The Brittle Limit, a Novel (10 page)

Past the rice fields, the boys moved into the
woods. There, in the dense jungle, a wide clearing had been cut
near a fast-running brook.

Hakk saw a large wooden platform hut and
behind it, some ways off, two smaller huts, with thatched roofs and
walls. Several guards stood around the perimeter of the largest
hut, massive dour men dressed in simple uniforms, their faces
mostly covered with the red-checked Krama to ward off the flies.
Each man held a gun, much bigger than Hakk’s own. One played a
wooden pipe that yielded a high thin wail, sounding, Hakk thought,
like the dying cry of an animal.

The guards watched the two boys approach,
their black eyes following each step. Hakk’s heart started to
pound.

To Hakk’s relief, the guards let the boys
pass, but only after they had relieved each of his respective
weapon.

The older boy opened the tent flap for him
and Hakk entered.

In the hut, it was dark. A thin candle burned
on a bamboo desk. The air was sweet with honeysuckle.

Hakk knew that he was in the presence of
greatness. Quiet power flowed from a figure seated in the darkest
corner.

Hakk bowed down deeply from the waist, toward
the shadows, not knowing what else to do. He stayed bowed, his
hands pressed together as if in prayer, held close to his young
heart. He waited.

The man in the shadows spoke, his Khmer that
of an educated, well traveled man.

“I hear reports of those soldiers who embrace
the cause, who demonstrate fierce loyalty to our Organization, who
will be my leaders of tomorrow. I hear that you have great promise,
that you do good work guarding our fields. Your workers fear you,
they respect you. This is excellent and I commend you. One day,
when you are older, I will make you a General. You will be a great
leader.”

Hakk could barely speak, he was so honored,
to be in the presence of and to be spoken to by the Khmer Rouge
mastermind, Pol Pot himself.

But Hakk did not want to wait until he was
older. He was ready for bigger things.

“I am ready. I am ready now…”

Pol Pot cut him off. “All in good time. For
now, I need you to stay here, to guard the fields. I will send for
you when it is time. Now, approach me.”

Hakk walked toward the darkness. There, he
could see his leader seated on a deep pile of saffron-colored
pillows.

Pol Pot held out a red-checked scarf, a krama
like the guards outside wore.

“Here is a reminder of our talk. I do not
forget those who have served me. Promise me you will always
continue our work.”

Hakk reached out and took the rough scarf. He
could barely speak, he was so proud.

“I promise.”

Hakk tied the krama around his neck. He would
wear it and all would know that he had met with Pol Pot.

“Go now. You are needed back on the
fields.”

“Ah kuhn, ah kuhn.” Thank you, thank you.
Hakk bowed low again as he backed away, exiting the tent. He ran
all the way back to the field, his weapon, retrieved from the
guards, jangling at his side.

When, many months later, word arrived that
the Vietnamese had come to release the workers from the fields, and
that Pol Pot had fled in disgrace to the distant jungle, Hakk had
dropped his gun in a muddy rice paddy, stuffed the krama in his
pocket, and blended in with the masses of survivors, who left the
rice fields in a daze, unbelieving that the nightmare had ended.
Hakk had convincingly played the role of a boy who'd lost his
family to starvation, disease and brutality.  This was a true
for so many, why not him.

He had only a krama scarf to remind him of
his promise. Hakk vowed to see the promise through. No matter when.
No matter how.

*******

Over the decades, the promise to Pol Pot had
wormed its way into every cell of Hakk’s body until he became the
promise itself. Until it was his only truth.

Each day when he woke he told himself, he
would save his countrymen from the depravity he saw all around him.
Each night, he whispered that he would cleanse their hearts.

Most importantly, he promised himself, he
would expel the foreigners, who corrupted his country with their
wicked, greedy ways, their social-climbing, do-gooding, snake-eyed
deception, smiling while they built their fortunes on Cambodia’s
birthright. The land.

He had watched his country lose its way. He
had endured the shame of its profligate and promiscuous ways,
wooing outsiders to come, to see, to taste.

He had endured this. But soon it would end.
While it had taken years to lay the groundwork of the coming purge
and destruction, now, he had set things in motion. Fulfilling his
promise at last.

