The Map of Lost Memories

by Kim Fay

  If she’d had weeks at her disposal, she would have relished the challenge of maneuvering around him. As it was, there were only two days left until the Lumière sailed to Saigon. She’d already bought the tickets, the day after she arrived in Shanghai. She had to get Simone on that steamer, or else leave the city on her own and work out a new plan along the way.

  She took a taxicab to the Merlins’ apartment on the Quai de France, a narrow street that paralleled the Whangpoo River. Reaching the top landing, she checked once again for the bulk of her map case tucked inside her jacket. In a sconce on the wall, an oil lamp burned, and its light cast a distorted phantom of her silhouette down the stairs. She put her ear to the door and listened for voices but heard none. She knocked.

  Simone called out, “The door is open.”

  Irene stepped inside. The room stank. She recoiled and raised her sleeve to cover her mouth against the odors of food and closed heat that had fermented in layers so thick they seemed visible. The stench of decaying lilies overpowered all else, their stems decomposing in a large glass vase filled with slimy water.

  A circle of kerosene lamps hung from the center of the low ceiling, radiating ocher shafts onto four shuttered windows that spanned the length of the sitting room. Directly beneath them, on a teak chair, Simone sat in a blue kimono, draped open, its obi loose around her waist. She lifted her eyes and tilted her head sluggishly.

  Irene thought of Anne’s opium tea and the bottle of Luminal in the desk in Simone’s office. She looked around. “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  Released from the strain of bracing herself to face Roger, Irene stepped toward Simone. She reached inside her jacket for her map case, and as she did so, she felt the merging of hope and futility that comes with taking a last chance. Simone watched her unclasp the buckle. The calfskin cover of the diary was warm to Irene’s touch as she opened to the page she had marked with the ribbon. Without prelude she read, “ ‘I have spent the past twenty-seven days traveling north and east away from the awesome relic of a city called Ang Cor.’ ”

  “When was this written?” Simone interrupted. Her voice was not slurred, as Irene had expected it to be.

  “In 1825.”

  Simone pressed her fingers against her jaw. The swelling had gone down, but her skin was still discolored.

  Mindful of how hungry she was to win Simone over and of how easily she could fail, Irene continued to read aloud, guiding Simone from Angkor Wat to the trading town of Stung Treng and out into the jungle. “ ‘Svai plunged into the temple and returned with a flat metal scroll, no larger than a sheet of writing paper.’ ” She looked at Simone, who had closed her eyes. “ ‘Svai said what I can only crudely translate as “the king’s temple” and then proudly declared that this temple contained the history of his savage people on ten copper scrolls.’ ”

  While Simone remained motionless, Irene fumbled to release the latch on the nearest set of shutters. The river was so close that she tasted its dampness when she inhaled. She worked her way down the length of the room until every window was open and a breeze stirred the air. Turning to find Simone staring at her, Irene could feel their shared knowledge filling the space between them.

  For a time it had been believed that the spectacular Khmer kingdom was built by the Romans or Alexander the Great, by giants or heavenly angels or a lost tribe of Israel. Its builders were once even thought to have been the same despots who ordered the pyramids of Tikal. Then, after existing for six hundred glorious years, their civilization had been devastated, whether by a catastrophic flood or plague or earthquake or comet or infuriated gods, no one knew. Those were the ancient rumors underlying the modern theories that were bandied about in archaeological digests, lecture halls, and museum offices—and Irene was certain Simone knew of every one of them, just as she did. As for facts, as for a history that could be written, indelibly, both of them also knew that it was waiting to be discovered.

  “May I see it?” Simone asked.

  Rather than read the diary, she examined it, fingering its pages, reaching into the empty pocket at the back. Irene had not brought the map. That would come only when she knew that Simone could be fully trusted. Simone said, “Roger will come after you too.”

