In The Shadow Of The Banyan by Vaddey Ratner

7/31/2019 In The Shadow Of The Banyan by Vaddey Ratner

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For seven-year-old Raami, the shattering end of childhood begins with the footsteps of her father returning home inthe early dawn hours bringing details of the civil war that has overwhelmed the streets of Phnom Penh, Cambodias

capital. Soon the familys world of carefully guarded royal privilege is swept up in the chaos of revolution and forced

exodus.

Over the next four years, as she endures the deaths of family members, starvation, and brutal forced labor, Raami

clings to the only remaining vestige of childhoodthe mythical legends and poems told to her by her father. In aclimate of systematic violence where memory is sickness and justification for execution, Raami fights for her

improbable survival. Displaying the authors extraordinary gift for language, In the Shadow of the Banyanis

testament to the transcendent power of narrative and a brilliantly wrought tale of human resilience.

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In the

Shadowof the

Banyan

SIMON & SCHUSER

NEW YORK LONDON ORONO SYDNEY NEW DELHI


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one

War entered my childhood world not with the blasts o rockets andbombs but with my athers ootsteps as he walked through thehallway, passing my bedroom toward his. I heard the door open and shut

with a sot click. I slid o my bed, careul not to wake Radana in her crib,

and snuck out o my room. I pressed my ear to the door and listened.Are you all right? Mama sounded concerned.

Each day beore dawn, Papa would go out or a solitary stroll, and

returning an hour or so later, he would bring back with him the sights

and sounds o the city, rom which would emerge the poems he read

aloud to me. Tis morning, though, it seemed he came back as soon as

hed stepped out, or dawn had just arrived and the eel o night had yet

to dissipate. Silence trailed his every step like the remnant o a dreamlong ater waking. I imagined him lying next to Mama now, his eyes

closed as he listened to her voice, the comort it gave him amidst the

clamor o his own thoughts.

What happened?

Nothing, darling, Papa said.

What is it? she persisted.

A deep, long sigh, then nally he said, Te streets are lled with

people, Aana. Homeless, hungry, desperate . . . He paused, the bed

creaked, and I imagined him turning to ace her, their cheeks on the

same long pillow, as Id oten seen. Te miseries


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2 Vaddey Ratner

No matter what awulness is out there, Mama cut in gently, I

know you will take care o us.

A breathless silence. I imagined her lips pressed against his. I blushed.Tere! she exclaimed, the insouciant ring and chime o her voice

returning. Ten came the sound o slatted shutters being opened, like

wooden birds released, suddenly taking ight. Te sun is brilliant! she

enthused, and with these easy words chased away the mornings gravity,

threw Nothing back out the gates like a stray cat that had clawed its

way onto Papas shoulder.

A shat o light ell on the ront o the house and spilled into theopen hallway rom the balcony. I imagined it a celestial carpet thrown

rom the heavens by a careless tevodaan angel. I ran toward it, my steps

unencumbered by the metal brace and shoes I normally wore to correct

the limp in my right leg.

Outside, the sun rose through the luxuriant green oliage o the

courtyard. It yawned and stretched, like an inant deity poking its long

multiple arms through the leaves and branches. It was April, the tail endo the dry season, and it was only a matter o time beore the monsoon

arrived, bringing with it rains and relie rom the heat and humidity.

Meanwhile the whole house was hot and stuy, like the inside o a bal-

loon. I was slick with sweat. Still, New Year was coming, and ater all the

waiting and wondering, wed nally have a celebration!

Up, up, up! came a cry rom the cooking pavilion. It was Om Bao,

her voice as voluminous as her ample gure, which resembled an over-

stued burlap rice sack.

