For the Sake of All Living Things (53 page)

“Two,” she answered in Khmer, thinking he actually was asking the question.

He did not understand the answer and could not think of anything to say. Looking at her he smiled, then raised a hand to his face, covered his eyes, turned his head away, forced the ridiculous smile from his face, turned back and before he could speak broke into silly laughter.

Vathana also smiled. She raised her fists playfully. In French she said, “
En garde
,
Monsieur Sullivan.
What brings you to Neak Luong? The camp or the army?”

He grasped the steering wheel tightly. “Your camp, madame,” he said professionally. “I must inspect your camp again.” The smile fell from his face. There was nothing he needed to inspect. He’d come to see her but he couldn’t tell her and in lying he broke the fragile bubble of joy which had surrounded them. Glumly he said, “Will you ride with me?”

The camp had shrunk from ten thousand to nine thousand. Major improvements had been made in housing, in food and potable water distribution. Waste removal was still abominable, and though the ground was dry, mosquitos and flies still swarmed. The stink of people unable to wash or clean their shelters mixed with dry-season dust.

They circled the camp, walked its main aisles between flimsy huts, chatted softly, analytically, in French. The happiness of seeing each other turned sour. Sullivan’s reappearance stirred Vathana’s memory of the messenger she’d not seen or heard from since the first encounter. “Befriend the American!” She had had no idea what he’d meant. She thought, too, of her father and brother, of all her family, and she grew sad. She thought of sunshine and Americans and of Pech Lim Song hung by a leg, shot, slowly bleeding to death with no one to save or comfort him. Then it occurred to her that Mister Sullivan had not come to see the camp. He took no notes, seemed uninterested in the workings of the camp or in supplies, though, oddly, he seemed to have compassion for the refugees. Odd, she thought, for an American. So unlike the few Western “contractors” she’d met.

“We never received the remainder of the roofing,” Vathana said in the main camp tent where she’d brought him to a sectioned-off corner and introduced him to Sophan, Samnang, and her new daughter.

“I know,” Sullivan answered.

He thinks I sold it to the Khmer Rouge, she thought. He thinks I’m a Communist agent. Perhaps he works for Soen.

As they’d walked Sullivan had become filled with doubt. Perhaps she’s aiding the NVA, he’d thought. Perhaps...but he would not permit himself to think the thought.

“She’s beautiful,” Sullivan said, gently picking up the tiny swaddled infant. “Oh, look.” He beamed, pulling the thin blanket back from her face. He tapped the tip of her nose. “Very pretty,” he whispered.

“You have children?” Vathana asked.

“No. No, I’m not married.”

Sophan braced herself, stoic, silent, watching the large
phalang
cooing over the infant, disrupting her spirit, inviting the jealousy of the spirit of the baby’s last mother. The infant gave a minute cry. Immediately Sophan grasped for her. “
Oh...
ah...Okay. There,” Sullivan said. He looked at Vathana. Guiltily he whispered, “Did I do something wrong?”

“We should go. I work at the hospital, too. Have you more questions?”

“No. No. I’m sorry. Let me give you a ride to the hospital.”

Away from the camp the sullen mood dissipated. In the sunshine by the river Sullivan stopped the jeep. “I’m afraid of this,” he said to her without looking at her. “Your country petrifies me.”

“But why?” Vathana asked, surprised by both the words and the change of tone. “You are American. You are a soldier. The shellings in Phnom Penh have been bad?”

“No. It’s not that. It’s the way you think. The way your people think. You’re...they’re so beautiful. So peaceful. I could gobble you up...” Vathana smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean me, you,” Sullivan said self-consciously. “I mean a good army could conquer this country like...like...like the Germans rolled over Poland. Does that make sense to you, Mrs. Cahuom?” He didn’t look at her, nor did he give her a chance to respond. “No,” he said. “No, it’s more than that. It’s...it’s like there’s a monster outside and half the country’s inviting it in and the other half is pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m afraid for you.”

“And for yourself?” Vathana’s words were soft.

“Me? Hum? I guess,” he said. He said it but he did not mean it. He did not feel fear for himself. The admission of vulnerability made him feel he was sharing something of himself with her, yet he knew it was not true. “It’s a good thing we arrived,” he said. “You people were about to be slaughtered.” Vathana smiled a wry smile but did not speak. “Doesn’t anybody understand?” Suddenly he threw his arms straight up. “The goddamned North Viet Namese have seventy-five thousand troops in here. Damn it. They’d butcher every Khmer if they could.”

