At a slightly more reasonable hour, I started reaching out to Khmer friends who could help me understand Cambodian funeral etiquette. I knew only that white clothing was appropriate. I finally reached Sreyhem by phone. Yes, she said, a white blouse with black sarong or trousers, no jewelry. Yes, a cash gift in a white envelope is customary. How much? Whatever you feel comfortable with, she replied.
Ok, I continued, they're setting up the tent in the street now, and there are monks chanting in the living room. When do I show up, and what do I do? Well, said Sreyhem, that all depends on what kind of funeral it is... What kind of funeral? How on earth would I know that? I thanked her and hung up the phone. I put on a white blouse over a black sarong and wrestled with mounting social anxiety. Where to go? When? And what to do when I got there?
Yee's son, Sopheak, knocked on my kitchen door, startling me. The people who were setting up the funeral tent wanted to tie an awning to my balcony railing, and he wondered if that was all right. (Good grief, man, your father has just died, and you're giving me the courtesy of asking if the workmen can come onto the balcony?) I awkwardly followed Sopheak out to the front of the house and presented him with the gift envelope, mumbling my condolences in English because I hadn't a clue what to say in Khmer. He thanked me and gave me a deep bow, at which point I gave in to my rising sense of panic, got onto my bicycle and fled the premises.
I swam my laps at the pool and then met a friend for lunch as I'd planned. I was too rattled to do much editing, anyway. All day, though, I felt uneasy, undutiful, cowardly. Which was worse -- to show up at the funeral at the wrong time, possibly saying or doing the wrong thing, or not showing up at all? The problem, you see, is that I'm genuinely fond of Yee and her family, and the last thing I want to do is anything to distress them. Like making some dreadful gaffe at the funeral, say. Or doing nothing at all to show my respects. Lose-lose.
I pedalled home around 4.00pm with no idea what I'd find -- a banquet in the tent? Or had I missed it all? The tent and tables were still in place but were empty. I wheeled my bike between the tables and parked it next to the house. I walked, very tentatively, around to the front of the house, where Yee's living room was completely open onto the courtyard. The coffin was on saw-horses, covered with yellow and white chrysanthemums. A photograph of her husband stood at the end of the coffin, and a candle flickered in a red glass beneath it. The housekeeper spotted me and came out. She took three incense sticks and lit them, handing them to me. I waved them before the portrait for a few moments and planted them in the jars below. I crept into the living room and sat on the floor with all the other mourners, my legs folded, as three monks chanted.
As you've probably discerned by now, I never learned my landlord's given name. He'd just had heart surgery when I moved in, and I never laid eyes on him for some months. Slowly he emerged, taking tentative steps into the courtyard. Over the months, I watched as he came out in the mornings to do exercises and to walk laps around the garden. He always greeted me with a polite, kind smile when we met, and when he dyed his hair black again, I felt sure he was well on his way to recovery. I was stunned to see him just after we returned from Vietnam in early April -- he stood in the courtyard, and that alone seemed to take all his strength. He smiled but was too weak to speak. His hair had returned to grey, as had his face. A week before he died, Yee confided in me that he was very ill. I asked, is it his heart again? She shook her head, drawing her fingers up and down her gut. His death was no surprise to anyone, but there is always that jolt when it comes.
Really, what do I know about the man? In this country, I've learned to look at people of my age and wonder about their history, wonder about their role in the dark years. I have no idea. All I know is that I was always happy to see his gentle smile and greeting; my intuition tells me that he was a very good man. What's more, Yee and Sopheak have treated me with nothing but kindness from the day I met them.
So although I felt conspicuous sitting down in the living room, I realised, this isn't about me. I may not know precisely what to do, but I do need to be here now. The monks chanted, mourners responding in known patterns. The youngest monk tossed jasmine blossoms over the mourners' heads at one point. I just settled down, and began mouthing the Hail Mary, falling into the same rhythm as the monks. I looked up and noticed the housekeeper waving her arm, as if to draw attention to me. No! That was the last thing I wanted. Then I saw a man with a shaven head craning his neck to see what she was on about. He spotted me, and his face lit up. It was Sopheak. (Funeral custom calls for the sons to shave their heads.) He tapped his mother on the shoulder and gestured, and Yee, too, looked over at me. She also stopped chanting momentarily and beamed. It's hard to describe my relief, but it was a potent reminder that funerals are about showing care and respect for the living, and it's better to risk making a gaffe than to avoid the whole thing. So I sat with them and prayed for about 45 minutes, and when the monks took a break, I slipped away and came upstairs.
A little while later, Sopheak came again to my kitchen door and asked me to join them for dinner. I was reluctant, but what to do? I went downstairs to the tent. I shared a table with eight Khmers in their 50s, all good-natured, laughing gently, chatting. They didn't engage me except to ensure that my plate had food on it. My presence didn't seem to disturb them in the least, which is as it should be. We finished eating and wished each other a good night.
At about 10.00 that night, I heard the swing creaking in the courtyard. This caught my attention, because Yee normally swings much earlier, and the household is in bed by 9.00 or so. I leaned over the balcony railing and could see her, lying in the swing and fanning herself with a batik and bamboo hand fan. Was she relaxed, relieved, exhausted, devastated? All of the above, I reckon.
The monks returned the following morning, chanting for a couple of hours, and then the carved, painted wagon came to take the body away to be cremated. The tent came down, and that was that. Then yesterday, a week later, the tent returned, as did the speakers in the mango tree, the hours of gamelan music and chanting monks. The Khmers traditionally have a second funeral ceremony seven days after the death. I like this custom a lot -- it gives people from farther away a chance to attend, but it also gives the mourners another opportunity to confront their loss. In the west, we are too inclined to think of the funeral as the end of the mourning process. Here, we have a second chance to say goodbye.
