Thoughts?A Mysterious Passenger
Kong Bunchhoeun
Translation from Khmer to French by Christophe Macquet and from French to English by Marie-Christine Garneau and Theo Garneau
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It is late afternoon, nearly four o'clock. Returning to the capital, a Toyota Corona disappears into the shadow of Pech Nil Mountain, halfway between Phnom Penh and Kompong Som. At the wheel is a thirty-year-old man: close-cropped hair, dark skin, hatchet-faced features with slightly protruding eyes, and deeply furrowed brow, which gives him an expression of constant worry.
Next to him, a man with a light complexion but features that are typically Khmer: handsome, Eurasian, about thirty-five years old. A vague smile floats on his lips. He has an intelligent face. His large, dark eyes gaze languidly at the passing countryside. He is holding a small video camera. From time to time, he asks his driver to slow down so that he can film something in the landscape.
Abruptly, the driver turns to the man in the seat beside him and, using the deferential form of address, asks softly, "Elder Brother Veasna, when do you think you'll be going back to America?"
The handsome Veasna lowers the camera and manages a slight smile. It's evident he's not interested in chatting. "That must be the tenth time you've asked me that question, Chan! Don't you want me to stay here in Cambodia?"
"Me? You must be kidding!" the driver responds. But the furrows in his brow grow even deeper. "Before you arrived, every day was dull. But now that you're here, I'm never bored!" He sighs. "I'm sorry to insist, Elder Brother. It's just that every time I ask, you either say nothing or you change the subject."
Veasna turns slowly to his driver. The sincere melancholy in the driver's tone has surprised him.
"Well, I can see you aren't going to give up easily. OK, stop worrying about it. I'll answer your question. But while I do, be sure to concentrate on your driving. This winding road is especially dangerous, and I don't want to end up at the bottom of the ravine."
"Don't worry, Elder Brother. I'm not like other drivers. I talk a lot while I'm driving, but I always keep my eyes on the road, and both hands on the wheel." [End Page 128]
"Your driving doesn't usually worry me," the Cambodian American says, lifting his eyebrows slightly. "But last night when you were dancing at Snake Island, you looked pretty frisky. I wouldn't be surprised if your eyesight is a little blurry today..."
Chan bursts out laughing. Easing the car expertly into a sharp curve, he smiles broadly, the ends of his mouth turned up like a gondola.
"Oh, yeah! Ha-ha! You've got bags under your eyes, too, Elder Brother! Last night it looked to me like you weren't feeling any pain either. Ah, yes. With all those gorgeous girls...Were you able to film some of them?"
"Film them? What for?"
"What do you mean, 'What for?' I thought that was the purpose of your trip this time: to crisscross Cambodia and film all the beautiful Khmer women! Isn't that why we borrowed your parents' car?"
"That's partly true," Veasna concedes, slowly nodding. "But I'm not here to film bargirls!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" Chan replies, not daring to take his eyes off the road. "What more do you want? Didn't you see those curves, those glowing faces? They were all as gorgeous as the celestial apsaras on the walls of Angkor Wat!"
The car reaches a small wooden bridge that's badly decaying and in need of repair. Veasna holds his breath until they have crossed the hazard.
"What I'm looking for," he says finally, casting a glance behind him at the bridge, "is a young country girl—a girl from the rice fields."
"A girl from the rice fields?!" squawks the driver. "You mean to tell me you're filming peasant girls? Forgive me for saying so, but they're not at all to my taste. They're far—very far—below the beauty of my little flowers at Snake Island."
The passenger's expression stiffens slightly. "Maybe so," he says, trying to smile, "but those nocturnal beauties of yours are nothing without powder, lipstick, and the pulsing of the neon lights. What I'm interested in are peasant girls—like the girls from Veal Renh or Prey Nup, for example. They have such natural grace, beauty—and without any makeup or false lighting. And then there's the exquisite reserve in their manner: a blend of sweetness and shyness..."
Chan scratches his head. He doesn't really understand, but he doesn't want to contradict his companion. All the same, with a forced smile he continues. "There can't be too many people who think like that, you know. But after all, why not? You can film such girls if you want. The most important thing, though, is that you answer my question."
Veasna once again raises his camera to his eye. "What were you asking, Chan?"
The driver lets out a groan. "As if you didn't know! Well, this time you won't get off so easily, Elder Brother! If you don't answer me right now, I am going to stop the car!" [End Page 129]
Veasna abruptly puts down the camera, takes a breath, and says gently, "My friend, don't get so worked up. OK then, here's your answer: I'm going back to the U.S. in one month."
