Jesús said, ‘He has killed her, si, just now – the Americano.’ He said this in a way that suggested he was shocked beyond his life and then he added, ‘On my mother’s holy grave, she was alive.’
The man for whom these words were intended was Lorenzo Días, also known as El Oso Negro because he was made like a bear this man, and it was said that handling a blade he had no equal in all of Colombia. He stood silently, his black eyes fixed on the woman on the bed, in this cellar under what had been a hotel before the massacres began in the small town of Trujillo.
After a time Lorenzo said slowly, ‘I think the Americano is hurting,’ but there was something in his voice that caused Jesús to tremble anew and he wanted to condemn the Americano such that Lorenzo could be in no doubt that Jesús had done only what he had been instructed to do, but as he opened his mouth Lorenzo said, ‘Hush,’ so Jesús did not speak and apart from the occasional murmur in the adjoining room, there was no sound.
In the guttering light of a kerosene lantern, Lorenzo regarded the woman’s pale, slender limbs, each secured by a thin rope to a corner of the bed and saw how the skin near her wrists and ankles was raw. For a long time he looked at the bush between her legs and the stain that spread like a flower on the mattress; and he silently counted the cigarette burns on her breasts. His broad brow furrowed. Then he moved a little so he could better see the face in the shadow. Such a pretty face it had been. How bright those eyes and such words had come from those lips – such laughter. She was a wonder. But she was no longer recognisable. He gently brushed his right eye with the back of his hand.
Jesús added urgently, ‘He did it – just now. We should kill ‘im. I can take some of the others.’
Lorenzo appeared not to hear but he said, as though addressing himself, ‘I did not think he had the cojones.’ Suddenly, he threw back his head and roared, so that Jesús quailed and the sound of the others next door stopped dead. His white teeth gleamed in the thick black beard and his eyes clenched closed and he cried out, ‘Did I kill her?’
‘Ninguno – it was the Americano. It was the Americano.’
‘Did I hurt my little pétalo?’
Jesús licked his lips nervously because he did not understand these questions but then he shook his head, ‘He did it. We can catch ‘im easy. Before he leaves the town – before he crosses the border. We can catch ‘im. We shouldn’t have let ‘im go. I can catch ‘im and finish ‘im. I can go now-
Lorenzo turned to stare at Jesús as though he noticed a mangy dog of some kind. He did not like dogs. ‘Usted es tan estúpido,’ he said and gestured toward the woman’s body, ‘this is for him. This is for him, in here…’ and he tapped his temple. ‘This is for the Americano to keep, always. In here,’ and he continued to tap slowly, speaking now to himself, ‘wherever he goes he will not forget. He will not ever forget for he will see the mark of El Oso on his very filthy face, and he will remember.’
For a few moments, he stood looking at the bare wall and Jesús breathed more easily for it appeared that El Oso had not, after all noticed the extent of the woman’s wounds. And it appeared that El Oso was more pleased at the precise incision El Oso had made on the Americano’s face, before he let him go. That was incomprehensible to Jesús – letting the Americano go – but much of what El Oso Negro did was incomprehensible – but the Americano had had the woman. He had the woman who belonged to El Oso Negro and yet he lived. No one else would have lived. The Americano’s name was Smith. Why had he been allowed to live? Why had he escaped with only a beating and a cut upon his face?
‘Si,’ he said eagerly when Lorenzo directed that he pick up her clothing. Consequently, Jesús did not see the blade that came like a flicker of light.
As he pushed the blade deep, Lorenzo said softly, ‘did I ask for her to be burned?’
TWO
Baldy Cooper said she was just a dumb animal licking him for salt. A milk factory for human benefit he said, but Smith remembered her eyes, large, dark and mysterious with flashes of light sometimes, like phosphorescence in Penobscot Bay, and he had seen her lift the latch on the garden gate with her nose, as delicate as you like. Ailsa was gentle, beautiful, and long since dead. Baldy too, most likely…
The ancient cow tangled in the thorny bush at the side of Kampuchea Boulevard opened its mouth as though to low, but no sound came. It’s rooted, Smith thought irritably, but then how did he, draped in his shabby linen resemble the blithesome boy who’d hung around the barn at Cloud Hollow Farm, so many years ago?
Terminally weary and apparently blind, the cow’s ribs were as plain as scaffolding, her teats hung like perished rubber and she threatened her tormentors, ineffectually, with just one short, blunt horn of stony grey. No matter the two men, brown torsos gleaming, heaving at a rope halter around her neck. No matter the grimly determined woman leaning against her rear, making shrill noises of encouragement and abuse, hands on bony, dry shit buttocks, and orange sari trailing in the dust; the cow rolled sightless eyes and would not be moved. Smith applauded her intransigence and mopping his brow and neck with a spotted blue silk handkerchief, pondered the relentless heat and tried to imagine rain clouds.
Thirdpong exclaimed suddenly, ‘Bubble like crazy, this black stuff, start to cook…’ he glanced at Smith, slumped in the rear of the car with hands steepled in supplication.
‘I said there’s more milk in my goddamn shoe.’
There was a pause. ‘I mean tar.’
