Death in the Rainy Season Page 26

  Morel sipped at his coffee and winced. It was bitter but it was exactly what he needed.

  ‘It takes Paul a while to let anyone get close to him,’ she said. ‘When he does, then he’s yours for life. He is incredibly loyal and devoted.’

  Morel nodded. He could see that.

  ‘There was a time, early on in our marriage, when things were difficult,’ Mariko said. ‘Paul was unhappy with himself, failing in his work. It was the opposite for me. I had a job I loved. I found it hard to be sympathetic. I mean, I was for a while, but when it went on for months . . .’ She looked at Morel. ‘He wouldn’t touch me. He wouldn’t open up. I know it makes me sound dreadfully selfish, but I became so unhappy. However confident you are, however much you try to convince yourself that it’s not about you, it can really wear you down. Paul has always suffered from depression, you know. It comes and goes. It was at its worst then. His mother suffered some sort of mental breakdown when he was twelve. She never recovered, and no one knows what brought it on.’ She gave Morel a pleading look. ‘Paul is so hard on himself. He is the smartest, kindest person I know, yet he is forever beating himself up. Sometimes it’s hard to live with, and you need to get away, and take a big breath, so you don’t get dragged under. Do you understand?’

  Morel nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘Around that time, I had a work trip. To Bangkok. I ran into Hugo.’

  ‘Ran into him? There’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Well, I knew he was in Phnom Penh, of course. We kept in touch, and I mentioned I was going to Bangkok for work. He said he would come and meet me there. That it would be nice to catch up.’

  ‘You didn’t find that strange?’

  ‘Of course not. Hugo was our close friend. It seemed perfectly natural. Obviously I told Paul. He had no problem with it at all.’

  ‘In Bangkok, Hugo and I went out for dinner on my last night. It was lovely. I felt relaxed and happy for the first time in months. With Paul being so miserable, it was good to be with someone so alive, so positive. He cheered me up. He suggested that we have another drink in his room and I accepted. And then . . .’

  ‘You had sex.’

  ‘Yes. It was stupid. But it meant nothing. We were glad to see each other again, and he cheered me up. He made me feel good about myself. I felt like Paul hadn’t seen me – properly seen me – in a long time. It felt nice.’ She gave Morel a defiant look. ‘I know what you’re thinking. What a bitch I was, sleeping with Paul’s best friend while Paul was so down.’

  ‘You were lonely and unhappy. You loved your husband but you weren’t sure that your love was reciprocated. We’re all human.’

  ‘I would regret it,’ she went on, as if she hadn’t heard what Morel had said. ‘But I can’t. Because of Nora.’

  ‘You got pregnant.’

  ‘Yes. I knew straight away that the child was Hugo’s. Paul and I hardly slept together at the time. His libido was completely gone.’

  ‘But you did sleep together, once you found out you were pregnant. So Paul wouldn’t question it.’

  ‘It sounds cold and calculating when you put it like that. But yes.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Morel’s mind was racing.

  ‘Did you ever tell anyone about what happened?’

  ‘Apart from Hugo?’

  Morel nodded.

  ‘The only other person who knows is Florence. Hugo told her when they first met.’

  ‘She told me,’ Morel said. ‘We had a chat, earlier this evening.’

  ‘Florence has always been very understanding of the whole thing. She worshipped Hugo. Never questioned anything he did or said.’

  ‘Why tell Hugo and not Paul?’ Morel asked.

  ‘I thought I knew Hugo. He would take it on the chin. Telling Paul was a different story. He would feel terribly betrayed. Imagine what it would have done to his self-confidence. I didn’t want to lose him.’

  ‘So Hugo took it on the chin,’ Morel continued. ‘But he encouraged you to move to Phnom Penh, so he could be closer to his child.’

  ‘He didn’t put it that way.’

  ‘But that was what he meant.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  Morel finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair. ‘So tell me. What happened when you met with Hugo at the hotel on Sunday night?’

  ‘He said he wanted to talk in private. When I got there, he was acting strange. Trying to charm me.’ She looked up at Morel. ‘It wasn’t me he wanted. It was Nora. He wanted to be her father. It wasn’t enough, to watch her grow without knowing. He thought he could charm me into doing whatever he asked.’

  ‘Paul was at the hotel that night,’ Morel said. ‘I think he did more than just drop Hugo off. He went inside. Maybe he thought he’d stop for one drink with Hugo, after all. Maybe there was something he’d forgotten to tell him. It’s possible he walked up to Hugo’s door, and heard you.’

  Mariko looked stricken.

  ‘Another thing,’ Morel said. ‘I think when Nora left, she went to Jeremy’s. And while she was there, Paul went to see her.’

  ‘He told me he hadn’t seen her. That he didn’t know where she was . . .’

  ‘I think maybe she asked him to come. She wanted to tell him about you.’

  ‘She thought I was having an affair with Hugo,’ Mariko said, figuring it out. She shook her head.

  ‘What was your relationship with Hugo Quercy, by the end?’ Morel asked. ‘How was it between you two?’

