Read Online The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers by Anton Piatigorsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Anton Piatigorsky
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steady and monotonous tone.
“Forms are to be abandoned
.
The ear is to be abandoned. Sounds are to be abandoned
.
The nose is to be abandoned. Aromas are to be abandoned
.
The tongue is to be abandoned. Flavours are to be abandoned
.
The body is to be abandoned. Tactile sensations are to be abandoned
.
The eye is to be—”
“
Sra-thnot
?” interrupts a craggy voice.
Sâr twitches with surprise and opens his eyes to an old, twiggy Vietnamese man in wide trousers and a full-body robe standing too close to his bench. His turtle-like face is withered and toothless. From a long bamboo yoke draped over his narrow shoulders dangle a dozen or so hollowed sections of cut bamboo, fastened with twine. They bump and bong against each other like a pagoda’s wind chimes.
“You want some
sra-thnot
?” the Vietnamese man repeats. His broken voice, husky and soft, implies a larynx riddled with cancer, as well as a more rudimentary geriatric decay. “It’s very good
areng
palm. The best and strongest. Try it. I think you want to.”
The man has already tilted his yoke and started to untie a hollowed bamboo section filled with rich palm wine.
“No,” says Sâr, “please.”
The vendor holds a pungent cup of syrupy liquid beneath Sâr’s nose. “Here,” he says. “Take it. Very strong. You like to be drunk? Only one piastre.”
Sâr bows his head in deference. “Thank you,” he whispers, “but I don’t want any wine. Thank you very much, but I will say no.”
“It makes you laughing drunk. You don’t like that?” The man’s tone has grown more aggressive. “Why not? You’ve never had it maybe? It makes you laugh. You understand?It’s fun. It’s very funny. If you’d had it before, you wouldn’t refuse.”
Sâr bows his head several times, exaggerating his respect. “That’s very kind, thank you. But no, I am sure. I must say no.”
The vendor grunts and retracts the wine. He takes a moment to study this mysteriously sombre boy, assessing whether or not he can push him into a sale. Conceding defeat, he ties the bamboo section back onto the pole with the twine. When the yoke is balanced on the vendor’s shoulders, he digs his hand into a hidden pocket and extracts a small packet of tobacco wrapped in banana leaf. He peels it open, takes a pinch, and packs it into his cheek. As he regards the grand scope of the riverscape before them, he gnaws at the raw leaf with his toothless gums.
The sun is half hidden behind a strip of foliage on the far shore. A jumping fish breaks through the surface and then cuts back into the deep. An egret flaps its wide wings and floats across the sky. Smooth water reflects the increasing orange of the sun.
“Very pretty,” says the man. “You like the sunset?”
“I do,” whispers Sâr.
The vendor spits a thick gob of tobacco juice on the manicured lawn. “Why not have a cup of
sra-thnot
to better enjoy this pretty dusk?”
Sâr, in lieu of another denial, presses his hands to his lips. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s kind of you to offer.”
The vendor grunts his disapproval and wanders along the path in search of other customers. His upper body remains afixed support for the seesawing cups of palm wine, his thin legs absorbing the shocks of the sloping pavement.
Sâr watches the vendor depart.
The Vietnamese are disgusting
, he thinks.
The air has cooled. The sunset stretches brilliant fingers into the sky before him. The intruder has disrupted Sâr’s attempt at equanimity, and now there’s no chance he will lose himself in sutra recitation. His skin tingles and his heart thuds. Desire is already recharging inside him. He tries to empty his mind, but his sharp and electric thoughts crack through that failed void like lightning. They were using him, of course. All they wanted was for him to put in a good word with Roeung. They read his desire—because it couldn’t have been more obvious—and found it innocent enough, maybe even charming, or
“Forms are to be abandoned
.
The ear is to be abandoned. Sounds are to be abandoned
.
The nose is to be abandoned. Aromas are to be abandoned
.
The tongue is to be abandoned. Flavours are to be abandoned
.
The body is to be abandoned. Tactile sensations are to be abandoned
.
The eye is to be—”
“
Sra-thnot
?” interrupts a craggy voice.
Sâr twitches with surprise and opens his eyes to an old, twiggy Vietnamese man in wide trousers and a full-body robe standing too close to his bench. His turtle-like face is withered and toothless. From a long bamboo yoke draped over his narrow shoulders dangle a dozen or so hollowed sections of cut bamboo, fastened with twine. They bump and bong against each other like a pagoda’s wind chimes.
“You want some
sra-thnot
?” the Vietnamese man repeats. His broken voice, husky and soft, implies a larynx riddled with cancer, as well as a more rudimentary geriatric decay. “It’s very good
areng
palm. The best and strongest. Try it. I think you want to.”
The man has already tilted his yoke and started to untie a hollowed bamboo section filled with rich palm wine.
“No,” says Sâr, “please.”
The vendor holds a pungent cup of syrupy liquid beneath Sâr’s nose. “Here,” he says. “Take it. Very strong. You like to be drunk? Only one piastre.”
Sâr bows his head in deference. “Thank you,” he whispers, “but I don’t want any wine. Thank you very much, but I will say no.”
“It makes you laughing drunk. You don’t like that?” The man’s tone has grown more aggressive. “Why not? You’ve never had it maybe? It makes you laugh. You understand?It’s fun. It’s very funny. If you’d had it before, you wouldn’t refuse.”
Sâr bows his head several times, exaggerating his respect. “That’s very kind, thank you. But no, I am sure. I must say no.”
The vendor grunts and retracts the wine. He takes a moment to study this mysteriously sombre boy, assessing whether or not he can push him into a sale. Conceding defeat, he ties the bamboo section back onto the pole with the twine. When the yoke is balanced on the vendor’s shoulders, he digs his hand into a hidden pocket and extracts a small packet of tobacco wrapped in banana leaf. He peels it open, takes a pinch, and packs it into his cheek. As he regards the grand scope of the riverscape before them, he gnaws at the raw leaf with his toothless gums.
The sun is half hidden behind a strip of foliage on the far shore. A jumping fish breaks through the surface and then cuts back into the deep. An egret flaps its wide wings and floats across the sky. Smooth water reflects the increasing orange of the sun.
“Very pretty,” says the man. “You like the sunset?”
“I do,” whispers Sâr.
The vendor spits a thick gob of tobacco juice on the manicured lawn. “Why not have a cup of
sra-thnot
to better enjoy this pretty dusk?”
Sâr, in lieu of another denial, presses his hands to his lips. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s kind of you to offer.”
The vendor grunts his disapproval and wanders along the path in search of other customers. His upper body remains afixed support for the seesawing cups of palm wine, his thin legs absorbing the shocks of the sloping pavement.
Sâr watches the vendor depart.
The Vietnamese are disgusting
, he thinks.
The air has cooled. The sunset stretches brilliant fingers into the sky before him. The intruder has disrupted Sâr’s attempt at equanimity, and now there’s no chance he will lose himself in sutra recitation. His skin tingles and his heart thuds. Desire is already recharging inside him. He tries to empty his mind, but his sharp and electric thoughts crack through that failed void like lightning. They were using him, of course. All they wanted was for him to put in a good word with Roeung. They read his desire—because it couldn’t have been more obvious—and found it innocent enough, maybe even charming, or
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