I Am Radar

by Reif Larsen

“Yes,” she signed. “This was back when the French were in charge. My father was a . . .” She paused, her hands searching for the word. She waved her fingers and floated her hands upward. “He was a proud man. He was used to getting his way.”

  “He died?”

  “In 1911. Four years after your father was born. He never met Jean-Baptiste. I don’t think he wanted to meet Jean-Baptiste.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes we’re related to people purely out of chance. We don’t love them; they’re simply there, like the forest.”

  “He was mean to you?”

  “Not so mean. He didn’t understand who I was, that’s all. We can’t expect people to understand all the time, can we?” She closed her eyes. “Tell me, Raksmey, what do you hear now?”

  The answer to their game felt vitally important. As if he could make everything better simply by giving the correct response. He closed his eyes and imagined a world where there was nothing but sound. Nothing but the compression of air molecules, bouncing this way and that. No light, no objects, no jungle, no animals, no love, no fire, no death. Only sound.

  He listened and heard piano music drifting down the corridor. A woman’s laughter, rising, joined by a man’s, before both fell silent again. The faint ting of the elevators opening and closing next to their room. The rattle of silverware on a cart in the hallway. Rain tiptoeing against a windowpane.

  How to say this to her? He scratched his nose and took a breath, then he put his mouth up to her ear and hummed. He hummed, and from his lips he gave her everything he heard. She smiled, her eyes closed, taking in the little boy’s vibrations.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, she was gone. The bed was neatly made, and there was no sign of her anywhere in the room or the hotel. The staff in the lobby had not seen her come or go.

  Jean-Baptiste was furious.

  “What was she thinking? Wandering off like that in the middle of the night? Unwell? Deaf and blind? Doesn’t she have any sense at all?”

  After giving a description to the hotel manager and a representative from the police, he told Raksmey to gather his things.

  “We will not let the lunacy of an old woman derail the whole purpose of coming here.”

  “But what if she’s in trouble?”

  “Don’t worry about her. You’ve got enough to worry about. We came here to get you to school, and that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  “But—”

  “Raksmey, she’ll be fine. Has she ever not been fine? She’s going to outlive us all. We’re going. No arguments.”

  Saigon was in a state of low-grade unease. The president’s assassination in a U.S.-backed coup had created a vacuum in the country’s leadership. On nearly every corner, young policemen in oversize helmets stood at attention, thumbing at their surplus Kalashnikovs. On the way to the collège, they passed three jeeps carrying American troops, their faces set in hard expressions, their skin pasty in the gleam of the morning sun.

  Raksmey watched from the back of the tuk-tuk as they crisscrossed the broad, palm-lined boulevards, weaving through waves of traffic, gliding through the roundabouts like electrons circling a nucleus. He tried to chart their route, but he could not read the street signs. It was the first time he had encountered a language he did not understand.

  “What does that say?” he asked Jean-Baptiste, pointing to a bright yellow banner above a shop.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do they write like this?”

  “Because they’re Vietnamese. Because they’re trying to be their own country now.”

  “Why don’t they speak Khmer?”

  “Vietnam’s a different country than Cambodia. Everyone has their own language.”

  Raksmey thought about this. “If I’m Cambodian, why don’t I go to school in Cambodia?”

  “A fair question,” said Jean-Baptiste. “I suppose it’s because I went here once upon a time, before it was Vietnam. And because you are my son. And sons do what their fathers did.”

  Looking above them, Raksmey noticed a complex system of wires connecting all of the buildings. The wires came together in tangled bunches, following the roads, exploding apart, rejoining again.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  “Electricity,” Jean-Baptiste said. “Telephone. Telegraph. This is what makes a city possible.”

  “Don’t people make a city possible?”

  “Yes. You’re right. People plus electricity make a city possible.”

  “And food.”

  “And food.”

  “And language.”

  “Yes, Raksmey, we could extend this list indefinitely. To include everything in the city. The list would fill the city itself.”

  Raksmey was quiet as they moved through the streets. He could drive like this all day. One among many.

  “I like you, Papa,” he said after a while.

  • • •

  THE RECTOR OF COLLÈGE René Descartes was a young, exuberant Vietnamese man named Han Mac Than, who had taken control of the collège the year before, just after President Diem’s assassination. Monsieur Than wore circular glasses that were too small for his face and a white three-piece suit that was too large for his slender frame. He combed his hair long and to the side like the young people did, but he had a purposeful, self-assured air that put both Raksmey and Jean-Baptiste at ease, though for different reasons.

  “We are on the verge of a new era,” he said to them in his office. “Independence has given many Vietnamese a fresh perspective on life. This is a very important time. We must make our own way. There can be no more excuses for failure. You cannot blame the Frenchman. Blaming the Frenchman is like blaming a ghost. There’s nothing there. The only one you can blame is yourself.”

  “You can still blame us,” said Jean-Baptiste. “I give you my permission.”

  The rector looked confused, then he laughed, quickly and uncomfortably.

  “Of course,” he said. “I understand you’re joking now. We can all make many jokes now.”