Pick up your lazy heads! she clucked urgently. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

I ran around the balcony to the side o the house and saw her roll

back and orth between the womens lower house and the cooking pa-

vilion, her sandals smacking the dirt with impatience. Wash your aces,

brush your teeth! she ordered, clapping as she chased a row o sleepy

servant girls to the clay vats lining the wall outside the cooking pavil-

ion. Oey, oey, oey, the sun has risen and so should your behinds! She

whacked one o the girls on the bottom. Youll miss the igers last roar

and the Rabbits rst hop!


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In the Shadow o the Banyan 3

Te iger and the Rabbit were lunar years, one ending and the

other beginning. Khmer New Year is always celebrated in April, and this

year1975it was to all on the seventeenth, just a ew days away. Inour house, preparations would customarily begin long in advance or all

the Buddhist ceremonies and garden parties thrown during the celebra-

tion. Tis year, because o the ghting, Papa didnt want us to celebrate.

New Year was a time o cleansing, he reminded us, a time o renewal.

And as long as there was ghting in the countryside, driving reugees

into our city streets, it would be wrong or us to be celebrating anything.

Fortunately, Mama disagreed. I there was a time to celebrate, she ar-gued, it was now. A New Years party would chase away all that was bad

and usher in all that was good.

I turned and caught a glimpse o Mama standing in the corner o the

balcony just outside her bedroom, liting her hair to cool the nape o her

neck. Slowly she let the strands all in gossamer layers down the length

o her back.A buttery preening hersel.A line rom one o Papas poems.

I blinked. She vanished.I rushed to the broom closet at the back o the house, where Id hid-

den my brace and shoes the day beore, pretending Id lost track o them

so I wouldnt have to suer them in this heat. Mama mustve suspected,

or she said, Tomorrow then. First thing in the morning you must put them

on. Im sure youll fnd them by then. I pulled them out o the closet, strapped

on the brace as quickly as possible, and slipped on the shoes, the right

one slightly higher than the let to make my legs equal in length.

Raami, you crazy child! a voice called out to me as I clomped past

the hal-open balcony door o my bedroom. It was Milk Mother, my

nanny. Come back inside this minute!

I roze, expecting her to come out and yank me back into the room,

but she didnt. I resumed my journey, circling the balcony that wrapped

itsel around the house. Where is she? Wheres Mama?I ran past my par-

ents room. Te slatted balcony doors were wide open, and I saw Papa

now sitting in his rattan chair by one o the windows, notebook and pen

in hand, eyes lowered in concentration, impervious to his surroundings.

A god waxing lyrical out o the silence . . .Another line rom another o


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4 Vaddey Ratner

his poems, which I always thought described him perectly. When Papa

wrote, not even an earthquake could disturb him. At present, he certainly

took no notice o me.Tere was no sign o Mama. I looked up and down the stairway, over

the balcony railings, through the open doorway o the citrus garden. She

was nowhere to be seen. It was as Id suspected all alongMama was a

ghost! A spirit that oated in and out o the house. A rey that glowed

and glimmered, here one second, gone the next. And now shed vanished

into thin air! Zrup!Just like that.

Do you hear me, Raami?Sometimes I wished Milk Mother would just disappear. But, unlike

Mama, she was always around, constantly watching over me, like one o

those geckos that scaled the walls, chiming, Tikkaer, tikkaer! I elt her,

heard her rom every corner o the house. I said come back! she bel-

lowed, rattling the morning peace.

I made a sharp right, ran down the long hallway through the middle

o the house, and nally ended up back at the spot on the balcony in theront where I had started. Still no Mama. Hide-and-seek, I thought, hu-

ing and pung in the heat. Hide-and-seek with a spirit was no easy game.

Pchkhooo!An explosion sounded in the distance. My heart thumped

a bit aster.

Where are you, you crazy child? again came Milk Mothers voice.

