In the Palm

by Elna Holst

  “Maman,” Ren whispers reverently. She indicates the remnants of what was once a dog. “Chienne.”

  I sway. Ren’s hold on my hip tightens. I let out a harrowing sob.

  “I need my bag, Ren. Fuck. I need my fucking bag.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  REN IS OBSERVING me out of the corner of her eye as she stirs the pot on the fire. I am seated in her hammock, the swinging lulling me, as I truculently masticate my next to last nicotine gum.

  We haven’t spoken since the meet-the-parent ordeal. I’ve been crying, non-stop, howling and snivelling and carrying on, and Ren has been at a loss of what to do with me, after having at last, obediently, fetched me my bag from where she had hung it beside her own.

  “Dimanche no like Maman?” she asked anxiously, and I shook my head wildly, then nodded, then shook it again. Finally, she gave up, her face closed, and she disappeared outside. She came back dripping half an hour later, two dead parrots dangling from a string over her shoulder, Chien zigzagging about her legs. I looked at her mutely, refusing to acknowledge her return.

  She proceeded to pluck the poor birds, leaving their gaudy feathers in a pile beside her, over in what is obviously the cooking corner. There’s a small opening between the wall and the roof, an aperture intended for letting the smoke of the fire out without letting the rain in. The medic in me wants to tell her to be careful, to take precautions, to try not to breathe in the smoke too much, or she’ll contract COPD. The hurt and embittered little girl, however, prefers to keep her mouth shut.

  For now I am well and truly adrift. Without a name or a memory, my body barely intact, without even the clothes I had on my back. Cut off from all possibility of succour by the next-to-constant rain and the distance to the beach where I came from, where my ragtag construction to call attention to myself from passing ships has, in all likelihood, been torn down by the wind, the birds, the downpour.

  I feel nothing so much as misplaced—dropped like a plaything by the side of the road, mud-splattered and the worse for wear. Dropped, and picked up—by whom? I know nothing about this strange creature: Ren. How did she come to be here? Who are her people? Why—oh, why for the love of pity does she live in the middle of a tropical island, in the company of no one but a feral dog and a corpse?

  The remains of her mother, whose dress I am wearing. I would be shuddering if I had the energy, the presence of mind to react. I am sinking fast into lethargy.

  “Food.” Ren stands at my side, proffering a hand-carved bowl of steaming stew. “Eat.”

  I wait to hear the familiar cajoling: good Dimanche, but nothing comes; she simply deposits the bowl on the floor in front of me and draws back. I peer down at its contents: a thickened liquid, seasoned with dry herbs, in which fatty pieces of chicken-like meat floats. A thought crosses my mind and a reluctant shadow of a smile touches my lips. Parrot soup. Parrot soup for the soul.

  Lowering myself to the floor, I raise the bowl to my mouth to taste it. It’s… It’s definitely edible. It’s not half bad.

  I gaze over to the smouldering fire where Ren is sitting, a hand on Chien’s rump, a vacant expression in her eyes. She hasn’t touched her meal.

  For the first time, it occurs to me I might not be the only one confused and disconcerted here. I might not be the only one in pain.

  IN THE DEAD of night, I creep out from under my quilt—this invaluable, wondrous luxury—to examine the body. Ren is curled up in the hammock—as much as she can be curled up; she is a big woman, after all. She would be more comfortable in the bed, but she has relinquished it to me, without comment, without hesitation. Chien is less of a paragon of hospitality. He is resting at the foot of the bed, as I assume is his wont. The instant I stir his head lifts, and I hand him a few morsels of parrot meat I have set aside for this express purpose. He gobbles them up, his tail whipping faintly; but as no more seem to be forthcoming, he returns his head to his paws, looking askance at me.

  I cover my mouth. He is so much like Effie the Labrador, despite his removal in place and time and breed. Effie? Grandda’s dog, his fulvous, joyous, ever-present shadow. Effie, the golden star.

  How can I remember Effie, and not myself? It’s infuriating—disheartening. How many weeks have gone by already since I left my room at the Hotel Danielle? But somebody will have alerted the appropriate embassy, surely. They will be out looking for me, high and low. My picture may even be featured on the international news channels. My fifteen minutes—and I don’t even know—Doctor Who and Where—would I even recognise myself?

