by Geoff Ryman
"Young Veasna,” says Map, and lays a hand on William's shoulder.
They get to the docks. Ahead of them, still some distance away, overhead lights blaze down, an old man hoists hens off a bike and then disappears into darkness. They hear words across the distance, and a sudden revving of an engine.
People. Connection. “The Vietnamese girl,” says William. He revs the bike and turns it back around, and slips and slides the bike down a grassy slope to the moored house, the little skiff. William calls in Vietnamese: excuse me, sorry, excuse me, sorry, we need help.
A frightened older woman answers, bunching all her clothing in front of her neck and tummy. William tries to reassure her. Hello. Sorry. We hired boat. Need boat now! Need boat now.
William sees the girl. He pleads, he nearly weeps. Please, please, please, we need to save the man.
The girl nods her head and says something soothing to her mother. She dresses with a series of quick flicks, and flip-flops out. She motions William to follow. They slip down into the boat. A rail-thin older man staggers out and croaks in dismay. The daughter smoothly says something about motorcycles.
"My father watch your bike,” the girl says.
The old woman gets in as well, still in a loose old dress, to chaperone them. The boat heaves itself slowly out from the house. It gradually gathers speed. Map scrambles his way into the prow. William makes excuses and follows him.
Map turns and points. William cannot see or hear the other boat. He looks back. The girl is tucking her hair under her hat and easing the boat to the right at the same time.
For a while at least, both boats have to follow the river channel out onto the lake. For a while at least there is hope.
Moonlight reflects off the sweat on Map's face. His jaw is clenched. “I thought that if I got the Book and Teacher Luc back that would be enough merit to keep me out of hell."
"There are many ways to earn merit,” says William, quoting a monk, knowing that kind of stuff got no listening from Map. The answer was in the air.
There's not merit enough in a thousand good deeds for a Khmer Rouge.
The little boat slips out into the lake, but there's only a sliver of moon and few stars. Even the lake is plunged in shadow. From time to time the girl kills the engine and they listen. The other boat is running without lights, but they can hear it.
The sound stretches over an entire quarter of the horizon. “Over there,” Map says. He points south and west, towards the Battambang side of the lake.
The air overhead starts to cough. Suddenly, light blazes down from overhead. An army helicopter. Map waves. The light goes, the helicopter sails on.
It passes, still chopping air.
They cannot hear the boat anymore.
They rest, bobbing on the open water, waiting for silence.
"Maybe the helicopter will find them, maybe the army or the Lake Police will get them."
"We cannot give up,” says William.
They push south anyway. The lake is at its most shallow here. Soon they are scraping the bottom and scrub brushes their faces.
"I used to come this way by night all the time,” says Map.
"With the other Veasna?"
Map just nods. The boat grinds to a halt on the river bottom.
William hates water. Water is dirty and infects. It hides roots and stones and snakes; it washes away shit of all kinds, and washes it back. But just as the sound of the helicopter fades, they think they hear a boat in the channel ahead of them.
Map jumps over the side, in his best Patrimony Police uniform. William can't swim, but what else can he do? He clumsily drops down from the boat. The water is only just over his knees.
"Well done, Younger Brother,” says Map.
Together they pull the boat. The channel narrows. Map starts talking.
"You know Luc, he was trying to figure out why Angkor died.” Map looks as if he is talking to the fingernail-cutting of a moon.
"He thinks it's because all the canals silted up. No more boats, no more trade, so everybody moved to Phnom Penh where three rivers meet and never silt up. But it was something else. I know what killed Angkor. Do you want to hear it?” He definitely says this to the moon.
"Yes,” says William anyway.
"Jayavarman killed it,” says Map, and his voice wheedles like a string instrument. “Ta Prohm, just one of his temples, had 80,000 people working for it, to grow its rice, to tend and sweep and to feed the civil servants. Buddhism doesn't have temples like that. With Buddhism, you build a temple for a time only. You take away Hinduism, you take away any reason to maintain those temples."
