In the Shadow of the Banyan (8 page)

“They’re starting with a clean slate,” Big Uncle noted, brow furrowed. “It might be weeks or even months before we can go back. In the meantime a new rule, a new regime will be established in our absence.”

“But why empty the city?” Papa wondered.

“Chaos. It’s the foundation of all revolutions. This one is just beginning, and I’m not sure what it is. It has yet to be named.”

How strange, I thought. Everything had a name. Even the
preats,
spirits condemned to wander homeless and hungry, had names. The soldiers themselves had names, indeed many names: Red Khmers, Communists, the Khmer Rouge, Revolutionary soldiers.

“You mustn’t have any illusion about these soldiers, Klah,” Big Uncle said, calling Papa by his nickname, Tiger. “These children.”

Once again I saw the face of the Khmer Rouge soldier who’d aimed her gun at the old man’s head. It occurred to me that the look on her face, as she shot the old man, as she watched him fall to the ground, had no name. It was neither anger nor hate nor fear. It was absent of rage or anything recognizable, and I remembered thinking that she had looked neither like a child nor an adult, but a kind of creature all to herself, not altogether unreal, in the same way a nightmare monster is not unreal.

“You see that they are children, don’t you?” Big Uncle waited for a reply.

For a long time, the two men remained quiet, each lost in his thoughts. From the river a chorus of voices sang through the loudspeaker:

Wonderful, glorious Revolution!

Your light shines on our people!

Papa broke the silence. “What do we do now? Do we stay here?”

“We can’t,” Big Uncle said. “Sooner or later, they’ll tell us to leave again.”

“But where do we go?”

“I don’t know.”

The singing stopped, and a voice bellowed, “Today is the day we liberated the Cambodian people! April seventeenth will be remembered, etched forever in the memories of every Cambodian! Long live the Kampuchean Socialist Revolution! Long live the Organization! Long live Democratic Kampuchea!”

“I expected them to be more our age,” Papa murmured, “or even older, and not so coarse with their manner and speech.”

“Ayuravann”—Big Uncle adopted a tone that sounded like he was reprimanding his elder brother—“they’re not the same men you studied philosophy and history and literature with in France.” He looked at Papa until Papa returned his gaze. “Nor are they people whose daily struggles and aspirations you’ve tried to capture and convey in your poetry. They are children who’ve been given guns—power beyond their years.”

“Can one not be sympathetic to their cause?” Papa said, his voice tentative. “To the ideals they’re fighting for?”

“And what’s their cause? We don’t know, do we? And I’m quite certain neither do these children. As for
ideals,
I don’t think they even know what the word means.”

Papa made no response.

•  •  •

The next morning I woke with a start, my heart hammering in my chest. Old Boy was dead. I had dreamt it. He was shot in the head and his blood was the color of the early dawn sky.

six

S
everal days passed in relative calm at Mango Corner. Then one morning I heard the loud thud of feet running up the steps. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” the caretaker shouted, breathless with fear. “The Khmer Rouge soldiers are coming!” Before Papa could ask anything else, the caretaker raced away to warn others in the neighborhood.

We rushed about packing—grabbing whatever we could. It was the same madness all over again. There was no time to think, no time to argue. Suddenly shots rang through the air, and before we could take cover, three Khmer Rouge soldiers burst into the house, waving their guns and shouting, “GET OUT! GET OUT!” Radana bawled, the twins grabbed hold of Auntie India’s legs, Grandmother Queen started chanting Buddhist prayers for the dead, and Tata couldn’t stop whimpering, “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” Big Uncle yelled out something, and one of the soldiers turned to him. “YOU!” He pushed his gun hard into Big Uncle’s rib cage. “MOVE!” Big Uncle took short, tentative steps, his arms in the air, his chest rising and falling. The soldier kept shouting, “OUT! OUT!” Papa took my hand in his and squeezed it tight. We followed Big Uncle out the door, the other soldiers pushing us from behind.

Outside, the ground in front of our property had been cleared of the refugees we’d allowed to camp there. Two of the soldiers tromped off, heading for the neighbors’ houses. Only the youngest remained. He
looked at us, then at Big Uncle. He ordered Big Uncle to kneel. Big Uncle lowered himself to the ground, slowly, cautiously.

