—We sat for a long time in silence. A Western woman would have said more; but she said nothing more. I could feel her against me, hardly touching, but her body giving out that strong warmth. Then she said: So what will you do now? Leave Cambodia, before the Khmer Rouge come into the city?
—No, I said. I’ll stay.
—She sat quite still, thinking. Then she nodded her head and said: Good. Then we’ll be together. Now must go. My uncle and aunt will be waiting.
—Don’t go, I said.
—Yes, she said. Tonight you’re sad for Dmitri. Rest. Meet me the day after tomorrow.
—She stood up; I could scarcely see her face. Don’t turn on the lights, she said.
—She was right to go; she’d understood me. Because of Dmitri, we had to separate tonight. But now that I’m sitting here alone again, all I’m thinking of is her, and that I’ll see her the day after tomorrow.
MAY 12TH
—Six o‘clock: just in from the field. The rain over: another late downpour. The smells it leaves behind coming in over the balcony: mud and drains, mixed with the scent of flowers, from over in the market.
—I’ll go across and buy some in a moment, to welcome her with. In an hour she’s bringing her things here. She says she wonders if Sary will be jealous. I keep wanting to laugh; keep walking about the room; can’t keep still. Childish.
—Rain and Ly Keang.
—On my hands the smell of paddy water that I don’t want to wash off.
—We’d arranged to have a coffee at the Royal: that was all. But as soon as we sat down, she asked me to take her to the front.
—I said at first that I wouldn’t.
—But I used to go out with Dmitri, you know that, she said. She was dressed in jeans and a military shirt, and carrying a Nikon: ready to go.
—Look, I’m not like Dmitri, I said. I only work alone. I never even liked to have a soundman, in the days when I shot film. I won’t be responsible for someone else’s life: especially not a woman’s. Especially not yours.
—She pursed her lips.
Mon
Dieu, such an old-fashioned man, she said. A buffalo boy!
—It was nine o‘clock. We sat on the terrace above the garden and the pool. Bright sun, and people having a morning swim, or sitting under the umbrelllas. Normal and happy, as though the city wasn’t at war. Suddenly she reached out and put a hand over mine. Her voice, usually pitched up a little, got low.
—You won’t lose me, she said. I’m too clever. Where do you go today?
—I told her I was going north up Highway 5, towards Oudong. The Khmer Rouge seemed to be pulling back there, and I’d learned I could safely get to a Fifth Brigade enclave where there might be some low-level action. Most other highways were hopeless to drive on now, but the Government was doing pretty well on the Rice Road, and looked like reopening it.
—So it’s not too dangerous, she said. She smiled, knowing this was never true. And they have plenty of air support, she said. So please take me, Mike. Just so I can get a story for my paper, and a few pictures I might sell. If it gets too heavy, you can go forward without me. I know how you work.
—I told her no, I couldn’t do that either. She could get cut off.
—Then all right, never mind, don’t leave me, she said. We’ll stay together. You should not be going out again so soon: you’re meant to be resting. So if you get in trouble, better I’m there.
—Her head was cocked on one side and she was pretending to be serious: but she can never be serious for long. We laughed together, knowing she’d won. A small, fatherly Chinese waiter, standing at attention by a trolley in his white jacket, was smiling at us as though he understood.
—Why do you want to do this? I asked her. That paper of yours doesn’t give a stuff about real stories from the front. They just want you to invent good news. You can write that here.
—All right, that’s not my main reason, she said. I want experience of battle.
—I asked her why.
—I still believe our army can win, if the Americans help us, she said. But so many people say the Khmer Rouge will soon close the Mekong. Then we are lost, you know that. And if they win, I want to be ready. I want to get used to combat. I want to join Major Chandara, when he forms a resistance on the border.
—But that’s not the way for you to help, I said, with your education. Chandara wouldn’t want to see you doing that. There are better ways.
—Perhaps, she said. But perhaps the time will come when there will not be many nice ways left to fight. I can use a rifle—my father taught me. Some of our peasant girls go into battle with the men. Why not me?
