Bible of the Dead

by Tom Knox

  Chemda had, it seemed, fully recovered her wits. She wanted to talk. She was trying to explain Khmer culture to Jake, its superstitions and legends.

  ‘Some people believe there is a particular darkness in the Khmer.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain it concisely. But here is an example: “kum”.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Kum is the desire to take revenge, a typically Khmer desire to do down your enemy. Ah. To crush him, over many years.’

  ‘Like a vendetta.’

  ‘Yes but also no. Vendetta is just eye for an eye, isn’t it, you kill mine and I kill yours. Kum is more deadly even – but no, deadly isn’t right.’ She stared at the riverbank, where an egret sat on a branch. ‘Kum is more . . . satanic. Kum means the desire to take, hn, disproportionate revenge.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Brutally. If someone hurts you, he becomes an enemy, a soek, and you must take revenge, sangsoek. But the principle of kum means you must hurt him ten times over, in return. If someone rapes your sister, you must kill his sister and his brother and kill his father and his mother. Kill everyone.’

  Jake sensed the proximity of personal grief. He was quiet. Then she continued, her noble Khmer profile framed by the green troubling jungle and the blue painful sky:

  ‘The legend is that the Khmers adopted Buddhism, the most peaceful of religions, because it put a restraint on kum. And that,’ she leaned out of the boat, and trailed delicate fingers in the water, ‘that is why communism was so particularly vicious in Cambodia.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘The Khmer Rouge took away the constraints of Buddhism. They burned down the temples, tortured and slaughtered the monks. They tried to murder God. And the result . . .’ She shrugged, and winced. ‘Was the killing fields. Because if you take away the Khmers’ religion we are just left with kum – plus the terrors of tyranny.’

  Chemda withdrew her hands from the river abruptly, as if she feared it might be bitten, ‘And then again, sometimes I think: maybe we are still a cursed people. Ah. Maybe we are still the Black Khmer. Steeped in blood.’

  The boat was slowing, Jake turned: they were approaching a larger village, with a pier and stores and one or two fishing skiffs, a place where village children played in clothes, rather than shrieking and naked.

  ‘Pak Beng. We can stop for water, briefly, it is surely safe here. No one comes here. Then we have another few hours and we can get to Thailand. I hope.’

  They tethered the boat. Jake stepped ashore and grabbed a warm cola from a man running a stall in the village. He had one eye and one arm and one leg, and a full set of grinning white teeth.

  Jake returned to the boat. He didn’t feel refreshed, he felt utterly exhausted and still very hunted. The sun was so ferociously, predatingly hot; even the cooling river breeze did not help, as they motored slowly upstream. The silence of the river and the memory of the smoke baby, hanging from the door, weighed on him, like oppressive humidity before a storm. He wanted to talk. He didn’t know what to say. Chemda spoke.

  ‘Why do you feel guilt, about your family?’

  It was one of her direct, even piercing questions.

  He shied.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘When we were on the Plain. You said,’ she softened her voice, as if she knew her words might hurt him. ‘You said that you felt guilt, about surviving your family, or your mother and sister. Why?’

  Again, something in Chemda seemed to invite the truth from him, and again he yearned to tell her everything; maybe because she had darkness in her past, too.

  ‘When my sister was run over, I was . . . holding her hand. I was looking after her, but I was only seven, and she was five. Stupidly young. But I was still in charge, you know? And still I let go and, and, and she ran into the road.’ He half-swallowed the rest of the story, eyes fixed on the walls of jungle imprisoning the river. ‘It was after that my mother fell apart, and then she walked out. Broken heart. I don’t know. But in my mind it was all my fault. If I hadn’t let go of Becky none of it would have happened. None of it. Kids blame themselves, don’t they? That’s what I did, and sometimes still do.’

  The motor puttered as they curved another, tighter corner. Pang was staring rigidly ahead to where smooth rocks protruded from the brown and silver water.

  Chemda put her hand briefly on his, offering that tender electric shock. Then she sat back.

  He said:

  ‘Tell me about you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, twenty-eight. Unmarried. Boyfriend?’

  She smiled, faintly. ‘I am a virgin . . .’

  He stared.

  She added: ‘In Cambodia.’

