The Scent of Rumduol: A Cambodian Novel

By Andy J. Hill

Sothea wants to be a famous writer, the most famous in all of Cambodia, to write about her life, and all the bad things that happen to children in her country. And the good things, as well. Her best friend suggests that there needs to be romance too, as all the best stories have a romance.

Sokhem wants to be a web designer, and to create his own site, uncovering the things that nobody likes to talk about in Cambodia; the stuff that gets swept under the rug. His little brother, Vithu, wants to change the world, after he has finished school, gone to university, traveled, and read everything there is to read and learned everything that can be learned.

Kosal worries for his country, and feels that the Cambodian people are lost. His master has sent him from the pagoda on a seven year pilgrimage to find understanding, and perhaps even enlightenment.

The Scent of Rumduol is a modern day tale of stolen childhoods; of children forced to survive the exigencies of a world epitomized by poverty, violence, drugs, child exploitation, and sexual abuse. It is the story of four orphans whose lives touch, and are touched, by others - including a teenage prostitute, a former Khmer Rouge guard, and a disillusioned aid worker - in ways nobody could ever have imagined.

It is a story of hope, resolve, love, karma, and, ultimately, of triumph over adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy J. Hill
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301821327

Andy J. Hill

Andy Hill has lived, worked, studied, and written in Cambodia for four years. Previously he worked as an Investment Banker in London, and for ten years he was an Executive Director at Goldman Sachs. In 2013 he returned to London.

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The Scent of Rumduol

Andy J. Hill

Copyright 2013 by Andy J. Hill

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Disclaimer: The Scent of Rumduol is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents portrayed in this book, while inspired by reality, are the product of the author’s imagination, and any actual resemblance to persons or events is coincidental.

http://scentofrumduol.com/

Cover art: Luis Barreto http://www.luisbarreto.com/

For Hugo and Oliver; children

Prologue

There, beyond the rice fields, in a clearing shaded by the wood that is the end of the village and the start of everything else, the special place, we play. I see Veata and Sann, my sister and brother, laughing, and I laugh too. Children from the village run and dance, shoeless, clothesless, free. The older children stand in line, taking turns to dive and splash into the gray green pond, some trying to catch fish, some becoming fish. Ponleak, the ox, looks on, weary from his day’s work, wishing he could join in. Veata is a cat, no, a tiger, and runs at us, all claws and teeth. We scamper and scream, while secretly longing to be caught. Father and Mother are there, too. Oa is handsome in his red kroma and white linen shirt. Mai, so beautiful, as if dressed for a wedding in her bright blue sampot and white av, pink butterflies in her hair. They watch us play, and I notice their hands, rested by their side, imperceptibly touch. They are happy, and so are we. Droplets of sunlight tingle our skin, and the silky grass tickles our feet. We hear music from the pagoda, the chinkle of bells ferrying the prayers of the monks, first to us, then on to The Buddha. A cool breeze whispers promises of nightfall, and the scent of rumduol flowers drips heavily through the thick evening air. Mai calls to us, her soft words swallowed up by the shouts and screams of play, but we know it is to tell us that our evening meal is soon, as if to confirm what the smell of distant burning fires already forewarned. But there is still time. There will always be time. Veata catches me. I am a tiger’s dinner. But Sann will rescue me, as he always does. For there is my home. And there, in this special place, amongst the redolent trees, and on the edge of forever, I am safe.

Chapter 1

Banteay Meanchey Province, last year

Nimith was tending the roses that grew in the garden around his house when the white SUV pulled up outside. He continued to inspect the stems of a bush, as the two men stepped down from the truck and walked along the path. A thorn on a weaker cane pricked Nimith’s thumb as he pinched it away from the bush in order to cut it. A drop of blood fell to the earth. Nimith, his hands calloused and numbed from years of gardening, felt no pain. One of the two men called his name as a question. He looked up and confirmed that it was he. He had been expecting them.

May we come in?

Both men were Khmer. The one man was dressed in city clothes, dark pants, white shirt, closed shoes, and was holding a large white envelope tied and sealed with red tape. The other man was in police uniform. Nimith knew and recognized him. Nimith bade them follow, and led them to the wooden platform beneath the house.

Can I offer you anything? Tea? Water? Have you eaten? I have a mango I have been saving. It should be perfectly sweet by now.

The two men declined. The city man, who was perhaps in his late thirties, handed Nimith the envelope. Without opening it, Nimith could feel that it contained documents. Without opening it, Nimith knew what would be written in these documents.

Can you read, Uncle?

Nimith smiled. So long as it is in Khmer, French, or English I should be fine. I used to be a schoolteacher, you know? Even today they call me loak-kru. I suppose it is better than some other titles.