I pretended not to hear her, resting my chin on the carved railing o

the balcony. A tiny pale pink buttery, with wings as delicate as bougain-

villea petals, ew up rom the gardens below and landed on the railing,

near my ace. I stilled mysel. It heaved as i exhausted rom its long

ight, its wings opening and closing, like a pair o ans waving away the

morning heat.Mama?In one o her guises? No, it was what it appeared

to bea baby buttery. So delicate it seemed to have just emerged rom

a chrysalis. Maybe it was looking or its mother, I thought, just as I was

or mine. Dont worry, I whispered. Shes here somewhere. I moved

my hand to pet it, to reassure it, but it ew away at my touch.

In the courtyard something stirred. I peered down and saw Old Boy


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come out to water the gardens. He walked like a shadow; his steps made

no sound. He picked up the hose and lled the lotus pond until the

water owed over the rim. He sprayed the gardenias and orchids. Hesprinkled the jasmines. He trimmed the torch gingers and gathered their

red ame-like blossoms into a bouquet, which he tied with a piece o

vine and then set aside, as he continued working. Butteries o all colors

hovered around him, as i he were a tree stalk and his straw hat a giant

yellow blossom. Om Bao suddenly appeared among them, coquettish

and coy, acting not at all like our middle-aged cook but a young girl in

the ull bloom o youth. Old Boy broke a stem o red rangipani blos-soms, brushed it against her cheek, and handed it to her.

Answer me! Milk Mother thundered.

Om Bao scurried away. Old Boy looked up, saw me, and blushed.

But nding his bearings right away, he took o his hat and, bowing at

the waist, oered me a sampeah, palms together like a lotus in ront o

his ace, a traditional Cambodian greeting. He bowed because he was the

servant and I his master, even though he was ancient and I was, as MilkMother put it, just a spit past seven. I returned Old Boys sampeah, and,

unable to help mysel, bowed also. He ashed me his gappy grin, perhaps

sensing his secret would be sae.

Someone was coming. Old Boy turned in the direction o the ootsteps.

Mama!

She made her way toward him, her steps serene, unhurried.A rain-

bow gliding through a feld o owers. . . Again a line uttered through my

mind. Tough I was no poet, I was the daughter o one and oten saw the

world through my athers words.

Good morning, my lady, Old Boy said, gaze lowered, hat held

against his chest.

She returned his greeting and, looking at the lotuses, said, It is so

hot and now theyve closed again. She sighed. Lotuses were her avorite

blossoms, and even though they were owers or the gods, Mama always

asked or an oering to hersel every morning. I was hoping to have at

least one open bloom.


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6 Vaddey Ratner

And you shall, my lady, Old Boy reassured. I cut some beore

dawn and placed them in iced water so that the petals stay open. I shall

bring up the vase to your room when His Highness nishes composing.I can always count on you. She beamed at him. Also, would you

make a bouquet o the closed buds or me to take to the temple?

As you wish, my lady.

Tank you.

Again, Old Boy bowed, keeping his gaze lowered until shed oated

past him. She ascended the stairs, her right hand pressed on the ap

o her silk sampot to keep her steps small and modest. At the top, shestopped and smiled at me. Oh good, you ound your brace and shoes!

Ive practiced walking slowly in them!

She laughed. Have you?

One day I want to walk like you!

Mamas ace went still. She glided over to me and, bending down to

my level, said, I dont care how you walk, darling.

You dont?It wasnt the pinch o the brace or the squeeze o the shoes, or even

what I saw when I looked in the mirror that pained me the most. It was

the sadness in Mamas eyes when I mentioned my leg. For this reason, I

rarely brought it up.

No, I dont . . . Im grateul you can walk at all.

She smiled, her radiance returning.

I stood still and held my breath, thinking i I so much as breathed,

shed disappear. She bent down again and kissed the top o my head,

her hair spilling over me like monsoon rain. I took my chance and

breathed in her ragrancethis mystery she wore like perume. Its

good to see that someone is enjoying this stiing air, she said, laugh-

ing, as i my oddness was as much an enigma to her as her loveliness

was to me. I blinked. She glided away, her entire being porous as sun-

light.