  I smack my stump against my forehead, and it hurts, my flesh stinging; Ren shifts in her hammock.

  I sit stark still, barely breathing, until the hammock has stopped moving. Focus, Dr Whoever You Are. Remember your object. As I hear the telling snores of Ren resting on her back, I finally dare draw breath again. I slump down on all fours, crawling across the filthy floor. Chien quirks his head in seeming perplexity—I can’t blame him, really—but doesn’t, thankfully, pursue me.

  I know exactly, within a square inch, where the body is located. I have felt its presence like a bad taste at the back of my throat, throughout the day.

  “Hello, Maman,” I whisper, like another lunatic. “I hope you can forgive me for doing away with the formalities, but there are a couple of things I’d really like to know.”

  Fortunately, she doesn’t reply. As taciturn as her daughter. With my eyes wide open, I feel my way up the body, counting ribs out of habit. I have racked my brain all day trying to remember what to look for. What I need is the cranium.

  Yorrick—I knew thee well. There. Sweeping a tuft of remaining hair out of the way, I nudge Maman’s jaws open. I bite my lip, and push my finger inside.

  This isn’t standard procedure. But, when stranded on a desert island, without an operating table, without tools, without daylight—for crying out loud! I gasp, and hiss at myself for gasping. But there they are—the incisors, blade-form with a flat profile. Not East Asian, then. I withdraw and carry on up to the nasal aperture, long and narrow, with a high bridge and a sharp nasal sill. An iron taste in my mouth alerts me to the fact that I’ve bitten into my tongue.

  Ren’s mother was white—she was—I trace my fingers down to the pelvis, feeling like a rapist as I rub my thumb over the pubic symphysis—she was not above thirty years of age when she died.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “WHY DO YOU call me Dimanche, Ren?”

  We are seated on the floor in what I have begun to think of as the ‘kitchen’, feasting on mangoes Ren has produced from I don’t know where. The perpetual noise of the rain has started to get on my nerves, just as, I can see, it gets on hers. She hates the rainy season. She hates being sequestered, cooped up. I know it, as plainly as if we had had this conversation, as if she had spoken words to this effect, and yet we haven’t—she hasn’t.

  It comforts me somehow, the knowing. I can’t say why.

  “Ren know Dimanche,” she says simply, as though it is the silliest question in the world. She licks mango juice off her fingers.

  “How do you mean ‘know’? How can you ‘know’ me? We never met before. Did we? Have you met me before, Ren?”

  My mind is swimming with possibilities—impossibilities. In my heart of hearts I know: Ren has always lived on the island. She has never been to Sihanoukville. She has certainly never been to Europe.

  I doubt she’s even aware these places exist. Tears of anger, of a grief I am not ready to own to myself, sting at my eyes.

  “How can you know me when I don’t even know myself!”

  She looks at me gravely. I rub my hand over my stump.

  “Dimanche no know Dimanche?”

  Shaking my head, I make an effort to lift my eyes to meet hers. I still feel bad about having desecrated Maman’s remains in the middle of the night. I should have asked permission. I should have asked—oh, so many questions! But what’s the use?

  “I don’t know Dimanche. I don’t remember my
proper name. I’ve lost my memory. Do you understand? I’ve lost everything!”

  A button from Maman’s dress comes loose in my hand. I hadn’t realised I was tugging at it.

  “Oh, Ren—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I pay you back by ruining stuff, stealing your bed, disrespecting your…your house.”

  She has cocked her head to the side, and I’m not sure if she has understood half of my outburst. I can’t even say if I remembered to speak French.

  “Dimanche sad, Ren sad.” She puts a hand on my knee, and then her face lights up with pleasure, because something has come to her, out of the dregs of her silent history: “Cheer up, ma puce.”

  Her cadence is so soothing, so motherly, it would have reduced me to tears afresh if I hadn’t been so surprised. Ren smiles and moves closer, and there’s an impish glint in her eyes, right before her fingers are suddenly at my midriff, under my armpits, wriggling and tickling me until I’m snorting and shouting with involuntary laughter.

