When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [87]
“Athy, Pok’s coming,” Ra alerts me.
She introduces me to him. “Pok, this is my young sister.”
“Chumriep sur, Pok,” I say, pressing the palms of my hands together, raising them to the tip of my chin. A courtesy the Khmer Rouge can’t take away from me. I didn’t consider his approval, whether this is appropriate or whether he’s one of the Khmer Rouge and despises this formal culture.
Instead of greeting me with words, he looks at me, then at Ra. Back in sangkum mun [the previous society], he would have returned my chumriep sur. But since both of his hands are holding a pan and plates, I can understand. I’m more than content with his kindness, his willingness to bring us food.
“Ara, you must be careful when you bring your sister here, and when you take her back. There are a lot of chhlops,” Pok warns as he sets the foodstuffs on the concrete floor. “If they catch you, they’ll torture you. Be careful.”
His words reveal much. His tone is gentle, like a father addressing a child. And by not calling Ra “comrade,” I know he is not a Khmer Rouge. I study him—tall, strongly built, with dark olive skin. His black hair, neatly combed, is mixed with scattered gray strands. I would guess he’s in his early fifties. His physical features suggest he has never suffered any hardship or lack of food. He seems educated, privileged, even though he wears the Khmer Rouge uniform: new black pants and a long-sleeved shirt with a cotton scarf wrapped around his neck. I watch him in wonder. Who is this man?
Pok invites us to sit down. We hunker down, squatting on the concrete floor. Suddenly a slender young man, perhaps eighteen, with dark eyebrows and thick black hair approaches us. I look up, peering at what he’s holding in his hand.
Pok explains, “Sun works with me. He brings more food for you.”
Before us Sun sets down a large soup bowl filled with chunks of golden pumpkin, its withered blossoms and green shoots. Near it lies the crisp, reddish-brown smoked fish, nestled back to belly as they were when they were smoked. Then there’s a saucer with about three tablespoons of fish sauce the deep color of tea. Its smell is strong. Good. I savor the aroma and my mind reels.
I have not tasted fish sauce since we were driven out of Year Piar—more than two years ago now. At first I didn’t recognize it until my nose prompted me, detecting the pungent smell. Then my memory arouses me, my eyes widen, fixing on the food.
Pok picks up a plate from a stack. He lifts the lid of a small blackened metal pot, revealing white steamed rice. The sweet aroma reaches my nose, the familiar scent of a new crop of jasmine rice. My stomach growls, my mouth waters. My eyes follow Pok’s hand as he dishes up the rice with a spoon onto the plate. My mind, my whole body, yearns to snatch that plate from him.
“Can you eat this much?” asks Pok, his eyes looking into mine.
“Yes!” I answer, my head nodding as the word tumbles out of my mouth. I’m relieved to finally have the plate.
The rice piled on my plate is as high as rising dough. I want to gorge on it, shoving it in my mouth, but I have to wait for Pok, who is dishing up another plate of rice for Ra. I’m anxious, studying the movement of his hand from the pot to Ra’s plate. It takes every bit of self-control to not fidget and scream out “Hurry, hurry.”
Finally Pok hands Ra her plate, and she reaches for it with both hands, a polite gesture of reverence taught us by our mother.
“Go ahead, eat,” Pok says, eyes glancing at me.
“How about you, Pok?” Ra asks.
“You eat, then hurry back.”
I bury the spoon in the heap of rice, shoveling it into my mouth. My throat fills quickly, the food a stranger to my body. Next I spoon up the soup, gulping down the warm broth to help wash down the sluggish rice. Then I eat the pumpkin. The blossoms. The soft green shoots. Then the smoked fish with fish sauce, then