Poetry is like that, Papa said. It can come to you in an intake o

breath, vanish again in the blink o an eye, and rst all youll have is


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A line weaving through your mind

Like the tail o a child s kite

Unettered by reason or rhyme.

Ten, he said, comes the restthe kite, the story itsel. A complete

entity.

Oey, oey, oey, theres not a minute to waste! Om Bao rattled on rom

below. Te oor must be mopped and waxed, the carpets dusted and

sunned, the china arranged, the silver polished, the silk smoothed and

perumed. Oey, oey, oey, so much to do, so much to do!Te branches o the banyan tree in the middle o the courtyard stirred

and the leaves danced. Some o the branches were so long they reached

all the way to the balcony, the shadows o their leaves covering my body

like patches o silk. I twirled, arms stretched out, mumbling an incanta-

tion to mysel, calling orth the tevodas, Skinny One, Plump One . . .

And just what are you doing?

I swung around. Tere was Milk Mother in the doorway withRadana on her hip. Radana squirmed down to the oor and immedi-

ately started stomping on the shadows with her chubby eet, the tiny,

diamond-studded bells on her anklets jingling chaotically. It was normal

or Cambodian children to be covered with expensive jewelry, and my

much-adored toddling sister was bedecked in the most extravagant way,

with a platinum necklace and a tiny pair o hoop earrings to match her

anklets.Tis was not a child, I thought. She was a night bazaar!

As she toddled around, I pretended she had polio and a limp like me.

I knew I shouldnt wish it on her, but sometimes I couldnt help it. De-

spite her bumbling and babyness, you could already tell Radana would

grow up to look just like Mama.

Eeei! she squealed, catching a glimpse o Mama oating through

one o the doorways and, beore Milk Mother could stop her, she ran

jingling through the hallway, calling out, Mhum mhum mhum . . .

Milk Mother turned back to me and asked again, with obvious an-

noyance, Just whatare you doing?


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8 Vaddey Ratner

Summoning the tevodas, I told her, grinning rom ear to ear.

Summoningthem?

Yes, Id like to meet them this year.No one ever met the tevodas, o course. Tey were spirits and, as

with all things spectral, they lived in our imaginations. Milk Mothers

tevodasat least as shed described them to mesounded suspiciously

amiliar. With names like Skinny One, Plump One, and Dark One, Id

say she was describing hersel, Om Bao, and Old Boy. By contrast, my

tevodas looked nothing like me, but were as lovely as court dancers,

wearing their nest silk and diadems with spires reaching all the wayto the sky.

Milk Mother wasnt listening to me, her ear tuned to a dierent kind

o noise. Pchkooo!Again, the tremor o an explosion. She strained to hear,

her head tilted in the direction o the din.

Te explosions worsened. Pchkooo pchkooo pchkooo!A series o them

now, just as Id heard in the night.

urning to me, Milk Mother said, Darling, I dont think you shouldput too much hope on the tevodascoming this year.

Why not?

She took a deep breath, seemed about to explain, but then said, Did

you wash yet?

Nobut I was about to!

She shot me a disapproving look and, nodding in the direction o the

bath pavilion, said impatiently, Go on then.

But

No arguing. Grandmother Queen will join the amily or breakast,

and you, my bug, cannot be late.

Oh no, Grandmother Queen! Why didnt you tell me sooner?

I was trying to, but you kept running away.

But I didnt know! You shouldve told me!

Well, thats why I called and calledto tellyou. She heaved, exas-

perated. Enough lingering. Go. Get ready. ry to look and behave like

the princess that you are.


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I took a step, then turned back. Milk Mother?

What?

Doyou believe in tevodas?She didnt answer right away, just stood there and looked at me. Ten

nally she said, What can you believe in i not the tevodas?

I went down the ront steps. Tat was all I needed to hear. Te rest

was easy to gure out. Tey were things I could see and touchlotuses

opening their petals, spiders weaving tiny silvery hammocks on wispy

branches, slugs slipping through watered green grass . . .