  She stops dead.

  “No sick Dimanche.” She gathers me into her arms with a vehemence I can’t interpret—but it feels right, this unexpected embrace. I relax into it, my head falling on to her shoulder, my arms encircling her waist.

  “I’m not sick,” I murmur into her hair, our roles at once reversed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m on the mend, thanks to you.”

  It feels good, so very good, holding her. Despite her nudity, despite the clamminess of the air around us, the skin of her shoulder is warm against my cheek. She smells of wood fire, wet Chien, a hint of fruit juice, and a deeper sweetness, a musky-sweet something that makes my breath catch, my body grow hot and weak.

  She is stroking my back, the thin fabric of the dress teasing at my skin, and fuck, I want to—

  And then there’s a damp dog head squeezed in between us, a whimpering, excited Chien, back from his rainy excursion, eager to join in the game.

  We let go of each other like two teenagers caught out by an officious younger sibling. I lavish my pent-up turmoil of emotions on Chien, petting him until his hind leg starts twitching. I don’t look up to meet her gaze, but I can feel it, like cigarette burns down my side. I know my face is glowing. I know I look every bit as disordered as I feel.

  It’s not right. She’s—I—and—it just can’t be right.

  Ren grabs hold of my arm, and there’s something in her expression, a confusion of jealousy and—and she is dragging me off, away from the ecstatic canine, her hand around my bicep, gripping just a bit too hard.

  “Ren.” I follow her lead clumsily, self-conscious and acutely aware of the throb in my loins, the fluid blaze in me that even this childish, possessive manhandling can’t abate. If anything, it turns it up a notch. We are heading towards the bed. “Ren, wait.”

  She doesn’t. Neither does she throw me on my back and have at me, and as I sink on to the bed, massaging the arm she has let go of to reach under the makeshift mattress, I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. I cover it with a scowl.

  “You hurt me,” I mutter, and not even I am sure what I’m referring to. Ren disregards my comment. She’s exasperatingly good at that. “What are you doing? What are you looking for?”

  “Dimanche!” she exclaims triumphantly, as she pulls out a collection of old paper materials and prints from under us. I stare at it. The pile is a goodly size, at least two inches high, and yet I can’t recall feeling any discomfort from it whatsoever while I’ve slept, as it were, on top of it. I guess that proves it. A real princess I am not.

  I press my hand over my mouth to hide my burst of slightly deranged jocularity. It does seem to jar my protectrice par excellence when I laugh at myself.

  “Dimanche,” she intones, her face avid as she places the top-most of her treasures in my lap: a wall calendar, with paintings by the French Impressionists, from the year—my eyes become a tad blurry—1975.

  “What—” But she is ahead of me, turning to the month of July, which starts on a Sunday and is illustrated by a portrait of a pretty, auburn-haired woman in a low-neck ball gown, her pink lips smiling mischievously, her eyes brazenly meeting the gaze of her onlooker. It’s a Renoir, the caption informs me, titled La Rêverie and completed in 1877.

  I look from the picture to Ren. She seems so thrilled, so enthused, I don’t want to break the spell, but I…

  “Dimanche.” Her voice is low and intimate. It makes the hair on my neck stand on end. She touches the cheek of the woman in the painting, then mine, tenderly. “Ren know Dimanche.”

  July starts on a Sunday. I blink. Then I touch the other cheek of the woman in the picture, diffidently, afraid that the paper will give way beneath my touch. It’s so old. It’s stored in less than ideal conditions, as far as paper is concerned. It’s—

  “Dimanche?” I ask, and Ren nods her head oui. She thinks the woman’s name is Sunday. She didn’t name me after a day of the week. She thinks the painted apparition is called Sunday, and I am she. It’s the magical thinking of a child, and yet…

  “She’s beautiful,” I observe, my face itching, the tip of my finger tracing the outline of La Rêverie. “You like her?”

  I steal a glance at her. She sits quite motionless by the side of the bed, looking up at me, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Love.” She corrects me, matter-of-factly, and I have to busy myself with something, anything; I lift the calendar and examine the rest of the pile underneath. There’s a French magazine, all but falling to pieces, well thumbed. And—a book?

