Yes, silence, Narunn thought, as he meandered up the concrete staircase. It was best to leave the dead undisturbed, let them rest, wherever they may be.
He wondered how much of Phnom Penh he could see the higher up he went. At the top, looking west into the city, the tiered steeple of the Independence Monument rose above the tree line, the golden roof of Wat Langka flickered as the sun passed behind it, the National Sports Complex appeared like a luminous assemblage of ivory in the evening light. Narunn did not know what he was seeing but would gradually come to learn the names of these edifices and their histories—the monument designed by the renowned modernist architect Vann Molyvann, the temple converted to a storehouse during the Khmer Rouge, the sports stadium where many executions had taken place. On the east side, in the immediate surroundings, a wide tract of unkempt ground, bearing faint traces of landscaped gardens in neat long rows, stretched the full length of the apartment complex. Narunn sensed that in the distance beyond lay the river, but he could not see past the buildings and trees. Leaning over the railing, he let his gaze wander north, where he could make out the edges of the mythical skyline. He remembered from the day’s earlier wandering the shimmering domes and spires of the Royal Palace, the old National Assembly, and the ornate temple, Wat Botum Vaddey. A lovely city, Narunn thought as he stood admiring it now, despite the darkness encroaching.
A wind blew from the direction of the river, carrying the heavy scent of mud and monsoon. If it rained, the concrete overhang above would keep him dry. Maybe he ought to just sleep out here on the landing, in the open fresh air. But, on second thought, he remembered the deranged beggar’s mumbled warning—You’re in the company of the hungry and the starved. You ought to be careful with your sack of rice. Narunn felt fear all around him, in everyone he’d met, in the guarded silence and stillness of the families returning to hide behind the closed doors of these apartments in which they coexisted with ghosts. However charming and peaceful this city might have once been, he sensed the threat of violence beneath the present disquiet. He hadn’t come all this way only to be robbed and killed. He’d better go inside and find a safer place.
At the end of the long hallway stood an empty apartment with the door missing. He walked across the grimy tiles of the living room to a pair of doors on the opposite side, leading out to a small open terrace, with an enclosed kitchen and bathroom adjoining it. Everything had fallen into disrepair. Yet, he felt this was more than adequate. Back inside, he entered the bedroom. Dust danced in the fading evening light cast from a tall window with broken shutters. He opened the window, pushing the shutters all the way out, then, stepping back, he saw on the wall beside the window these words—Darling, if you are alive, come back to me . . . Come back to me. In the same charcoal tone, the careful outline of a slender hand—a woman’s left hand, with long graceful fingers—hovered above the love letter, and next to it, the half silhouette of her right hand, as if left purposely unfinished for him who would respond. The few words that followed brought Narunn to his knees. I wait for you. Always.
Night fell. Having no home to go to, no family to reunite with, he found this missive on the wall inexplicably welcoming. He felt safe and cared for in the presence of the partially rendered embrace. The apartment became his home. Where else could he find a place that echoed with such intimacy? The walls spoke to him of his own longings, his search for a love that would endure and reverberate across worlds.
Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith hover on the grass at the river’s edge, happily splashing each other with water from their cupped hands. Something about them reminds the Old Musician of the freshwater dolphins he once encountered during a boat ride in Kratie. Perhaps it’s the way they communicate with gurgles and codes only they understand. It’s easier to think of the boys as Dara and Sok when they’re not reciting their English lessons. Stripped of the sanctity of the cloth, with only the inner brown wraps for modesty, they have been turned by the water into children again. They have helped him down the naga stairway so that he can wash his clothes in the river. He’s found a comfortable perch a couple of steps up from the bottom where he can easily reach into the river.
The two novices jump naked into the Mekong, their undergarments flung aside, and race toward a submerged water buffalo with only its head sticking out. A young girl with long black hair underneath a conical hat stands straight and tall on its back, so that from a distance it appears she’s floating on water. She turns ever so slightly, her reflection like the shadow cast by the gnomon of a sundial, and remains unperturbed even as the two boys approach her with loud splashes and squeals. “Hey, where’re you going? Are you Vietnamese? Is this your water buffalo? Rt p!” Sok teases in Vietnamese, which he speaks passably, like most from his village near the border. The Old Musician himself knows a few phrases—a remnant of his days spent in forest encampments with Vietnamese comrades—and wonders whether “Very beautiful!” is meant for the girl or her water buffalo.
The two swim to the front and lift clumps of water hyacinth to the animal’s mouth. “How old is he?” The girl does not answer. Her inner stillness seems godlike, immense and impermeable. The Old Musician wishes her to turn around. A familiar ache lances his heart. She’s not much bigger than his daughter was when he left her to fight for a cause he now fails to comprehend.
His gaze follows the little girl as she glides erect downstream and out of view.
A small boat sputters past, loaded with pomelos and sugarcanes, prow pointing toward the city. Waves unfurl and lap toward him, hitting the steps and shore one by one, and he feels himself lulled, pulled into the tides of remembering. Just as, moments before, with the ease of a blink, he had slipped into the night of his disappearance, then, in a single imperceptible shudder, emerged to find himself back on the naga steps, his world divided as before, one half in shadows beneath the eye patch and the other in the brightness of the afternoon sun.