Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

She spoke for exactly thirty minutes, this brilliant, fluent, destroyed young person. She told tales and recounted scenes so awful that if a listener considered for one moment they might be true, he would never be able to trust another human being. He would be left with the impression that there was nothing in the world save hate and evil. Hundreds of thousands executed, abused, left to die by the roadside. The genocide of intellectuals. A one-sided war against pale skin, Chinese faces, soft hands and spectacles. Two thousand years of Khmer history erased like a pencil sketch from the compendium of time. She spoke so bluntly of atrocities that she might have been a newsreader. At the end of her account she apologised for her poor French. As a sort of ironic afterthought, she mentioned that she'd been there in the cellar for four months. She said they had received no credible news of the world for four years and was wondering who had won the Nobel prize for literature in 1975. She had been following the judging when…

Siri couldn't give her an answer to her question. Nor could he speak. His stomach was a sack of lead shot. She had crushed his heart with her story, this innocent girl. When he eventually found words, his voice wasn't one he recognised.

"How did you get back to Phnom Penh?" he asked.

"I'd worked for two years carrying earth at the irrigation site," she said. "Digging latrines. Pleasing cadres. But they had my autobiography. They knew who I was. Somebody decided they needed to be seen to preserve our birthright. Incredibly, they had locked our treasures away. They brought me back to supervise the museum. I had no heart for it. It wasn't just the messages the Khmer Rouge had beaten into us, that rich is bad, poor is pure and good. I looked around me at all the opulence in the museum. The statues, the paintings, the gems. They had taken on a new meaning to me. They were the spoils of other warlords, other oppressive regimes who had stolen enough treasures to make their mark on history. They were symbols of tyranny. I hated it all.

"I knew Ambassador Kavinh. He had supported some of my father's projects. I ran away from the dormitory and came here. He has risked his own life to look after us. I am grateful to him and some days I think I am lucky to be alive. But mostly I regret that they didn't bury me out there with my sisters. I know these years will live inside me until I am old. All of us here, by the Lord's good grace, we all survived, but the killing fields will not leave our hearts. We are all charred by the flames of hell."?

Comrade Ta Khev, the Khmer Rouge cadre, awoke from a blissful sleep. As usual, it took him a few seconds to recall where he was. Good bed. Nice room. This was the life. Enough of all that jungle living. He'd endured poverty all his life and it was shit. This was what they'd dreamed of back then. A cushy city job, good food, and power. The high life and whatever it takes to get there. He rose from his bed, put on his black shirt and walked through the house to the little alcove that had once been the servants' sewing room. A room exclusively for sewing. He laughed. Those French. They certainly knew how to spend it. If he had money he'd build himself a counting room. A room where he kept all his money and he'd sit there all day counting it. He'd drink classy French wine and he'd count his money. He rubbed his full belly and opened the door. The cot was there in the middle of the little room but it was empty.

"Arrogant Lao," he said to himself. "I knew you were going to be a problem as soon as I — "

He heard a cistern flush across the hall and a tap run. He went out in time to catch the old doctor stagger out of the bathroom. He looked in a bad way. He used the wall to hold himself up and tottered across to the sewing room. Comrade Ta Khev stepped out of his way. He asked the old Lao how he was but Siri ignored him and stumbled to the cot. It croaked like a toad as he lay on it. The cadre smiled and muttered in Khmer;

"Good. Serves you right. Arrogant Lao."

Siri listened to the footsteps walking off along the hallway and rubbed his face with his palms. The girl's voice still crackled in his mind. He didn't want to believe her. He didn't want to think he could be one of a species that had no respect for its own kind. He'd dedicated fifty-odd years to preserving life. It was precious. Every one he saved and every one he lost. They all had value. Yet, if she were to be believed, lives here were being squashed and trodden underfoot. There was no logic to it. No sense.

Ambassador Kavinh had heard the Khmer Rouge leaders describe it as an experiment. An experiment in human engineering. But to Siri's ears it was jealousy, pure and simple. The have-nots wiping out the haves. The country poor had swept across the land like a black-suited plague and exterminated the rich and the educated. Then they'd moved against the middle classes, the not-so-rich and the semi-educated. And, when there was nobody left to hate, the Khmer Rouge had begun to turn on itself. And here, what was left of the administration, hanging by a threadbare noose. A still-kicking corpse, living in fear and paranoia.

Siri couldn't allow himself to believe it. If it were true, what was there to stop the plague from spreading across the northern border? Why shouldn't it take hold in the souls of his Lao brothers and sisters? Why shouldn't his country become a laboratory for its own inhuman experiment? If collectivism was an ideal state, then why not slavery? Why not kill those infected with the capitalist disease and be left with pure socialist man toiling eight hours a day with no ambition and no dreams? If death proved a convenient way of culling the populace here, why should his own leaders not…?

He opened his eyes and spoke aloud.

"What if it's started already?"

With so little news and such a poor communication system, how could he really be sure there was no systematic slaughter in his own country? What became of all those members of the old regime sent for re-education in the north? What became of the missing hill tribe people attempting to escape to Thailand? Surely the Lao couldn't…It was all too much to take in. He felt as if his head was a pot and he was attempting to fill it with all the water from a village reservoir in one journey. He began to drown in the small room. He needed air. He needed evidence of normality. Children playing in front of their homes. Old ladies smiling from windows. Pretty girls ignoring the bawdy comments of street-corner youths. He didn't mind if they were the country poor brought to the city and crammed into rich people's houses like fast-breeding rats. It wasn't important. He just needed to feel humanity around him. For his own sanity he had to be sure that at some level, life went on in this country.

The life he was looking for would not be found behind the barricades of the embassy ghetto. It wouldn't be amongst the prisoners of diplomacy with their huge concrete flower pots and their street cleaners and their ghost minders. He would have to break out of this wonderland and see what genesis of a future he could find in the dirt-poor suburbs.

He went through the back kitchen door and into the garden. He knew that the people in the cellar hadn't walked in past the sentries at the main gate. There had to be another way in and out. The original white wall around the garden was two metres high but another metre of breeze blocks had been crudely cemented on top of that. That in turn was garnished with ugly broken glass. The breeze-block barrier crossed the side street beside the embassy and climbed another garden wall on the far side before snaking off into the distance like the great wall of China. Siri had no doubt it blocked in every yard and every building in the quarter. The embassy compound was East Berlin.

Siri was certain that with a pick and ten minutes he could have a hole in that jerry-built wall big enough to climb through. But he'd have every minder in the street on his back before he could remove one brick. No, he had to believe that those who built the wall saw it as a symbolic representation of power. They wouldn't have imagined anyone in the embassy with the gall to challenge them. He strolled around a muddy garden still lovingly cared for by the Lao. He inspected the original white wall. Where it formed the border to the adjoining yard it was overgrown with a hysterical wisteria. An ornamental rockery leaned against the display with ledges of pansies and other effeminate border plants. From top to bottom ran a sculptured waterfall which no longer spouted.