  ‘Hugo changed, you know,’ Mariko said, as if following her own train of thought. ‘He became blinded by his successes. He thought he could and should get everything he wanted, because he was somehow special.’ Mariko hid her face in her hands. ‘What a dreadful mess,’ she said. ‘The destruction I’ve caused.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault Hugo died. People make their own choices,’ Morel said. The conviction in his voice made her raise her head.

  ‘Paul,’ she said.

  Morel stood up and extended his hand towards her. ‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘we need to find Paul.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  They drove to the hotel. Mariko sat in the back. Quietly, so that she would not hear, Morel told Sarit to drive faster. There was no need to keep their voices down, though, Morel realized. The poor woman was in a daze and seemed completely removed.

  To Morel’s surprise and dismay, Adam Spencer was waiting in the lobby when they arrived. He stood up when he saw Morel. When he caught sight of Mariko, he hesitated.

  ‘What are you doing here so late?’ Morel asked.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Adam said, gesturing to Morel’s face. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. You don’t look so great yourself.’

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ Spencer said vaguely. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I needed to see you.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this now,’ Morel said impatiently. Sarit had moved away from them, towards the reception desk, but Mariko stayed by his side, as if she drew comfort from him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk with you. I called but they couldn’t tell me when you’d be back.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ Morel said. The last thing he felt like doing now was listening to Adam Spencer. Whatever he had to tell him could wait.

  ‘It’ll only take a minute,’ Adam said.

  ‘What is it?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Hugo didn’t get killed because of the land evictions.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’ Adam looked aggrieved. Mariko watched Adam with a bemused air. She seemed stunned, as if she couldn’t quite come to grips with the way things were unfolding.

  ‘Before I left the folder at your hotel, I made copies of what was inside. I took the papers to a guy who’s been lobbying against the evictions for years,’ Adam said. ‘He’s a veteran, probably the most respected guy in Phnom Penh, doing some good work.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me in no uncertain terms he thought
Hugo was an amateur. That he’d been too self-involved to do his own job properly, let alone make a useful contribution in areas like the land grabs. Can you believe it? I was stunned.’

  Mariko had drifted off towards the reception area, where Paul’s office was located.

  Morel watched her go, then looked back at Adam, who seemed to expect some sort of reaction from him. Morel saw everything in his eyes. The way he’d admired Hugo, and the relief that came from knowing that the man he’d revered was fallible. It seemed to free him.

  ‘Have you found who did this to him then?’ Adam Spencer asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Morel said. He didn’t want Spencer hanging around. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll call you once I have some news.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, you know.’

  ‘I know that too. Now go home.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Morel turned and moved to join Mariko. Sarit and a young male receptionist came towards them.

  ‘Why are they looking at us like that?’ Mariko said.

  Morel glanced at her. She was so pale. He caught her as she lurched towards him, before straightening herself again. The receptionist led her to an armchair in the lobby and encouraged her to sit down.

  ‘What is it?’ Morel asked Sarit. He kept an eye on Mariko. She was sitting with both hands gripping the armrests. The young employee knelt by her side. He seemed unsure what to do.

  ‘The office door is locked. But Arda is in there. A few of the employees saw him go inside earlier. They say he hasn’t come out.’ Sarit remained impassive and Morel was grateful for that.

  The two of them headed towards the office.

  ‘Paul? It’s me, Morel.’

  No answer. Morel held his ear to the door, listened carefully. Nothing.

  ‘There must be a spare set of keys,’ he said, without turning around.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Sarit said.

  Morel turned to find Mariko right behind him. She went up to the door and spoke into the keyhole.

  ‘Paul. Please open this door.’

  ‘We need a key to get in. Quickly,’ Sarit told the receptionist who was staring wide-eyed.

  The young man scurried off and Sarit followed. Morel waited with Mariko outside the door. Neither of them bothered to call out again. Morel’s arm was around her shoulders, bearing her up. Her eyes were wide and unseeing.

  It seemed like an eternity before the pair returned. Sarit unlocked the door and stood aside, as if unwilling to be the first to go in. Morel gestured for Mariko and the receptionist to stay back and he entered the room, feeling his heart sink.

  Followed closely by Sarit, he stepped into the office and froze. There, swinging from a rope tied to a beam, was Paul Arda.

  ‘We came too late,’ Sarit said.

  Morel couldn’t speak. He felt Mariko enter the room and push past him to get to her husband. The sound that rose from her throat was more than he could bear.

  PART 6

  SATURDAY 1 OCTOBER

  FORTY-SIX

  All through September, the rains caused havoc along the Mekong River and the Tonle Sap Lake, ruining rice crops and destroying houses; tens of thousands became stranded, their livelihoods gone. But in the capital, the flooding was less acute. The people of Phnom Penh took the rains in their stride. Children splashed each other on the streets and hawkers in plastic raincoats simply traded their wares higher off the ground.

  On the day of his departure, Morel rose early. He got ready and left the hotel without having breakfast. On the street, he found a motorcycle driver to take him where he wanted to go. His phone rang several times but he ignored it.

  His uncle opened the door, wearing pyjamas. He looked shocked and Morel realized how he must appear: worn out, with a banged-up face. The stitches probably didn’t help.