Raami. Looking up, I saw Milk Mother leaning over the balconyrailing. Why are you still dawdling?

I placed one oot in ront o the other, swaying my hips slightly. Im

practicingmy walk.

For whatan earthworm contest?

o be a ladylike Mama!

I broke a sprig o jasmine blossoms rom a nearby bush and tucked

it behind my ear, imagining mysel as pretty as Mama. Radana appearedout o nowhere and stood in ront o me. She cooed, transxed or a

second or two, and then, as i deciding I didnt look anything like Mama,

bounced o. Where are you?I heard Mama sing.Im going to get you . . .

Radana shrieked. Tey were playing hide-and-seek. I had polio when I

was one and couldnt walk until I was three. I was certain Mama and I

didnt play hide-and-seek when I was a baby.

From above, Milk Mother let out an exasperated sigh: For heavens

sake, enough lingering!

Later that morning, in an array o brightly colored silks that almost out-

shone the surrounding birds and butteries, we gathered in the dining

pavilion, an open teak house with a hardwood oor and pagoda-like

roo, which stood in the middle o the courtyard among the ruit and

ower trees. Again, Mama had transormed hersel, this time rom a

buttery to a garden. Her entire being budded with blossoms. She had

changed into a white lace blouse and a sapphire phamuongskirt, dotted


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10 Vaddey Ratner

with tiny white owers. Her tresses, no longer loose, were now pulled

back in a chignon tied with a ring o jasmine. A champak blossom, slen-

der as a childs pinkie, dangled on a single silk thread down the nape oher neck; when she moved to adjust hersel or to reach or this or that,

the blossom slid and rolled, smooth as ivory on her skin.

Beside her, in my metal brace and clunky shoes and a rufed blue

dress, I elt ungainly and stilted, like a sewing dummy on a steel post,

hastily swathed in abric. As i this wasnt humiliating enough already,

my stomach wouldnt stop rumbling. How much longer would we have

to wait?At last, Grandmother QueenSdechya, as we called her in

Khmerappeared on the balcony, leaning heavily on Papas arm. She

slowly descended the stairs, and we all rushed to greet her, queuing on

bended knees in order o importance, heads bowed, palms joined in

ront o our chests, ngertips grazing our chins. She paused near the

bottom and, one by one, we each scooted orward and touched our ore-

head to her eet. Ten we trailed her to the dining pavilion and claimedour appropriate seats.

Beore us was an array o oodlotus seed porridge sweetened with

palm sugar, sticky rice with roasted sesame and shredded coconut, bee

noodle soup topped with coriander leaves and anise stars, mushroom

omelets, and slices o baguettea dish to suit everyones morning taste.

At the center o the table sat a silver platter o mangoes and papayas,

which Old Boy had picked rom the trees behind our house, and ram-

butans and mangosteens, which Om Bao had brought rom her early

morning trip to the market. Breakast was always an extravagant aair

when Grandmother Queen decided to join us. She was a high princess,

as everyone constantly reminded me so that I would remember how to

behave around my own grandmother.

I waited or Grandmother Queen to take her rst bite beore I lited

the cover o my soup bowl; when I did, steam rose like a hundred ngers

tickling my nose. entatively, I brought a spoonul o hot broth to my

lips.

Be careul, Mama said rom across the table as she unolded her


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napkin and laid it across her lap. You dont want to burn your tongue.

She smiled.

I stared at her, mesmerized. Maybe I had seen a New Years tevodaater all.

I thought Id visit the temple in oul umpong ater breakast, she

said. My sister will send her chaueur. Ill go with her, so our car is ree

i youd like to venture out. She was speaking to Papa.

But he was reading the newspaper, his head slightly cocked to one

side. In his usual muted attire o brown wraparound pants and beige

acharshirt, Papa was as solemn as Mama was radiant. He reached orthe cup in ront o him and began to sip the hot coee mixed with

condensed milk. Already hed orgotten the rest o his breakast as he

immersed himsel in the news. He hadnt heard Mama at all.