"Are you telling me the truth, Elder Brother?" asks the driver, a curious tone in his voice.
"That's the honest truth," Veasna responds with a faraway gaze. "It's printed in black and white on my plane ticket."
Chan sighs deeply. His despondency seems absolute.
"What's the matter?" Veasna asks, concerned now. "What's the long face for?"
"Nothing, Elder Brother," says the driver faintly. "It's just that I would have liked for you to go sooner, that's all."
Veasna's expression darkens. "But why? Are you expecting trouble to break out in Cambodia?"
"Oh no, not at all. It's something to do with me."
"To do with you? Well then, come on, Chan, tell me. Out with it!"
In answer, Chan presses the brakes and brings the car to a stop under a tree.
"Now what?" Veasna protests, dumbfounded. "What are you doing? Why are you stopping the car like this? We're in the middle of a forest, there's not a soul around, the sky is clouding over, and it's about to storm any minute. We'll never make it back on time."
Chan gets out of the car.
"This won't take long," he says, taking a deep breath. "I just need to calm down a bit before explaining this to you. Don't worry. Besides, we wouldn't have made it back before nightfall anyway."
"Then speak!" Veasna says through the open window of the car. "Why the hell must I leave Cambodia when I haven't even finished my work?"
Chan's face takes on an expression of infinite sadness. "It's because," he says in a trembling voice, "I'm in love. On top of that, the dates have been set. I only have a few days to get an engagement present, and the marriage is two weeks later. You just have to leave, Veasna, as soon as possible. Tomorrow or the day after...You really must go and tell my older sister."
Veasna is stunned. "What? That's all? But can't you just send your sister a fax?"
"A fax...but I don't have her address or her telephone number..."
At this point, Veasna begins to lose his composure. He gets out of the car and walks over to Chan. "You don't have her telephone number? Your sister has never sent her number to you in her letters?"
Above them, the sky is darkening. In the distance, storm clouds are gathering in a black, foreboding mass above the mountain peaks.
"Well, actually, I've never received any letters from her."
"Then how do you know she's in America? Give it to me straight, Chan. I can't make heads or tails of what you're telling me!" [End Page 130]
The driver bends down, plucks a small flower out of the grass, and places it between his lips. "My sister and I," he continues, his voice fading, "were separated in 1975 , when the Khmer Rouge took Phnom Penh. I thought she was lost to me forever. But just a week ago, I found out she's alive and residing in America."
Veasna covers his face with his hands. "OK. So how did you find out?"
The driver hesitates.
"Well, Chan, someone must have told you, yes?" Veasna is becoming impatient. He brings his face close to Chan's. "This someone must certainly know her address and telephone number!"
Chan spits the flower out of his mouth. "No, Elder Brother," he says, finally blurting it out. "A fortuneteller told me..."
Veasna jumps back as if suddenly bitten by an ant in a tender part of his anatomy. "A fortuneteller?!" he exclaims.
"Yes," stammers the driver, bobbing his head from side to side like an iguana. "The other day, you know...The other day when I took you for a visit to the Wat Phnom...well, I took the opportunity to consult a famous psychic...This master psychic told me everything...that my sister was still alive...that she is living in America...So now do you understand, Veasna? You simply must help me! You have to go back and find her for me!"
Veasna looks skyward as if for help. High in a tree, two or three birds take flight effortlessly on slow wings.
"Of all things...How could you, Younger Brother? You who are so practical minded, who drive heavy equipment for a living. How could you believe in the predictions of fortunetellers?!"
Chan takes Veasna's arm and tugs on it gently. "I assure you, Elder Brother, this person is amazing! Two weeks before you came to Cambodia, he told a friend of mine who had his motorbike stolen that it would reappear in three days. And guess what—unbelievable! On exactly the third day, my friend found his motorbike! Trust me, Veasna. My sister is alive. Since the fortuneteller gave me this news, I've dreamed of her almost every night."
Veasna stops looking at the sky. "I don't want to interfere with your beliefs, Chan...but come on, this is the computer age we're living in!"
"What can I say?" answers the driver. "Computer age or not, people here have absolute faith in these things. Help me, Veasna, please! Don't abandon me!"
"OK," says the Cambodian American man gravely. "Let me see if I understand what you're really saying: you want me to find your sister and tell her to send you money for your engagement present. Is that it?"
Chan joyfully circles Veasna on tiptoe. "Yes! Yes!" he cries, his eyes full of tears. "That's exactly it. Oh, you know how to heal my wounded heart, Elder Brother! It's true that I am poor and if my sister doesn't help me, I will have lost a priceless jewel for a wife." [End Page 131]
Veasna gets in the backseat of the car and smiles magnanimously. "All right. OK, you can count on me. All right. But let's get going. It'll be dark soon."