He had many followers, like-minded men, who
also wished to return to the simpler time, to the time of Pol Pot’s
Angkar, the Organization, when all men were one, all the same.
Freed from the self, freed from want and desire. Cleansed of
thought by work.

And the Ch’kai. The vermin. The foreigners.
They would be expelled or destroyed, fear a dagger in their
hearts.

Hakk’s own heart seized, as the pain faded
and his mind cleared.

By the light of a single flame, he set to
work. It was time.

Chapter 11

Andrew stretched back in his chair, reaching
his long arms high toward the unfinished ceiling. He glanced at his
watch. It was 1:00 AM. Sheesh, he thought. He’d been hunched over
the computer for three hours. For someone who disliked office work,
he was getting good at it. He’d come back to the Embassy after
settling Severine in for the night. They’d swept up the mess in the
hall, locked all the windows and doors. He had promised to call in
the morning.

Since then, he’d read everything Flint had
sent on Ben Goodnight. But he still had too little to go on. He
needed to see that Ministry report.

Andrew stood, stretched left and right, and
peered out the high small window into the night. Streetlights shone
on the manicured embassy lawn. It was time to call it a night.

He headed out the maze of the basement
hallways, his shoes squeaking on the scuffed floor. Up the stairs
and out into the main hallway. This late, the lights had been
dimmed. His footsteps echoed in the lobby.

Outside, freed from the sterile embassy air
conditioning, Andrew breathed in the night air, filled with the
scent of incense and fresh coconut.

At the exit, Andrew signed out with the
security guard and walked through the heavy metal gates, peering
out into the night, looking left and right down the quiet
street.

In front of him, Andrew saw the leafy trees
of Wat Phnom. He walked that way. He wanted to see the Wat itself
on the hilltop.

As he walked along the sidewalk, taking in
the fresh night air, a stray dog trotted by, its scruffy ears
perked up, looking for scraps or romance, whichever it encountered
first. It glanced at Andrew and sniffed the air, but found nothing
of interest there. He trotted down a side alley that held great
promise.

Andrew crossed the street and entered the
tree-filled park of Wat Phnom. There were a handful of people out
this late, gossiping and drinking beers under a streetlight,
enjoying the dry weather.

With the end of the rains, autumn had
arrived. The temperature, though still warm, would, over the next
couple weeks, drop several degrees. Under the constant shade of the
trees, the park was a cool place to escape in any season.

Andrew slowed his pace, taking deep breaths
of the fresh air and getting a feel for the park, its light and
shadows. He heard the leaves above him rustle in the breeze. He
looked up, on alert. There was nothing but wind.

At a tap-tap tapping sound behind him, he
whirled around. A wizened Cambodian grandma wearing loose yellow
flowery pajamas shuffled by him, poking a long stick at the piles
of dry leaves on the sidewalk as she moved along. She glanced at
him as she walked past. He watched her disappear into the deepening
night. He moved further toward the center of the park.

As he walked, Andrew thought about what Flint
had told him. There were thousands of unexploded landmines in
Cambodia, left over from the Khmer Rouge regime forty years before.
People were maimed or killed everyday, all over the country, though
the civil war had been over for decades.

So a landmine casualty was not unusual.

Except. With the email Janey had shown him,
Andrew wasn’t convinced it was simply Ben’s bad luck in the jungle.
Something felt off. Orchestrated. Intended.

Andrew walked up the long flight of steps to
Wat Phnom. Wat Phnom was a sacred place for Buddhists, one of
several Wats in town, but by far the most visited, with its unique
location on a leafy hilltop. It was open to all.

At the top of the hill, in the dark, Andrew
made his way inside the quiet temple.

The main room in the Wat was rectangular with
high ceilings, lit by candlelight. Colorful murals on the walls and
ceiling depicted stories of ancient times, of the reincarnations
that preceded Buddha’s enlightenment. Rows of red and green columns
in the room’s center marked the most sacred space. On the altar, a
large golden Buddha stared at the offerings on the floor below.
These offerings would multiply a thousand fold in a few days’ time,
on Pchum Ben Day, when people visited the Pagodas to revere their
dead.

