In the Shadow of the Banyan (33 page)

“So when Radana got sick, this was all I could think of—she did not have your strength, your resilience. She had never been sick, really sick. I didn’t know if she would survive malaria, as you had survived polio. Watching her, seeing how she grew weaker and weaker, I believed she would die.

“In this sense I’ve loved you more than I loved your sister, because even though you are broken and imperfect I never wavered in my belief that you belong only to me. You are mine to love and hold even as my world breaks around me, even as everything is ripped from my heart.

“I have no stories to tell you, Raami. There is only this reality—when your sister died, I wanted to die with her. But I fought to live. I live because of you—for you. I’ve chosen you over Radana.”

A lump formed in my throat. For so long I had envied her closeness to my sister, believing their bond stemmed from their physical resemblance, their shared loveliness. Now I saw her beauty for what it was—a forbearance against loss, her own stolen childhood. All these years she had drawn strength from silence, while I’d sought solace in words. I swallowed my remorse and held her tighter.

“There may be times when I cannot look at you, speak with you. But you ought to know that in you I see myself, in you I see my horrible grief. We’re not so different, you and I.”

How could that be? She’d lived a whole life already—at eighteen she married Papa, who was ten years older, then gave birth to me and Radana, mourned the death of my sister, and now faced the possibility of losing me. Had she really suspected all along my sister would die?

I remembered that shortly after Radana was born I’d accompanied Mama to see a fortune-teller who told her Radana wasn’t meant to be.
What?
Mama was flabbergasted. The fortune-teller, unperturbed, went on to suggest that we give Radana away temporarily to relatives to fool the gods—to protect my sister. Mama, furious, stormed out of the parlor, forgetting to take me with her. She came back soon after, but in the brief time she was gone, the fortune-teller had turned to me and said,
You are the daughter closest to your mother’s heart.
I was only five then, but with the indignation of a grown woman, I’d responded,
You are lying! We will not pay you!

But now it seemed to me the fortune-teller had glimpsed something we couldn’t have seen—the nearness of Mama’s grief to mine.

•  •  •

One day out of the blue, we were called to Bong Sok’s house for a meeting with the head of the Kamaphibal himself. As we entered the compound, I imagined the landowner’s ghost walking beside me, taking in every detail of his erstwhile existence. Coconuts and freshly harvested sugarcane stalks and kapok pods sprawled across the ground beneath the house, resembling disembodied heads and limbs. Sacks of rice and corn and cassavas lined the stairway like squat headless sentries. Amidst the chronic scarcity and deprivation, this concentrated cluster of abundance seemed grotesque and filled me with nausea, and I had the distinct impression I was walking into an open grave where the ground was strewn with the belongings of the dead. From somewhere behind the house, among the trees and bushes, I heard the murmur of small voices—a boy and a girl laughing, whispering back and forth, watching us perhaps, discussing what would happen—but I dared not look for fear of seeing the ghosts of the landowner’s children. I kept my gaze on the open doorway and followed Mama up the stairway, swallowing nervously, pushing down the urge to lean over the wooden railing and retch from fear. Mama’s well-paced steps, her practiced calm, as if she knew what was coming, frightened me even more.

Inside, ruffle-fringed curtains, once perhaps a beautiful deep red but now dulled to an earthy brown, draped the latticed windows. Bong Sok and the Fat One stood barefoot on a straw mat in the middle of an
otherwise empty room. Dressed in the usual Revolutionary black, they resembled a pair of statues that only came to life in the presence of another human being. Upon our entering the house, they stirred, moving their shoulders and limbs ever so slightly, but their postures remained erect, faces expressionless. They both acknowledged Mama with a solemn nod. Then Bong Sok bent down so that his head was at the same level as mine and, with his hand resting on my shoulder, examined me with his hooded eyes. “What is your name, little comrade?” he soughed.

“R-Raami,” I stammered.

“What a pretty name. I’d like to remember it. Can you spell it for me?”