  Before Sam could say anything, Morel spoke.

  ‘This has gone on long enough,’ he said.

  Morel sipped gratefully at his sweet, milky tea. He was not normally a tea drinker and he was surprised at how good it felt. Outside it was raining again. The sounds of a new day rose up to meet him. The slushing of tyres and the opening of shutters. Voices calling out to each other, tinny music, the laughter of children. The smells from the food stalls where breakfast was being prepared. Pork rice, porridge and beef stew.

  ‘Your mother called me, before she died,’ Sam said. He looked like he’d aged over the past couple of days.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When she found out she was sick. She wanted to talk about what had happened.’

  ‘To the family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Morel took a breath. ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘She wanted to know what had happened to our parents and to our siblings. She knew they were dead, of course. That the Khmer Rouge had killed most of our family. But she had never asked for any details. Not until then.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did she ask, you mean?’ Sam’s expression was pained. ‘She knew she was very ill. I think she wanted to face the truth. About her death and also about her life.’

  Morel contemplated this. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more. The nightmarish events of the previous night hadn’t yet left him.

  ‘She wanted to explain why she had stayed away,’ Sam added.

  ‘And did she?’ Morel asked.

  Sam looked down. ‘I didn’t let her,’ he said.

  ‘So she never got to explain.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did you tell her what she wanted to hear? About the rest of the family?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I was still angry with her. After everything we’d gone through here. To have my sister act as if we no longer mattered. But I regret it now. Very much. I should have spoken. I didn’t realize how ill she was. I thought there would be time.’

  Morel leaned back in his chair. He had a headache. He wanted to leave but he knew he couldn’t.

  ‘Tell me now, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me what happened, when the Khmer Rouge came.’

  He reached Monument Books just as it was opening. As he entered, the rain intensified and he hurried inside, flushed and exhausted from the walk, his hair clinging to his forehead. He needed a change of clothes but it would have to wait.

  He was early for his meeting. He wandered from shelf to shelf in a daze. His uncle’s words echoed in his head.

  I was in Battambang because I wanted to get away from the politics, from my father’s disillusionment. It was a good place to be. Quieter than Phnom Penh. Then people started to move into the city from the countryside. As early as 1974. They were moving into Battambang because they were scared. We couldn’t send them away, so we just shared with them whatever we had.

  It was becoming more and more crowded. Soon, your two other aunts came to stay with me. Our grandmother too, our mother’s mother. She was eighty-two and partially blind. She had a bad leg and couldn’t walk. It was our parents’ decision that she should come to Battambang.

  We felt we needed to stick together, and being there seemed safer, somehow, than the capital. Only our youngest sister and our brother remained in Phnom Penh with our parents. We didn’t go anywhere. We were storing food and money.

  When the Khmer Rouge came, they told us we had three days to clear out. But they came into our houses on the first day. In the end there was no time to gather any of our belongings. We all left, the older ones carrying the small ones, and went into the countryside. We walked and walked, and along the way we saw bodies. I’ll never forget those first days.

  The worst thing was that we had to leave our grandmother behind. She could never have survived the walk. We cooked rice for her and left water. That was the most we could do.

  Morel thought about the victims. Those who’d lost their lives and those who had survived. The haunted faces in the black-and-white photographs at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. The Khmer Rouge had kept a record, just like the Nazis before them. Where did it come
from, this urge among the perpetrators to document the horrors they were capable of?

  Morel’s grandmother – his mother’s mother – had been shot and his grandfather beaten to death. His youngest aunt had lived with the anguish of her parents’ senseless deaths, before dying herself of illness and starvation. His uncle had perished at Tuol Sleng, after weeks of unspeakable suffering. The list went on. Only Samdech had survived.

  This was the truth his mother had found herself unable to face for so many years. There was knowing and then there was knowing, truly. Every detail, every image brought to life. No wonder she hadn’t returned after 1975. It was intolerable.

  And yet, there were other things he wished he could tell her. About Chenda’s inquiring mind. Jorani’s inquisitive eyes. The present and the future. And all around him, the bustle and noise of humanity. People carried on. Not only that, they lived.

  There was nothing in the bookshop he really wanted to look at but he remembered Maly, for whom he hadn’t yet picked a gift. He’d already bought something for Adèle in Siem Reap: a bracelet fashioned from a recycled bomb shell. He was closer to Maly yet it was always harder to choose for her. In the end he settled on a coffee-table book on the temples of Cambodia.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and the quiet was replaced, briefly, by a rush of noise. Florence Quercy closed her umbrella and held it, dripping, in one hand. She found Morel with her eyes and smiled.

  ‘I tried to call you but you didn’t answer your phone. So I called your Khmer colleague. He said he was meeting you here. I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sorry you had to come through all that rain.’

  ‘I really don’t mind. I think it’s one of the things I’ll miss most, you know. This rain.’

  ‘I know,’ Morel found himself saying. ‘I will too.’

  ‘I probably could have waited till this evening. Given that we’re on the same flight, we’ll probably see each other at the airport,’ Florence said.