The boy, his gun now aimed at Big Uncle’s head, shifted left and right on his feet, eyes darting from face to face. Then his eyes caught the glint of Big Uncle’s watch flashing in the sunlight. An Omega Constellation, I remembered. Identical to Papa’s. Both gifts from Grandmother Queen to her sons. My eyes went to Papa’s left wrist. No watch there. He must have taken it off and put it somewhere.

“OFF!” the boy shouted. Big Uncle made no move. “TAKE IT OFF!” the boy thundered. Finally Big Uncle lowered his arms, took the watch off his wrist, and handed it to him. Nervous, the boy dropped the Omega on the ground, and when he bent down to pick it up, a Mercedes emblem—round and shiny—slipped through his open shirt collar, dangling in the air from a string around his neck. It gleamed—a secret treasure. He quickly shoved it back inside his shirt, pocketed the Omega, and looked up to see us staring at him.

Big Uncle’s eyes darted to the hood of his car and then back to the boy, nodding as if to say,
You could have that too.
Was he mocking the soldier? A smile, a sneer, I couldn’t tell what Big Uncle was feeling or trying to communicate. The boy looked tempted. Then all of a sudden something rose in him and, straightening his stance, he spat on Big Uncle’s face. There was a nervous pause as he waited to see what this titan would do. Big Uncle remained as he was, the spit sliding down his face.

The boy laughed, first forcefully, then more shrilly, thrilled that he could command the obedience of a giant. “IMPERIALIST PIG!” He lifted his foot and kicked Big Uncle in the stomach. Big Uncle fell on his haunches. The boy took a step or two back, still pointing the gun at us, and once at a safe distance, proclaimed, “DOWN WITH IMPERIALIST PIGS!”

He turned and dashed out of the property. Again, shots rang through the air. Papa cupped his hands over my ears. Mama pressed Radana to her chest.

Stillness returned. No one moved or said anything. No one knew what to do. Big Uncle got up, caught the twins and Auntie India looking
at him, their eyes shiny with tears, and suddenly his face quivered with shame. “Curse the woman who gave him birth!” he thundered, his face contorted, nostrils flaring, looking as fearsome as the
yiak
I’d always thought he was. He picked up a rock and hurled it in the direction where the soldier had disappeared.

Auntie India, shaking from head to toe, begged, “Please, Arun. The gods—they are listening.” Her voice, robbed of its birdsong melody, rang with dread. “Please, they will hear you.”

“Damn them all!” Big Uncle roared, his anger as magnificent as his bulk and height. “Their revolution and their gods!” He kicked a small sapling and broke it in half and hurled that too at the road. Then, looking even more ashamed for losing control, he got in the car, slammed the door behind him, and started the engine.

We followed, our car behind his, roaring out the entrance.

•  •  •

But we didn’t get very far. Again the road lining the Mekong was crammed, and before we could decide whether to veer left or right, a group of soldiers appeared holding up hand grenades, ordering everyone out of the cars and down to the river, threatening any who remained in their vehicles.

We found a spot under the shade of a rain tree, hurriedly sorted through the items we’d brought with us—food, kitchenware, sleeping mats, mosquito nets, blankets, clothes, medicines—and retied them into more portable bundles, while discarding the heavy and bulky suitcases. Radana’s little pillow, resewn and heavy with jewels, was saved. But Big Uncle’s small shortwave radio, Papa’s thick volume of classic Khmer verses, and Mama’s mother-of-pearl music box containing photos and letters had to be left behind, scattered on the car seats like offerings to a rapacious god who hid, invisible, salivating amidst the spoil.

From my copy of the
Reamker,
which I’d grabbed at the last minute when we were leaving the house, I tore out the page with the ornate gold-colored illustration of Ayuthiya and stuffed it in my pocket, reciting quietly to myself the words I remembered by heart:
In time immemorial there existed a kingdom . . . It was as perfect a place as one could find
. . . I
would miss reading it, but it didn’t seem right to tear out a page with words. If another child found it, I thought, I wanted her to have the complete story, from the beginning.