Suddenly the riverbed underneath them falls away. William and Map slip down into deeper water, a channel. Map flips himself onboard and reaches back for William. William sputters and coughs and has no idea how to pull himself back into the boat. Map chuckles as he pulls him back in. “Younger Brother, we'll have to get you into the Police and train you to get you strong."
William is laughing at himself, his shirt and trousers streaming water. The old woman laughs too, having decided that these are decent Cambodians.
"My clothes are heavy!” says William. He feels bad for laughing, for having forgotten Luc.
"We never know what our actions will achieve. That's why it takes so long to be reborn sometimes.” Map is looking back up at the moon. “Big actions take a long time to work out."
They listen. It's so late at night that the channel is silent, no insects or frogs. They can hear nothing.
"Maybe he's got to the other boat,” offers William.
"Let's hope,” says Map. He stops the young girl starting the engine again and motions for silence. He whispers, “If we go by engine now, they'll hear us coming. Into the water again, Younger Brother."
"I can't swim."
"Hold onto the prow and kick."
Silently, in moonlight, they pull the boat with them. Gradually William gets used to it, half floating, half swimming.
Map says suddenly, “That is why Jayavarman has not been reborn."
It takes William a moment to remember their previous conversation. “The consequences of his actions are not all yet clear."
"That's why he needs the Book to appear. He can't be reborn without it."
They go on for half an hour; then stop, rest, and listen. They start again and pull for longer. William starts to shiver in the cold water. Map pushes him back into the boat. He pulls it by himself for a while longer and finally says, “Let's go back."
The sky goes silver; the lake looks like a mosquito net in moonlight. The breath of heat is in the air.
Map sighs. “Maybe the helicopter spotted them and followed them. The Lake Police will stop and search every boat for weeks. Maybe they'll find them."
But we won't.
"Good work, Younger Brother.” The girl starts the engine looking sad.
Suddenly everything is grey, just before dawn. They see purple heron, cormorants, jacuna, and even kingfishers darting among the plants. Overhead, fish-eagles turn in the wind. History repeats.
It's daylight by the time they get back. Map pays the Vietnamese girl, evidently well, because she gives him a delighted smile and sompiahs. William's legs drag him up the bank, and his head feels heavy and slow. “Thank you, Older Brother, for asking me to come. It was an opportunity for me to help Luc Andrade."
Map waves it away. “Thank you for talking to Sinn Rith. You went and sold me to the army!” He pretends to punch William in the arm.
Something in William gathers. He feels sorrow, sorrow for Map. He thinks of him alone, with no family, getting older, having no one to care for him. He mulls this over as the old Vietnamese man wheels out his motorcycle. Map has gone farther up the dike to stare out at the lake and the sunrise. He looks smiling and gentle. Sopheaktea, that's his real name.
Sunlight, the sounds and smells of water, river birds. Life is good. William wheels the bike up silently behind Map.
"I've been thinking,”
says William. “Why don't you come and live with my family?"
Map's eyes roll and his eyelids flutter.
"You could still work for the Police, but you'd have a place to sleep. There would be people around, good meals. My uncle and aunty are old, and you could work in the rice fields."
Map hangs his head. “Not enough to work off a blood debt."
William is not sure he heard right. “They would be grateful for the help. They would welcome you!"
Map is exhausted again. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes sockets and breathes in. “That will never happen."
"I could ask."
"It's a good action, young Veasna. But it's not possible."
"Why not?” William feels confused, and wonders if he has not strayed into ill-advised territory.
"Ask your family,” says Map quietly, and indicates with a flick of the finger that they should drive back. “Thank you, young Veasna. You are trying to do a good thing. Throughout you have done good things.” He looks worn, enduring, grateful. William just feels confused.
"My name is William,” says William, feeling distraught.
