The Old Musician takes pleasure in the movements and sounds around him. He hears footsteps approaching. Turning, he sees Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith heading for the vihear. He angles himself to follow them with his good eye. The two oblates race up the stairway, then emerge at a window at the top of the prayer hall. There they perch side by side, a pair of orange macaws, feet firmly planted on the wooden sills, arms extending straight out on upright knees, their gazes cast toward the river and the geography far beyond.
He wonders whether Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith are contemplating their flights, longing for loftier existence. Both boys are orphans. Mr. Brown’s parents died of AIDS, which according to Dr. Narunn has spread with the country’s growing sex trade, human trafficking, and drug addiction. Mr. Smith’s father, a journalist known for his outspoken criticism of land-grabbing and forced evictions, was shot and killed on a crowded market street by armed men on a motorcycle. A month later, Mr. Smith’s mother suffered the same fate. The two adolescents were recently ordained and will likely remain at the temple until old enough to live on their own.
During the period of Chol Vassa, the “Rain Retreat” from mid-July to the end of October, when the monsoon falls most heavily, Buddhist monks withdraw from the outside world and confine themselves within the temple compound to study and meditate. At this time one also sees the largest number of young men and boys enter the monastery for a temporary ordination that can last as little as three days or as long as three months. The majority of the younger ones are orphans whose parents, like those of Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith, have fallen victim to the myriad diseases of poverty or to the violence of armed politics and personal vendettas. No one will take the children of these victims in, for fear of contagion or retribution. At the temple they find a semblance of family, a roof over their heads, food and nourishment, even if only in the one daily meal. While a few will choose to pursue a serious spiritual path, most stay simply to escape poverty. Nonetheless, the Venerable Kong Oul rarely turns anyone away, believing that education, practical or spiritual, cannot be gained on an empty stomach or while shivering in the rain.
With water from the clay cistern, the Old Musician washes his face, soaks one end of his kroma and wipes his arms and torso, splashes his feet and flip-flops clean of dirt, then shuffles back inside to prepare for the ceremony. He finds the white achar shirt and the pair of black wraparound pants, the only clothes he owns without patches or stains. Coincidentally, they were a gift from Makara’s parents during Krathin, a carnival-like festivity with performances of chayyam drums and giant puppets that beckon the entire community and passersby to the temple to make donations. When the Rattanaks handed him the parcel of wrapped clothes, the Old Musician hesitated, reminding them that he isn’t a monk. He possesses no spiritual wisdom, nothing he could impart to help ease their difficulties. They told him they expected nothing in return, except his simple wishes—a prayer or two on their behalf to the tevodas and deities—that they would always have rice in their pot and a place to sleep, that their son, Makara, would abandon his errant ways and return to school, grow into manhood strong and resourceful.
The Old Musician was moved by their generosity, knowing that the couple has so little to begin with, the wife a vegetable seller and the husband a motodup driver who taxis people on his rusted scooter, together earning barely enough to feed themselves and their son. How could they think that one as destitute and vulnerable as he should have the power to alter their circumstances with his wishes? Yet, that they should think so gave him pause. In truth, it prompted in him a small awakening.
He has not turned to religion. Nor has he renewed his belief in camaraderie and brotherhood—the ideology of revolution. Rather the simple gift of clothes, made on the faith that what one gives to another will not be lost, led him to consider that the arbitrariness of birth and circumstance might be altered not through grand schemes of social engineering but through such minute selfless acts, the gestures of empathy we extend to one another in our daily encounters. It’s clear to the Old Musician that without the kindness of his fellow human beings he would be left to walk the streets barefoot and naked, abandoned among the city’s refuse.
He wishes now for the Rattanaks a fortune as vast as the spirit of munificence they’ve shown him. He supposes in this way he’s learned to pray not as one might to the gods but as one does by simply pausing every now and then to think of others.
He walks to the open doorway and, before lowering the burlap partition to dress in privacy, scans the compound once more. He blinks, again a flash of white appearing before him. If he tells Dr. Narunn about it, he’s afraid the young physician will inform him that he’s losing sight in the good eye as well, that the white flare he sees with increasing frequency is a kind of phantom cataract before the real condition sets in, before total blindness. No, he must not tell the doctor. He prefers to think it is she who invades his vision, this specter of his sorrow.
He espies her in all he beholds.
The brass knocker echoes in the hallway, followed by a male voice. Room service! Teera tightens her bathrobe, gathering the collar for modesty, and opens the door. Samnang, the young man who’s brought meals for her before, walks into the room, bearing a tray with a pot of hot water, a caddy of assorted teas, and a steaming bowl of rice porridge, along with a vase of orchid blossoms. Devi trails him as he puts the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The young waitress greets her, palms together in the traditional sampeah. “We are all worried, big sister. You didn’t look well when you came back from your outing.” She steps back so as to be able to face Teera without having to tilt her neck and look up.
At five foot eight, Teera towers over Devi, but she must come off frail or broken in some way to engender the sympathy and protectiveness she’s been receiving from the hotel staff.
Devi’s eyes flit to the food tray and then back to Teera. “Rice porridge is not very nutritious. It’s sick people’s food. Are you sick, big sister?” Behind her, Samnang furrows his brow in shared concern.
Teera shakes her head.
“Is there anything else you need?” Devi persists. “Maybe hard-boiled eggs or ground sweet pork to go with it? At least some grilled salted fish?”
“Thank you, but I have everything I need. And really, I’m fine. It was probably just the heat. I’m not used to it yet. The shower was good. I’m feeling much better already.”
“You’ve gone out every day. Maybe you should rest, stay in for a day or two. Just enjoy the hotel—it’s beautiful here. Outside there’s so much mud and dirt. Srok Khmer is not like America.”