She sighed, letting it go, determined to be in a good mood.

At one end o the table, ata oered, Itll be nice or you to get out a

bit. ata was Papas elder sisterhal sister actually, rom Grandmother

Queens rst marriage to a Norodom prince. ata was not her real name,but apparently when I was a baby, I came to identiy her as my tata.

Te name stuck and now everyone called her this, even Grandmother

Queen, who, at the moment, reigned at the other end o the table, bliss-

ully ensconced in old age and dementia. Id come to believe that because

she was a high princessPreah Ang Mechas KsatreyGrandmother

Queen was more dicult to grasp than the tevodas.As a queen who

ruled this amily, she was certainly unreachable most o the time.

I shouldnt be long, Mama said. Just a prayer and Ill be back. It

doesnt seem right to start the New Year without oering a prayer rst.

ata nodded. Te party is a very good idea, Aana. She looked

around, seeming pleased with the start o the day, noting the prepara-

tions being made or the celebration to take place on New Years Day.

In the cooking pavilion, Om Bao had started steaming the rst

batch o the traditional New Years num ansom, sticky rice cakes wrapped

in banana leaves. Tese we would give out to riends and neighbors dur-

ing the coming days as each batch was made. On the balcony o the

master house, the servant girls worked on their hands and knees waxing


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12 Vaddey Ratner

the oor and railings. Tey dripped beeswax rom burning candles and

rubbed it into the teakwood. Below them Old Boy was sweeping the

ground. He had dusted and wiped the spirit house so that now it stoodsparkling on its golden pedestal under the banyan tree like a miniature

Buddhist temple. Several long strands o jasmine adorned its tiny pillars

and the spire on its roo, and in ront o its entrance, a clay pot lled with

raw rice grains held three sticks o incense, an oering to the three pillars

o protectionthe ancestors, the tevodas, and the guardian spirits. Tey

were all there, watching over us, keeping us out o harms way. We had

nothing to ear, Milk Mother always said. As long as we remained withinthese walls, the war could not touch us.

I couldnt sleep a wink. Again ata spoke, spooning brown sugar

rom a small bowl and sprinkling it on her sticky rice. Te heat was

awul last night and the shelling was the worst its ever been.

Mama put down her ork gently, trying not to show her exasperation. I

knew, though, what she was thinkingCouldnt we talk about something else?

But being the sister-in-law, and a commoner among royals, she couldntspeak out o turn, tell ata what to say or not to say, choose the topic o a

conversation. No, that would be graceless. Our amily, Raami, is like a bou-

quet, each stem and blossom perectly arranged, shed tell me, as i to convey that

how we carried ourselves was not simply a game or ritual but a orm o art.

ata turned to Grandmother Queen sitting at the other end o the

table. Dont you think so, Mechas Mae? she asked, speaking the royal

language.

Grandmother Queen, hal dea and hal daydreaming, said, Eh?

Te shelling! ata repeated, almost shouting. Didnt you think it

was awul?

What shelling?

I suppressed a giggle. alking with Grandmother Queen was like

talking through a tunnel. No matter what you said, all you could hear

were your own words echoing back.

Papa looked up rom his newspaper and was about to say some-

thing when Om Bao stepped into the dining pavilion, bearing a silver

tray with glasses o the chilled basil-seed drink she made or us every


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morning. She placed a glass beore each o us. Resting the tip o my

nose on the glass, I inhaled the sweet ambrosia. Om Bao called her

drinka mixture o soaked basil seeds and cane sugar in ice-cold water,scented with jasmine owerslittle girls hunting or eggs.When

Old Boy picked the blossoms earlier they had been tightly closed, but

now they opened up like the skirts o little girls with their heads dipped

in waterhunting or eggs! It hadnt occurred to me beore, but the

basil seeds did look like transparent sh eggs. I beamed into the glass,

delighted by my discovery.

