“Because …?”
“It’s … I don’t know …”
“Safer?”
“Yes.”
“I understand,” she said, barely above a whisper.
We ate in the restaurant attached to the hotel. A nice place—clean and pretty quiet, considering the bar was right in the center of everything. Gem ate … carefully, I guess would be the word for it. Slowly, chewing every bite a great number of times. But steadily, too, never varying her pace. She finished a whole roasted chicken, right down to cleaning the bones with her small, very white teeth. And a large tossed salad. Four helpings of rolls. Three large glasses of apple juice. A plate of fried onion rings. A side of roasted potatoes.
I did most of the talking, and there wasn’t much of that. A thin rain slanted down against the plate glass of the window next to our table. All around us, activity. Between us, peaceful quiet.
The waiter came and went, raising his eyebrows a couple of times, silently comparing the diminishing pile of food in front of Gem with her slim frame. He opened his mouth to ask her where she put it, but I caught his eye and he closed right down.
Gem ordered a slab of double-fudge cake for dessert. I had the same, mine with twin scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. “Oh!” she said, when she saw my addition. Then she helped herself to one of the scoops.
When she was completely finished, Gem wet her napkin in a glass of water, then patted her mouth and lips. “You didn’t say anything,” she said.
“About what?”
“About me being such a pig.”
“A pig? You eat as neatly as a … I don’t know.”
“Neatly, yes. But a lot.”
“I understand.”
“You … understand?
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“It is I who should apologize. I invite your comment, then I make you feel bad for it. Please tell me … what you meant.”
She returned my gaze. Serene, not confronting. But not backing away.
“There was a time when food was very precious to you,” I said.
“Yes. Do you know when that was?”
“Twenty, twenty-five years ago?”
“Yes. But you … guess, do you not? I mean, you do not know this for a fact; it is a surmise?”
“That’s right. The beast got loose in Cambodia in 1975, I think.”
“I was five years old,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy, but her eyes stayed on mine, unblinking. “My father was a lawyer. You know what happened to anyone with an education? To anyone with any knowledge of the world outside the fields?”
“Pol Pot.”
“He was only one of them. A symbol. A horrible butcher, yes. But he did not kill three million people by himself. The Khmer Rouge were swollen with lust for blood. If the Vietnamese had not come, the killing would have gone on until there was no one left to die.”
“How did you—?”
“My parents knew they were coming. They knew there was no escape. My mother was a peasant born. She had friends in the fields. My parents handed me over. My new people tried to provide for me. It was … impossible.
“I … eventually lived with a guerrilla group near the Thai border. They purchased me from the people who had me. They were not freedom fighters; they were drug lords. When the leader discovered I could do sums very quickly, he got me books. About money. He was very interested in money.
“The books were mostly in English. Some were in Russian. There were Russian soldiers in the jungle. Independent outfits. It was as if they all knew governments would fall, but heroin would always have value. Like gold or diamonds. So they traded together. Made alliances. I became the translator for the leader. He could trust me, because I was a child, so I had no power. Even if I could have escaped, the jungle would have devoured me.
“I was very patient. One night I was able to leave. In Thailand, money is god. I had to be very careful. Anyone would hurt you. Anyone would take your money. But I did speak English. I found some students. American students. In the Peace Corps. One of them helped me buy papers. I came here. First to California. I had names of people. I found some of them. And then I found myself.”
“Why would you tell me this?” I asked her.
“To be fair. I know about you.”
“What could you know?”
“My … people, in New York, they say you are a man for hire.”
“Even if that were so—”
“But here, you are hunting for yourself. This is personal, not professional.”
