In the Shadow of the Banyan (3 page)

Tata turned to Grandmother Queen sitting at the other end of the table. “Don’t you think so, Mechas Mae?” she asked, speaking the royal language.

Grandmother Queen, half deaf and half daydreaming, said, “Eh?”

“The shelling!” Tata repeated, almost shouting. “Didn’t you think it was awful?”

“What shelling?”

I suppressed a giggle. Talking with Grandmother Queen was like talking through a tunnel. No matter what you said, all you could hear were your own words echoing back.

Papa looked up from his newspaper and was about to say something when Om Bao stepped into the dining pavilion, bearing a silver tray with glasses of the chilled basil-seed drink she made for us every
morning. She placed a glass before each of us. Resting the tip of my nose on the glass, I inhaled the sweet ambrosia. Om Bao called her drink—a mixture of soaked basil seeds and cane sugar in ice-cold water, scented with jasmine flowers—“little girls hunting for eggs.” When Old Boy picked the blossoms earlier they had been tightly closed, but now they opened up like the skirts of little girls with their heads dipped in water—hunting for eggs! It hadn’t occurred to me before, but the basil seeds did look like transparent fish eggs. I beamed into the glass, delighted by my discovery.

“Sit up straight,” Mama ordered, no longer offering me a smile.

I sat up straight, pulling my nose back. Papa glanced at me, mouthing his sympathy. He took a small sip from his glass and, looking up in surprise, exclaimed, “Om Bao! Have you lost your sweet touch?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Your Highness . . .” She looked nervously from Papa to Mama. “I’ve been trying to cut down on the cane sugar. We don’t have much left, and it is so hard to find at the market these days.” She shook her head in distress. “Your servant humbly regrets it’s not so sweet, Your Highness.” When nervous, Om Bao tended to be overly formal and loquacious. “Your servant humbly regrets” sounded even more stilted, when across the table from His Highness, I was lapping up my soup like a puppy. “Would Your Highness—”

“No, this is just right.” Papa drank it up. “Delicious!”

Om Bao smiled, her cheeks expanding like the rice cakes steaming away in the kitchen. She bowed, and bowed again, her bulbous behind bobbing, as she walked backward until she reached a respectful distance before turning around. At the steps of the cooking pavilion, Old Boy relieved her of the emptied tray, quick as always to help her with any task. At the moment he seemed unusually agitated. Perhaps he was worried that I’d revealed his and Om Bao’s morning canoodling to Grandmother Queen, who forbade such displays of affection. Om Bao patted his arm reassuringly.
No, no, don’t worry,
she seemed to say. He turned toward me, obviously relieved. I winked. And for the second time this morning, he offered me his gappy grin.

Papa had resumed reading. He flipped the newspaper back and forth,
making soft snapping noises with the pages. I tilted my head to read the headline on the front page: “Khmer Krahom Encircle City.”

Khmer Krahom? Red Khmers? Who had ever heard of that? We were
all
Cambodians—or “Khmers,” as we called ourselves. I imagined people, with their bodies painted bright red, invading the city, scurrying about the streets like throngs of stinging red ants. I laughed out loud, almost choking on my basil-seed drink.

Mama gave me another warning look, her annoyance now easily piqued. It seemed the morning hadn’t gone in the direction she wanted. All anyone wanted to talk about was the war. Even Om Bao had alluded to it when she mentioned how hard it was to find cane sugar at the market.

I hid my face behind the glass, hiding my thoughts behind the little floating jasmine skirts.
Red Khmers, Red Khmers,
the words sang in my head. I wondered what color Khmer I was. I glanced at Papa and decided whatever he was, I was too.

“Papa, are you a Red Khmer?” It came out of me like an unexpected burp.

Tata set her glass down with a bang. The whole courtyard fell silent. Even the air seemed to have stopped moving. Mama glared at me, and when a
tevoda
glared at you like that, you’d better hide or risk burning.

I wished I could dip my head in the basil-seed drink and look for fish eggs.