‘It’s a cow,’ Smith replied dismissively.
Thirdpong nodded uncertainly and returned his attention to the road. A diminutive Thai with sharp black eyes and a badly fitted gold tooth, Thirdpong gripped the black and yellow steering wheel as if in a race, though at this moment and for the past half hour in this impossible jam, bicycles made better headway. He’d manufactured the wheel cover from a banded krait that he’d miraculously contrived to kill with a table fork. Leaving the head attached it dangled from the wheel at the join, with slit eyes and a single fang, still emitting the faint smell of death. Sometimes Thirdpong amused himself by flicking the head and hissing at it, or poking out his tongue.
Mister Smith referred to the Nissan Cedric as a dung basket. Why? An automobile was the sound, the colour and above all, evidence of the superior status of the modern man. Pong’s acquaintances did not travel in, let alone drive a real car. Thirdpong must be a man of substance, with opinions the more significant, so they clustered about the Cedric to touch and lean as they smoked and talked about money and women, until Thirdpong demanded they show some ‘respek,’ and to ‘get off quick.’ Most often he reclined behind the wheel, arm draped down the outside of the door and freely offered his views about this whore or that, or some ‘restron,’ at which he had recently eaten. Never politics or the world at large because he hardly knew there was a world at large. None of them did. The ‘world’ consisted of money, the things they might have if they had any, a dozen or so streets in Phnom Penh, whores and the bandangs – the tourists who were the source of money. Sometimes they pondered the shenanigans of the Moroccan barman who it was said, did peculiar things with animals. Could a man have an erection as long as a forearm? A man is not a donkey, or a bull, but was that any more incredible than the man born with a third eye? Who had seen this man, demanded Thirdpong? A friend, muttered one, up north, quite far, he said vaguely and closed his eyes the better to recall this strange spectacle and to avoid the other’s sceptical gaze.
Trapped between resentful thought and a song that had begun to repeat endlessly in his mind, Smith murmured, 'Went down to the crossroads…'
'We straight on here. No turn.'
'Soliloquy, Pong.'
'Not understand.'
Several minutes on and the occasional lurch as the Cedric made slight progress towards Mao Tse Tung Boulevard, he continued softly, 'Went down to the crossroads…fell down on my knees. Asked the Lord above, have mercy now, save poor Seb if you please…' At which he evinced a wry smile, and from the brittle fronds of the straggling palms, stirred by the slightest breeze came the new sound of a thousand shivering maracas. Like small waves on the seashore it was tantalising though it brought scant relief to those toiling in meagre shade. Fresh red bricks were cut and stacked and nearby, the owners of tiny stalls peddled clothing of every hue; orange mangoes, woven hats and canvas shoes; everywhere the sweet scent of steamed fish and rice mingled with the fume and fug of toil, wet cement in rusting barrows and smoky braziers. It was, as it is every day, except that the rains had failed and the shallow wells were dry.
Some blamed the Indonesians, whose forest fires far to the east coloured the Cambodian sky bronze. Others wondered if the drought was a punishment of some kind and prayers, occasionally strengthened by sacrifice were offered. Truly, thought Smith it’s a bastard of a time for chickens. He was mildly diverted by the sight of children playing in the dust an arm's length from the slow-moving traffic; half-naked imps doing cartwheels and laughing as they fell, except one, sitting with her back to a palm her yellow dress faded and torn and with her thin knees drawn to her chin. She did not watch her heedless companions with her big brown eyes. She watched Smith.
'Standin’ at the crossroads,' he sang softly, unable to avoid her gaze, 'tried to flag a ride…didn't nobody seem to know me, everybody just pass me by.' His disquiet increased at the change in the whirring emanating from the front dash. Trapped in gridlock and here, the air conditioning was failing as surely as the radio, the lights and the windscreen wipers had before.
'You asking me now, Mister Smith?' inquired Thirdpong.
'I didn’t speak.'
'I not know that singing.'
Shortly, the aircon emitted a liverish cough, a sound so terminal Smith fully expected to see bits of fragmented fan come spitting from the vent. Thirdpong scooped up a rolled magazine and struck it a resounding blow. Smith's ears rang, but it worked. The driver's gap-toothed grin of triumph could not conceal his surprise. 'That fix ‘im alright.'
'Your talent with machinery never fails to astound me.'
The aircon settled to its customary grinding of plastic and metal parts that managed to produce a weak flow of coolish air. After a while Thirdpong said, 'My father is plumber.'
'You’ve inherited all his skills.'
'You have father, Mister Smith? In America, may be?'
Smith did not reply. He watched two motodops on tiny Hondas, one conveying a substantial goat heavily trussed, race recklessly between the lines of stationary vehicles. Lacquered with dust the goat's tongue lolled to and fro like a brown eel.
Thirdpong was nearly thirty years old, short and slight of build, his body odour was palpable, though Smith was habituated and his nails, which were as yellow as the clay on the banks of the river curled far beyond his fingertips, except for the one on his index finger that was often used for the cleaning of teeth and consequently was an incongruous white. No matter, Thirdpong was not permitted at any time to touch Smith's food.
