He doesn’t even know where he and his comrades are going, only that there should be a guide at each of the handoff points, the first of which will be in Chruay Chongvar once they’ve crossed the Tonle Sap River. The precise location of any encampment or base must be kept secret throughout the journey, in case they are captured.
Again Tun hesitates, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn around and walk back to the only life that holds any meaning for him. His daughter is all that matters, she gives value and purpose to everything he does, and, paradoxically, the very thought of her at this instant reminds him why he must proceed. In war one must choose sides, he feels. If caught in the middle, one risks being massacred by fire from all directions.
Still, greater than his fear is the belief that a more just world—if not a gentler one—awaits to be built. Here then lies his ineradicable faith in the future, even as the present crumbles around him, even as one regime fails and another emerges only to prove more corrupt, more vicious, than the previous. He could blame America for the current maelstrom, but the truth is, since his student days, those brief months in that great nation’s capital, where he glimpsed at close range a government and its Constitution in practice, he hasn’t been able to let go of his hope for what Cambodia could become. Surely if a nation as enormous and disparate as the United States can hold itself together around a single ideal without falling into fiefdoms, a small, relatively homogenous country like his has as much chance, if not more.
Democracy. There is no more viable system to govern a society. He fervently believes this even now, even when his own government has made a shambles of it. The Republic is a joke, doomed to fail, but propped with America’s might, it has become a sustained hypocrisy. What choice does he have except to pin his hope on a yet unseen future? So he joins those who are battling for that future, even as he questions the blunt specificities of Communist ideology, its literalness, its lack of metaphor and music.
Stop. He mustn’t reason too much, or everything will fall apart, as it inevitably does when one philosophizes. He must do what needs to be done. Simple as that.
He sees a cyclo and beckons it toward him. “Chruay Chongvar Bridge,” he tells the peddler, a sinewy adolescent who looks as wiry as his vehicle.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” the boy enthuses, lacking the ease and confidence of a seasoned peddler. He doesn’t seem to belong in this urban landscape.
It’s obvious to Tun the boy is too soft-spoken, too polite to be a peddler of any sort. Here in the city, boys of this age are being recruited into the militia in a patriotic call to Bamreur Jiat—“Serve the Nation”—enticed with a choice of an M1 rifle, an M16, or an AK47. One sees these youngsters everywhere, at any hour, balancing their weapons next to their schoolbooks on the handlebars of their bicycles, as they rush from school or from home in a round-the-clock duty of patrolling the city for possible “leftist activities.” Perhaps it’s not wise for Tun to converse with this strange boy, but for some reason he desires a connection, however tenuous. Once they’re well on their way, and sensing the boy is harmless, he asks, “Where are you from?”
“Banaam, sir.”
He turns to have a better look. “Banaam is near Neak Leung.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you come to Phnom Penh?”
“The day after Neak Leung was hit. My mother forced me to leave. She was afraid we’d be next. Though, she herself is still there . . .”
Tun is silent. Another life displaced, another family torn.
“Were you a cyclo driver in Banaam?”
“No, sir. My mother took her entire savings to buy me this so that I could have some means to support myself in the city. Once I’ve saved enough, then I can bring her.” His voice grows soft, resigned. “But everything here costs money, even chilies and lemongrass. In the countryside, we simply trade herbs and vegetables and fruits with our neighbors. Here I live on rice and salt. On a good day I allow myself a bit of prahoc.”
At the corner on Sisowath Quay, just before the bridge, Tun gets out, empties his pockets of the few bills he’s brought with him, having left his savings behind with Om Paan. He offers the bills to the cyclo driver, who hesitates, seeming nonplussed by the generosity, this gesture of extravagance at a time of extreme scarcity. Tun thrusts the money into the boy’s hands. “Thank you, sir,” the youth mutters. “Thank you.”
Tun takes in the scene. There are even more people here, even at this late hour of the night, and the din resonates more thickly, one sound hardly distinguishable from another. A few paces away to the right, the Tonle Sap laps languidly against the shore, lulling those who are still awake into a kind of lassitude, inattentiveness. High above him the massive concrete remains of Chruay Chongvar Bridge extend out into the night. The previous year, insurgents succeeded in planting bombs that destroyed three spans of the bridge, which jut from the water still in jagged disarray. The ferry has become, once again, the only means across.
Tun and his comrades couldn’t ask for a more ideal place to slip out unnoticed. Straight ahead across the road, a pair of headlights from a station wagon parked in the shadow of a cassia tree flashes three times in rapid succession. He recognizes the signal and the vehicle—a rented dark green Peugeot 404, a popular and reliable family car, ubiquitous and therefore unlikely to draw attention. Inside await his comrades, two men and a woman. They will cross the river in the station wagon by ferry, and if stopped by a guard patrolling the dock area, they are to let their female comrade speak, use her charm. Some things never change, Comrade Nuon had grumbled at their exit plan when it was discussed at the meeting earlier that night. I suppose equality for women will have to come later. This comment drew a severe critique from a high-ranking cadre in attendance. It showed a lack of faith not only in the revolutionary movement but in the party. The Organization, he told her, never errs.
Looking around, Tun is not overly worried about the crossing. The government is much more vigilant of movements into the city, so it’s easier to leave than to enter. Besides, the men relegated to these nonfighting roles are often young, barely out of their teens, undisciplined and minimally trained. They are easily bribed, and nothing charms a young boy with a gun more than another treasure of shiny steel. The watch on Tun’s wrist should come in handy in such a situation. It’s a good thing he didn’t give the watch away to the cyclo driver, he thinks. Had he remembered it in that moment, Tun might’ve felt compelled to relinquish this last sompirak sivilai, this frivolous “object of civilization,” which will have no value in the jungle, as time there will cease to exist. In some way, it already has for him.
But he must hurry. His comrades are signaling him again. This is it, he thinks. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Lokta, Lokta! a child calls from somewhere behind him as he’s about to cross the road.
His eyes flutter open.