Sit up straight, Mama ordered, no longer oering me a smile.I sat up straight, pulling my nose back. Papa glanced at me, mouth-

ing his sympathy. He took a small sip rom his glass and, looking up in

surprise, exclaimed, Om Bao! Have you lost your sweet touch?

Im terribly sorry, Your Highness . . . She looked nervously rom

Papa to Mama. Ive been trying to cut down on the cane sugar. We dont

have much let, and it is so hard to nd at the market these days. She

shook her head in distress. Your servant humbly regrets it s not so sweet,Your Highness. When nervous, Om Bao tended to be overly ormal and

loquacious. Your servant humbly regrets sounded even more stilted,

when across the table rom His Highness, I was lapping up my soup like

a puppy. Would Your Highness

No, this is just right. Papa drank it up. Delicious!

Om Bao smiled, her cheeks expanding like the rice cakes steaming

away in the kitchen. She bowed, and bowed again, her bulbous behind

bobbing, as she walked backward until she reached a respectul distance

beore turning around. At the steps o the cooking pavilion, Old Boy re-

lieved her o the emptied tray, quick as always to help her with any task.

At the moment he seemed unusually agitated. Perhaps he was worried

that Id revealed his and Om Baos morning canoodling to Grandmother

Queen, who orbade such displays o aection. Om Bao patted his arm

reassuringly.No, no, dont worry, she seemed to say. He turned toward me,

obviously relieved. I winked. And or the second time this morning, he

oered me his gappy grin.

Papa had resumed reading. He ipped the newspaper back and orth,


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14 Vaddey Ratner

making sot snapping noises with the pages. I tilted my head to read the

headline on the ront page: Khmer Krahom Encircle City.

Khmer Krahom?Red Khmers? Who had ever heard o that? Wewere allCambodiansor Khmers, as we called ourselves. I imagined

people, with their bodies painted bright red, invading the city, scurrying

about the streets like throngs o stinging red ants. I laughed out loud,

almost choking on my basil-seed drink.

Mama gave me another warning look, her annoyance now easily

piqued. It seemed the morning hadnt gone in the direction she wanted.

All anyone wanted to talk about was the war. Even Om Bao had alludedto it when she mentioned how hard it was to nd cane sugar at the

market.

I hid my ace behind the glass, hiding my thoughts behind the little

oating jasmine skirts. Red Khmers, Red Khmers, the words sang in my

head. I wondered what color Khmer I was. I glanced at Papa and decided

whatever he was, I was too.

Papa, are you a Red Khmer? It came out o me like an unexpectedburp.

ata set her glass down with a bang. Te whole courtyard ell silent.

Even the air seemed to have stopped moving. Mama glared at me, and

when a tevodaglared at you like that, youd better hide or risk burning.

I wished I could dip my head in the basil-seed drink and look or

sh eggs.

Te aternoon arrived, and it was too hot to do anything. All prepara-

tions or New Year came to a halt. Te servant girls had stopped cleaning

and were now combing and braiding one anothers hair on the steps o

the cooking pavilion. Seated on the long, expansive teak settee under the

banyan tree, Grandmother Queen leaned against the giant trunk, her

eyes partly closed as she waved a round palm an in ront o her ace. At

her eet, Milk Mother sat swinging Radana in a hammock lowered rom

the branches o the tree. She pushed the hammock with one hand and

scratched my back with the other as I rested my head on her lap. Alone

in the dining pavilion, Papa sat on the oor writing in the leather pocket


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notebook he always carried with him, his back against one o the carved

pillars. Beside him the radio was playing the classicalpinpeatmusic. Milk

Mother began to doze o as she listened to the chiming melodies. But Iwasnt sleepy, and neither was Radana. She kept sticking her ace out o

the hammock, wanting me to play with her. Fly! she squealed, reach-

ing out or my hand. I y! When I tried to grab her wrist, she pulled

it back, giggling and clapping. Milk Mother opened her eyes, slapped

my hand away, and gave Radana her pacier. Radana lay back down in

the hammock, sucking the pacier like a piece o candy. Grandmother

Queen clucked her tongue in encouragement, perhaps wishing she toohad something to suck on.