Before I could open my mouth, Mama cleared her throat and asked, “May I have some water?”

Bong Sok signaled to the Fat One. As she disappeared to the back of the house, he sat down on the straw mat, gesturing for us to do the same. “You know, often children make better Revolutionaries than we adults. They are honest. Isn’t that right, Comrade Raami? Could you spell your name for me? It’s very unusual. It doesn’t sound Khmer. Perhaps it’s French? Or maybe English.”

I opened my mouth, but once again Mama cut in, “They are good storytellers.”

“Excuse me?” Bong Sok raised an eyebrow.

“Children are good storytellers.” Mama forced a smile. “Like this one. She has a story for everything.”

“You must know a lot about stories then,” the Fat One said, coming back into the room, bearing a coconut bowl of water, which she handed to Mama.

“Thank you,” Mama said, and, instead of drinking it herself, gave it to me. I drank and handed the bowl back to her. After all the trouble of asking for it, she herself barely took a sip.

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, Comrade Aana?” said the Fat One.

“I’m a Revolutionary—”

“Don’t play games with us, Comrade. Really, where were you educated, abroad or in our country?”

“I never had any schooling,” Mama answered calmly. “I was a servant.”

Bong Sok signaled his wife with a look for her to stop with the questioning. It was his job to interrogate and instill fear. “You don’t know how to read or write then?” he asked.

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“Yes—I mean no, not at all.”

“Comrade Raami, is this woman your real mother?”

I looked at Mama.
Yes, she’s my mother, and she’s real.
I nodded.

“Was she a servant—a nanny?”

I nodded again.
Lie even when you’re scared—especially when you’re scared.

“What did she do?”

“She fed us milk.”

“She fed
who
milk?”

“Us—me and Radana.”

“Don’t you mean
them
—the children your mother looked after?”

I nodded. “Them too.”

“I nursed my mistress’s children as well as my own daughters,” Mama explained.

Bong Sok took something out of his pocket. It was the Omega. He pushed it toward Mama. “Can you tell me what this all means?”

“If I knew how to read a foreign language,” Mama said, without so much as a glance at the watch, “perhaps I could.”

“And you
know
this is a foreign language?” he asked.

“No, I assumed it is since . . . since I can’t recognize any of the letters.”

“Let me tell you then what it says:
Omega, Automatic, Chronometer, Officially Certified, Constellation, Swiss Made,
and, as you told my wife—but for the life of me I can’t find it written anywhere on the watch—
Nothing can penetrate it, not water, not tears
. . .” He paused, observing her from beneath his hooded lids. “I wouldn’t know, but I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. After all, it’s your watch, and you should know whether or not it’s water resistant. You should also know that a servant couldn’t possibly have owned such a valuable foreign instrument.”

Again, he observed Mama, then after a moment, “Do you know how to read and write Khmer, Comrade Aana? You certainly know some English, may even be fluent in French, as often is the case with people of your class.”

“No, I . . .,” Mama stumbled.

“Are you sure? Are you sure, Comrade, that you are telling us the truth?”

Mama did not respond. I didn’t know what he was trying to get at, what he was trying to get Mama to admit that he didn’t already know. No, she wasn’t a servant, and yes, she knew how to read and write, yes, she was educated, but apparently so was he. He could read a foreign language even, or at least what was on the watch.

“Do you know the severity of your crime?” he asked. “This deliberate cover-up you’ve engaged in to fool us all?”

Mama didn’t answer.

“In Democratic Kampuchea,” the Fat One edged in, “we have no room for people like you.”

Bong Sok silenced his wife with a look, and to us, concluded, “A punishment will be decided. You may go now.”

•  •  •

Outside their two children were playing. I’d thought they were ghosts of the landowner’s children, but in fact they were little copies of Bong Sok and the Fat One. The son pretended he was a Revolutionary soldier, and his sister the captured enemy, his soon-to-be executed prisoner. He aimed a branch at her while she stood blindfolded, ramrod straight against a tree, her wrists in front of her, loosely bound with a piece of frayed rope. When the boy saw us, he put down his mock weapon, and the prisoner, sensing something was up, untied herself and removed the blindfold from her eyes. The two of them walked over to us. “Comrade Brother,” the girl asked, mimicking my movement, “why is she walking like that?”