Andrew stepped forward to study the Buddha.
Someone had placed a flower bouquet in his cross-legged lap.
Smaller statues of lesser deities and monks stood at his feet.
Flowers lined the altar yet the room smelled of stale incense.

Andrew glanced around the room once more. He
didn’t belong here. He trotted back outside, then down the long set
of stone steps, to the concrete sidewalk. Walking halfway around
the circular park, he settled against a tall wide tree, his arms
crossed, leaning his shoulder against the rough bark.

Hearing someone behind him, Andrew whirled
around, expecting to see the little Cambodian grandma, though his
hand reached instinctively for his gun.

In front of him stood a tall stunning
Cambodian woman with waist-length hair, wearing a short green
dress.

Staring at Andrew, the woman said, “You need
to find your own tree in this park.” Her voice was light and warm,
her nearly perfect English laced with a mild Cambodian accent.

“Excuse me?” Andrew didn’t sense any
immediate danger. But something was off.

“This section of the park belongs to me,” the
woman said. There was no malice in her voice but she did not
smile.

Andrew looked around him then back at the
gorgeous woman wearing heavy makeup, a too-tight dress and
five-inch heels. He realized what she meant.

“Sorry, I hadn’t realized. I’m not working.
I’m just a little knocked out from the heat. I’ll move on, if you
can give me a second.”

At this, she smiled and giggled. “Oh, you’re
a funny man. I’m teasing you. You looked so serious. You stay right
there. I saw you here all alone. Thought you might want company.
You know?” She raised her eyebrows and tilted back her head. “I’m
Socheat, by the way.”

Andrew studied the woman, her jaw line a
little too sharp, her shoulders a little too broad. While her face
was stunning, her laugh, deep and throaty, gave her away.

The ‘she’ was a he, a katoey or ladyboy, a
young man dressed, very convincingly, as a woman. The katoey was
part of the culture in Southeast Asia, in some countries even a
third gender. Andrew had read about the local ladyboys. In Cambodia
they were part of the scenery, working as hairdressers, shop owners
and sometimes in the sex trade.

“Ahh, well, thank you. But, no offense,
you’re not really my type,” Andrew said, slightly embarrassed.

“No fun for me,” the ladyboy said,
disappointed. “You figured it out so quick. Not everyone as smart
as you Americans.” His face lit up. “How do they say in your
country? ‘Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.’”

Andrew nodded and chuckled. “They do say
that.” He’d noticed there was a love of American idioms in this
country. Then he realized something with a start.

“How did you know I was American?”

The ladyboy was leaning his back against the
tree, perky chest out, with one long bare leg bent at the knee, his
high-heeled foot resting on the trunk. He lit a cigarette, blew the
smoke in Andrew’s direction.

“I watched you. You walked out of the
American Embassy and over here. I made a guess. And look, I was
right! I’m smart too.”

Andrew took a step toward him, trying to get
a sense of danger. He was good at reading people. Socheat gave no
signs of ill intent.

“Do you often watch the people who come and
go from the Embassy?” Andrew asked.

Socheat batted his wide eyelashes at him,
flirting.

“Hmmm. Who wants to know? Are you a cop?”
Socheat asked, a glimmer in his eye. He winked. He loved a man in
uniform.

Andrew hid his surprise. “No. But I find it
interesting that you noticed me.”

“Oh, I notice many things.”

A tuk-tuk full of drunken tourists drove by,
Western ladies on a bender, yelling out at anybody they saw. One of
them lifted her top at Socheat and Andrew. The tuk-tuk kept on
around the curve of the circular drive, heading toward another
night club and another round of shooters.

Andrew watched the tuk-tuk disappear. It was
quiet again. Socheat watched him.

“What do you notice?” Andrew asked.

Socheat smiled at him, pushed away from the
tree and started to walk along the sidewalk. He turned and waited
for Andrew to follow him out of the jarring streetlamp light.

“There’s a lot to notice in this small town.
You hear things.”

“What have you heard?”

Socheat ignored the question. “Such a small
town, you learn to tell the good people from the bad people.”