A Distant Land

by Alison Booth

  ‘Whose body was found then?’

  ‘It could have been anyone’s. The fact that the Cambodians cremated it so soon made it hard to tell. It was a Caucasian male, that’s what the Cambodians said, but they could have made a deliberate mistake. It was someone who had a gold tooth like Jim’s. Apparently that’s how they identified the body. That and the civilian clothes.’

  After they’d hung up, Zidra continued to stand on the landing. Jim’s sentence – and her own – had been miraculously reprieved. If she believed in a god, she would find a church and offer up thanks. As it was, she believed only in the forces of nature and she knew that Jim’s salvation had been due to luck.

  But still she would pay homage to the sky and the spinning earth and the blazing joy of the day.

  Chapter 34

  Although it was early, the sky was already an enamelled blue. The leaves on the trees lining the street, washed by the rain of the previous day, fluttered like victory flags in the light breeze. Zidra drove to a secluded park on a narrow promontory overlooking the iridescent harbour.

  I’ll swim, she thought. There’s no one around and what better way to mark the morning? After peeling off her dress, she flung it onto the grass. Wearing only her bra and knickers, she ran to the harbour’s edge. Rippling waves formed by the westerly breeze flirted with the incoming tide. She dipped one foot, then the other, ankle-deep in the water that slid over her warm skin, as tender as a lover’s touch. A few more steps and she was submerged up to her thighs. Bending her knees, she felt the silky caress of the water sliding up to her waist. Abandoning herself, she lay on her back, feet tilting upwards as her head settled back onto the buoyant surface. The whole length of her body was supported now; she was at one with the water the ocean the sky.

  She scissored her feet and was gently propelled backward. Deliberately she raised her right arm, elbow straight, and stretched it behind her. Sweeping it down, fingers and palm aligned into a blade, she felt the resistance of the water as she pushed hard against it with her hand. Then back with the other arm, and she was starting to pick up speed. Faster she scissored her legs; she was shooting backward now. The sunlight glanced off the drops of water falling from her raised arm, an arc of sparkling crystals that made her heart sing.

  Jim had died and risen again. He was alive and all Sydney was celebrating.

  The sun on Zidra’s skin warmed her damp body and began to dry her soaked bra and knickers. Sitting on the coarse buffalo grass, she listened to the morning’s jubilant chorus. The triumphant slip-slap of the waves against the shore, the joyous cries of seagulls circling the rocks, the gleeful pulsing of cicadas in the shrubbery behind her, the laughing voices of runners jogging by the water’s edge.

  The park was starting to fill with people, none of whom took the slightest notice of what she was wearing. After her underwear had dried, she pulled on her dress before strolling along the path to the street in which she’d left the car. As she passed through the park gate, she almost collided with a tall man. They both stopped short, apologising. At this point she recognised him. Smiling, she said, ‘Well, if it isn’t Hank! What a nice surprise to see you in these parts.’

  ‘Hi, Zidra.’ Hank’s voice was cool, his embarrassment almost palpable. It was only now that she noticed he was holding the hand of a brunette with a smooth pageboy bob. Like Hank, she was wearing a navy jacket, white shirt and beige cotton trousers. I can’t believe it, she thought, and in the next instant, I might have guessed. And what a preppy pair. Involuntarily she raised her hand to her tousled damp hair and flicked out of her eyes the fringe that she hadn’t had time to have trimmed.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my wife, Julia,’ Hank said. ‘She arrived back this morning.’

  ‘Julia, how lovely to meet you.’ Zidra held out her hand. She felt nothing but relief tinged with curiosity.

  Julia extended her hand. On her wrist she wore a thick gold chain and on her left hand a wide wedding band. Zidra continued, ‘I’ve heard so much about you from Hank.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Julia might have been looking at her rather suspiciously or perhaps it was just that she had the sunlight shining into her eyes. ‘And you two know each other from where?’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ Zidra said. Avoiding the question was a trick she’d learnt from interviewing politicians. ‘Well, I must dash. It was lovely to meet you, Julia, and so nice to see you again, Hank.’ With that, she proceeded along the path at a cracking pace and turned into a side loop through the shrubbery, where her body shook with hysterical laughter. She had no need to give another thought to Hank’s feelings or how she was going to get rid of him. And he was a double liar, deceiving her as well as Julia.

  After she’d stopped laughing, she began to feel sympathy for Julia. She looked lovely – just the sort of woman you might pick for him if you were arranging the perfect marriage. Zidra shrugged and sauntered on. When she’d almost reached her car, she heard him calling her name.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Hank again,’ she said. ‘What have you done with your wife?’

  ‘She’s waiting in the car. She’s just got in today, as I told you. We’ve had a trial separation.’

  ‘I don’t believe anything you say. Especially what you said last night.’ Then he’d been lying to her with his words for sure, but had he also lied to her with his body?

  ‘I didn’t tell you any lies. It was all the truth.’

  ‘Was there truth in the words, or in the actions?’ she said.

  ‘In both. How can you think otherwise?’

