From a distance she recognizes the young man in the wooden wheelchair, now in animated dialogue with the architect. Narunn asked the architect to bring Vichet here in his car, explaining the former runner’s disability, and also his talent with woodwork. Perhaps, Narunn hoped, the architect could make use of such talent. The two men appear to be hitting it off, Vichet gesturing passionately as he speaks and the architect listening intently, every so often responding with equal enthusiasm. It’s easy to imagine them discussing things like the pliability of bamboo and rattan, which Vichet is especially skilled at weaving, and their potential applications in home design. Mr. Chum arrives through the gate by the main road. He’d brought the monks and the Old Musician earlier in a borrowed van, and returns now accompanied by his wife, his young married daughter, and her husband and their little children. His second family, he’s always referred to them, as if the first might still be alive somewhere. He and Teera exchange a nod, and after a quick word to his family and a moment of collective recognition, they all nod. Teera wonders what he’s explained to them, what kind of family she might be in his eyes.
Teera lets her gaze roam over to the pond where some of Yaya’s teenage great-grandchildren teeter on the edge, angling long sticks to pluck off the dry lotus pods bearing the hard, nutty seeds ideal for roasting over an open fire. She recalls Ravi explaining the purpose of the pond—to give the land “a breath of water.” Now, in the dry season, it appears to do just that, infusing every gust of wind with the smell of mud and rain. She hopes the Old Musician doesn’t find it too chilly in the shade under the house. This cool spell at the end of January has arrived auspiciously, according to Yaya, who believes it encourages all to seek the warmth of home and family. A perfect day for the ceremony.
There’s a brief interlude between one chanted incantation and the next, as the monks pause to drink water from the glasses set for them. Narunn leans over Lah’s head and whispers to Teera, sensing her need to see the Old Musician: “Now is probably the best time to slip away.” Teera nods, telling Lah, “You stay here with Pa-Om,” as she gets up and discreetly makes her way toward Yaya’s house.
*
The Old Musician sees her approaching and, as on every prior meeting, her likeness to Channara sears him. He remembers Sokhon’s sudden revelation one afternoon during those weeks before his death. You ought to know she loved you as well. His friend had said this of Channara, as if to prepare him for what might come. Perhaps, the Old Musician thinks now, this was part of the reason it had taken him so long to return to the city. He feared he might indeed find Channara, and, after what he and Sokhon had endured, he had no wish to betray one love for another.
Teera lowers herself onto the teak platform in front of him, arms outstretched, and the Old Musician expects her to gather the instruments he’s brought along. Instead, she embraces him. “Pa-Om,” she says, holding him a moment longer, as if to still his surprise as much as her own. Pa-Om, he repeats the word to himself, to be sure he has not mistaken it, to hold on to the sound.
“I’m sorry,” she says, letting him go, “I know that you are preparing . . .”
“No, I’m glad you came,” he says, his heart steadying with hers, encouraged by her calm, the kindness she continues to show him. “There is something I want to tell you. I’ve brought the instruments for your safekeeping. They are yours. I hope you will accept them now, as I will be traveling soon.”
“Traveling?” She seems both delighted and worried. “But where, and with whom?”
He tells her of his planned journey upriver to Kratie. A Cham couple has offered to take him on their sampan, as they will be heading to fish the valuable striped catfish in the deep pools along the northern stretches of the Mekong. “I will be safe,” he assures her, “well looked after by the husband and wife. They are kind people.” Abdul Razak is a skilled navigator, a seasoned voyager on the river, he explains, and the couple’s grandchildren are now with their parents, so there will be room for him on the small vessel.
“Is it Chhlong? Are you going back to your mother’s home village?”
“Yes.”
They are silent, each afraid to say what they know in their hearts, to speak again of the suffering, the terrible loss he endured there. Teera feels that perhaps she understands his need to face that loss again.
“When will you return to Phnom Penh?” she asks.
He remains silent, holding her gaze with his one good eye.
“I’ll visit you then,” she declares. “There’s so much of the country I’ve yet to see. I’d like to learn more, remember more . . . write it down.”
“Write?” he asks, curious, taking the opportunity to change the subject.
“Yes, I’ve always written things down . . .”
He watches her blush at this admission, embarrassed somehow, as if the desire were a shameful illness, a transgression. Yet, it’s obvious to him that she’s inherited some part of Channara’s passion. He considers telling her that her mother was a brilliant writer, though she’d had to hide her fierce intelligence under a nom de plume. Tun Chan, he remembers. That pseudonym, the combination of their two names, was like a love letter to him in those years after she was married, and he would read everything she’d ever written under that name. He decides to keep this memory to himself, to let her continue instead—
“Yes, you were saying, but now . . . ?”
“Well, now there’s this.” She looks at her surroundings. “I need to capture it all somehow.” She turns from his gaze, mortified by the extravagance of her emotion, her unpolished words. Then more humbly, she adds, “Even if only in small glimpses, just for my own recollection, my own safekeeping.”
Again, he watches her flush.
Then, as if prompted by the last word, she’s reminded of the instruments before them. “These are as much yours as mine,” she says after a moment. “Which is why I want to ask your permission to pass them along.” She tells him about the ensemble she encountered in Siem Reap, describing each musician and each tattered instrument. “I’ll visit them again and see what else they might need for their music, but I thought I’d start with these—a gift from you and my father, from one ensemble to another.”
Something floods his heart, rising to his throat, blocking it. Sorrow, happiness. At times he cannot tell them apart. He grieves now, more than ever, that Sokhon is not here to see for himself the woman his daughter has grown into, and at the same time, he is profoundly grateful to witness her in his friend’s place. Finally, he manages to say, “Yes, of course, these instruments deserve to be played. Your father would have wanted this.”
“Thank you.”
Just then Lah comes running. “Ma-Mieng, Ma-Mieng,” the child pants, out of breath, “Pa-Om is asking for you. The chanting is almost over. You must bring Lokta along.”
They become aware again of the movements and sounds around them—the laughter and bantering, the clatters of cooking, the hum of conversations, the chanting, the wind chime. As they rise from the mat, she offers her arm so that he can more easily negotiate the uneven terrain.
Beginning the slow walk together, Teera asks, “What will you offer the spirits of the land?”