  Her faint smile unfolded into a real smile. For a second.

  ‘It sounds absurd to talk about all this, now.’

  He said, ‘Tell me. What else can we talk about.’

  ‘OK. Yes. How to put it. I was not quite so chaste in LA. There were lots of boys. The wrong kind of boys.’ Her eyes met his. ‘The insecurity was appealing. I was always drawn to boys who wandered away, adventurers, boys who couldn’t be tied down. Probably because I didn’t want to be tied down. You have to remember Khmer culture is quite con servative, girls are expected to marry young. My parents have seriously started to worry about me. Especially now I am over twenty-five.’

  The riverbirds were swooping again, silver and blue, maybe some kind of kingfisher. They talked some more, but then silence fell, and with it the fear returned, and then the oppressive heat drove them to separ ate corners of the boat.

  Jake gargled horribly warm water from the dirty water-bottle, then dipped a tee shirt in the river and draped its wetness over his broiling face.

  The motor engine chirred. Wearied by his own anxiety, and the sadistic heat, Jake lay back against the horribly uncomfortable planks of the pirogue, and almost immediately felt the mermaids of sleep dragging him under. Soft female arms pulling him down. And down. Into the darkness of sleep, with the murmuring bones.

  When he woke, his watch showed three hours had gone by. Now Chemda was asleep. The sun was filtered by the riverside palm fronds. Twilight. Pang the boatman was gazing at him.

  Pang said, ‘We are soon there. You and Chemda very tired, I think.’

  This was startling. It had not occurred to Jake that Pang spoke English. All this time he had presumed the man’s silence was due to his not understanding their conversation. Jake hadn’t even offered the boatman a proper word of hello.

  ‘Please, Pang. I didn’t realize you spoke English . . . you know. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No problem. I understand, much danger. Do not worry.’ The old man nodded, distractedly. He was steering them carefully around floating logs and sudden rocks.

  The river had become notably narrower, the current faster, the shorelines steeper, almost cliffs. Impenetrable jungle adorned the clifftops on either side. A younger Mekong.

  ‘I take tourist up here, many years, for Madame Agnes. I know her family long time.’

  The boatman hesitated. ‘One time I know Chemda’s family, too, they friend with Agnes.’

  ‘Who did you know?’

  ‘Her grandmother. Madame Sovirom. She live in Luang after the war.’

  Jake paused, and pondered. Surely not. The grandmother was killed by the Khmer Rouge. But surely it had to be. The Hmong knew her, or knew of her, why not someone in Luang?

  Pang revved the engine, steering for the opposite shore. Chemda was still fast asleep, her delicate head resting on a folded sarong; her bare dark legs smeared with mud.

  The boatman’s Manchester United shirt was stained with salt and river and oil; the grime of honest hard work. He said:

  ‘I not like tell Chemda. Sad story. Maybe she not know?’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘I tell you. But secret. Everyone pretend they know nothing. Madame Agnes, everyone. The famous lady from Phnom Penh, royal lady. She lived at
the Gauguin after the war, for a few year. She sit every day by the river, in the garden, and every man with a boat know who she was. She just sit looking at the river, every day for three year, maybe four. Some men call her bad name, Khmer name – vierunii –’

  ‘It means?’

  ‘Lao Lao. Whisky. But also it mean stupid woman, made bad by drink. Because she sit there like she drunk, much spit on her face, from mouth.’

  ‘She just sat doing nothing? Drooling. Was she ill?’

  Pang shrugged, his frown was deep and troubled.

  ‘Not ill. Own fault. She say give me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They cut her up but they say she want this.’ Pang sighed. ‘I do not know, maybe I say nothing.’

  ‘But I want to know.’

  A pause. They were just a few metres from the shore. Jake spotted a modest mudbank, and a rough track leading up the steep rivercliff into the bush. He realized this must be Thailand, this shoreline: beyond the cliff was Thailand and roads and proper airports and 7-Elevens and safety: they were close to safety: but before he alighted he wanted more information, as much as possible.

  ‘Pang, are you saying that Chemda’s grandmother, volunteered to be experimented on?’

  ‘Vol . . . an . . .?’