  “Just as soon as the Americans leave.”

  “Ah,” the rector said, opening his hands. “What can I say? Saigon is a popular place. Many ideas, many forces at work, not all of them . . .” He turned to Raksmey, who had remained silent throughout their conversation. “It’s a good place to come and study. Do you like to study?”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” Raksmey said quietly.

  “And tell me, what is your favorite subject?”

  Raksmey looked at his father. Jean-Baptiste motioned for him to speak.

  “Molecular physics,” Raksmey whispered, shrinking down into his seat.

  Monsieur Than raised his eyebrows. “Well, welcome to René Descartes, Raksmey.”

  “I’ve left my instructions in here,” said Jean-Baptiste, sliding a thick envelope across the table.

  “Instructions?”

  “Raksmey is used to a rigorous education program. Obviously this school will represent some kind of break from that, but I’d like to ensure as much continuity as possible. There are certain . . . aspects of his development that I’d like you to keep track of.”

  Monsieur Than leaned back in his chair. “Many parents are nervous when they first drop off their children here. They wonder, what will we do to them? Well, I can assure you he will be in good hands.”

  “Read the materials. This is a little different. I’ve been involved in a . . . project.”

  “We aren’t going to turn your son into a Communist, if that’s what you’re worried about, Monsieur. We believe in a basic set of ideals, but we also teach open-mindedness. Tolerance. It’s the only way this region will survive.”

  Monsieur Than offered to give them a tour of the grounds, but Jean-Baptiste explained that his mother had gone missing and that he must get back to the hot
el.

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” said Monsieur Than. “But Saigon is not such a big town. I’m sure you’ll find her.”

  “I’m sure,” said Jean-Baptiste.

  Outside, he paused at the gates of the collège.

  “Please, take care of him,” he said to the rector. “He means a great deal to me. You’ll quickly see the caliber of child you have on your hands.”

  “It’s what we do here,” said Monsieur Than. “The future of this country depends on them.”

  “He’s Cambodian.”

  Monsieur Than smiled. “I don’t discriminate. Cambodia’s problems are our problems. And our problems are Cambodia’s. We’re all in this fight together.”

  Jean-Baptiste bent down to Raksmey. “And you take care of them. Be nice. Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t show off.”

  Raksmey looked at his father, his eyes wide with terror.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jean-Baptiste. “We’ll find her.” And he hugged his son for the second time in his life.

  • • •

  THEY DID NOT FIND HER. Two weeks went by. Despite a citywide search, despite inquiries into various underground factions that might have had grounds to kidnap her or worse, Eugenia remained missing. All avenues of inquiry turned up nothing. Even the American army had been sent notice of her disappearance and were on the lookout at their checkpoints around the city and as far north as Bien Hoa.

  That first morning after Eugenia disappeared, the maid had discovered something unusual inside the bed: a smooth, polished stick figure, wrapped in a roll of twine that had been threaded through pieces of bone-white seashell. When shaken, the figurine made a thin rattling noise. Jean-Baptiste had never seen this wooden effigy before and was convinced it could not have been in his mother’s possession. He propped it up by the window, and though he was not a religious man, he took to kneeling in front of the stick creature each evening and praying for her safe return.

  He spent several days searching the city from the back of a tuk-tuk, scanning the sea of faces. Every old white woman he spotted from a distance caused his pulse to quicken, even if he also knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was not her, that it would never be her. This simultaneous expectation and resignation wore him to the bone. Eventually he stopped looking.

  Jean-Baptiste also began to worry about his son. He did not want Eugenia’s disappearance to have a negative effect on Raksmey’s first days at the collège. In fact, the more he was away from Raksmey, the more nervous he became that Monsieur Than had not properly studied his instructions. Vital aspects of his development might even now be going unnoticed and unrecorded. The possibility drove him mad. This initial break-in period was crucial for developing Raksmey’s positive attitude toward an institutional education. How could he have left such important data collection in the hands of others? His notebooks would suffer, were already suffering.

  In the middle of his third week in the city, he returned to the school. He found Raksmey on the sporting grounds, playing football, a game he had never taught the boy. He realized there was so much he had not done, a million opportunities not taken, a million chances for growth lost and gone forever. What a ruse! What a sham—to raise a child when failure is almost certainly guaranteed! He very nearly turned around then and there, to leave and never to return, but Raksmey spotted him on the sidelines and came running over.

  “There you are,” said Jean-Baptiste. “How’re you getting on? Do you like football?”

  “Yes,” said Raksmey, flushed from his exertions. “Did you find Grandma?”

  Jean-Baptiste got down on one knee. “Yes, of course,” he said. “She had just gone out to find her old house, and she had gotten lost. How silly of her. Apparently she had left a note for us but it had slipped underneath the bed.”

  Raksmey studied him. “But she was sick.”

  “You know your grandmother. She’s never one to let anything keep her down,” he said. “Have you made any friends here?”

  Raksmey shrugged. “Some of the boys are mean.”

