The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers by Anton Piatigorsky Page A
Authors: Anton Piatigorsky
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are preciseand deliberate. Veata fans the air with her hand as she moves towards the door.
“We’re just finishing dinner,
Lok Srey
,” she calls.
“Let me in,” commands Roeung, her voice lacking menace.
Veata checks to make sure Chanlina’s dressed and Sâr’s prepared before she opens the door. Roeung steps inside and immediately scowls at the opiate smoke she can smell in the air. She opens her mouth to speak, but as soon as she sees her younger brother standing in the centre of the room, her expression freezes in blank astonishment.
“What are you doing here?”
“He just came by to say hello for a minute after school,” answers Kiri.
Sâr shifts his rucksack to the opposing shoulder and forces a smile for his sister.
“He said he was looking for you,” adds Veata, “and that you must’ve been with the King. We gave him some dinner. He played with Nhean. He’s very good with babies!”
Nhean, on the floor, blinks at the intruder.
“You should be home for dinner,” Roeung scolds Sâr. “Your brother expects you right now. He will be worried.”
“Yes,” says Sâr. “I was just going.”
“Well, go on, then. Go!” Roeung turns away from her brother and fans the air, giving Chanlina a hard stare. The dancer, standing motionless by her palm partition, regards the floor in a failed attempt at appearing innocent. “I hope you’re ready, Chanlina,” warns Roeung. “Lady Meak expects a full practice this evening.”
“I am ready,” whispers Chanlina. “I am always ready,
Lok Srey
Roeung.”
“I am going,” whispers Sâr as he stands by the door. “Goodbye, and thank you.” He stands tall, presses his hands before his lips, and bows so deeply to the women that they can’t help but giggle. Such reverence is more fit for the King than for his lesser wives, this group of common dancers.
“Bye,” says Veata, offering the boy a smile and a little bow.
Sâr scurries out of the house and quietly closes the door behind him. Although the sun is nearing the horizon, it still beats down on him with vengeance from its extreme angle. He squints, sighs, and wipes his sweaty brow. To stand in this open-air compound, despite the garbage pile by the wall, the grungy stone, and the weedy path—it is a real liberation. The expansive Cambodian sky is a welcome contrast to the compact darkness of the dancers’ home. Sâr hurries away, hoping he won’t encounter anyone else he knows.
He marches towards the nearest exit from the royal grounds, which is through the eastern wall facing the river. His eye muscles twitch and his jaw tightens, but Sâr fails to relate his tension to the fact that he’s passing the royal monastery, Wat Botum Vaddei. He reaches the exit and knocks on the copper gate. The sentry, rooted in a stance of gruff suspicion, leans out of his guardhouse and asks: “Who’s there?” Dancers, of course, are not allowed to depart. When Sâr bows in respect, the sentry abandons his aggressive posture and smiles. It’s only Roeung’s little brother. He has seen him before and, like everyone, he enjoys the boy’s wide smile. The sentry opens the gate and lets Sâr exit without comment.
Now, out in the street, Sâr thinks about Wat Botum Vaddei. The pagoda and its sealed compound loom ominously behind him. He imagines its pointed, bluish-grey stupas toppling over and crushing him, a gruesome death beneath the heap of ruined beams, shattered and splintered
naga
heads. As if to escape the improbable threat, he jogs across the wide avenue and enters the expansive manicured park that hugs the riverbank.
The change of location doesn’t clear his thoughts. The royal monastery continues to irk him, fuelling his shame, funnelling Sâr into a state of limb-weakening emptiness that can only be described as despair. Although he hated his long year as a novice in Wat Botum Vaddei—but what nine-year-old boy would enjoy the rigid prescriptions and denials of monastic life?—that time now
“We’re just finishing dinner,
Lok Srey
,” she calls.
“Let me in,” commands Roeung, her voice lacking menace.
Veata checks to make sure Chanlina’s dressed and Sâr’s prepared before she opens the door. Roeung steps inside and immediately scowls at the opiate smoke she can smell in the air. She opens her mouth to speak, but as soon as she sees her younger brother standing in the centre of the room, her expression freezes in blank astonishment.
“What are you doing here?”
“He just came by to say hello for a minute after school,” answers Kiri.
Sâr shifts his rucksack to the opposing shoulder and forces a smile for his sister.
“He said he was looking for you,” adds Veata, “and that you must’ve been with the King. We gave him some dinner. He played with Nhean. He’s very good with babies!”
Nhean, on the floor, blinks at the intruder.
“You should be home for dinner,” Roeung scolds Sâr. “Your brother expects you right now. He will be worried.”
“Yes,” says Sâr. “I was just going.”
“Well, go on, then. Go!” Roeung turns away from her brother and fans the air, giving Chanlina a hard stare. The dancer, standing motionless by her palm partition, regards the floor in a failed attempt at appearing innocent. “I hope you’re ready, Chanlina,” warns Roeung. “Lady Meak expects a full practice this evening.”
“I am ready,” whispers Chanlina. “I am always ready,
Lok Srey
Roeung.”
“I am going,” whispers Sâr as he stands by the door. “Goodbye, and thank you.” He stands tall, presses his hands before his lips, and bows so deeply to the women that they can’t help but giggle. Such reverence is more fit for the King than for his lesser wives, this group of common dancers.
“Bye,” says Veata, offering the boy a smile and a little bow.
Sâr scurries out of the house and quietly closes the door behind him. Although the sun is nearing the horizon, it still beats down on him with vengeance from its extreme angle. He squints, sighs, and wipes his sweaty brow. To stand in this open-air compound, despite the garbage pile by the wall, the grungy stone, and the weedy path—it is a real liberation. The expansive Cambodian sky is a welcome contrast to the compact darkness of the dancers’ home. Sâr hurries away, hoping he won’t encounter anyone else he knows.
He marches towards the nearest exit from the royal grounds, which is through the eastern wall facing the river. His eye muscles twitch and his jaw tightens, but Sâr fails to relate his tension to the fact that he’s passing the royal monastery, Wat Botum Vaddei. He reaches the exit and knocks on the copper gate. The sentry, rooted in a stance of gruff suspicion, leans out of his guardhouse and asks: “Who’s there?” Dancers, of course, are not allowed to depart. When Sâr bows in respect, the sentry abandons his aggressive posture and smiles. It’s only Roeung’s little brother. He has seen him before and, like everyone, he enjoys the boy’s wide smile. The sentry opens the gate and lets Sâr exit without comment.
Now, out in the street, Sâr thinks about Wat Botum Vaddei. The pagoda and its sealed compound loom ominously behind him. He imagines its pointed, bluish-grey stupas toppling over and crushing him, a gruesome death beneath the heap of ruined beams, shattered and splintered
naga
heads. As if to escape the improbable threat, he jogs across the wide avenue and enters the expansive manicured park that hugs the riverbank.
The change of location doesn’t clear his thoughts. The royal monastery continues to irk him, fuelling his shame, funnelling Sâr into a state of limb-weakening emptiness that can only be described as despair. Although he hated his long year as a novice in Wat Botum Vaddei—but what nine-year-old boy would enjoy the rigid prescriptions and denials of monastic life?—that time now
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