living here. That and catching fish from the ponds. I wouldn't eat fish from the river, it's too dirty."
"I always wanted to live by a lotus pond. If I were rich, I would own one,” says William. “I would go out every dawn and every evening just to see the flowers."
He talks about his uncle's four rice fields and how he had to pay neighbours to work on them.
As William thought she might, the woman suggests that her husband could help. “He does little enough around here!"
William says, “Sure,” and gives her his village name and tells the story about how they got their farm back after the war. They traded farms with someone who wanted to move back to Battambang.
Map says, pointing to William, “This guy here, he just talks to everybody all day long."
"That's a good way to be,” says the woman, finally smiling at Map.
"Yes, he went around and got half the town to help us find the people who stole the Kraing Meas and took the barang hostage."
"Oh, yes!” says the woman, pleased. “I heard about that, what a great thing to do! Look, have some coffee and we can sit outside.” She pauses, and wiggles. “Don't worry, this is polite, I won't charge!” They sit on plastic chairs on the dock, and the woman brings her thermos and tiny plastic cups.
"People say that there are farmers who take boats out at strange times. They leave at night and come back at night, or they go out at lunchtime and come back only an hour later. I haven't seen them myself."
Map uncoils. “Do people say from where?"
She waves vaguely upstream. “People say that they're farmers."
They talk a little longer about the lack of rain, and the level of the lake. Map asks where the boat has docked. Oh, different places. They finish their coffees, and to William's surprise, Map pays for them. They say good-bye sociably and leave.
They go from boat to boat, asking the same questions. If people react badly to Map, William takes over, being young, respectful, and easygoing. They talk to people in boats made out of just one log, with a tube of palm-frond panels to shade it. The owners fry noodles on tiny grills balanced between bricks.
William and Map talk to people in larger boats with flat-roofed canopies and rolled-up blue plastic curtains to protect against sunlight or scrub in narrow canals. Boys in their best black clothes sleep on board. Have they seen anything?