Soon all three were asleep. Grandmother Queens an stopped wav-

ing, Milk Mothers hand rested on my back, and Radanas right leg hung

out o the hammock, at and still, like a bamboo shoot, the bells on her

anklet soundless.

Mama appeared in the courtyard, having returned rom her trip to

the temple, which took longer than shed planned. Quietly, so as not towake us, she climbed the ew short steps to the dining pavilion and sat

down next to Papa, resting her arm on his thigh. Papa put down his

notebook and turned to her. She didnt mean it, you know. It was an

innocent question.

He was talking about me. I lowered my eyelids, just enough to make

them believe I was asleep.

Papa continued, Les Khmers Rouges,

Communists, Marxists. . .Whatever we adults call them, theyre just words, unny sounds to a child,

thats all. She doesnt know who they are or what these words mean.

I tried repeating the names in my headLes Khmers Rouges . . .

Communists . . .Tey sounded so ancy and elliptical, like the names o

mythical characters in the tales o the ReamkerI never tired o reading,

the devarajas, who were descendants o the gods, or the demon raksha-

sas, who ought them and ed on at children.

Once you shared their aspirations, Mama said, head resting on

Papas shoulder. Once you believed in them.

I wondered what kind o race they were.


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16 Vaddey Ratner

No, not them. Not the men, but the ideals. Decency, justice, integ-

rity . . . I believed in these and always will. Not only or mysel but or

our children. All thishe looked around the courtyardwill comeand go, Aana. Privileges, wealth, our titles and names are transient. But

these ideals are timeless, the core o our humanity. I want our girls to

grow up in a world that allows them, i nothing else, these. A world with-

out such ideals is madness.

What about thismadness?

I hoped so much it wouldnt come to this. He sighed and went on.

Others abandoned us long ago at the rst sign o trouble. And now sohave the Americans. Alas, democracy is deeated. And our riends will

not stay or its execution. Tey let while it was still possible, and who

could blame them?

What about us? Mama asked. What will happen to our amily?

Papa was silent. Ten, ater what seemed like a long time, he said,

Its extremely dicult at this juncture, but I can still arrange to send you

and the amily to France.Me and the amily?What aboutyou?

I will stay. As bad as it looks, theres still hope.

I will not leave without you.

He looked at her, then, leaning over, kissed the nape o her neck, his

lips lingering or a moment, drinking her skin. One by one he began to

remove the owers rom her hair, loosening it and letting it spread across

her shoulders. I held my breath, trying to make mysel invisible. Without

saying more, they stood up, walked toward the ront stairway, climbed

the newly polished steps, and disappeared into the house.

I looked around the teak settee. Everyone was still asleep. I heard

droning in the distance. Te drone grew louder, until it became deaen-

ing. My heart pounded, and my ears throbbed. I looked up, squinting

past the red tile roo o the master house, past the top o the banyan

tree, past a row o tall skinny palms lining the ront gate. Ten I saw it!

Way up in the sky, like a large black dragony, its blade slicing the air,

tuktuktuktuktuk . . .

Te helicopter started to descend, drowningout all other sounds. I


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stood up on the teak settee to better see it. All o a sudden it swooped

back up and went the other way. I stretched my neck, trying to see past

the gate. But it was gone. Zrup!Vanished completely, as i it had onlybeen a thought, an imagined dot in the sky.

Ten

PCHKOOO!!!PCHKOOO!!!PCHKOOO!!!

Te ground shook under me.

Documents

In The Shadow Of The Banyan by Vaddey Ratner