Love Songs From a Shallow Grave (30 page)

“I endured the rest of the evening and they let me go to my room. There were mud footprints outside on the carpet The lock of my door had been picked and left unlocked. I went inside with trepidation. I don’t have what you might call luggage but nothing appeared to have been disturbed. I went across to Siri’s room. That wasn’t locked either but there was no sign of forced entry. There were no muddy footprints inside. Siri’s bag had been upended onto the bed. He travelled light too but I remember he had a book with him.”

“Camus,” said Daeng, her voice crumbling like river salt.

“That’s right. It was gone. Plus a notebook he kept. I don’t know whether he’d taken his travel documents to the embassy with him but they weren’t there either. I was lost.

At first I felt outrage. How dare they do this to us? I decided that anger might be the key. Beasts respond to violence. I went down to reception. I made a lot of noise. Kicked over a pot or two. Insisted on talking to a senior official. Insisted on a translator. But, of course, nobody could understand me. When I tried to leave the hotel, the guards grabbed me roughly and spat some insults at me. I looked into their eyes, Daeng, and I saw my death. And I saw the death of others. I saw it so clearly it was as if I had already been killed. I went back to my own room and wedged a chair against the door knob. I was afraid. My legs were shaking. I was afraid for Siri but I was afraid for myself, too. I thought they’d be coming for me. If Siri was up to something they were sure to think I was involved. I didn’t grab a gun and hold it to the head of one of my captors…”

Civilai’s eyes had become as grey and damp as the evening clouds above them.

“That’s what heroes do,” he went on. “But I crept to my bed with the light blazing and I lay there all night wide awake. I lay there quivering like a coward. I considered all the things they might do to me. I’d seen the look of fear in Ambassador Kavinh’s eyes. I had no weapon, only one last resort. They said they had no use for money but I didn’t believe them. And I had dollars. At least I thought I did. I hadn’t checked my secret stash. I took the bag into the bathroom and locked the door. I sat on the tile floor and couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. It was half an hour before I was calm enough to peel through the layers of cloth in the strap of my satchel. And that’s when I found the letter. It consisted of three single sheets. They had been folded and refolded into a three-centimetre square and wedged into a little plastic coin bag. Somebody had put it into my secret dollar compartment but they hadn’t touched the money.”

“Siri,” said Mrs Nong.

“He’s the only one it could have been,” Civilai agreed. “The only one who knew. I thought about the footprints and the picked lock and I imagined he’d found his way back into the hotel somehow and come to leave me the note. That’s what I wanted to believe. But the sheets were written in Khmer. The handwriting appeared to be from three or four different sources with signatures at the end of each segment. The last side comprised of musical notes on uneven, handwritten bars. What looked like lyrics were written below. It all meant nothing to me. I wanted to scream my frustration.”

“Calm down, brother,” said Madame Daeng. Mrs Nong had hold of her husband’s hand. It trembled as he recalled that awful night. “There really was nothing you could have done.”

“There was so much I didn’t understand,” Civilai went on. “If he’d found his way back to the hotel, why didn’t he come down to the reception? Surely with so many people around he would have been safer than wandering alone through Phnom Penh. I had far too much time to think. I refused to go on their ridiculous irrigation tour the next morning. I told the guide I’d been asked to pay my respects to the Chinese ambassador. Of course it was out of the question. So I stayed in my room until it was time to board the flight to Peking. Even before we took off I was hustling the Chinese on board. I found one woman, one of the official journalists. She spoke Vietnamese poorly. During the flight I did my best to convey to her everything I knew and everything I didn’t. She passed my story on to the Chinese delegation. Once we landed, at last I was able to agitate. I still carried a little clout in China from my politburo days. Some people remembered me. The Lao ambassador to Peking came to see me and together we went to the central committee where I repeated my story in the presence of an official Lao-Chinese interpreter. The committee members seemed, not upset exactly, more…frustrated. Like the parents of a naughty child.”

“Would the Khmer listen to the Chinese anyway?” Daeng asked. Her voice was calm but not even her tightly clasped hands could disguise the shaking.

“They’re the only people they would listen to. All their funding, all their weapons, all their credibility…it all comes from China. Their influence is enormous there.”