Chan glances quickly at the road and starts the car. Behind him, he hears Veasna's resonant voice.
"I feel sorry for you, Younger Brother. There are so many Khmers in America, hundreds of thousands of them. How in the world will I be able to find your sister if you don't even have her address?"
"Ah, but my sister is special. She used to be the lead dancer in the Royal Ballet! A star!"
"A ballet star?!" exclaims Veasna, his curiosity piqued now. "What's her name?"
Chan savors his triumph. "You see," he says, brimming over with pride, "you haven't heard anything yet and you are already on the edge of your seat. How will you handle it when you know her name?! Trust me, Veasna, you will find her!"
An enormous clap of thunder interrupts the driver. The sky turns black. Explosive gusts of wind cover the narrow road with clouds of dust. Visibility is nearly zero. And then the terrifying, deafening storm strikes with full force. Sheets of angry rain crash on the car so violently that they threaten to shatter the windshield. Chan stomps on the accelerator, trying to escape this dark storm as quickly as possible.
"How strange," he mutters. "One would think the sky was angry about something..."
"Stop, Chan!" Veasna shouts. "I think I see someone waving at us. Slow down! Slow down!"
Chan takes his foot off the gas and turns on his high beams. "Where? I can't see a thing."
"There. That white figure on the side of the road, under the tamarind tree. It looks like a woman. Hey, she's trying to signal to us."
The car swerves slightly to the shoulder of the road.
"Oh, yes. Now I can see her. Hmmm...But what's a woman doing in such a desolate place at this hour of the night? What's going on, Elder Brother? This doesn't look good..."
"Someone is signaling for help," interrupts Veasna sternly. "We must stop! What are you afraid of? Come on, pull over quick. Hey, look. She's coming towards us!"
Chan would have preferred to drive on by, but this isn't his car. He does what Veasna tells him to do and pulls off the road to stop next to the tamarind tree. A woman dressed in black, her head covered with a white krama, approaches them.
By this time, Veasna has rolled down his window. In spite of the darkness and the pouring rain, he can make out a form. It is indeed a young woman. She appears to be twenty-two or twenty-three years old at most. [End Page 132] And suddenly her face is close enough for him to see: a face arrestingly beautiful and overpowering...Veasna feels himself stirred to the depths of his being.
I have been going around this country for almost two weeks, he thinks to himself, and I have never seen a girl so beautiful.
"Is anything wrong, young lady?" asks Chan.
But before the beautiful young woman can answer, Veasna takes over the conversation. "Please, get in," he says, quickly opening the back door. "You're going to be soaked. We can talk afterwards."
"Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you so very much."
Her voice...is like music, like the celestial music that comes down from Mount Kailash's fabled summit: melodious and so marvelously beautiful...with the strange power to make one's blood well up inside the heart, to transform one's heart into a volcano about to erupt. Chan dares not speak. He lets Veasna do the talking.
"What are you doing out here alone, miss?"
The young woman unties her white krama and pats her wet forehead. "I came to visit my aunt," she says with the smile of an innocent child. "She lives in the woods, close to here. I was on my way back home when the storm caught me by surprise."
Every word that falls from her lips is like the offering of flowers at a shrine. Veasna inhales with growing ecstasy the fateful scent of ambrosia. He cannot take his eyes from her. She appears more and more beautiful to him with each passing moment.
"I see, I see," he answers, feeling never more alive than at that instant. "And where do you live, miss?"
She lowers her eyes shyly. "At the foot of Mount Kirirom."
Chan, who until then had been content to observe the young woman in the rearview mirror, brusquely interrupts, as if he were waking from a dream. "Perfect! That's perfect! That's not far from here! Ten kilometers at the most!"
"Then it's no problem, miss," Veasna says, nodding and smiling, "to drop you off at your home. Come on, Chan, let's go!"
After a brief sidelong glance in the rearview mirror, Chan starts the car and begins driving, this time more cautiously.
The winds and rain have redoubled their violence. In an effort to dispel the malevolent atmosphere created by the storm, Veasna decides to strike up a conversation. "So...what is the name of this place?" he asks.
The beautiful young woman beside him seems to be making an effort to remember. "I think...I think that the old folks call it the Hill of the Three Skulls," she says, lifting her eyes.
Chan turns slightly towards her. Her words seem to have awakened something in him. "The Hill of the Three Skulls...Yes, I do remember. Something horrible happened there under Pol Pot." [End Page 133]
"Do you know the story, Chan?"
