Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

  Soon, he’d have to turn around and head back. But for the moment, he kept going, feeling strong, like nothing and no one could catch up with him.

  Morel’s uncle had agreed to meet him at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Morel took a tuk-tuk to the building at Sisowath Quay. He climbed the wooden staircase and entered the bar. It was busy but there was one unoccupied stool where he could sit and look out at the quay and at the river. His uncle wouldn’t be here for another hour. That gave Morel plenty of time for a couple of drinks, to loosen up and think about what he might say.

  A waitress took his order. While he waited for it to arrive, he enjoyed the view. A tourist boat chugged past and, further along, a man was casting a fishing net from a narrow skiff. He threw the net wide, with practised ease; Morel watched it unfurl in slow motion before settling on the water. On the embankment opposite there were only a few low-rise buildings, but the foundations of a new hotel had been laid down that would spoil the view from here once it was built. It stood directly across from where Morel sat, at the confluence of the Mekong River and its tributary, the Tonle Sap.

  Before leaving his hotel, he had called Jeremy Nolan in Spain, where he was holidaying with his family. He’d got the number from Nora, through Paul Arda. It turned out Nora’s friend and the Jeremy who’d stayed at the hotel were one and the same. Yes, he and Nora were at school together. No, he’d never met Hugo Quercy. Didn’t even know who he was, though Nora had told him about the murder. Nora hadn’t been there that night. Morel thanked him and hung up, feeling deflated. It had been nothing more than coincidence.

  The wine he’d ordered was a Chilean white, chilled and easy on the palate. Morel finished it quickly and ordered another. The view from the FCC might be changing but, he noted, inside it remained the same as when he’d first come here, with its rolled-up blinds, wooden armchairs and photographs hung askew on yellow-painted walls.

  He wondered what he could say to his uncle to avoid another debacle of a meeting. Seventeen years ago, they had spent an uncomfortable hour together, trying to reconcile their memories of Mey. But when Samdech had spoken of her, Morel had been barely able to recognize his mother. They were strangers, talking about someone they both claimed to know. But they might as well have been talking about two different people.

  Morel drank and gazed out at the soft, rain-washed landscape. He thought about his father. Had Morel Senior had any dealings with his wife’s family following her death? Morel had never asked. A wall of silence had gone up when his mother had died. She had been the family mediator, the conciliator. Her warmth and steadiness had held them all in check. She had soothed frayed tempers and kept the peace between Morel’s sisters. And ensured that Morel and his father maintained a semblance of communication.

  Her death had shocked them all. They had barricaded themselves against each other’s grief – his father, his sisters and he, Morel. Each of them had mourned her alone.

  Behind the clouds, the sun was setting. It was the colour of a ripe orange, gradually staining the horizon like dye until everything was caught in its watery light. Then the sky turned dark. The tourist boats, few and far between, appeared as pinpricks of light against the water, casting the tiniest, most hesitant of reflections.

  Gradually, Sisowath Quay came to life. Cambodians took to the embankment to walk, exercise and play. A group of adolescent boys passed a shuttlecock around, using only their feet. Morel watched them for a while, marvelling at their dexterity. He couldn’t have kept that thing off the ground for more than a few seconds.

  The club was filling up with people ordering drinks and snacks. Some people were having an early dinner. Behind him a middle-aged American woman was giving a grey-haired, silent man a lesson about Cambodia. She spoke with the voice of authority, summarizing the past and outlining the future with great certainty. The man, who was a great deal older than her, didn’t seem to mind being lectured, but Morel found himself becoming increasingly irritated.

  He finished his drink and checked his watch. His uncle should be here by now.

  Sarit stood outside his home and reached into his pocket. The article, the one from the dead man’s pocket, was still there. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thrown it away when Pran had handed it to him in the hotel room. And now it was too late. Pran had said too much and was likely to say more, even if it got Sarit into trouble.

  I have a conscience, Pran would probably say. He had acquired the Western habit of analysing and interpreting everything. A habit that gave Westerners the illusion of control. It wasn’t like that for Sarit. He just wanted this murder to be solved and then to put it behind him. He wanted the French policeman to go home.

  What Pran had said about the state of their country was true. But what did the old man know about the past? The Khmer Rouge had killed Sarit’s parents, his sisters and his brother. Then the Vietnamese had taken over his country and imposed their rule, though the only rule Sarit could see was one of lawlessness. He’d been a young police officer back then. Patrolling curfews and trying to stay out of trouble. Which wasn’t easy. It seemed like every young man on the street had a Kalashnikov. For the other policemen, ‘patrolling’ was a convenient word, an excuse for drink and sex. He had never been much of a drinker and he had no desire to end his night in a tawdry room with some poor, lowly paid village girl – it seemed a desperate move, as desperate as the reasons that had brought the girl to the city – but whenever they suggested stopping at a bar, he followed. He didn’t want to stand out or get himself noticed. So he drank, praying that this time the night wouldn’t end with one or other of the guys pulling out his gun. Back then the officers would fire their guns anywhere once they’d had a few drinks. Never mind where the bullets landed.