—I sat and stared at her. She still had hold of my hand, but her eyes were serious, now. The Chinese waiter smiled, seeming to wait for my answer. I’ll take you today, I said. But if there’s too much incoming, if the troops are being pushed back, we head straight out.
—Her smile came back, as though I’d asked her to a party.
—So we headed up the Rice Road in Black Bessie, just the two of us. The sun out: no rain yet. Vora not with us: I drove myself. Probably not wise, but I wanted to be alone with her. Running beside the river, we passed the floating huts of the fishing village on the edge of town, and then we were out among the rice fields.
—I love this time of year, at the beginning of the rains. Light green rice shoots making a film across the paddies; everything coming alive. The women stooping, setting out the seedlings: peacefully planting, this close to the city, as though that sound in the distance isn’t really artillery. Pink and mauve lotus flowers and hyacinths opening in roadside pools. Cambodia beginning to fill with water, shining and winking, reflecting the sky and the big May clouds. Black-and-white heron took off as we went by; marching brown ducks were driven by little boys. Everything was washed and new. So was my life, because of Keang. Both of us laughed at nothing, as though we’d drunk brandy and not coffee.
—Thank you for bringing me, she said. Drive us all the way to Battambang: let me take you home.
—After the war, I said. When the road’s open again.
—After the war, she said, and put her hand on my arm.
—Ahead in the northwest, the low blue mountains seemed to wait for us: I saw her looking at them.
—A few kilometers on, we came to the Fifth Brigade enclave, just outside a bombed and deserted village in wide, flat country. Houses stood with their roofs caved in, or leaned at crazy angles on their stilts. A group of Khmer refugees passed us, some pushing handcarts, some driving pigs, others on bicycles, headed towards Phnom Penh.
—A battle was going on, but things seemed almost peaceful when we got out of the car. The Fifth Brigade had a good number of trucks and APCs here, as well as several hundred troops. A group of Khmer Rouge were dug in on a low ridge up ahead, near to the yellow shell of a ruined French villa. The sky showed through its windows, and smoke was drifting above it. Every so often the Khmer Rouge would fire a few mortar shells; but these were falling short. It was all pretty quiet: tedious even, as these encounters so often are.
-I knew the commander here, who was pretty reliable. He said they outnumbered the enemy by about ten to one, and he was confident of driving them back. So I got his permission to stay. Ly Keang moved about getting pictures of the troops with her Nikon, and talking with them. It seemed a fairly routine situation: not one that could go wrong. But after half an hour things began to change a little.
—The incoming mortar bombs got more frequent, and machine gun fire started up. The Fifth sent mortar fire and rockets back, and some of the troops began to move into the paddy fields and take shelter behind the dykes. Because of Ly Keang, I began to think about retreating in the car. But it didn’t yet seem warranted, and I told her it seemed best to dig in here with the troops, and shelter in the rice field.
—We moved back down the road on foot and went into the paddy at a point where we were alone, but not too far away from the troops. The field was about two feet under water. At first we lay on the side of a dyke, but then the mortar fire got heavier, and a shell exploded quite close, the mud showering down on us like dirty snow. I took Keang by the hand and drew her down with me into the paddy water, leaving our cameras perched in a groove on the side of the dyke.
—We lay half submerged, heads down. She was trembling slightly, but that was probably the noise: I saw now that she’d never panic. A soldier’s daughter.
—Then I heard the loud drone of prop-driven planes. The Lon Nol commander had brought in his air backup: two little T-28s, the old-fashioned light attack planes the Americans had donated to the Cambo than Air Force. As usual, they were skimming the tops of the sugar palms, their gung-ho Khmer pilots flying almost at ground level to find their targets. Soon we heard the bombs, and a pall of black smoke rose into the sky.
—We held hands and didn’t speak, seeing nothing but the tall sugar palms rising above the dyke. After a time, the mortar fire stopped, and things went quiet. I looked over the top of the dyke. A pillar of black smoke was coming from the ridge where the Khmer Rouge were, and the two T-28s were climbing away: they’d made a direct hit. Thunderhead clouds stood on the horizon: rain coming.