All around us others were doing the same, figuring what to take and what to leave behind. Families wondered if their vehicles should be locked, if the soldiers would guard their belongings during their absence, and when they could be expected to come back. The soldiers had no answers.

Papa, with rolled-up straw mats strapped to his back and two heavy sacks slung over his shoulders, picked me up and pressed me close to him. Mama, with her own bundles and sacks, carried Radana. Auntie India and Tata, in addition to what they carried, each took a twin, while Big Uncle, the biggest and strongest, carried Grandmother Queen on his back and a load on his chest. Together we descended the silty incline toward the Mekong’s mangrove-covered shore, grabbing on to branches and vines and one another to keep from sliding.

At the bottom a line of boats waited along the shallow edge, swaying like hammocks rocked by all the coming and going, while many more littered the deeper waters. The boats were setting out loaded with passengers and returning empty. There was no time to decide if a boat was safe or not, if there would be too many of us in one vessel. A young Khmer Rouge soldier gestured to us, then pointed to a fishing canoe that looked as weather-beaten as the old fisherman who stood in it. I swallowed and felt the whole river rushing down my throat.

•  •  •

As we approached the long stretch of shore on the other side of the river, the old fisherman maneuvered the canoe into a space between a rock and another boat. In front of us a crowd was gathering to look at something that had washed ashore. There were murmurs and gasps. Mama turned back to look at us, unsure whether to stay or get off, her face blanched with motion sickness. I got up, wanting to have a look, but Papa quickly pulled me back down. A soldier marched toward the gathering crowd. “What use is it to gawk?” he thundered. “She’s dead! Move before someone else ends up like her! NOW!” He turned, waving his
gun in our direction. “OUT! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR—A CARRIAGE TO CARRY YOU? OUT!”

Mama clutched Radana in her arms and scooted off the boat. The rest of us followed close behind, rushing past the dark mound lying on the sand. Papa tried to keep me from looking, but I saw it anyway. The body. It lay there on the muddy sand, facedown, with strands of jasmine wrapped around the neck and entangled in the hair. I didn’t see her face, so I couldn’t be sure if it was the same girl we’d encountered that day leaving Phnom Penh. It was unlikely. There were countless other little girls selling jasmine garlands every day. Still, it was her voice I remembered, her voice I heard now calling out to customers:
New Year’s jasmines! New Year’s jasmines!

A couple of Khmer Rouge soldiers picked up the body and threw it into the nearby bushes. They wiped their hands against the leaves as if they had just thrown away a dead fish. More soldiers came and hurried us along. A young female soldier pushed Mama forward, yelling, “MOVE! MOVE!” Frightened, Radana cried out and wrapped her arms around Mama’s neck, the red ribbon still tied to her wrist like a good-luck string.

“MOVE!” echoed the other soldiers. “MOVE!”

Papa picked me up and we followed the surging throngs, scrambling up the sandy riverbank toward the dark expanse of the forest.

•  •  •

The soldiers led us across a jungle-like terrain, where vines bore thorns as steely as metal prongs and where trees looked like
yakshas,
giant sentinels who guarded the entrance to a hidden world. Mama screamed when what she’d thought was a branch suddenly slithered across her path. Papa paused in his walking to flick a scorpion as large as a lizard off his forearm. When a wild boar came charging at us out of nowhere, the soldiers fired rounds of bullets in its direction. None hit the animal, but the clatter managed to scare it away.

On we pushed, bathed in sweat, braving sun and heat, fighting hunger and thirst. Only at nightfall when we met with water again did it become clear we’d journeyed across an island. At first I thought this new
stretch of water was an ocean because it was bigger than any river I’d seen and looked much deeper than the river we’d already crossed. But Papa said it was still the Mekong. Pointing across the water toward the lights that dotted the otherwise pitch-black landscape, he explained that the closer lights probably came from barges and fishing boats and those farther away from small towns and villages along the shore. In the dark, even the lights looked lonely and forlorn. I couldn’t imagine there being anything out there except those lost-soul
preats,
and now it felt likely we were being sent to join them.