The Park Singer

His voice is deep, like one of those old country singers. As the notes rise, happiness, too. It’s obvious in his face.

He sings alone in the park, and he thinks of her. He was clean-shaven when they met. The moustache is a recent addition.

He sings, and inside him she sings too.

They met in Phnom Penh at the beginning of 1974, when he worked for the Australian Embassy. She sang in his favourite bar. Each night, he watched her red lips as they formed the beautiful words he couldn’t understand. One of her eyes was slightly bigger than the other.

He tried to forget her. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen.

It was months before she agreed to come back to his apartment in the French Quarter. The second time she came, she brought with her a kitten.

“What’s that?” he asked, looking at the little ball of fluff in her hands.

“A cat.”

“And why is it here?”

“I find it. I bring for you.”

“What if I don’t want a cat?”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she put the kitten down and walked towards him, leaning her body into his, running a delicate finger around the outside of his ear.

The kitten stayed. So did she.

“Shouldn’t we name him?” he asked her one morning, pointing to the cat curled at the end of the bed.

“Why?” She’d just gotten up, and was opening the window. The sweetness of frangipanis permeated the room.

“To have something to call him.”

“Call him ‘cat’.”

At night they would sing together, mixing voices, languages. Geckos watched them from the ceiling, unperturbed by this odd spectacle. Occasionally the cat caught one, leaving his small gift on their bed.

The day came and it was time for him to leave. With the fall of Phnom Penh imminent, the embassies were evacuating all foreign residents.

“Take me with you,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“My hands are tied.”

He kissed her. She didn’t kiss him back.

“Stay a little longer,” he said. “We’ve still got a few hours.”

She bundled up the cat. Hand on the door, she turned to look at him.

He knew what kind of fate awaited her. She’ll be okay. She’s strong. Telling himself these lies made it easier to let her go.

The door slammed behind her. He sang alone. Her voice still clung to the furniture. It echoed from the windows, the walls. The geckos watched.

Now he sings in the park, and he knows the passing people think he’s mad, but they don’t know what he knows. They don’t know that when he sings, she sings, and she’s right there with him, and he never was a coward. He never left her behind.