More than Lust

"Hak Srea," I exclaimed. "I thought that you were . . ." I couldn't say it, so he said it for me.

"Dead. You thought I was long dead. I was for some time. That's what the Vietnamese reindoctrination camps in Cambodia were like—a living death. By the time I came out of that, I didn't want to have anything to do with a previous life. I wanted to start anew, and I did."

"1979, in Siem Reap," I said.

"I couldn't tell you but I was there for a purpose."

It suddenly dawned on me. "You weren't there to reconnect with Sihanouk. Your target was the general, Heng Sen."

"Yes," he admitted. "It was a fortuitous distraction that I looked so much like the Samdech, but I was there to cultivate General Heng Sen."

"And you did so."

"Yes, I'm sorry," he said.

"So, when Norodom Sihanouk and his entourage left for China—"

"I stayed, yes, because the general was why I was there."

"And what happened?"

"When the Vietnamese reached Siem Reap, they assassinated the general. They didn't know that I was anything more than a low-level clerk in his office. I wound up in a reindoctrination camp for a couple of years." He gestured to his lame leg to confirm for me that the years in the camp hadn't been easy ones for him. "Then the Agency picked me up again and I did other work for them. Don't ask."

I knew better than to ask him what else he'd done in the intervening years or why he hadn't contacted me before now. The Agency kept its operations and people compartmented. They didn't want him to contact me or anyone from those early days. I had been with the Agency long enough to be fully surprised or shocked by disappearances followed by reincarnations like this. "And now. What are you doing now? What finds you in the States and here, at this memorial service?"

"I've been living in New York for some time. I own and operate a Cambodian Art gallery. A lot of it is photography. I was thinking of opening a gallery in Washington and receiving an invitation to this memorial service gave me occasion to come down and check out the area art. And, frankly," he added. "I knew you were here, at American University, and that you had retired from the Agency some time ago. I wanted to see you again. I now have permission to do so."

"There's so much to discuss and to remember," I said. "I hope we can see each other again before you go back to New York—that maybe I can guide you around the city and help you decide on opening a gallery here."

"Like I guided you around in Bangkok and at Angkor Wat?" he said.

"Not quite the same," I said, with a laugh. "We're not twenty-four anymore and in high lust. We're in our late sixties."

"No, we're not what we were at twenty-four. But even at twenty-four there was more than lust for us. We had so much more that brought and held us together."

"Yes, we did," I said. "Perhaps we aren't so old that we can't rekindle some to that."

His smile told me that, yes, indeed, that might be possible.

"I eventually did have occasion to photograph Angkor Wat at night," he said.

"Yes, I know," I answered.

"I sent a photograph to you in Bangkok."

"Yes, you did."

"I hope you kept it."

"It's in my home office, on the wall right above my computer monitor. It's kept the photo—and you—in my constant awareness."

That caused him to give me a brilliant smile. "I see your wine glass is empty. Would you like—?"

"I will be happier if we leave now."

"Together?"

"Yes."

[Author's note: As I write this, there's a laminated photo of Angor Wat at night hanging on the wall above my computer monitor. ]