Beside me, Mama began to moan, her hand reaching for mine. The dress the girl was wearing was too small for her plump body. The white satin had turned yellow from dirt and sweat, most of the silk roses along the collar missing, and the butterfly-shaped bow gone.

Mama let out a sob. I pulled her away—“It’s just a dress, Mama. Just a dress.”

•  •  •

That night a Revolutionary soldier burst into the hut. “Pack your things!” he ordered. “Not you!” He pushed Mae and Pok out of the way and pointed at Mama and me—“You two!” He forced us down the stairs. Mae let out a hysterical cry: “No, no, you can’t take them!” Outside she threw herself at his feet. “Please don’t take them!” Pok came running out with our belongings in tow. “Where are you taking our children?”

“They’re not
yours
! They belong to the Organization! To us—to do with as we please!”

“Where are you taking them?” he repeated.

“You don’t need to know!”

“Tell us why then?
Why?
”

“You’ve grown too close. The Organization is your only family. You should’ve remembered that.”

“At least let us say good-bye then.”

“No! There’s no need!” He pushed us toward the oxcart parked at the entrance of the land. “Go! Get in!”

“I am a
peasant,
you stupid boy!” Mae shouted, no longer afraid, Pok’s machete in her hand. “I’ve worked this land longer than you’ve been alive, and if that doesn’t mean anything to you, I’ll cut you up and throw you in the rice paddy, and you can rot, and the Organization will have to deal with me!”

Surprised by her bold anger, the soldier let go of our arms. He pushed us back toward her. “Hurry up,” he said. “Say your good-byes.”

She glared at him, and he backed away, giving us room.

Mae cooed and clucked, sobbing, feeling our faces in the dark. She turned to Pok. “I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to say. Help me. Help me find the right words.”

“We’ve always known you don’t belong to us.” Pok handed Mama Radana’s little bolster pillow. “But still we love you—” He choked on his own words.

Mama was right. Love hides in all sorts of places, in the most sorrowful corner of your heart, in the darkest and most hopeless situation.

“That’s enough!” ordered the soldier.

Pok and Mae let go of us. We climbed into the oxcart. A kerosene lantern hung high on the arched wooden prow separating the two oxen. Another soldier was perched at the front of the cart, and for a split second my heart leapt, thinking it was the same boy who had brought us to Pok and Mae. But it wasn’t him. Our driver held the reins and bamboo goad aloft, ready to go.

Pok came around and put the rest of our belongings beside us. He reached over to ruffle my hair, opened his mouth to speak, his betel-stained black teeth looking even blacker in the night. But he couldn’t say it, whatever it was he wanted to say.

Our driver clicked his tongue, shaking the reins, and the oxen began to move forward. He whipped them, and they cried out,
Maaaw! Maaaw!
In the dark, the silhouette of Mae’s cow answered, perhaps thinking its calf had come back:
Maaaw! Maaaw!
It ambled over to where Pok and Mae stood watching us. “Yes, I understand,” I heard Mae say as she patted the animal. “I share your loss.”

•  •  •

As our oxcart rolled onto the narrow village road, I became aware for the first time how cold and damp it was. In the short time we had been out, the dew had settled on my hair and skin as if I’d been sprayed with a fine mist. I looked back in the direction of our hut. I knew Pok and Mae were still standing there even though I could no longer see them. We had chosen them as our family over the Organization. This was our crime, and for this, we were being sent away. Our offense was as vague as the punishment awaiting us.

We headed into a forest, the path in front of us dimly lit by the kerosene lantern. Mama handed me Radana’s pillow. I hugged it for warmth and put my head down on her lap.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
I sang silently to myself.
It’s not morning yet
. . .

The forest enclosed us.