  ‘Volunteer. It means, it means – it means – are you saying she asked them to do it to her. To cut her head open?’

  ‘Yes. Yes! Doi! That is it. She ask them to do this, to cut her open, to make her brave like lion like brave animal, but it go wrong and then she like . . . dead woman. Sitting there. For many year. Staring at the river. Sad story so sad.’ Pang nudged the boat onto the mud, darkly frowning, almost despairing. ‘I always ask. Always. Why? Why anyone want that? Why anyone ask to be cut open? To be cut into pieces?’

  Chapter 12

  ‘Hell of a story,’ said Tyrone. ‘Hell of a story.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Tyrone lifted his beer-bottle. ‘Dude, you’re on your way. Nail this one, and you could make your name.’

  They were drinking on the top floor of the Foreign Correspondents Club: the FCC in Phnom Penh. The top floor extended to a terrace which stared out over the Tonle Sap river, sluggishly reflecting a fat and queasy moon. Beneath them the clattering lamplit riverside boulevard was full of motos and cyclos and taxis; and jingling snail-sellers and wandering tourists and unemployed tuk-tuk drivers arguing over rancid glasses of palm wine.

  Jake had been back in the chaos of the city just three hours, it was only twenty-four hours since they had crossed the border into Thailand. From there they had walked for two hours into a village, then got a cycle shaw to a taxi, caught a taxi to Chiang Rai. Then jumped on a plane to Phnom Penh.

  He stared around: the FCC was its normal, comfortable, languid, semi-colonial self, with its yellow shutters and overhead fans and wicker chairs. Journalists were talking with UN workers, photographers were boozing with bohemian locals.

  But it had changed; or Jake had changed. By rights he knew he should be exhausted, but he wasn’t. Why? Maybe he was pumped with adrenaline, and maybe he was still energized by the fear, and the unforgettable horror. The dead baby swinging from the rafters, with the little milky eyes. It was impossible to forget that.

  He was being tapped. Tyrone was rapping him on the knee, with the butt of his bottle.

  ‘Dreamboy. You OK?’

  He snapped out of his reverie.

  ‘I think so. It’s just – you know. It was pretty unnerving. And the mystery goes on. It’s freaking me out.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’ve been through all this, Ty. Bosnia. Darfur. Chechnya, you’ve been in danger. It resonates for a while, right?’

  ‘It does. Dude, you have to let yourself down. Or you could drink it away. Or do some number four.’

  ‘I’m done with drugs, I want answers.’

  ‘Shame. It worked for me, till it fucked me up. China white heroin, like Himalayan snow. Ahh.’ Tyrone slugged the last of his Angkor: ‘Ou sont les neiges d’antan?’

  Jake had heard this spiel before, Ty romancing the powders; he diverted their dialogue onto more useful territory. He urgently wanted explanations:

  ‘So, please, what do you think of it all. The jars, everything?’

  ‘Obviously the Lao government was very keen to get this research – Chemda’s project – aborted.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘The commie Lao, the Pathet Lao, they are still in power up there. And if they did anything dodgy in Laos back in the 70s, they’ll wanna keep it under wraps, even now.’

  ‘Again, agreed.’

  Tyrone sat back, his empty beer bottle in hand.

  ‘So that’s your answer. The government put the frighteners on the two professors. Scared them, menaced their families. Yet these poor historians were also getting pressure from the Cambodian government, and the UN, and KR victims, to do the right thing.’ Tyrone accepted another Angkor lager from the waiter, and continued. ‘No wonder they folded, pressure from all sides. Sounds like your ass-over-tit guy got so shit scared he killed himself, no other way out, especially when he found out the jars had been rediscovered. But, like you say, he did it in a way that sent you a message, the draining blood stuff, a Tuol Sleng torture. He was telling you that it was the communists that were pressuring him. A final despairing signal.’

  ‘Yes, my thoughts completely, that has to be it. But . . . Chemda isn’t quite so sure it’s suicide.’

  ‘Well I think you’re right. But what happened up there back in ‘76, anyway? Madness. And the dead fucking baby hanging on the coatrack? What’s that about?! What kind of fucking hotel is this? Maybe they do that to all the guests, as a welcome gesture. Like a chocolate on the pillow –’

  Tyrone was laughing at his own black humour. Jake was not laughing; he was wholly unnerved.