  “Yes, well, this happens, unfortunately. And I’m afraid it won’t change, wherever you go. These boys are scared of their own deficiencies.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “How are the studies? Are they difficult?”

  “They put me with the oldest class in science. It’s a bit easy. But the boys laughed at me. They said I was un phénomène de la nature.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” said Jean-Baptiste.

  Raksmey blinked at him.

  “Okay, go out and play. Score some goals!”

  “They won’t let me score,” Raksmey said and ran off.

  Monsieur Than joined him on the sidelines. He was carrying a rolled-up umbrella, even though the sky was clear.

  “You were right,” said the rector. “Raksmey is most unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a student quite like him.”

  “You need to protect him. The other children don’t understand.”

  “Boys can be like that. We’ll make sure he gets the attention he deserves.”

  “Did you get my instructions?” Jean-Baptiste asked.

  “Yes, I wanted to talk with you about this—”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Jean-Baptiste. “I believe this break has caused too much discontinuity in the experiment. I’d like to do the observations myself, at least for the first month or so. Then I can train one of your own teachers to pick up after me. But it’s critical right now—”

  Monsieur Than cleared his throat.

  “Monsieur de Broglie, I admire what you’ve done with Raksmey. You’ve clearly taught him a great deal. But you’ve sensed there are things that . . . that you cannot teach him. This, I assume, is why you’ve brought him to us.”

  The whistle blew. Raksmey had fallen. He looked over to where Jean-Baptiste and the rector were standing and then pulled himself up. Another boy slapped him on the back of the head. Jean-Baptiste instinctively cringed.

  “I realized I could not be everything for him,” Jean-Baptiste said, staring at the boys milling about. “He needs socialization with other children.”

  “Among other things,” said Monsieur Than. “He also—and please do not take this the wrong way—he also needs to be away from his father for some time.”

  Jean-Baptiste took a step back. “What do you mean? I made him into who he is!”

  “No, Monsieur de Broglie, you did not make him—”

  “Where would he be without me?”

  “Nor did his mother make him. Nor did God, nor Buddha, nor whomever you ascribe your ascendant powers to. Raksmey can only make himself, and in order for him to do this, your project—as honorable as it is—must end here. I won’t force you. You’re free to withdraw Raksmey from the collège at this very moment. But if you choose to keep him here, if you truly wish for us to be partners, then you must agree to entrust him to us and to let him go. I would ask that you leave and visit us again in four months. I know this may seem harsh, but it’s absolutely necessary. For you as much as for him.”

  • • •

  JEAN-BAPTISTE STAYED in Saigon for two more weeks. At night, in search again of that beautiful, horrific sensation du familier, he began to frequent an opium parlor in District 5. The door was tended by a madam named Phuong. She never smiled as she took his money. The dimly lit parlor, which consisted of a damp cement room adorned with a meager collection of pillows and dull green army mattresses, was populated by potbellied French colonials who had lost their way; sleepy-eyed American servicemen on R&R, happy enough to wax melancholic about the impending war; the occasional Chinese diplomat who took his drug and said nothing at all.

  Jean-Baptiste lay there in the gloom and thought of his wife, of his mother, of his father, of Raksmey, of Tien, of the river and the jungle, the jungle that had become his jungle. He thought of
everything that had come to pass, all the words spoken and not spoken, everything said and done and never done, and the promise of a forgiveness that would never come. The depth of his loneliness surprised and soothed him. Stumbling home from the parlor late one night, his left hand bleeding from an incident he could not recall, he realized he would always be alone—that he had always been alone.

  There was nothing left but to leave.

  “Please,” he told the hotel’s concierge. “If my mother shows up, tell her to wire this number in Phnom Penh. They’ll get word to me. Give her this letter. Tell her I’m not angry. Tell her I love her.”

  “Monsieur,” the concierge said, bowing.

  “You’ll tell her?”

  “Monsieur?”

  “You’ll tell her everything?”

  The concierge bowed again. “I will try,” he said.

  Jean-Baptiste packed his bags and hers, including the little wooden doll, and started back to the place from which he had come.

  7

  MARCH 1975

  There were only five other people on his flight to Phnom Penh, and none appeared to be Cambodian. Raksmey squinted out the airplane window at the rolling green expanse of his country. He had not been home in eleven years. The plane lurched, then steadied itself. In the distance, something burned, the smoke pooling pleasantly in the air. From this height the world was in miniature, like a museum exhibit, content with its own beauty, wanting of nothing.

  After his passport was stamped by a plump, bored army officer, Raksmey wandered through what looked to be an abandoned airport. Inside the main terminal, a series of plastic buckets filled with greasy mechanic’s tools were lined up next to a deserted security checkpoint. Nearby, a lone worker mopped at the floor, though the floor appeared to be clean.

  As he was walking past the shuttered airport café, Raksmey heard someone call his name—once, twice. He turned, and there was Tien, standing in a white short-sleeved shirt and slim blue slacks. The two men embraced, laughed, nearly falling into a dusty ficus tree.

  “You survived?” Tien asked in Khmer, holding on to Raksmey’s shoulder as if he might fly away.