"Not to me,” says Map. His smile is impossible to read. If anything, it looks scared. Map gives William's shoulder a weary shake. “We both need to get home."
They drive on in silence.
William is aware of a kind of shivering behind him and assumes that Map is crying or shaking with rage or doing something extreme. He avoids looking behind him; he does not want to embarrass Map or be involved in another emotional scene. If he says let's have breakfast, William promises himself, I will say I am too tired.
You win, Map, okay? You win. We finish this job and I have nothing more to do with you.
They roar back into Siem Reap. The Phimeanakas is cordoned off, its forecourt empty of cars, the windows dark, scores of army men standing in groups.
Stupid thing to do, without asking my family. I can't just invite people to stay, it's not my house!
Out through the town, and the modern building where tourists buy their Angkor passes is empty. With nothing to do, the boys in uniform sit on the steps of the booths and chat to the girls.
The odd quivering motion starts up again. They are now on the long road through the forest to Angkor Wat. Map jerks suddenly and the bike swerves. Finally, William stops to ask him what is wrong.
Map has been squeezing his spots and they have finally burst. They were not full of inflammation but scar tissue, and the scar tissue clings to his face like prawns, and out of the gaping holes blood trails, coated in dust. The wounds look like bulletholes. One is just under his eye but the blood is welling up from inside the eyelid. Map weeps blood. William stares.
Map swings one leg around and leans on the back seat. William can't drive on now. Map looks strangely calm. “I've been a coward."
William wants to wipe Map's face. “You? You're not scared of anything."
"I've been everything now.” Map means everything bad. His mouth purses together, he swallows and says, “Ly William. I killed your parents."
The very air seems to curdle.
"I was in a cadre that opened fire on them and some other people. We told people they could move to the Lake if they wanted. It was a trick to see who was Vietnamese. Your parents went. I saw your aunty snatch you out of your mother's arms."
Nothing in William functions. He's not thinking, he's not moving.
Map glances away. “I could make excuses. I did warn your aunty not to let any of her family go. The people we killed didn't think that five of us would do anything to forty of them. We made them sing Angka songs as they marched.” Map sings, in a little boy's voice, a brief snatch of an Angka song. It sounds almost nostalgic.
Then he snaps open his holster and takes out his gun and holds it handle first out towards William. “Remember to return it. It's police property."
William, startled, recoils. Get that horrible thing away from me!
Map's voice is low. “I've got nothing to do anyway.” He looks down at the ground and still holds out the pistol.
"Come on, William. It's a blood debt."
William just shakes his head, no, no, no. He would need to explode with rage, and he just doesn't feel that.
Map barely indicates a shrug. He sighs and snaps the gun back. He rocks himself to his feet.
"Peaceful man,” Map says, but not in mockery or with rancour. It's more like an acknowledgement.
"Bahn bon,” he murmurs. Good luck. And then more formally, “Soam a-oy ban chok chay."
William says nothing.
Map turns and begins to walk towards the police village. This time William lets him go. The thought of having Map on the back of his motorcycle repulses him. As he watches, Map's hands go back up to his face and tremble as they push.
William just sits.
He feels abandoned, but he doesn't know by whom or by what. He feels lost and alone and strangely terrified. Out here on the deserted tourist road there is no one to see him. He starts to weep.
"I'm a coward,” he says. By now he thinks that any real man would have taken the gun and shot Map. “I'm sorry, Mom and Dad. I'm a coward."
He tries to think of anything that links him to them, any memory. He thinks of all the things his aunt has said about them. His father wanted to start a car-repair business; his mother was a good cadre in the maquis in the early days; she was good at dancing....
"I've been trying!” he tells them. “I've been trying, and trying..."
But it doesn't do any good. He learns languages; he brings in money; he tries to go to university; he smiles and smiles and smiles, and the thing, whatever it is, the darkness, the nightmare, is still there inside him, the thing that never goes away.
The thing is what he sees staring back at him out of Tan Map's eyes.