  ‘But Ty, why didn’t they just deport us, why did they let us go in Ponsavanh –’

  Black mosquitoes buzzed between them. Tyrone flicked the air with an irritated hand, and speculated:

  ‘Say they were planning to kick you out, but you went straight to the jars. Possible. And of course the Lao cops were well aware who Chemda was, by then. A Sovirom. Not a family to mess with easily. If it had just been you – they would probably have taken you down to the basement and got all Torquemada on your ass.’

  Jake sat back. It was true. He had been saved, paradoxically, by Chemda. She had led him into danger and then saved him. And the thought of Chemda stirred his anxieties further. He had told her, on the plane, Pang’s backstory of her grandmother: she had reacted quite calmly, or just wearily. But with flickers of sadness and puzzlement.

  And he knew that she was right now confronting her family, down the road, in their large villa, beyond the vast ugly concrete pagodas of the Cambodiana Hotel: telling them everything. Did they already know? What would they say? Jake checked his watch again. He thought of calling her. But maybe he should wait for her to call him.

  Tyrone had guessed his thoughts.

  ‘Ahhh . . . Missing her already? Bless.’ The American smiled. ‘Jake and Chemda, sitting in a tree.’

  Jake attempted a dismissive and nonchalant laugh, and failed. He couldn’t fake it. He knew there was truth in Tyrone’s implication: he was deeply drawn to Chemda, already. And their lives were now entangled by what they had been through.

  Tyrone leaned forward, cynical yet smiling, like a conspiring cardinal:

  ‘You want some advice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just be careful. Be careful with this girl. That is one powerful fucking family. You get involved with Chemda, and you’re involved with the entire clan, Teks and Soviroms. Especially her grandfather.’

  ‘Sovirom Sen. You’ve met him?’

  Tyrone affirmed. ‘Just once or twice, embassy parties. Y’know. He is tough, very smart, and has that old school charm. Same as the Khmer Rouge leaders.’

  ‘Come again? The Khmer Rouge
. . . charming?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Not a word I’d associate with mass murderers –’

  Tyrone lifted a hand.

  ‘Remember. I have interviewed some of these men. KR leaders. It’s actually a pretty unsettling experience. Because, like it or not, they do have this wit, this intellectual wit, and very good manners.’ He tilted his beer bottle, and drank, and elaborated. ‘Guess it’s the background, the old world culture. Pol Pot was a dullard, a mediocrity, a functionary like Himmler with, I dunno, a weird gift for management, and killing. But lots of them went to the best schools here and the best universities in Paris. So they can quote Baudelaire and Rimbaud and Byron, they tell intellectual jokes and they know about Schubert. It’s most fucking unnerving ’cause you’re sitting there, thinking, Jesus, this bastard helped run maybe the most evil government in history, his government used to crucify people and burn them at the same time. Yet he is making me smile, he is interesting.’

  ‘And grandfather Sen is like this?’

  ‘A touch. Upper middle class, Chinese Cambodian. His wife was true royalty I think . . .’ Tyrone paused. ‘And then there’s his daughter, Madame Tek. Oh wow. Let’s not forget your potential mother in law.’ Tyrone was chortling. ‘She may be three inches high, she could probably run under a weasel, but man. These little Khmer women, they wai and scrape and make your noodles, but you cross them, just once . . .?’ He did a scissoring gesture. ‘Snip.’

  Jake winced. Tyrone snatched up a menu.

  ‘Hey, I’m hungry. Aren’t you? Must be. You probably been eating bees for a few days, no? In Laos? You gotta love that variety.’ Tyrone turned to the attendant waiter, ‘Burger please. Rare. Properly rare. Aw kohn!’

  ‘I’ll have the . . . the pad thai. Whatever. Thanks. Aw kohn.’ Jake handed the menu to the waiter, who executed a wai, then returned to the kitchen.

  Tyrone was quiet for a moment, then he turned:

  ‘There’s one other thing that worries me. Your story.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One bit, you skipped over.’

  ‘What?’

  Tyrone spoke quietly. The moon was sickly yellow in the sky behind him.