  In those days you could get sick just by opening your mouth in the shower, the water was so bad. Everyone looked hungry and poor. Everyone looked like the only clothes they owned were the ragged ones they had on.

  These days, people were better dressed. The kids had iPhones and were on Facebook. But there were plenty of problems. Daily life might not be as precarious as before, but it was still hard.

  ‘You could go far,’ his boss had said recently. Sarit was supposed to be pleased. But he didn’t want to go far, because there would be a price to pay. He wanted a simple existence. No more trouble, no more bloodshed.

  Sarit lit a cigarette. He listened to the rain, dripping from the trees. Watched as the sunset faded and the moon appeared, pale and uncertain among the clouds. Waited until darkness fell before turning to go inside and join his family.

  ‘My father is happy to renew contact with you,’ Chenda was saying.

  ‘So happy he decided not to come.’

  She looked embarrassed and Morel regretted what he’d said.

  ‘He’s still struggling to come to terms with the past. Perhaps if you gave him a little time.’

  ‘How much time? We’ve only spoken twice in the past two decades. I’m not sure last time even counts,’ he said, forcing a smile. He didn’t want her to see he was disappointed.

  She had insisted on sparkling water. She was wearing a white short-sleeved blouse and a dark skirt. She looked so young. A primary school teacher, she could have passed herself off as a student. Her daughter Jorani looked like her, Morel thought.

  ‘I’ve never been here,’ she said.

  ‘We could go somewhere else if you like?’

  ‘No, it’s nice.’

  Their drinks arrived. Her glass of water and his white wine. Morel spoke of his father and sisters. She told him about Jorani.

  ‘Her father left,’ she said, and Morel didn’t push for any more than this.

  Behind Chenda, a portrait of Norodom Sihanouk and his wife hung on the wall. Seven years after his abdication and his son’s ascension to the throne, the former king’s portrait still appeared everywhere. Chenda caught Morel looking at it.

  ‘Most people still consider him the father of the nation,’ she said, reading his thoug
hts. ‘You know they call him the Chameleon King? Some use it as a compliment, to say when he was younger he was clever at detecting the winds of change and shifting with the political tide. Others use it as an insult. They say he was fickle and inconsistent.’

  ‘Perhaps there is some truth in both statements,’ Morel said. They raised their glasses at the same time. She took a small sip of her water.

  ‘Few people are balanced on this issue. Part of the problem is that we’ve lost so much. Another problem is that people, especially the younger ones, want to look to the future and stop worrying about the past.’

  ‘What about you? How do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t like the way foreigners think of our country only in terms of the Khmer Rouge. As if the past forty years haven’t happened. Cambodia today is not the same country it was in 1975.’

  ‘So do you teach your students history?’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. I teach Khmer. History is still an unresolved subject. I wouldn’t want to teach it.’

  ‘But you’re interested?’

  ‘Because of my father. He passed these things on to me. He made me feel like it mattered, to know about the past.’

  ‘It does,’ Morel said.

  ‘I’m not denying that. But knowing about the past isn’t the same thing as trying to make sense of it. We Cambodians are Buddhists, we live in the present moment. We do not dwell in the past. Despite everything he endured, my father does not look for resolution, and neither do I.’

  They spent an hour together before Chenda said she had to leave.

  ‘I’m teaching early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You won’t have any dinner?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll eat with Jorani and my father.’

  ‘Will I see you again? I haven’t given up on Sam either, by the way,’ he said. She laughed. There was a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘He’ll come round,’ she said.

  It was still early when Morel got back to the hotel after dropping Chenda home.

  He went to the reception desk to collect his keys, expecting there would be, as always, something from Perrin. He would call him from his room, then go out for dinner. He was famished.

  ‘There is a message for you,’ the man behind reception said. Morel opened an envelope and saw it was actually from Sarit. Chhun’s death not suspicious, was all it said. He slid the paper into his pocket.

  ‘Also, someone left this for you.’ The receptionist handed over an envelope.

  ‘Who was it?’

  The man gave him a smile, courteous and apologetic. ‘Very sorry, I don’t know.’

  ‘Who was here when they dropped it off?’

  ‘I don’t know, sorry.’

  Morel didn’t insist, telling himself he would find out later. He opened the envelope on the way to his room, slowing as he pulled out the contents. A green folder, containing a stack of documents.

  In the hotel room, he poured himself a shot of Otard and sat on his bed. Then he opened the folder and started reading.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Forced evictions are one of the most widespread human rights violations affecting Cambodians in both rural and urban areas.

  This was from an Amnesty International press release.

  The Cambodian authorities are not only failing to protect – in law and practice – the population against forced evictions, but are actively involved in these unlawful practices.

  Aside from the press release, the material in the folder included newspaper articles and handwritten interviews. All of these documents seemed to relate to the same thing: entire communities were being uprooted so that large tracts of forest and land could be sold off to the highest bidder.

  It was a familiar subject to anyone who knew Cambodia. The illegal logging, which had been going on for decades. The unlawful seizure of land owned by Cambodian families who’d been farming it for generations, to make way for large-scale plantations of export crops. Rubber, sugar. Over the past fifteen years, the government had leased nearly half the country’s land to private investors.