“So enormous they could bring the dead back to life?” Daeng asked.

“Now, stop that,” said Mrs Nong. “They aren’t going to harm a delegate from an allied country. The worst that can happen is they arrest Siri for stepping out of bounds and put him in prison. They want to be seen to be strong. With Chinese intervention they’d have him out in no time. Right, Civilai?”

Her husband’s face didn’t convey the confidence she’d hoped for.

“What of the note?” Daeng asked. “The Khmer letter.”

“We found a translator,” he told her. “There’s no shortage of Khmer royalists holed up in Peking. The Chinese like to hold on to different factions from this or that country and offer them immunity. They collect them like elaborate chess pieces in case they might come back into play somewhere along the line. They’ve got old Sihanouk sitting – ”

“Civilai!” said Nong.

“Yes, right. Right. The translation. I’m not sure, as it stands, if it could be called evidence and I don’t get the feeling the Chinese were particularly surprised by its content. But it made a lasting impression on the ambassador and myself. It was written by officials at the old royalist Ministry of Communication. They wrote of atrocities they’d witnessed and their treatment at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. I suppose it can be best summed up by the words of one young man, the one who wrote the song. He said his name was Bo something-or-other. His note was dated April the twenty-first, 1975. He was a musician and a junior official at the ministry. He said that he and many of his colleagues were patriots and that they remained at their posts even after the invasion in the hope that they could offer their expertise to the liberation forces. At first, the revolutionaries were kind to them and welcomed them into the new brotherhood. Bo and his fellows explained their work and taught the newcomers the skills they needed to operate equipment.

“On the second day of occupation the troops took the managers for what they called reorientation. They told the juniors it was necessary to teach them the ways of the new regime. Bo said he heard gunshots every day and night, not from a battle but from what sounded like firing squads or single shots. The young soldiers wouldn’t let them leave the ministry building to go home to their families. Bo said that the Khmer Rouge were not like them. They were country people who had never seen cars. Never had electricity. It was as if they saw Bo and his kind as the enemy and Bo began to realise his life would be a short one. That was when he began to collect the testimonies and signatures.

“On the third day he watched them shoot his office mate in the forehead for no apparent reason. The guards left the corpse sitting there at his desk as a ‘reminder’. Bo’s final words were that he loved his country and he believed that this was a temporary madness, but he felt sure he would never see his fiancée again. She lived in Battambang and he prayed that the insanity hadn’t yet spread that far. He wrote that his only regret was that he would never be able to watch the expression on her face as he sang her the song he had written for their wedding. “It’s a poor substitute,” he wrote, “but I have written the tune and the melody on the rear of this note. If somebody finds this letter, I would like her to hear it. I would like her to know how much I love her. And I would like the world to know what craziness has descended on our beautiful city. These people are not Cambodian.””

Civilai sighed and slouched back on his seat.

“You think Siri found this note somewhere?” Daeng asked.

“So it would seem. And thought it important enough to risk his life getting it out of the country.”

“But Siri couldn’t read Khmer,” said Mrs Nong, drying her tears with a tissue. “He wouldn’t have known how significant it was.”

“He would,” Civilai and Daeng said at the same time.

“It’s possible somebody gave it to him to pass on,” Daeng told her. “But my husband had instincts other men don’t possess.”

Of course she’d meant to say ‘has’.

THE THERAPEUTIC EFFECTS OF DYING HORRIBLY

T
ime has lost its meaning. Misery has lost its edge. The sounds I hear no longer bear any human elements. They are ornaments. They are jingles. They are pleasant, almost enjoyable bursts of spontaneous birdsong. My clarity has become a giddy drunken clarity. I see everything as a joke. A funny thing happened to me on my way to the cemetery clarity. As Civilai liked to point out, my smart-arse thyroid is playing up again. Somewhere inside I’m aware this is a symptom, the result of endless light and lack of sleep and poor nutrition. But there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’m experiencing madness and it’s funny. Move over Rajid
.