Previously, Smith had driven himself around the city but Sokun, who was Smith's 'man,' did not think that this was suitable. ‘Mister Smith must have driver or no respek will come,’ he pronounced. ‘I’m not the slightest bit interested in respect,’ replied Smith, but shortly, Sokun introduced Thirdpong. ‘Thirdpong is suitable driver. He has drive the ambassador.’ Smith had been unable to determine which ambassador or why he no longer required Thirdpong's services, although Thirdpong's subsequent and regular absences due to 'attack malaria,' with symptoms Smith observed, closely resembling those of the severe hangovers he often enough experienced himself, gave some clue. In any event, Smith was disposed to allow Thirdpong a trial and though he discovered that the man's driving skills were not of a high order, nor did they appear life threatening. Smith also found Thirdpong's erratic conversation and his anthropomorphic affection for this absurd motor vehicle tolerably amusing.
'What your father, Mister Smith?' persisted Thirdpong.
'A postman,' Smith sighed. 'I’d rather not talk about it.'
The truck to the left stalled and Thirdpong, spotting the gap, rammed the car into gear and accelerated violently into the adjacent lane. There was a slight thud.
'Damn it Pong! Did we hit him?’ Smith peered apprehensively through the rear windscreen.
Pause. ‘Which one, ‘xactly?’
'Oh, for God's sake!'
But there was no sign of the motorcycles. Just the snub nose of an ancient Bedford with a yellow tennis ball fixed in the empty socket of each headlamp; far too close with its steaming radiator and intimidating bull-bar. It was the typical barging melee Smith reflected, without rhyme or reason. It was the same day after day and through the seasons and as likely as not to transmute into violence. Knocking over a motorcycle taxi could easily be enough. Only last week it was rumoured that a Thai celebrity had said that the temples of Angkor were ‘stolen’ from the Thais. There was 24 hours of rioting and armoured cars in the streets. Thai restaurants here in Phnom Penh and, Thirdpong said with great indignation, in Siam Reap too, were torched.
'Somebody crash somewhere I speck,' pronounced Thirdpong, 'might be dead.'
Smith stared at the back of his driver's head with its black hair plaited into a rattail and knotted around a bone purportedly from one of his grandfather’s fingers. 'Might be dead?' He echoed.
'Moto no good,' said Thirdpong darkly, 'Cedric, much better.'
Grandson and grandfather together thought Smith, hair and bone in death entwined, here in this dung basket, which he conceded had probably not had a regulation service in twenty years.
‘Near to that place now,’ announced Thirdpong. ‘We can be sure of one thing.’
From faraway and many years prior Smith heard his own voice, earnest and engaged it sounded: We can be sure of one thing, said that unwelcome voice. Enugu is self-destructing. He heard that voice cry out, with excitement, Philippe, over there!
Across the square from Smith and his French cameraman, a battered red bus had stalled in the crush of people and someone was banging on the windscreen with the butt of a rifle. When the glass gave way the driver hurriedly opened the door. A black youth, perhaps seventeen years old appeared. He was dressed in blue jeans with a red and blue striped shirt, open at the front. The fear in his face and his wild staring eyes was contagious, and Smith felt the familiar surge of dread and sheer excitement.
The young man appeared to be about to leap and then reconsidered. As he made to retreat hands reached to seize him by arm and leg. The young man kicked violently but now from within, he was caught around the neck. Smith could not tell whether this was intended to help or to hinder. Whichever was the case, those outside were winning. To exultant cries the victim was dragged from the door and onto the ground, where his assailants set to kicking and striking.
Smith watched a machete rise and fall. He heard the piercing screams that seemed only to incite. A whirling dervish appeared, a gangling, grinning fellow who commenced to dance around the victim. A gymnastic, black marionette in yellow trousers and shirt, he held a can high and as he danced, the contents sprinkled like glittering jewels. Those nearby clapped to his limbo movements until he leapt away and froze, statuesque with his hands blade-like and pointing towards the bloody thing that writhed. With theatrical precision, the marionette removed from his pocket, a matchbox. Eyes rolling in his head and pink tongue darting, he extended his long arm and gracefully, effortlessly propelled a lighted match. A beastly roar accompanied the brilliant fireball, to be almost instantly succeeded by the whooping of a thousand banshees. Smith gripped Philippe fiercely by the shoulder and for a moment, stared into the other’s eyes. ‘Christ!’ he said.
Here on Kampuchea and nearly twenty years on he leaned forward, pressing fiercely at his temples until he felt the moment pass. It seldom lingered, after all, the youth had burned a thousand times.
‘Why is it?’ Smith addressed himself softly, staring balefully at his hands outstretched before him, ‘that these ungrateful bastards have taken to trembling?’ He clasped the offensive hands and closed his eyes, and in his head, he cried out in frustration and rage, ‘where’s the bloody monsoon?’ because in some way he felt that the burning inside could be relieved by the rains that would not come.
Thirdpong took to humming that Cambodian pop that reminded Smith unpleasantly, of the noise made by the blowing of a tissue-covered comb. He endeavoured to ignore the reedy sound and