"Vaguely," the driver answers, keeping his attention on the road. "I was deported to this region."
The eyes of the beautiful woman light up. "Then you must know the Plain of the Dead Jackal," she says in a clear voice.
Chan's lips begin to tremble. "Yes, I worked there. I was part of the mobile brigade. Brrr...just hearing the name gives me goose flesh! And you, miss?"
The car has begun to accelerate. In the dim glow of its interior lights, the young woman's voice seems even more beautiful.
"Yes, I worked down there, too. But I don't know much about its story."
A bolt of lightning explodes nearby with a terrifying roar. Its blue-white flash illuminates the car's interior and reflects in the eyes of the young woman, who is visibly frightened.
"And...and what if you told us a little more of the story, Chan?" Veasna says softly.
"Oh no, not now," answers the driver, who is trembling like a leaf. "I don't like to talk about ghosts when I'm driving."
Veasna holds his nose. "So are you saying that this is a story about ghosts?"
"Yes. It's about three young sisters. People say that they were murdered in a most terrible manner."
With a startled cry, Veasna interrupts. He has noticed that the young woman is on the verge of tears. "That's enough, Chan! Our passenger does not feel very well."
Chan stops speaking immediately. "Excuse me, miss. Maybe this story touches you personally?"
The beautiful young woman is making an effort not to cry. "No," she says in a barely audible voice, "it's just that I can't bear sad stories...I cry...every time...I don't know why..."
Another bolt of lightning illuminates the interior of the car.
"I understand," says Veasna, settling deeper into his seat. "Let's not talk about it anymore."
Then, after a moment of silence, he grumbles, "Damn it! Don't you smell anything? It's like the smell of something rotten...Can't you smell it, Chan?"
Holding his nose too, the driver says, "Yes, you're right. Could there be a dead buffalo on the side of the road?"
"No. I have the air conditioner turned on, and the windows are tightly closed."
"Maybe there's a dead rat in the car."
"A dead rat? In my car? Why would there be a dead rat in my car?" Veasna continues to hold his nose tightly. "Maybe you stepped in something, Chan?" [End Page 134]
At this point, the young woman speaks up, smiling sweetly. "You're not imagining things, gentlemen," she says in her serene voice. "I helped my aunt to fill up several jars of fish paste today. The smell of the prahoc must still be with me. I'm very sorry that it bothers you so much."
"Prahoc!" Veasna exclaims, delighted. "Right! That's it! That's the smell of prahoc!"
Chan loudly joins in. "Veasna may have lived a long time in America, but he's not grossed out by our prahoc! At restaurants he always asks for more!"
The beautiful woman lifts her eyes. "Very well then," she says in her silky voice, "if we're lucky enough to see each other again, I'll offer both of you a little jar of prahoc as a token of gratitude."
"Thank you in advance, miss. Prepared by you, I am certain it will be delicious."
The rain has lessened slightly, but Chan, who does not feel reassured, maintains the same speed. Suddenly he yells, "Oh, no!" Looking right and left, he says, "I think we might have gone past your house. Can you look out and see if we have, miss?"
The young woman looks through the window, and now it is she who is alarmed. "A bit, yes, a little bit. But it's OK. I can jump out right here. This is fine."
Veasna sighs. "Over here? But we're deep in the woods. Where is your house?"
"Over there," she says, pointing. "Beyond the first row of trees..."
Veasna rolls down his window and squints. "But it's still raining and you don't have anything to cover yourself with..."
"Don't worry," says the young woman as she opens the door. "I'll change my clothes when I get home. Well...thank you, gentlemen. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, miss," says Veasna, slightly dispirited. "If you had not lived so far, I would have accompanied you home."
The mysterious young woman presses her palms together in a gesture of farewell. In a low voice, nearly whispering, she says, "Don't worry yourself. You have shown enough proof of the goodness of your heart..."
The sky growls again, but now the sound is deeper, occurring in long tympanic rumbles. The storm seems to be moving away, though the winds still blow and the shadows still flicker ominously.
The young woman wraps the white krama around her head, then slowly and delicately steps off the road and disappears into the shadows of the massive trees. Veasna's heart has stopped beating. His gaze is arrested by the beauty of her bare foot and the charm, grace, and suppleness with which she walks.
"What are you looking at now, Elder Brother?" says Chan, tapping nervously on the wheel. "She's gone, there's nothing more to see." [End Page 135]
He starts the engine, and Veasna comes out of his trance. "She was right. The smell disappeared when she did. Chan, tell me: what do you think of this girl?"
"Not much," answers the driver with a forced air of nonchalance. "She was a peasant girl, just a peasant girl. In principle, we should have had her pay us for the ride."
