The holidays loomed over us for months, neither of us mentioned it but the prospect of living for four weeks in the first world was daunting. We made a good team, a marriage forged in the damp heat of the jungle. We were married out there, in the gardens of the Embassy by a Consular official, papers double-signed in curving strange letters and English, surrounded by frangipani and bourgainvillea trees, groups of fireflies spinning underneath the branches. We worked together, rarely spent time to ourselves, always pursued by laughing children or inquisitive neighbours; when we weren't at the school I was at the slum and she was working in the village.
That first week she stayed with me I was nervous, worried she'd hate this place I'd fallen in love with. Came back early from school one day, wandering up the path with the same delight as the children I've just released; no school! And even the teacher's delighted. I spied her through the leaves and waited, oppressively hot that day, overcast, humid, sweat trickling down my neck as I try not to make a sound. A group of women squatting together, laughing, joking, one is singing; keeping time for my girl, clutching a pole at least as tall as her, pounding rice flour and water into dough. Flushed and sweating, shirt cast aside, left in a vest top and sampot, catch the glint of her engagement ring on the cord around her neck. Voyeur, sneaking peeks through the plants, listen to them laughing. A new joke, requires a mime, aimed at her and she turns, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. Her eyes are wide, blush creeping across her cheeks, a woman is estimating size with her hands. Shake my head and step out of my hiding place, she catches my eye and laughter erupts around her before sharp orders are barked in Khmer. Behind me Ama is standing four feet tall, steel grey hair, face lined, fists clenched on her hips as she corrals her ladies back to their duties.
Later I look at her again, across the bed, examine the contrasts of our skin, she's still pale, slightly jet-lagged, dark circles under her eyes, white skin and fresh new clothes still smell of Western laundry. I'm dishevilled, unshaven, tanned so dark she didn't recognise me at the airport. Meeting her there my stomach was in knots; already been settled in the village for two months, already tanned, leaner, stronger, dropping Khmer words into English, clothes already sunbleached and tired. My arm lying heavy across her hip, hand on her stomach, calloused skin against hers. Relief washes over me many times in the next few weeks, every time I see her working dough into rice noodles, cooking pork over an open fire, slicking sweat away with the back of her forearm, catching my eye and smiling. Relieved that she's swimming rather than sinking.
A year later we're contemplating four weeks "back home" with unease. This is home. What will we do with running water and electricity? She mentions it first, carrying a vast basket of laundry in lean brown arms. "Washing machine" she declares, dumping the basket at my feet. What? She grins wickedly "all that time I won't have to spend knee-deep in the Seine washing things!"
And this time both of us have changed, our friends meeting us at Charles de Gaulle don't recognise us, her hair longer, down to her waist, mine shaven, both of us so tanned we look Khmer. Can't remember the special way you have to tweak our front door to get it to open. "This is why there are no doors at home" she murmurs, arms around my waist, words muffled by my shirt, draped on me - it's thirty hours since we left the village. At home. She's right, this flat isn't home any more.
Later; feel of the washing machine vibrating the floor, curl against her, press a kiss to the back of her neck, smell of shampoo and detergent seem foreign now after the smell of sweat, ginger and smoke. She closes her arm over mine. "So what were you going to do with this spare time?" A quick glare over her shoulder and she elbows me in the ribs. "Sleep now or I'll take it all to the Seine" she threatens already half asleep as I laugh quietly into the back of her neck.
That first week she stayed with me I was nervous, worried she'd hate this place I'd fallen in love with. Came back early from school one day, wandering up the path with the same delight as the children I've just released; no school! And even the teacher's delighted. I spied her through the leaves and waited, oppressively hot that day, overcast, humid, sweat trickling down my neck as I try not to make a sound. A group of women squatting together, laughing, joking, one is singing; keeping time for my girl, clutching a pole at least as tall as her, pounding rice flour and water into dough. Flushed and sweating, shirt cast aside, left in a vest top and sampot, catch the glint of her engagement ring on the cord around her neck. Voyeur, sneaking peeks through the plants, listen to them laughing. A new joke, requires a mime, aimed at her and she turns, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. Her eyes are wide, blush creeping across her cheeks, a woman is estimating size with her hands. Shake my head and step out of my hiding place, she catches my eye and laughter erupts around her before sharp orders are barked in Khmer. Behind me Ama is standing four feet tall, steel grey hair, face lined, fists clenched on her hips as she corrals her ladies back to their duties.
Later I look at her again, across the bed, examine the contrasts of our skin, she's still pale, slightly jet-lagged, dark circles under her eyes, white skin and fresh new clothes still smell of Western laundry. I'm dishevilled, unshaven, tanned so dark she didn't recognise me at the airport. Meeting her there my stomach was in knots; already been settled in the village for two months, already tanned, leaner, stronger, dropping Khmer words into English, clothes already sunbleached and tired. My arm lying heavy across her hip, hand on her stomach, calloused skin against hers. Relief washes over me many times in the next few weeks, every time I see her working dough into rice noodles, cooking pork over an open fire, slicking sweat away with the back of her forearm, catching my eye and smiling. Relieved that she's swimming rather than sinking.
A year later we're contemplating four weeks "back home" with unease. This is home. What will we do with running water and electricity? She mentions it first, carrying a vast basket of laundry in lean brown arms. "Washing machine" she declares, dumping the basket at my feet. What? She grins wickedly "all that time I won't have to spend knee-deep in the Seine washing things!"
And this time both of us have changed, our friends meeting us at Charles de Gaulle don't recognise us, her hair longer, down to her waist, mine shaven, both of us so tanned we look Khmer. Can't remember the special way you have to tweak our front door to get it to open. "This is why there are no doors at home" she murmurs, arms around my waist, words muffled by my shirt, draped on me - it's thirty hours since we left the village. At home. She's right, this flat isn't home any more.
Later; feel of the washing machine vibrating the floor, curl against her, press a kiss to the back of her neck, smell of shampoo and detergent seem foreign now after the smell of sweat, ginger and smoke. She closes her arm over mine. "So what were you going to do with this spare time?" A quick glare over her shoulder and she elbows me in the ribs. "Sleep now or I'll take it all to the Seine" she threatens already half asleep as I laugh quietly into the back of her neck.
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