“You believe that and you’re angry?”

“Damn it, yes. Those murdering bastards...” He stopped. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cahuom. I...I...I didn’t mean to use that language.”

“The anger warrants that language, the language excuses the anger.”

“God! That’s the kind of thing a Khmer would say.”

“I am Khmer,” Vathana said. “Khmers are concerned.”

“But nobody does anything!”

“My father-in-law used to ask, ‘What will happen if we do nothing?’ You sound like him.”

“It’s a damned good question. Giap, the NVA general...” Sullivan paused to see if she recognized the name. “Vo Nguyen Giap, he uses the phrase ‘aggression through internal war.’ Those Communist...pig’s...are conscripting and brainwashing thousands of Khmers in the seized territories. I see the documents. They’re trying to make it look like civil war.”

Vathana smiled. “I don’t think anyone takes the Khmer Rouge seriously,” she said. “There are some but they’re so poor. That’s what the radio reports.”

“But that’s it. They move in their agents. And it gives credibility to the Viet Namese.”

“How?” Vathana’s speech quickened. Suddenly both were speaking fast, in French, talking politics as Vathana had not talked politics since conversations with her father before the trip to the mountains. “How can anything give them credibility? And to whom? Khmers know they’re evil intruders. But they do support Prince Sihanouk, eh?”

“To the international community,” Sullivan said, his words overlapping hers. “Cambodia needs international help.”

“Then why is it your country offers so much but delivers so little? America is very perplexing. You ask what will happen if we do nothing, but you think you do much just speaking.”

“We can’t bring troops in. The American Congress passed a law...”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But, Mrs. Cahuom, that’s it. That’s the credibility problem...to...to the...Americans. Through their information sources.”

“Call me Vathana.”

Sullivan’s mind froze. The line of thought in quick exchange disappeared like the flash from a sniper’s rifle. “Vathana.” He said the name slowly. To him it was the most beautiful word he’d ever uttered. “Vathana,” he said smoothly, “your country still petrifies me.” He reached to her and very gently grasped the small finger of her left hand. “I’ve seen your mother-in-law a few times. And her son. They say she’s a Sisowath of the same family as the deputy prime minister.”

“They’re of the same family.” Vathana did not move her hand. Has he come, she thought, to do Soen’s bidding?

“Could you...I...Can she...” Sullivan stopped. He wanted to ask her to come to Phnom Penh where he might have a chance of protecting her, though he knew he had no real resources, that a month earlier downtown Phnom Penh had been rocketed by the NVA with thousands of people wounded or killed, that Phnom Penh was not safer, only closer to him.

“You are very afraid,” Vathana said softly, “yet you volunteer to be here.”

“Yes. I’m...I want to help. I want to be here. I’m mostly afraid for your country.”

“Help me establish a school for the camp children.”

“Certainly.”

For ten minutes they spoke of school supplies, simple things, paper and pencils. “And wood, for a classroom. And more roofing.”

“Yes. I’ll see. I’ll try.”

“And a slate board? In my village we had a wonderful slate board.”

“I know where one is.”

“You Americans can do anything.” Vathana closed her eyes and her hand. “You will not be hurt,” she said. “They will never hurt you.” She squeezed his hand. “I see that. You will be very good for my people.”

“Thank you,” Sullivan said. He felt she had bestowed total confidence on him, had absolute faith in his survival and his ability to contribute.

Vathana squeezed his hand again then let go. She looked at him, smiled, laughed a very soft kind laugh. “You’re welcome.” She said it so innocently he could not think how to respond.

The hospital at Neak Luong had received equipment for a modern surgical room from several international aid agencies, but there were many in need and only one full-time doctor, Sarin Sam Ol, and he was not a fully trained surgeon. Vathana assisted him, primarily with patient care and paperwork, each morning after her early duties at the refugee center. An hour after Lieutenant Sullivan dropped her off, she was alone in the dank corridor leading to the new surgery room. Suddenly, from behind, a shove. She stumbled, began to rise, turn, was shoved again, grabbed. She struggled, turned. A small dark man, young yet very strong, grabbed her face, dug fingers into her cheeks below her eyes, a thumb into the soft tissue below her jaw. His other hand seized her breast. He lifted her like a rag doll. “Sakhon has been moved to Stung Treng, Sister. Your father wishes him a safe journey. Tell me all the fire-hair
phalang
tells you.”