I am sorry, Loak-kru. I did not mean to be insolent, but I have to ask. Would you like me to go through the papers with you, explain anything, tell you where you must go, what you have to do and when, your rights?

That is fine, young man. I will read them in my time, and if I have any questions I will call you. I assume your number is in here?

The city man reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a business card that he handed to the old teacher with both hands. Nimith received the card, also with both hands, smudging its bottom left corner with a trace of blood.

The trial will begin just after Khmer New Year. It may be another month or two before we will need you to be present. We will notify you at the time, and somebody will come to collect you. Your travel, accommodation, food, and expenses will all be taken care of. Hopefully you should not be away for more than a week.

Nimith was still holding the city man’s card. And what are they going to ask me?

Just about what happened. What you did, and were told to do. By whom. Remember, it is not you on trial. You are just a witness. You are a voice for the hundreds, thousands of people who cannot be there to tell the story of what happened to them.

And suppose I do not remember everything? Or, at least, not how it really was? It was a long time ago. Time plays tricks on the memory, and I am an old man. If you asked me what I ate with my rice for lunch yesterday, even under oath, I probably could not tell you.

It is important that you try to remember. The guilty must be held to account. You are better placed than most to say what they did, the orders they gave. You are still here. Please, Loak-kru, think of the years of suffering that your fellow Cambodians have endured. Help them to find peace.

Nimith laughed a dry laugh.

You talk of guilt, and suffering, of peace. Yes they were guilty, so was I. Many of us were guilty. We just did what we did to survive. There was no other choice. The one who is ultimately guilty has gone. He escaped. A burned corpse in the jungle. When are you going to try him? In the next life? And even the guilty suffered. I lost my wife and my only child, my son. Is any trial going to bring them back? Look around this village? See the poor farmers, and the young children working in the fields instead of going to school. Or go to the town, where the youths sit around the market, with no jobs or education, turning to drugs or crime. Will a trial bring them peace? Is that the answer to all Cambodia’s problems? The past has happened, it cannot be changed. It is time this country, and the rest of the world that meddles in it, began to live in the present.

Both the city man and the policeman were looking downward toward the bench, heads gently bowed, as if accepting a scolding from the older, wiser teacher.

I know, Nimith continued. For many there can be no progress until the past has been properly buried. Until the spirits are appeased. I will do my day in court, and answer as honestly as I can. Soon enough we will all be dead anyway. And then whom are they going to blame for everything that is wrong or corrupt in this country? Whom will they put on trial then?

The men made their sompheahs and exchanged courtesies. Nimith watched as his two visitors walked back along the path to the road, climbed back into their white truck, and drove away. He rubbed the tip of the forefinger of his left hand against the bloodied spot on his thumb. He thought of his son, his wife. How they had been separated from him and placed in another camp, working in the rice fields. Given his status in the labor camp, the one assigned for special construction projects, he had assumed that they would be fine, that they would be treated differently. One achingly hot day, news came that they were both dead. Starvation. It was then that he began to question the system, its philosophy. It was then that survival became his sole motivation, his only purpose.

Nimith thought about the boy, as he often did. He wondered where he was now.

Nimith woke early, as was his tendency these days, long before the siren. He no longer found solace in sleep, nor an escape from the pangs of loss. Nightly he would dream of his wife and child, thin and decimated, crying for a bowl of watery rice that was not to be had.

Climbing from the hammock he washed his face from the barrel of rain water, before heading to the trees to relieve himself. Returning to the guardhouse with firewood collected from the ground, he replenished the fire on the two camp stoves, and set them alight. He filled two pots, and placed them on the stoves, one for tea, one for rice. Soon his comrades would be awake, ready to start their daily responsibilities. Nimith had assumed the role of cook, with the hope that this would absolve him from other duties. But today, after breakfast, they would draw lots, including him.

Construction of the irrigation channel was behind schedule. Trenches were dug, but the promised materials were not coming through from China. They had their own problems. The labor camp’s workforce consisted of unwitting men, women, and children, most of whom were educated middle classes and bourgeoisie, involuntarily relocated from the towns and cities. As far as the regime was concerned, their existence was justifiable so long as they were productive. Now there was nothing for them to do, leaving them more time to rue their plight. If that were not problem enough, they still required feeding, and the recent rice shortages meant that food rations were becoming ever more penurious. Not surprisingly, disquiet amongst the hungry workers was on the increase, and the cadres, in light of a lack of food and an underutilized workforce, decreed that any dissent, no matter how nugatory, should be met with the sternest possible amercement. In practice this meant execution.

Over the previous weeks the guards had kept an account of every display of intransigence, every complaint or grumble, any breach of rules or regulations, and even the slightest signs of dissatisfaction or noncompliance to orders. At first Nimith was reluctant to report even the more noteworthy of incidents, but eventually he became aware of an evolving sense of competition amongst the other guards, which was carefully being monitored by their superiors. Reticently he began to make efforts to catch up. In time, and as the cadres had hoped, the guards compiled a protracted list of names. Some two hundred in total.