  A notebook, I realise, my heart beating faster as I pick it up.

  “What’s this?”

  Ren shrugs, barely glancing at it.

  “Maman,” she replies, and searches through her mental phraseology, her storage of expressions long in disuse. “Little friend of Maman.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  KAMPOT, 14TH OF OCTOBER, 1974

  We are leaving Cambodia. After staying through the atrocities of the US carpet bombings, the deposition of Prince Sihanouk, and the heavy-handed militarism of President Lon Nol, Father has, in his slow, pondering way, determined that we are no longer safe here. Mother, Claire, and I are expected to abide by his judgement.

  “Certainly, we must go” was Mother’s sole comment—and it shouldn’t have surprised me. She has wanted to leave for years. Like a small, delicate flower, she has been wilting, uprooted and replanted in much too alien surroundings. Her home is France. Fifteen years in Cambodia—the greater part of mine and all of Claire’s life—seem like nothing so much as a parenthesis, a mistaken aside, in the chamber play of her life.

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Elodie!” Claire complains as I pour my heart out to her. She is eager to ‘return’ to France; she thinks it will be great fun, a new start—and besides, we are French.

  And there’s the Khmer Rouge to consider. Of course we are not safe here—but neither is anyone else. I don’t care what my passport says. I have no memory of France, and no illusions about the Mother Country like Claire; I am Cambodian, if not Khmer. This is where I belong. Here, in this untamed and sprawling country of the sun bear and the banded krait, the leopard cat and the dhole—the black-nosed, orange-brown wild dog that scared me as much as the memory of the wolf back among the distant French mountains when I first came here as a child. Although with as little reason; the dholes of Cambodia are as scarce now as the shy wolves of continental Europe are. Yet I like to think that there are pockets of hidden habitats, little sanctuaries somewhere, somehow, where they can live safely away from the prying, destructive eye of man. It is a foolish wish, I’m sure, one of those hopeless dreams we cling to, to live with ourselves. It is so very hard to live with ourselves.

  Among the servants, I have heard murmurs of unspeakable brutalities being committed around the country. Their voices are bated, their language purposely colloquial, where before they used to welcome my curiosity, look kindly upon my efforts to understand Khmer.

&nbs
p; Now, silence reigns wherever I go, and I am not to leave the house unescorted.

  I do, of course. Of course, I do. How else would I be able to see Hav?

  He is like water and air to me. My heart, my lungs. He is the most beautiful, the gentlest man I ever met—raised by monks, intended for the wat. Left like a stray cat upon the stairs of the temple, and yet he is lucky; he is grateful; he says others—hundreds, thousands—are left in the gutter to die or fend for themselves.

  The Great Buddha has smiled on him, he concludes, with that bright, soft smile of his own that makes me want him near me, so intensely the desire is like an ache in my bones.

  I go to the wat to see him, waiting in the temple garden, under the moon.

  “Mademoiselle Letrange,” he greets me, and somehow, the way he pronounces my name feels like a caress. “Here again?”

  It is always the same: here again? Both knowing and curious, as though he cannot make out why I should keep coming back, why I’m always there, in that particular spot where we first met.

  It is a sacred spot—to me, that is. None of the monks come there, nor any of the other boys or young men who are monks-in-training, as it were.

  Only Hav.

  “Call me Elodie,” I say, every time, and every time, he takes me into his arms.

  “DIMANCHE NO GOOD?”

  Ren has gripped my calf, tentatively; I look up, dazed, my mind awash with the carelessly scrawled, hopelessly romantic, meandering notes of Elodie. Maman.

  “I was reading,” I say, distractedly. “Have you read this?”

  Ren peers at the text in front of me, the yellowed, brittle pages, the faded handwriting.

  “Maman draw.” She makes a moue. “No much good.”

  I laugh. “No, it’s text—you know, like in your calendar, see?” I hold it up, then put it down again, so that I can run my finger over the letters spelling out my—Sunday. “Look, di-man-che. Did Maman not teach you?”