"What are you talking about?" Veasna replies indignantly. "Giving her a ride didn't cost us anything." Then he adds with sudden joy, "She was beautiful! Beautiful! I think she could have asked me to take her all the way to Phnom Penh!"
Chan cannot pretend any longer. "Yes, she was indeed really beautiful. Marvelously beautiful. My eyes didn't leave the rearview mirror. It's hard to believe. A girl like her, in such a desolate place, so far away from everything..."
"I've got to tell you, Chan. Never, never have I seen such beauty. The face of an angel, framed by long hair gleaming like jade. Eyes like beautiful black diamonds under such delicately curved eyebrows. A small nose, lightly curved, lips full and velvety. The delicious dimples on her cheeks..."
"And then all the rest!" blurts out the driver, who is keen to continue this inventory. "That walk of a cat...that supernatural grace...The humble blouse and modest sarong—you can just imagine what's underneath..."
"Stop, Chan!" Veasna shouts suddenly.
Chan is so startled he nearly lets go of the wheel.
"What now, Elder Brother?"
Veasna has had the wind knocked out of him. His heart is pounding in his chest. "There, just for an instant, while you were talking, I turned around and saw her behind the glass, her eyes fixed on mine. I was about to speak to her, but she vanished into thin air. My God! My hair is standing on end!"
Chan bursts out laughing. "You are hallucinating, my friend. You're thinking too much about her."
"But just now I saw her as clearly as I see you, Chan. I saw her. She had a white rose behind her ear."
"Forget all about that, Elder Brother. We are arriving in Kompong Speu Province."
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Kong Bunchhoeun was born in 1939 in the province of Battambang and grew up during the French Occupation, the Japanese Occupation, and the fratricidal struggles following independence. "In my crib, my lullabies were the sounds of bullets and the cries of suffering families," he wrote much later. After the death of his mother in 1957 , he moved to Phnom Penh and published The River of Death, the first of many books in a long career as a popular novelist. His works often combine the romantic and the supernatural, and his satiric novels attack corruption, exploitation of the weak, and social injustice. In 1963 he was imprisoned for six months for writing a novel criticizing a high official in the royal government. During the Pol Pot regime, he escaped execution thanks to a Khmer Rouge cadre who had read his novels and testified that he was a writer with a "profound sense of social justice." After the Khmer Rouge regime ended, he returned to Phnom Penh in 1981 and worked in the Ministry of Culture. In 2000 , however, he was forced to flee the country as a result of publishing The Destiny of Marina, a diatribe against what he called "the culture of arrogance" in high places. With the exception of the period when the Khmer Rouge regime was in power, he has never ceased writing and publishing. His body of work includes plays, poetry collections, a hundred novels, and more than two hundred songs, of which a great number were composed in honor of the celebrated poet-singer Sin Sisamouth. His story in this issue of Manoa is an excerpt from Tomb of Satya, written after he witnessed the murder by the Khmer Rouge of a former member of Cambodia's Royal Ballet. The main character, a Cambodian American named Veasna (Khmer for "destiny"), falls under the spell of the beautiful Satya (Khmer for "truth"), who is the supernatural synthesis of three murdered women.
Christophe Macquet is a translator, teacher, and researcher. He was born in 1968 inBoulogne-sur-Mer, France. After receiving a master's degree in literature, he taught French for two years in the Philippines. Since 1994 , he has taught literature and translation at the Royal University of Phnom Penh, where he is the head of the French Translation Program. He has translated numerous books from French to Khmer, including Herge's Le lotus bleu, St-Exupery's Le petit prince, and Maupassant's Le Horla. From Khmer to French, he has translated a Bassac opera, poems by Kram Ngoy, and fiction by Khun Srun, Kong Bunchhoeun, Soth Polin, and others. He has also published numerous articles on Khmer culture and language. In 2003 , he published, in the French literary review Europe, a portfolio of Cambodian writing.
Marie-Christine Garneau is an associate professor of French language and literature at the University of Hawai'i at Manoa.
Theo Garneau has a master's degree in French literature from the University of Hawai'i at Manoa and is a master's-degree candidate in English.
Mac's Khmer Fiction, Pt. 3 - "A Mysterious Passenger&qu
Mac's Khmer Fiction, Pt. 3 - "A Mysterious Passenger&qu
Source: Copyright © 2004 University of Hawai'i Press. All rights reserved. Manoa 16.1 (2004) 128-136. Again, the note that accompanies the author's name at the end of the story is interesting. This is my favorite of the lot so far. The evocation of mood is superb.
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