  She thought again of that oblivion, that loss of self that she’d experienced with him. For half an hour she’d forgotten herself. Did it matter with whom? Yes, of course it did, or at least to her. The oblivion came with the trusting. She said, ‘You didn’t tell me the truth about your visitor from the United States.’

  ‘Of course that was the truth.’

  ‘Your visitor, was it Julia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said it was a he.’

  ‘Did I? A slip of the tongue.’ He smiled.

  ‘Do you tell me what you think I want to hear?’

  ‘Sometimes. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘No, Hank. I don’t think they do,’ she said. But she didn’t care any more. Nothing about Hank concerned her any more.

  ‘It’s not like you think it is.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more lies.’ Of course it was possible that Hank hadn’t told the truth about anything. Again she wondered who’d broken into the Paddington house and stolen the cassette that Lorna had given her. She never had learnt what had happened to it, though she could guess it was either in the hands of ASIO or else had been destroyed by Steve. That tape didn’t matter though, not now that Lorna’s story, and those of others like her, were in the public domain. But there was something else that Zidra wanted to clear up with Hank. She said, ‘Why did you take photographs of me at the Fourth Moratorium March?’

  ‘Because you’re gorgeous and I wanted to go to bed with you.’

  ‘You must take photos of a lot of women if that’s your rationale.’

  He laughed again.

  He thinks he’s charmed me, she thought. ‘What did you do with the photographs?’

  ‘I keep them in the drawer of my office desk.’

  ‘Did you give a copy to ASIO?’

  ‘No, why on earth should I? They’ll have their own people following you, you can bet on that.’

  ‘They have a file on me.’

  He looked interested. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘No. They gave it to my editor but we decided not to look at it. It was only a copy of course.’

  ‘They’ll have an even bigger file on you after your piece in the Chronicle.’

  ‘Do you mean the one that’s likely to result in a Roy
al Commission?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should think they’d be shredding stuff in my file now rather than adding to it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing. I only deal with passports and visa applications.’

  Was he telling the truth about this? She would never know. And did it matter? Probably not. She said, ‘Why did you say you were separated from your wife?’

  ‘Because I was. And anyway, I didn’t think you’d care. Ages ago you said you were a free spirit and didn’t want involvement with anyone.’

  ‘Did I? Does that translate into an invitation to be dishonest?’

  ‘Would it have made a difference if I’d told you the truth?’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s not really the point.’ She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that earlier today she’d been hoping for more from Hank.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I heard the news about your friend Jim. You must be thrilled.’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ But she had no intention of discussing Jim with him. She said, ‘Goodbye, Hank. It’s all over now. Your wife looks lovely, by the way. Appreciate what you’ve got instead of hankering after what you haven’t, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  He grimaced before saying, ‘She only returned today. She travels overseas a lot. You and I, we did have some fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did, but maybe we both knew it couldn’t last. And it’s all finished with now.’

  He didn’t look too pleased, and she guessed that he was usually the one who did the dumping. She watched expressions flit across his face: annoyance, followed by resignation, followed by what might even be wry amusement. ‘See you around, Hank,’ she said.

  Chapter 35

  Never before had slouching in an armchair felt this good, and it had been a long time since Jim had felt this clean, although it had taken three baths to wash away all the ingrained dirt. Dominique’s Phnom Penh apartment was sparsely furnished but that was one of the reasons he liked it; that and her black and white photographs adorning the whitewashed walls. Opposite him she was stretched out on a cane chaise longue, reading a book. Several packets of Gauloises and an overflowing ashtray lay on the wicker table next to her. After an afternoon of interviews and the night of celebrations at the Hôtel le Royal, he’d been delighted to take up her offer of somewhere to stay. She’d missed the revels the night before and would soon want to hear of his experiences first-hand, but with her usual tact she read on, giving him the peace he needed. His own place was his no longer, and his few possessions gone. The clothes he was wearing were borrowed from a Canadian photographer, who was his height. His feet and legs were painful, the sores throbbing still.

  A light breeze shifted the curtains of the open French windows. The sound of the traffic seemed alien after weeks of hearing only jungle noises interrupted by artillery and bombing raids. He sipped a glass of orange juice and stared vacantly at the newspaper on his lap, struggling to adjust to his new surroundings. Eventually Dominique interrupted his reverie, evidently deciding that half an hour was sufficient to provide the peace he’d said he was searching for.

  ‘When did they tell you they’d be letting you go?’

  ‘Four days ago.’ He still couldn’t believe that they’d made it safely back to Phnom Penh.

  ‘And how did you find out?’

  ‘The bloke who usually gave us the daily re-education lecture turned up but instead of the lesson he told us we’d be released the following day. We were stunned, though we’d been hoping. Anyway, what he actually meant was that there’d be a release ceremony the next day. That was a strange experience. They began by taking photographs of each of us, in the new green military clothes they gave us. Then there were group photographs, standing with all the soldiers.’

  ‘What do you think they’re going to use them for?’