The war. I'm part of it. Of course I'm part of it, I see it in my dreams; it's in the air I breathe.
Connection doesn't work. It doesn't take it away. Which means that love doesn't work, or reason, or knowledge, not working hard, nor seven dollars a day, not little notes about all his friends who never write back or any of the things William uses day in, day out, to make life bearable.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he sobs and slams his own knee.
I tried to make a friend of him. I chased after him like some kind of puppy dog. How many other people know? What would I look like to them? He killed my parents. He's the reason I live in someone else's house.
University. Clean little shoes, Internet, and smiling, smiling, little sompiah, oh, sir, you are a nice man, kiss, kiss, kiss, you want bike? You want me to stay a nice poor smiling little Cambodian? Stay here until I'm a fifty-year-old motoboy, a starving old man on a rusty bike outside a fallen-down hotel, and I'm still saying, Hi! Bonjour! Guttentag! Sawakdee!
William can't stay still. He hauls himself back around onto the bike.
He thinks for a moment he'll roar after Map and ask him for the gun. Then he knows he won't. He knows he'll turn the bike around and slink back home and have a long kindly chat with his aunt.
Peaceful man.
Live with this.
[Back to Table of Contents]
April 1177
The King seemed to have forgotten that his wife had just given him a son.
Second Queen Rajendradevi sat posed in a hammock, cushions behind her back. She was lightly wrapped in gold-embroidered cloth, her hair was scented and piled up on her head, its tendrils holding in place an image of the Buddha. The aftermath of giving birth had left her looking plumper and younger.
The entire household was arrayed around her for the presentation. Even the King's Brahmin waited to bless the new prince.
The Prince Rajapativarman had arrayed himself on a bowl of fruit and was eating a banana.
"Poor man has so many children already, he's bound to forget one or two of them.” He swallowed. “Like all his women, really.” He batted his eyelashes.
Fishing Cat was at the end o
f her patience with him. “Shut up, ‘Pati."
Being a slave was useful at times. You could be blunt, and the people who were grateful for it could admonish you in public and reward you in private.
"We all understand Rajapati, Cat,” said Queen Jayarajadevi.
"I was just trying to lighten the mood,” said Rajapati.
"You were trying to be noticed."
The lamps guttered in the breeze. Cat went to lower the curtains against the cool night air.
The Brahmin shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He was at his most uncomfortable at formal occasions when he had to speak. He believed most of the people in the room had allowed their devotion to Buddha to drive out due observance of the Gods. He studiously avoided even looking at Rajapativarman.
"Sisters?” said the Second Queen, looking at the other wives. “Perhaps this is not a good time. We can ask the King to come later."
Cat turned and caught Jayarajadevi's eye, and then glanced at the Queen's sister Indradevi.
There really was something wrong.
This was a son, and the King needed sons. Suryavarman had turned out to be savagely ambitious. He had already suggested that it was time for the King to step down in his favour. Virakumara would make a great scholar and an invisible king, Rajendravarman loved sport, looked good, but liked girls and gambling too much. The birth of a new healthy son was the answer to the King's prayers. And he had been looking so restive and unsettled lately.
You go or I? Fishing Cat's eyes asked the First Queen.
Jayarajadevi said lightly, “Let me go and talk to the King.” She touched the Second Queen gently on the shoulder. “You do know how much he wants to see his new son, don't you?"
The Second Queen gave a brave little nod. Fishing Cat admired her. She'd been chosen for beauty and was no match for Jayarajadevi and her formidable sister. She had gone through being regal, resentful, then withdrawn but had come out a sweet and reliable presence.
The First Queen gave Rajendradevi a delighted smile, and slipped out of the room.
The Prince Rajapati lolled on top of a pineapple. “I know,” he said, sitting up. “Why don't we swap me for the baby?” He hooted. “What a terrible shock.” He mimed his father picking up his newborn and finding him instead. “Oh no! Not another one."
