the effect of making him waddle instead of walk. With his injuries, it seemed, he couldn’t run even if he wanted to. He brushed past our car. The soldiers took turns whacking him with the butts of their guns to hurry him on. He didn’t retaliate or react but plodded on, dragging his despair with him. I kept my gaze on him until he disappeared from sight.
The crowds converged and the noises returned. Everything and everyone pushed forward, trying to get ahead, get as far away from the possibility of capture as they could. Loudspeakers from either end of the bridge bellowed, “THE ORGANIZATION AWAITS YOU! THE ORGANIZATION WILL WATCH OVER YOU!”
I looked everywhere for the Organization, but all I saw was confusion. Desperation. A man climbed the side barrier of the bridge and was about to jump when a soldier caught his shirt and yanked him back down. The soldier moved on. The man stood there shaking as the crowds moved about him, his life saved and ignored all in the same moment.
When it seemed we would never get through, we came to the end of the bridge, and the road split in two. Papa turned left off the main road onto a smaller road along the river. Something caught his attention. A black Mercedes-Benz parked along the shoulder of the road. I recognized the car. Papa headed toward it. I stretched my neck, trying to see past the windows. Only when Big Uncle rose like a yiak, a mythical giant, out of the Mercedes, unscathed and stately, did my heart finally stop hammering.
He strode toward us, followed by Auntie India and the twins. The boys bounced excitedly when they saw Radana waving the red ribbon.
Papa turned to us and said, “Let’s get out of this mess.”
five
A t sunset we arrived in Kien Svay, a small town just outside Phnom Penh. It had taken us the entire afternoon to traverse the short distance. Even so, it seemed we were among the luckier ones to have escaped the city at all.
Our country house, Mango Corner, was the only French-colonial-style bungalow in a row of Khmer-style teak houses along the Mekong. Situated on a two-acre plot shaded by mango trees, it faced a small dirt road that rarely saw cars or motorized vehicles. Most of the town’s residents were fruit growers, rice farmers, or fishermen, and except for oxcarts or boats, they owned nothing more than a bicycle. Now it seemed the whole city had descended on the town and overflowed into our once quiet enclave as people from the city, seeking refuge for the night, parked their vehicles in any open space.
To keep others out of Mango Corner, our neighbor, the caretaker of our property, had parked his oxcart in the entrance between the two rows of mango trees that gated our front yard from the road. When he caught sight of our cars, he rushed to remove the oxcart and let us through. “It’s a relief to see Mechas and the whole family,” he said, addressing Papa, his knees bent, head bowed, speaking the royal language. He quickly greeted all of us in the same way, and then again turning to Papa, said, “I didn’t know how much longer I could keep them off the property.” He motioned to the crowds in front of his own house. “I couldn’t turn them away, Highness.”
Papa nodded, thanking the man. The caretaker waved to his teenage sons to come help with the luggage. We went inside.
I headed straight for the double French doors that opened onto the colonnaded balcony. Beyond the row of coconut trees that marked the border of our property, the Mekong heaved like a waking serpent. Boats crowded the surface of the water as they would during the Water Festival, except I knew it wasn’t a festival of any kind. There were no colorful buntings or streamers decorating the boats and oars, no crowds cheering from the shore, no singing and dancing, no light, no music. There was only the sound of loudspeakers ordering people to keep moving, to cross to the other side before nightfall. “GO! YOUR COMRADE BROTHERS AND SISTERS WILL HELP YOU! THE
The crowds converged and the noises returned. Everything and everyone pushed forward, trying to get ahead, get as far away from the possibility of capture as they could. Loudspeakers from either end of the bridge bellowed, “THE ORGANIZATION AWAITS YOU! THE ORGANIZATION WILL WATCH OVER YOU!”
I looked everywhere for the Organization, but all I saw was confusion. Desperation. A man climbed the side barrier of the bridge and was about to jump when a soldier caught his shirt and yanked him back down. The soldier moved on. The man stood there shaking as the crowds moved about him, his life saved and ignored all in the same moment.
When it seemed we would never get through, we came to the end of the bridge, and the road split in two. Papa turned left off the main road onto a smaller road along the river. Something caught his attention. A black Mercedes-Benz parked along the shoulder of the road. I recognized the car. Papa headed toward it. I stretched my neck, trying to see past the windows. Only when Big Uncle rose like a yiak, a mythical giant, out of the Mercedes, unscathed and stately, did my heart finally stop hammering.
He strode toward us, followed by Auntie India and the twins. The boys bounced excitedly when they saw Radana waving the red ribbon.
Papa turned to us and said, “Let’s get out of this mess.”
five
A t sunset we arrived in Kien Svay, a small town just outside Phnom Penh. It had taken us the entire afternoon to traverse the short distance. Even so, it seemed we were among the luckier ones to have escaped the city at all.
Our country house, Mango Corner, was the only French-colonial-style bungalow in a row of Khmer-style teak houses along the Mekong. Situated on a two-acre plot shaded by mango trees, it faced a small dirt road that rarely saw cars or motorized vehicles. Most of the town’s residents were fruit growers, rice farmers, or fishermen, and except for oxcarts or boats, they owned nothing more than a bicycle. Now it seemed the whole city had descended on the town and overflowed into our once quiet enclave as people from the city, seeking refuge for the night, parked their vehicles in any open space.
To keep others out of Mango Corner, our neighbor, the caretaker of our property, had parked his oxcart in the entrance between the two rows of mango trees that gated our front yard from the road. When he caught sight of our cars, he rushed to remove the oxcart and let us through. “It’s a relief to see Mechas and the whole family,” he said, addressing Papa, his knees bent, head bowed, speaking the royal language. He quickly greeted all of us in the same way, and then again turning to Papa, said, “I didn’t know how much longer I could keep them off the property.” He motioned to the crowds in front of his own house. “I couldn’t turn them away, Highness.”
Papa nodded, thanking the man. The caretaker waved to his teenage sons to come help with the luggage. We went inside.
I headed straight for the double French doors that opened onto the colonnaded balcony. Beyond the row of coconut trees that marked the border of our property, the Mekong heaved like a waking serpent. Boats crowded the surface of the water as they would during the Water Festival, except I knew it wasn’t a festival of any kind. There were no colorful buntings or streamers decorating the boats and oars, no crowds cheering from the shore, no singing and dancing, no light, no music. There was only the sound of loudspeakers ordering people to keep moving, to cross to the other side before nightfall. “GO! YOUR COMRADE BROTHERS AND SISTERS WILL HELP YOU! THE
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