“Come, Uncle,” Hang Tung called.
Chhuon did not answer. He took his time finishing his prayers, then arranging various articles and finally checking the rice bowl for Samnang in which there now was a constant small portion of uncooked rice topped by three delicate shrimp which Chhuon had carved from rosewood.
“Uncle, in four days the deputy commissar for political affairs from the A40 Office will visit. We must ensure that the new work is completed.”
“Eh?” Chhuon looked to Tung as if he, Chhuon, had been unaware of the young man’s presence. Then, “Oh. Yes. Yes. From the Central Office for Kampuchean Affairs? Ah well, another bigwig, eh?”
Hang Tung laughed. Perhaps, he thought, Uncle Chhuon is going senile.
As the two men walked, Chhuon hummed various traditional tunes. He spoke only w