Then the trials began. Before an assembled court of their fellow workers, the accused would have the charges read against them. Next they were allowed to present their defense to the judge, one of the local cadres. In turn, having heard the cases for both the prosecution and the defense, the judge would call on the assembled crowd to make a statement on behalf of the defendant. If anyone agreed that the charge was unjust, they were invited to speak up on their behalf. So long as one other worker could testify to their defense before the court, the charge would be summarily dismissed. If, on the other hand, anybody felt that the charge was fair, they were free to voice support for the prosecution. In many of the cases the fellow workers of the accused would offer support for the guard’s account, providing new evidence and further charges of insubordination. For the most spurious charges, and mainly those brought against children, nobody spoke for either side. In most instances involving the younger children, who had often been separated from their families, their crime had been no more than to cry at night, or to miss their parents. Talking about family was strictly forbidden, even for cadres, and was effectively undefendable. In not one single case did anyone speak out for the defendant. The cases were usually heard, and sentence passed, in a matter of minutes. There were no dismissals. Sentences were mandatory and unchallenged. There was no right to appeal. The whole judicial process took less than three days.

The guards were to administer punishment, starting the day after all the trials had been completed. They would walk the guilty, in groups of ten, from their detention pen to a clearing in the woods. There, two trenches had been dug, each around eight or nine meters in length, and over two meters deep. In turn, the convicted would be made to kneel at the edge of the trench and a guard would swiftly deal a fatal blow to the back of their head. The whole process would take two days to perform, and the guards had elected for a rotation system, with various roles and responsibilities to be decided by a game of dice.

Before the die hit the wooden floor, Nimith knew in his stomach that it was going to be six. He had avoided taking part in the selection the previous day due to his kitchen obligations. But none of the guards who had been part of the process on day one were willing to roll the die again. Other guards would have to play their part. There was a one in two probability that Nimith would be escorting the accused to the clearing in the woods, and a one in six chance that he would be administering sentence. As the die stopped so did his heart.

Outside the house, a fellow guard, clearly more experienced in these matters, gave Nimith and another novice instruction. There would be no shooting. That was categorically not an option. The guards carried only two bullets each in the magazines of their rifles, and were under strict orders not to use them unless it was absolutely essential. If they wasted one bullet, the second would be wasted on them. Instead a pick was the instrument of choice. The instructor demonstrated how to hold it, with both hands, and how to form an arch, from the target to high above your head, twice, before bringing it down. Force was not essential, speed and weight would do the work. He pointed his finger hard into a spot, first into Nimith’s neck, before that of his fellow student, just at the top of his spine, where the head meets the neck.

If you land it right they should just slide off the point, and fall forward. If for some reason you go in too deep, and they become stuck, press the sole of your foot against the middle of their back, and then push them away, like this. Don’t kick, and remember to bring the base of the shaft downwards toward them, and not upwards and away. They should come off easily enough.

And what if we miss, or the blow doesn’t kill them, first time?

Then it’s not so pretty. If they are still moving you and your comrades are going to have to fish them back out of the hole, and finish them off. Easiest is to pin them on the ground face down, turn the head to side like this, and do them here, maybe twice for good measure.

This time the guard was pressing his finger into Nimith’s temple.

As Nimith sized up the weight of the pick, and practiced making an arch, he tried to contemplate the horror of the situation. He was a school teacher, although few of his comrades were aware of that. He had never even smacked an errant pupil. Now he was charged to take the life of twenty or so people. People who were largely innocent, whose crimes were as much to do with chance as volition. Their fate determined by the roll of an adventitious die.

Nimith spent the morning trying to relax in his hammock beneath the guard house. The executioners were exempt from all other duties that day. He watched the groups being led across the fields and into the nearby woods. He would think of his wife, his son, dying of starvation only a few kilometers from here, and tried to picture their final moments. Surely this would have been better. He would watch the guards walk back, stopping for tea at the house before collecting the next cohort. Nobody spoke as they took their insipid refreshment. It was if they had left part of themselves in those woods, along with their detainees. Their Cambodian brothers and sisters.

It’s time.

Nimith’s shift was the last of the day, and for the whole of this judicial undertaking. He walked slowly, purposely dragging behind the latest ten people being escorted to their fate. At the clearing the prisoners were separated and made to stand with their noses pressed against a tree. They were instructed not to turn around. One by one they were led by two guards to the open trench, and made to kneel. Some pleaded for mercy, most cried, few resisted. Nimith stood behind them, and just as he had been instructed, made his arch with the heavy pick. The other guards stood aside, turning their backs, already making their way to the next tree. Nimith said the same words, please don’t move, it is better if you don’t move. One, two, and…the speed and weight of the pick did all the work. He was merely its facilitator.