•  •  •

The afternoon arrived, and it was too hot to do anything. All preparations for New Year came to a halt. The servant girls had stopped cleaning and were now combing and braiding one another’s hair on the steps of the cooking pavilion. Seated on the long, expansive teak settee under the banyan tree, Grandmother Queen leaned against the giant trunk, her eyes partly closed as she waved a round palm fan in front of her face. At her feet, Milk Mother sat swinging Radana in a hammock lowered from the branches of the tree. She pushed the hammock with one hand and scratched my back with the other as I rested my head on her lap. Alone in the dining pavilion, Papa sat on the floor writing in the leather pocket
notebook he always carried with him, his back against one of the carved pillars. Beside him the radio was playing the classical
pinpeat
music. Milk Mother began to doze off as she listened to the chiming melodies. But I wasn’t sleepy, and neither was Radana. She kept sticking her face out of the hammock, wanting me to play with her. “Fly!” she squealed, reaching out for my hand. “I fly!” When I tried to grab her wrist, she pulled it back, giggling and clapping. Milk Mother opened her eyes, slapped my hand away, and gave Radana her pacifier. Radana lay back down in the hammock, sucking the pacifier like a piece of candy. Grandmother Queen clucked her tongue in encouragement, perhaps wishing she too had something to suck on.

Soon all three were asleep. Grandmother Queen’s fan stopped waving, Milk Mother’s hand rested on my back, and Radana’s right leg hung out of the hammock, fat and still, like a bamboo shoot, the bells on her anklet soundless.

Mama appeared in the courtyard, having returned from her trip to the temple, which took longer than she’d planned. Quietly, so as not to wake us, she climbed the few short steps to the dining pavilion and sat down next to Papa, resting her arm on his thigh. Papa put down his notebook and turned to her. “She didn’t mean it, you know. It was an innocent question.”

He was talking about me. I lowered my eyelids, just enough to make them believe I was asleep.

Papa continued, “
Les Khmers Rouges,
Communists, Marxists
. . .
Whatever we adults call them, they’re just words, funny sounds to a child, that’s all. She doesn’t know who they are or what these words mean.”

I tried repeating the names in my head—
Les Khmers Rouges . . . Communists
. . . They sounded so fancy and elliptical, like the names of mythical characters in the tales of the
Reamker
I never tired of reading, the
devarajas,
who were descendants of the gods, or the demon
rakshasas,
who fought them and fed on fat children.

“Once you shared their aspirations,” Mama said, head resting on Papa’s shoulder. “Once you believed in them.”

I wondered what kind of race they were.

“No, not them. Not the men, but the ideals. Decency, justice, integrity . . . I believed in these and always will. Not only for myself but for our children. All this”—he looked around the courtyard—“will come and go, Aana. Privileges, wealth, our titles and names are transient. But these ideals are timeless, the core of our humanity. I want our girls to grow up in a world that allows them, if nothing else,
these
. A world without such ideals is madness.”

“What about
this
madness?”

“I hoped so much it wouldn’t come to this.” He sighed and went on. “Others abandoned us long ago at the first sign of trouble. And now so have the Americans. Alas, democracy is defeated. And our friends will not stay for its execution. They left while it was still possible, and who could blame them?”

“What about us?” Mama asked. “What will happen to our family?”

Papa was silent. Then, after what seemed like a long time, he said, “It’s extremely difficult at this juncture, but I can still arrange to send you and the family to France.”

“
Me and the family?
What about
you
?”

“I will stay. As bad as it looks, there’s still hope.”

“I will not leave without you.”

He looked at her, then, leaning over, kissed the nape of her neck, his lips lingering for a moment, drinking her skin. One by one he began to remove the flowers from her hair, loosening it and letting it spread across her shoulders. I held my breath, trying to make myself invisible. Without saying more, they stood up, walked toward the front stairway, climbed the newly polished steps, and disappeared into the house.

I looked around the teak settee. Everyone was still asleep. I heard droning in the distance. The drone grew louder, until it became deafening. My heart pounded, and my ears throbbed. I looked up, squinting past the red tile roof of the master house, past the top of the banyan tree, past a row of tall skinny palms lining the front gate. Then I saw it! Way up in the sky, like a large black dragonfly, its blade slicing the air,
tuktuktuktuktuk
. . .