He relaxed the pressure on her face but he did not let her go. Vathana’s eyes cast left, right, hoping to see someone, anyone, who might at least yell, who might scare off the assailant. The corridor was empty. She did not speak. Her mind raced to find words but the pain of his grasp frightened them from her throat. “Tell me,” the man hissed. “Tell me or your baby will never taste your milk again.” He tightened his fingers on her tit and twisted.

“Yes. Yes. He said nothing. Just talk. He said he was afraid.”

The man smirked, then jiggled her as if to shake out, more words. The hospital was crowded yet the hall remained empty. Vathana talked. She told him all she thought he wanted to hear, everything except about the school supplies.

“Listen, Sister. And obey. Be his concubine. Be his whore. You’ll find it easy. Sakhon will be moved to Kratie. Khmer Patriots will protect your camp.”

The khrou plastered a poultice on Nang’s face, another on his left side. He gently cleansed the horn and canal of his left ear. Nang lay quietly on the pallet in the man’s home, a thatch and plastic-tarp hovel amid a thousand similar refugee abodes clumped together in the open spaces of Kompong Thom. The shaman hummed softly as he worked methodically. From his stores he poured a few drops of palm oil into a rosewood bowl. Then he ripped a cabbage leaf into squares and dropped it in. He ground the leaf into the oil until it became a green paste. To this he added bits of chopped fresh cayenne pepper and dried, powdered comfrey root. Again he mashed the mixture, adding once several drops of rice vinegar to thin it. With a finger he scooped a blob and gently pressed it into Nang’s ear. “In time you’ll have full hearing,” the khrou said. “These foreign devils...”

“They shall perish,” Nang interrupted.

“Yes. You’ve said that. You always say that yet the bombs, the artillery come closer and the siege is renewed. You heal quickly, Little Rabbit. Why did they torture you?”

“Because they are fornicating buffalo scum.”

“The Northerners?”

“And the Southerners. It was the Southern yuons that burned my feet. The Northern killed my father.”

“And who is Angkar?”

Nang turned to the khrou. He did not know how the man knew. He remained silent.

“You spoke of Angkar when they first brought you. You said, ‘Angkar was our salvation...’ perhaps more like, ‘Angkar will save us.’ You repeated it many times.”

Nang stared at the healer who continued his methodical procedure. “You are Angkar,” he said. “All Khmer Patriots are Angkar.”

During the final trek into Kompong Thom Nang had been corralled with a group of sullen young Khmers. The ARVN lieutenant had called them detainees, the soldiers had treated them like convicted prisoners. Most were men, most were farmers, all were interrogated by ARVN intelligence personnel at the FANK garrison in the city’s southwest district.

“Khmer Rouge, where are your weapons?” the Viet Namese inquisitor had screamed at each. When it was his turn Nang had squatted on the concrete floor in the small stark cell and covered his ears. His training had gone deep but in injury, in pain, in exhaustion he could think only to remain silent, to deny everything. Then: Who am I? Think. Act. Be that part. Keep it simple so as to avoid contradictions.

“You are Khmer Rouge,” the inquisitor accused. “Look at your hands. You’re no farmer.”

“My father, farmer.” Nang’s voice sputtered. “He was killed by the Communists. I bake bread.”

“Yeah. Sure. You’re Buddha’s baker. Never touched a weapon, huh? How’d you get those scars, baker-boy?” Nang touched his face. “Not that, you shit. On your back. On your leg. Those aren’t calluses from riding buffalo. What’s your unit?” Nang stared at the man as if he, Nang, were an imbecile. “Hook him up,” the man growled, angry that one more victim was bringing torture upon himself, justifying his actions in the anger.

Two soldiers grabbed Nang. His body was stiff, sore from the beating it had taken early that morning when the concussion from the American bomb had thrown him and broken the forest; sore too from his afternoon sprint through brambles and branches; and sore from the pokes and prods of the ARVN soldiers bull-dogging the detainees into the city. Nang did not resist as they tied his elbows behind him, nor as they clamped his feet to metal cuffs on the ends of a three-foot-long wooden rod. He watched with dread as they attached wires to his toes and the soles of his feet and displayed the rheostat and switch.