When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [97]
Chea stands rooted to the ground, her face filled with humiliation. She looks so hurt. Slowly she puts the bucket down on the ground. As she walks past me, she curses them, “Insolent kids!”
The following night Chea lies beside me; it’s only us since Map is with Ry at Peth Preahneth Preah. Close to me she huddles, then she whispers in my ear. “Bang wrote a poem last night in bang’s mind. Listen.”
*I pity myself. Though a virgin, I am called an old man.
In the previous society, how furious would I’ve been. But now it’s normal for a woman.
I pity myself as a woman. Twenty-three years old,† yet they think I’m sixty.
My teeth still intact, my hair shiny black, they think I’m sixty, for I’ve shaved my head.
I pity myself so much, living without parents.
There’s no hope of caring for them, of living near my beloved mother and father.
Chea becomes ill with a fever. Her body is hot, refusing to cool down even with the help of wet cloths placed on her forehead and stomach. Ra returns from a labor camp in time to help me. Ry and Map are back from Preahneth Preah. Than remains away at a labor camp. The others’ presence gives me comfort. Now I’m not so scared to hear Chea mumble deliriously in her sleep, which often wakes me up in the middle of the night.
Chea is lying on the floor, and her breathing is shallow. After her fever breaks, she’s hungry. But all we have is rice gruel with yam leaves. The smell of it makes her nauseous. Her body becomes increasingly thin. In her soft, yearning voice, she wishes for real food: steamed rice with marinated beef. Pork rice soup. Oranges. Or just warm sweetened milk to take away the bad taste in her mouth. I wish I could go back in time and bring her the kinds of food with which Mak indulged us when one of us got sick.
Ra and I sneak out to fish at the West River, flanked by a prairie, two miles from Daakpo. Ra carries mosquito netting, and I hug a metal pan. In the dark sky, the stars pulse. A sliver of the moon lights our way. The crickets chirp, the sad song of our lives. We trot on a path that snakes along new people’s huts. The cool ground deadens the sound of our footsteps.
When we arrive at the river, the shadow of the moon reflects in the water. It has been a long time since I was last here. It was when I had to bring cow droppings with the children’s brigade to the rice paddies across from the river. Then, Avy was still alive, and so was Mak.
Ra suggests that we fish along the leaning tree branches on the other side of the river. This will shield us from the eyes of the informants, she thinks. I agree, but dread crossing the decrepit makeshift bridge held up by the stark ruin of pylons sticking out of the water. Attached to the top of these pylons, I remember, are a few horizontal slabs. As always, Ra hurries me along, just as she did when we sneaked out to ask Pok for food at Zone 3. I crawl on the bridge behind her. Now I’m not worried about the informants, but about falling into the dark sheet of the river.
Our hands and feet become our eyes. After we cross the bridge, we feel our way into the river. The water is cold. We fish along the bank beside the leaning tree branches. Since the water is shallower near the bank, Ra holds one end of the net toward the center of the river and I fish near the bank. The water comes up to my chest.
Slowly we wade in, with both hands stretching the mosquito net open. The pan floats in front of the net, guided by the arching top of it. Our plan is to scoop the net up beneath the branches. The fish are usually there during the day when it’s hot. Under her breath, Ra whispers urgently to me to hand over the pan. After pushing the pan to Ra, I reach out to touch the dark shadow in the center of the net, wondering what we’ve caught.
“Prawns, lots of prawns!” Ra’s excited.
The thought of prawns lifts