What good has all this conservation of energy done me? I mean, honestly. What can I do? When they nabbed me leaving Civilai’s room at the hotel, that was my chance. I had stashed my evidence and was on my way down to join the party when the black-suited monkeys were on me. I didn’t see them coming. But I was fit then, still burning calories from Peking. I could have done a James Bond. There were only two of them. Thugs, perhaps, but I could have felled them with well-placed karate chops. A sprint and a dive headlong through the window at the end of the corridor. Parallel-bar routine through the branches of the strangler fig tree and head for the border. Blew that one
.

Very weak now. Perhaps they’ll do me the favour of killing me quickly. Perhaps they’ll tire of the toenail-plucking and eye-gouging and just put a bullet in me. That would be nice
.

And where have you lot gone to? One by one you lost souls drifted away, off through the walls, east, west, north or south. No direction. No leadership. See if I don’t desert you some day, you traitors. But, dear ma, you’re still with me, my sweetheart. Too bad mothers have no choice. Even if they can’t see a hope in hell for their offspring they have to sit it out till the bitter end. Isn’t that right, my mother angel? Yes, chew your betels. Spit your blood. Perhaps we could chat about the old days when I come acr
–

A key in the lock. Why do they…? Never mind. And there you are, the dungeon keeper. Thirty-six, thirty-seven? Either way, half my age but skinny. Skinny as the Chinese ideogram for tree…written in biro. I could take you, you poorly written character. How dare they toss a twig into the lion’s den? No, Siri. Badly mangled metaphor. What would a lion care of a twig? I’ll work on that. But meanwhile you walk into my lair with your pail and your tin mug. It’s quiet beyond the door, and black. Are you the night watchman? What are your orders, twiggy?
Keep him alive till morning. We’ll kill him properly then.
How hard can that be? Feed me and keep me away from sharp objects. But you don’t look that bright, do you?

So I lie still and I stare. I stare into the hypnotic glare of the strip light. My tongue lolls from my mouth like that of a sleeping sloth. My breathing stops. I am clearly dead. Call me a liar. Yes, you dare speak to me. Your words sound like ‘Is a saucepan under a yellow?’ in my language. You dare. You dare come near enough to look into my cloudy eyes. You dare lean close to my face to hold the back of your hand against my nose. And I have you. Snap. I grab hold of your head and I pull it into my stomach. No pain from my broken wrist, just a disorganised out-of-order feeling. I grip you with my arms and legs and I use what strength I have to hold you there. I am a vice. You writhe. You kick and punch. But you’re in no position to do me any damage because – you seem to forget – I am dead
.

It feels like a lifetime that I hold you to me. Two weak men in a macabre horizontal tango of death. I imagine the music. I think of fresh baguettes. And at some stage during these reveries, you have withdrawn from the dance. You are a bolster in my grasp. But I hug on. I hug until every last memory is squeezed from you because I know one day you will seek the man who took your life. With luck you’ll understand I had to…I had to. But I lose consciousness and the bats and the moths come flocking
.

I come round some time later. I feel like death but, presumably, I’m still alive. But not you, twiggy. You lie across me in a show of post-mortem affection. You seem heavier without life as I push you off. I apologise to your mother. She probably had something better in mind for you. I search you and realise you have no pockets. What type of fashion would leave a man nowhere to put his handkerchief, his pen, his keys? I look around to see if you dropped them in our little tug of death. And then I see them. They are three metres away, dangling in the lock of the open door. Where is a plan B when I need one?

It’s been ten minutes and nobody has come so perhaps there is nobody. I have been brooding over the dilemma of keys out of my reach. Even by extending my chains to their fullest and my joints to beyond their limit, I am still two metres from the door. It’s the funniest thing. I wipe sardonic tears of mirth from my eyes. Why do I never have a long pole with a hook on the end when I need one? I shall make a point of including one in my travel kit on my next journey. You have no belt, my jail keeper, but you have a standard issue black and white checked scarf. It’s almost as poor quality as you. I rip it into strips and tie them together all the while trying to recall the movie that taught me the skill of lassoing. It doesn’t come to me. I am amazed at how complicated it is to tie knots with one hand. I attach your tractor-tyre sandal to the end of my rope and I toss. Half a dozen times I toss and my aim gets more wayward and my laughter becomes more manic. If anyone were outside the-room they would have heard me by now
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