The King’s Last Song

Map pauses. His eyes get a wild look to them.

‘He died of Sweet Water Disease. Diabetes. Nobody give him insulin.’

Another sip of beer, a shaking of the head.

We are not tourists, William thinks. There is nothing you can get from us by telling sad stories, over and over, boasting about your wars.

‘I went to look for my parents, all that time. I look all over Cambodia. I have to go AWOL to do it. And it turned out they are dead since the Lon Nol era.’

William has noted that Map’s sad stories do not add up. He also tells a story in which his uncle tells Map when he is twelve that his parents are dead and Map goes to hide in a haystack. Both cannot be true.

There is something wrong with Map’s head.

‘Cambodian joke,’ says Map and grins. He is so ugly, thinks William. He has a big mouthful of brown teeth that push out his jaw, his nose is sunken, and his face is covered in purple lumpy spots.

Map tells a story about a truck driver who has to stay in a farmer’s house. He sleeps in the same room as the farmer’s daughter. The truck driver gets to do everything he wants to with the daughter. In the morning the farmer asks, did you sleep well? The truck driver says, yes, your daughter is very beautiful, but her hands are so cold! Ah, says the farmer and looks sad, that is because she is awaiting cremation.

Map roars with laughter and pummels his foot on the dust. He looks at Teacher Andrade’s frozen smile and laughs even louder.

William shakes his head. He says in Khmer, ‘That is not a good story to tell someone like Teacher Andrade. What will he think of us?’

‘He will think we tell funny stories.’

‘He will think we are not respectable.’

Map still won’t look at him. ‘He knows more than you do.’

William shrugs. ‘He is a great teacher and of course knows more than I do.’

‘You know nothing.’ Map lights a cigarette.

William has had some beer too and his tongue is loose. ‘Why don’t you talk respectfully to me? If I have done something wrong, you should tell me what it is, so I can correct it.’

Map sneers. ‘Monks tell you that?’ He finally looks at William.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re so peaceful,’ says Map, smiling slightly. He sits back, inhales and watches. ‘I do all the fighting, you have all the getting. I march for forty years, you go to school. You have a pretty girlfriend, I have no family.’

‘My mother and father are dead,’ says William.

Map is silenced and looks away. His face closes up like a snail going into a shell and he coughs. He says nothing for a very long time.

William believes in connection. It is how he survives, and he is good at it because he practises on people whom no one else can reach.

All right, thinks William. I promise. I promise that you will be my friend. I will have your name and history in my notes, and you will know my family. We will celebrate New Year together.

There is a rumble of trucks in the dark. All the Europeans stand up. The Patrimony Police lift up their rifles. The trucks stop, their brilliant headlights go off, and a full colonel strides down the bank towards them. His lieutenant follows.

The Colonel holds up his hand, and greets Yeo Narith as if they are old friends. William’s ears prick up; he does not know this Colonel. He must be from somewhere other than Siem Reap. The Lieutenant is Sinn Rith, a man William knows is far too rich to have earned all his money from soldiering.

Teacher Andrade trusts these people?

In Banteay Chmar, it was the Army itself that stole the bas-reliefs.

They enter the light of the fire and Tan Map grins.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Sinn Rith! My old friend!’ Map cackles with glee.

Sinn Rith is impassive behind his sunglasses. He mutters in Khmer, thinking the Europeans won’t understand. ‘The Frenchman’s brought his dog.’

Whew! William has to expel breath. They hate Map. What’s he done? Sinn Rith fingers the handle of his pistol. Map’s captain looks alarmed, eyes flickering between them.

The Colonel’s polite smile does not falter. He ignores Map, and greets the scholars, shakes their hands, and says how privileged he feels to be asked to help protect such a treasure. Can they view the find?

Still grinning Map leaps to his feet. ‘I am the dig photographer, I do the UN dig website,’ he says, every word directed at Sinn Rith. ‘It would be an honour, Colonel, to explain the finds.’

He is so rude! The man has no shame. He is humiliating everybody, making them look small. Dik Sangha, the Cambodian dig director is smiling but he’s shaking his head. Map swaggers his way in, laughs, and claps Sinn Rith on the shoulder.

Sinn Rith flings off his hand.

Inside the tent, the Colonel has to exclaim over the packets. ‘So many!’

‘We actually think it’s written by Jayavarman himself,’ says Yeo Narith. Luc explains. The Sanskrit text uses first person. It seems to be memoir. By the King himself.

The Colonel shakes his head. ‘For such a thing to come to the nation now. It is a gift from heaven.’

The lamps baste the interior of the tent; it is roasting and airless. Back outside Map sits down and says to William, ‘Hey motoboy, go get me a beer.’

Teacher Andrade says gently to William, ‘Perhaps the officers would like one as well, William.’

It gives William something to do. He sompiahs and makes himself look lively.

Even inside the tent, getting the beers, he listens to the debate.

The Army, it seems, want the Book to stay in Siem Reap. William thinks: the generals all own hotels, they want a museum here for the tourists.

The archaeologists say the Book needs to be repaired. It should go to the National Museum in Phnom Penh.

‘Is it safe anywhere?’ the French archaeologist asks.

Map takes his beer from William without even looking at him. He smiles and says, ‘The Army want to take care of the Book to earn merit to make up for all the people they killed.’

It is too much for Sinn Rith. He turns his head with a snap. ‘Like all the people you murdered?’

Map still smiles. ‘Everybody knows not even Buddha himself can keep a Khmer Rouge out of hell.’

The next day, the Army resolves all debate. They send a helicopter to airlift the Book out of the field.