The helicopter started to descend, drowning out all other sounds. I
stood up on the teak settee to better see it. All of a sudden it swooped back up and went the other way. I stretched my neck, trying to see past the gate. But it was gone.
Zrup!
Vanished completely, as if it had only been a thought, an imagined dot in the sky.

Then—

PCHKOOO!!! PCHKOOO!!! PCHKOOO!!!

The ground shook under me.

two

T
hat same afternoon Om Bao went missing. A servant girl told us she’d gone out to the market near the airport. The girls knew it was dangerous but they couldn’t stop her. She told them she needed to buy supplies for the New Year’s party and was adamant she would find more there than in the shops of Phnom Penh. She’d been gone since just after breakfast, and although now it was evening, there was still no sign of her.

“It’s been long enough,” Papa finally declared. “I’m going out.” His tone meant he’d made up his mind and no one could stop him, not even Mama.

He went to the carport, where his motorcycle was parked. Old Boy got up from the floor where he’d sat listening to the news on the radio and rushed to open the front gate. Papa, hunched over his machine, roared into the street, not a glance back.

Mama and Tata rose from their seats, walked toward the master house, and climbed the front stairs, their steps heavy.

“Can I stop now?” I asked, looking down at Grandmother Queen, my arms strained from massaging her all this time.

She groaned and, nodding, rolled onto her back. “You’re a good girl,” she mumbled, trying to sit up. I helped by pushing her back with mine. “All this is merit for your next life.”

“Where do you think Om Bao is?” I whispered.

Grandmother Queen gave me a blank look, seeming only interested
in the next life. Anything to do with this one was a huge void to her. I wondered if she even knew there was a war.

“People are fighting . . .”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured. “There will remain only so many of us as rest in the shadow of a banyan tree . . .”

“
What?
” I stared at her, thinking not only did she look like some kind of spirit but sometimes she sounded like one too, speaking in obscurity. “
The explosions,
” I persisted. “Don’t you hear them? A rocket must’ve dropped on Om Bao’s head—”

I stopped, remembering what Milk Mother often said—
Turn your tongue seven times before you speak. This way you’ll have time to think if you ought to say the things you want to say.
I turned my tongue seven times, but I wasn’t sure if it counted when I’d already said it.

“There will remain only so many of us as rest in the shadow of a banyan tree,” again Grandmother Queen murmured, and I didn’t understand why crazy people always feel the need to say the same thing twice. “The fighting will continue. The only safe place is here . . . under the banyan.”

•  •  •

The front gate creaked. I turned to look, but it was only Old Boy opening the toolshed behind the carport. He took out a large garden clipper and, for the first time, left his vigilant post under the hanging bougainvillea bush where he had waited since Papa left.

He walked about the gardens, trimming the trees and bushes. He cut off the leaves of the torch ginger so its flame-like blossoms would have more room to grow. He clipped the stems of the roses and rearranged the hanging orchid pots so that those with flowers went in the shade and those without would be ready to receive sunlight when morning came.

Night fell and still there was no Papa, or Om Bao. Old Boy put away his gardening tools. He picked up a broom and began to sweep the ground of thorns and broken branches. He gathered the fallen frangipani petals into a basket—white, yellow, red. A gift for Om Bao on her return. Every morning he would clip a stem of the red frangipani, whose fragrance was like vanilla—her favorite spice—and put it on her
windowsill, a token of his appreciation for the sweetness she had shown him over the years, the desserts she had snuck into his room night after night when all the cooking chores were done, when she thought no one was looking or listening. He had lost most of his teeth because of her sugary concoctions. Theirs was a secret affair, one I’d witnessed—
spied
through the cracks in the walls and doors—in the furtive glances they’d give each other all day long, in the early morning blossoms he’d exchange for her late night desserts. But now, while waiting for her return, he’d gathered the fallen petals from the ground. He believed she was dead, and so did I. As soon as I told myself this I turned my tongue seven times . . .