  ‘Propaganda, I expect.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘They sat us down on benches and an old fellow, who seemed to be someone from high up, read out a statement in Vietnamese. It was translated by an interpreter. “According to the humane principles of the Liberation Armed Forces, the journalists are today released and given safe passage to the agreed release point.” After that there was a whole lot of stuff that I had trouble following, and then they gave us a signal to clap. And we did. Enthusiastically. Then we had to sign.’

  ‘Sign what?’

  ‘The speech, and a piece of paper listing our belongings. They kept all the cameras though. “Now the tools of the imperialists and their lackeys will serve the Liberation Front,” they said.

  ‘We each had to make a statement and they tape-recorded the whole thing. We were hoping the recorder wouldn’t work. The last thing we wanted was to feature on Radio Hanoi. Then Kim asked if we could take back news of the nineteen other journalists like us who’d been reported missing. The old chap looked a bit annoyed and began another long speech. “Foreign journalists shouldn’t travel with Lon Nol troops. In battle anything can happen. It’s impossible to tell what will occur. No other journalists have been captured in this area.”’

  Probably the others had been captured by the Khmer Rouge, Jim thought. After a brief pause, he continued. ‘Anyway, the old man said he wanted us to write the truth about them but not to reveal their position. We promised to do that.’

  ‘That’s a standard rule for any journalist embedded with an army: never reveal your position.’

  ‘Well, we weren’t exactly embedded voluntarily.’

  ‘D’accord. You lawyers love to split the hairs. Go on.’

  ‘That night we set off with six men escorting us. They gave us bundles of rice and our civilian clothes. And we each had a toothbrush and a tube of Lucky toothpaste.’

  ‘That is very appropriate,’ Dominique said, lighting another cigarette.

  ‘So off we went, flip-flopping along in our rubber thongs.’ Seeing Dominique’s puzzled expression, Jim added, ‘That’s Australian for what the Americans call shower sandals.’

  ‘Ah, thongs for the feet and not for the bondage.’ Dominique smiled and flicked some ash in the direction of the ashtray.

  ‘In each village Cambodian kids were lined up to stare at us and, behind them, rows of adults.’ That was a sight he’d never forget, Jim thought, all those faces illuminated by kerosene torches. Expressionless faces, closely watching them march by escorted by the guard of Liberation soldiers. What the Cambodians would have made of that was anyone’s guess. Their loyalties must have been torn apart. Would they have been supporting the group that hassled them least or most? The US bombers hassled them the most, destroying their crops, their livelihood, their communities. Yet the Liberation Armed Forces were wreaking havoc too. The Cambodian peasants would have been confused, frightened, weary of it all and wanting all the invaders out.

  ‘How I wish I could have photographed you.’

  ‘Kim and Michio were wishing that too.’ That night they’d barely slept. Short naps punctuated by distant phosphorus flares that lit up the darkness. In the end he’d hauled himself awake and listened to the drumming of machine guns and the deeper explosions of artillery fire.

  ‘And then?’ Dominique asked.

  ‘I reckon each of us was wondering why the Liberation Armed Forces would risk the lives of their men to get us out. And all the time we heard bombing and artillery. Not actually on us, but awfully close – so we were starting to feel more and more nervous.’

  ‘Agité. And then what?’

  ‘Eventually we reached the bitumen road near the release point and our guards left us. It was strange. I felt like we were losing old friends.’ Especially Anh Tu, Fourth Brother. He was the only one of their captors who’d remained with them until their release.

  ‘You were. They did acc
ompany you all that way without killing you.’

  ‘All the time we were worried that the town we were heading for might now be in Khmer Rouge hands. We found an abandoned house and we changed out of our army garb there. Kim had been given a piece of white parachute silk and we tied it to a stake. Then we saw a bunch of government soldiers heading towards us. Kim waved his white flag. I recognised the officer in charge at the same time he recognised me. “You’re dead,” he said.

  ‘“No we’re not,” I said.

  ‘He shook my hand so hard it almost fell off. Then he got us into an escorted jeep and helicopter transport to Phnom Penh. The rest you know.’

  ‘Not quite. Peut-être you will, some time, tell me more.’

  ‘Since then I’ve been wondering if our escort made it back safely. I hope they did. They were good people.’

  ‘There are good people on both sides. And bad, mauvais. Très mauvais. This is what being here has taught me.’

  To clear his head before making the phone calls to Australia, Jim took a short walk down to the Mekong River. Ahead of him was the glistening white spire of Wat Phnom, a Buddhist temple on a small rise. Although surrounded by open spaces fringed with trees, it would be swarming with people. Turning into a side street, he made his way down to the riverfront. The park alongside the water was crowded too. More and more refugees were thronging into Phnom Penh. Even after just a few weeks’ absence he could notice the difference.

  He sat on the grass and leant against the trunk of a palm tree. How could you ever measure the human cost of war? Not only all those lives lost so senselessly but all the other myriad destructions. The disparate countries of Indochina had been pushed around by colonisers, from the time of the Chinese, then the French, and now the Americans. And how would the new types of warfare affect future generations? The outcomes of this war would be horrific: the displacement of millions of people, rural poverty, destabilisation of societies, of families, of institutions.