—It was over. The Government troops were getting their wounded into trucks; others were moving forward in APCs towards the Khmer Rouge position. I knew I should get out and follow the troops and get film; but today I wouldn’t bother. I slid back beside Keang, and put my arms around her. Just to hold her made me feel drunk again.
—Good that they had air support, she said. See? You didn’t need to worry, I was right. She gave me a small joking smile: but I could feel that she was still trembling.
—We went on looking at each other. Soft mud and warm brown paddy water: a bath. Alone here: no troops within fifty yards. Big drops of rain beginning to fall, splashing in the water. The mud sucking and the water washing about us as I put out my hand and cupped her cheek. Her green shirt gone black: water and her own perspiration. Thunder rolled, and the rain came down hard.
-Water: Cambodia is water. Thousands of acres beginning to drown; rice fields and jungle submerging; fish soon breeding among the trees in underwater forests—teeming through the paddies. Cambodia was water, and Keang was Cambodia. Her mouth again: its liquor. We struggled, wrenching at blackened clothes. Fish in water. When I pulled her half out of the paddy and up against the sloping dyke, I was trembling too. Keang. Gold against smooth red mud, breasts pointing at the sky, shining and streaming. Body-hair thin black strands of silk: hollows and secret fruit left bare. So perfect I knelt in the water in front of her. Paddy water, rain and her body’s juice: which was only rain?
JUNE 5TH
—The room at siesta time. Just after two: the big hot hush, when the city almost stops. The time the Nurseryman used to love.
—We keep the shutters closed: tiny white slivers of sun through the louvers. Drifting, on the bed in the heat, the roaring sun and world shut out. We tell each other that we’ll drift away, here in the room.
—Sary today padding across us as we lay like statues, wet from head to foot, not able to move. Sniffing at our drying foam and suddenly staring, shocked. We laughed, and she ran away offended.
JUNE 6TH
—Scents the room never had before.
—Lime blossom I brought from the markets that she’s put in vases everywhere: her favorite flower. Her scents and cosmetics, standing on the chest of drawers. All of the scents making a kind of rippling in the air, under the slow old fan. Ripples of light as well, reflected on the smudgy blue walls, as though we’re under water.
—Why did you never marry?
—I told her. Told her everything.
—Listening, she sat naked in the middle of the bed, cross-legged; she’s got no self-consciousness. The black silky triangle between her thighs like a figure on a pale ochre vase.
—Why do you love me? She frowned at me, warning me to make the right answer.
—I don’t think I loved anyone before, I said. I only loved what I thought was there. With you, I know it’s there.
—She threw herself on top of me, like a child.
JUNE 8TH
—Small things amuse her, even though she’s so much better educated than me. I came in yesterday wearing a monkey mask I bought in the market: a silly joke, but she wouldn’t stop laughing.
—Today she turned the photograph of Claudine to the wall, pursing her lips and glancing at me sideways. Don’t want to see this Vietnamese-French lady looking at us any more, she said. Time to put her away.
—She’ll always be a friend, I said. She did a great deal for me, years ago.
—But she pulled a face. No more lady friends, she said. Not even this aunty.
JUNE 9TH
—Keang standing naked by the window, one arm raised to hold a shutter open. She seemed to be thinking about something very far off, lip pulled down. Watched her from the bed. A streak of hot light let in, to touch her body like a flare: her raised arm and one breast glowing apricot, her nipple a dark plum. The fan of black hair hanging to the base of her spine: almost too heavy for her to carry. Naked, she’s quite small, even though her figure’s a full one. To me her body’s perfect, but its proportions are actually irregular: the long slender waist and then the flaring hips; the short legs.
—When will you give us a baby?
—I hadn’t really meant to say this; my voice spoke the words, and I heard myself say them with surprise.
—She came over quickly and sat astride me: fierce, moist, stinging, pinning my wrists.
—You want us to have one?
—Very much, I said.
—When the war stops, she said. When it’s safe. Then I will have your baby.
—Lying beside me, she explored old battle injuries: tracing them with her finger the way that Claudine used to do.