As Nimith waited for the next group, he wiped the sweat from the wooden shaft of the pick with his kroma. He tried not to look at the blood, skin, and hair that had congealed into a thin film covering the end one of its points. He would worry about that later, when he was finished. Then he would clean the pick before returning it to its place amongst the other construction tools.

As the last of the next ten victims fell silently and unelegantly into the mass grave, Nimith sighed. In that sigh was relief, remorse, disgust. He was not a religious man, but he knew that this was a violation of a universal moral code. He might not believe in god, but he did believe in karma.

Comrade, wait up, there are three more. And that’s it.

As the guards left him alone to fetch the last detainees, Nimith contemplated running into the thick of the woods, dissolving in its density, disappearing into the night. Who would find him? From here he could be in the village of his birth long before sunrise. There his mother would hide him for a few days, until they stopped searching. Then he could walk to the border, in maybe just two days. His heart began to race as he mulled the prospect. And what if he was caught? What would they do? Kill him? Better to be killed than a killer. But Nimith did not run. He was staring into the forest, his mind racing into the darkness of the branches, yet his feet were frozen to the ground of the clearing, with its two trenches and however many corpses. Nimith was not going anywhere. Not yet. He would add to his tally before heading back to the guardhouse for a bowl of watery borbor and another sleepless night in his hammock.

The last three people to be executed were two men and a child. Nimith did not want to think about anything, other than ensuring that his arch was right. That it was swift and painless. That the pick did the work, not he. Dutifully and systematically he dispatched with the two men. Lastly the child was brought. With each new prisoner the spot would be moved along the trench, to ensure an even distribution of corpses. Now it was so full it hardly mattered. There would be less than a meter for the workers to fill in the morning.

The boy was maybe ten, or eleven. Around the same age as Nimith’s son. He remembered him from his trial. He had been caught eating a cockroach, which was against camp regulations. His only defense was that he was hungry. Nobody spoke up for him. Who amongst them had not eaten any insect that was unfortunate enough to crawl under their blanket at night? He was guilty as charged, and now his young life was to be abruptly terminated at the end of Nimith’s pick. He began to make his first arch. As he did he looked over his shoulder. The other two guards were standing with their backs to Nimith, talking to each other while both urinating. Nimith started his first arch again. He looked behind him once more. Both guards were engrossed in their discussion and both in full stream. Nimith crouched close behind the boy and put his mouth to his ear.

This will hurt, but it will not kill you. Do not make a sound, no matter how painful it is, do you hear me? Fall into the ditch and do not move. Stay still until nightfall. Then head in to the wood, to the right of us, in the opposite direction to the camp. Eventually you will find the stream, follow its direction until you come to a village, maybe six or seven kilometers from here. Ask for M’dai Seng. Tell her Poeu sent you, and that she should hide you, and help you get to the border, to the camps in Thailand.

Come on comrade, let’s get back, this place gives me the creeps.

Nimith started to make his arch for the third time and wondered if the boy had understood his instructions. If he could remember. As Nimith drew his trajectory to bring the top of the shaft onto the boy’s left shoulder he hoped that he would not cry out, that he would bite his tongue and topple onto the bodies below him. That he would play dead. One. Two. As the speed and weight of the pick drove its final descent the boy turned his head, as though trying to look at Nimith, his mouth open as if he was going to say something. Maybe it was to ask about the directions, or his mother’s name. Or maybe it was to say something entirely different. Nimith would never know. Before the shaft of the pick could make contact with his shoulder, the point of the head pierced into the boy’s check, and out through his mouth, tearing the flesh on the side of his face wide open. As the wooden shaft slammed against the boy’s body, Nimith’s eyes caught his. He tumbled forward into the trench, arms first, as if diving into a pond. Nimith held his breath. The boy was clearly alive, but would be feeling excruciating pain. He watched the boy as he lay across the corpses. His body pulsed, momentarily, as he appeared to make himself comfortable. Then he stopped moving, even his breathing indiscernible. And not a sound. Nimith let out another deep sigh. This time it was one of relief, scented with hope.

Is he done? Can we go?

Yes, comrade. Let’s go. I have a pick to clean.

Nimith’s thumb had stopped bleeding. He held up the large envelope, and considered opening it. He put it back on the wooden platform, next to the white card with its pale red thumbprint. He did not have to think about it anymore today. And so Nimith went back to tending his roses.

Chapter 2

Phnom Penh, earlier this year

The man separates the riel from the dollars and flicks through the brightly colored notes, searching for numerals he can recognize. How many of these to one dollar? The waitress smiles back, almost apologetically. Four thousand is one dollar. He counts the more familiar green bills. I gave you twenty, right? Those notes go in his