  What will be left, ten, fifteen years down the track, if everything that rightfully belongs to our families is taken from us? The phrase was scribbled in French on a sheet of paper. There were names of people, and other quotes. These were interview notes, Morel realized. Someone had spelled out each person’s name, along with details of where they lived and what they did for work. There was a farmer from Kratie Province. A widow with four children and her elderly mother, living in Phnom Penh. The widow had spent a week in jail for speaking up about what had happened to her. A construction worker and his ailing parents, now living in a slum-like area on the outskirts of the capital, with poor sanitation and an exhausting commute to a job he could not afford to lose. There were at least a dozen of these testimonies, from people living in different parts of the country. There were stories of bullying and imprisonment; of being dispersed with bulldozers and fire extinguishers; of being forcibly trucked to areas of unoccupied land, where families were deprived of the basic necessities they needed to make life tolerable.

  Morel put the papers down and rubbed his eyes. Who? he thought. Who was it that wanted him to see this? And how did it tie in with Hugo Quercy’s death?

  He could still see Kate O’Sullivan’s guileless expression when he’d mentioned the land grabs. Who else had he talked to about it? He tried to recall the exact exchange he’d had with Pran and Sarit about the subject. There had been something there.

  Damn that Sarit. Though he couldn’t prove it yet, Morel felt certain that the Cambodian policeman was lying to him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  From now on, she would be alone with her past. Hugo was dead and there would be no one to compare her memories with. That was the hardest part: being the sole repository of all that they’d shared.

  Florence sighed. There was no point trying to read. She put her book down and rested a hand on her stomach. The baby was playing up again. She moved her fingers across her taut belly and after some gentle prodding found the culprit. It was a perfectly shaped, vigorous little foot.

  ‘Stop monkeying about,’ she told it. But she was glad. Her unborn daughter made her feel less alone.

  Mariko had come and gone. They had spent the day together, sorting and packing. Florence had led the way, starting with the living room and dining room. Sorting out what she would keep and what she would leave behind. She would have a garage sale, which Mariko would take care of. Florence would not be able to bear it herself. The pitying looks while people took away her and Hugo’s belongings one by one for a few dollars.

  It was happening too fast. But their daughter would be here soon. She wanted a fresh start, for her sake.

  Stacking plates and emptying bookshelves had brought back memories and at first Florence talked and cried, while Mariko wiped away her tears and asked whether they should take a break, leave it for another time when Florence might be more prepared.

  Florence’s tears had dried up, eventually. She became subdued, working in silence, with fresh resolve. Maybe there was something therapeutic about putting these things away after all.

  All around her, boxes stood half filled with books, kitchen utensils and clothes. She hadn’t realized just how much she and Hugo had accumulated since their move to Phnom Penh. He had always said he didn’t want to be encumbered by things, that he liked the idea that they could always pick up and leave, from one day to the next. Had he realized just how domesticated they had become? For the first time in their marriage, they had settled into patterns of behaviour that mirrored the lives of other couples they had previously looked upon as being restrictive, humdrum. Collecting things. Coming home to a place they rented yet still wanted to make something of. Phnom Penh was the closest thing Florence knew to home, and she knew Hugo had felt that way too.

  They’d met at university. She’d never known anyone else, whereas he’d been around the block a few times by the time they got together. He’d slept with a lot of
girls, he admitted to her, but he’d only been in love, truly in love, once. It was over now and he didn’t want to talk about it.

  He didn’t need to. Florence didn’t begrudge him that love. He was hers now, and that was enough.

  People said she did the chasing, but he was the one who couldn’t get enough of her. Called her several times a day and turned up on her doorstep, hungry for her attention. At the time she had wondered what he saw in her. She realized, later, that it was her frailty he coveted. He wanted to take care of her, wanted the unquestioning devotion he sensed, even then, that she was capable of. And if it was true that he did most of the talking when they were together, she didn’t mind. She welcomed it, in fact. It meant he needed her to listen. He needed her.

  Being with Hugo was like nothing she’d ever known. She’d always been a reliable, predictable sort of child; her parents liked to tell their friends how easy she’d been to raise. They’d never lost a minute’s sleep worrying about her. Good grades, devoted daughter, the right sort of friends, though no one she depended on or couldn’t manage without. When Hugo came into her life, she found they had mattered little, and she set them aside without any regret. The time came for him to take up a position in Kinshasa and she said she would follow him, even before he’d asked her to. Even though she was just twenty and hadn’t finished her degree. Her parents said nothing but their passive disappointment – or was it puzzlement? – spoke volumes.

  Before Hugo, she would have found their judgement unbearable. All she had ever wanted was to please them. But what did any of that matter, measured against her new life? In the vast, African landscape, in the dry, dusty cities of Central Asia, she found freedom. And along the way, she discovered a propensity to lose herself in another person. Her devotion to Hugo grew and submerged her. She was happy.

  When the time came to move to Cambodia, they packed their bags and travelled from Tajikistan to France, where they paid perfunctory visits to their families. Over coffee and croissants, in her parents’ cheerless dining room, Florence reminded herself that she would not be here long, that Hugo was taking her with him on the next stage of his journey.