  Irene’s gaze caught on the only attempt at adornment in the disorderly apartment, a painting by Rodin of a Cambodian dancer, hanging in solitude above a cabinet. The woman’s hand evaporated into a sepia wash of watercolor, as if she were a work in progress. “I’ve considered every argument that can be made against this expedition,” Irene said. “Is the diary authentic? What if the scrolls were taken years ago? What if the reverend was wrong about what he saw? What if he misinterpreted his guide? But I don’t care. It’s worth any risk to me to find out the truth.”

  The sound was frail, so soft at first that Irene did not recognize it. Simone was weeping. Irene found a water pitcher and a glass, and waited as Simone drank thirstily. “But you don’t have to take this risk. You’re an idiot for having anything to do with me,” she said.

  “Time will tell.”

  Simone wiped her face with the sleeve of her kimono. “Where did you find the diary?”

  “It was my father’s.”

  Startled, Simone said, “Henry Simms is your father?”

  Irene was taken aback by the question. “Mr. Simms? My father? No.” She stumbled over her words. “Mr. Simms and my father were friends. What did Anne tell you about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why bring Mr. Simms up?” Irene asked. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “Do you think I don’t know? I’m a fool, but I’m not stupid. You’ve come from the Brooke Museum. You’ve offered me fifty thousand dollars. You’re going in search of the most important archaeological relic of our time. After the auction for the bas-relief that Roger and I took from Banteay Srei, we were told Simms bid twice its value. He had to have known he was lining my husband’s pockets. My Communist husband, whose goal is to destroy Simms’s enterprise here, and all because he wanted to own a piece of the Khmer temples. Because he couldn’t bear the thought of Mellon or Stanić owning it instead. Simms would take Angkor Wat to Seattle stone by stone if he thought he could accomplish it. Who else would be backing you on this?”

  “Does it matter?” Irene asked.

  “It depends on what he wants.”

  “He wants what I want. Once I’ve found the scrolls, I will be invaluable to every museum that has ever had anything to do with the Khmer—even the Guimet! But this time they will know who I am. Me, not ‘I.B., on behalf of Professor T. Howard,’ ” she said disdainfully.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I spent years corresponding with the curators at the Guimet Museum, acquiring photographs and prints of documents from explorations in Cambodia. I created a catalog more thorough, more evaluative than even their own. But every letter, every single letter, that is how I signed it—‘I.B., on behalf of’—out of respect for Professor Howard. Never once did I sign my own name. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be given my due.”

  “Forget about the Brooke,” Simone said. “Forget about the Guimet. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about you in Paris. It’s an irrelevant city. Europe is irrelevant. It’s dying. But the Orient!” Sitting up straight, she pulled her robe together and secured the sash. “Once you’ve stood among the stones of Angkor Wat, once you’ve seen and touched the home of the Khmer, you won’t care about anyplace else. You definitely won’t care what fusty old scholars halfway around the world think of you. I admit, I didn’t believe your story about having a map when you told me at Anne’s party. I couldn’t let myself, not after everything I have suffered. If I do this, if I leave him, I need to know: What gives you such confidence?”

  Irene had never told anyone, aside from Mr. Simms, about her methods, but Simone seemed close to making a decision. For the first time since entering the apartment, she felt that Simone could be convinced to make the
right decision if she was guided skillfully enough, and if she was given a good reason to have faith in Irene. Irene glanced at the collection of decanters on the cabinet. “May I have a drink?”

  “Help yourself.”

  As Irene poured just enough whiskey to liberate the last of her hesitation, she asked, “Would you like one?”

  “I’ve already taken some pills.” Simone laughed. “If I have whiskey, I’ll throw them up. But a splash of sherry would be nice.” She accepted a cordial glass filled with sweet yellow liquid and took a sip. “Thank you,” she said, relaxing in her chair.

  Irene leaned against the sill of the nearest open window, her back resting on the cushion of muggy evening air. “I’ve created systems,” she said. “Ways to gather and cross-reference materials. It amazed me at first how easy it was to request a ship’s manifest. Travel schedules were trickier, but assistants are eager to help other assistants. It’s as if we’re our own secret society, and many of us are women. That helps. Maybe that’s another reason why I have always been so discreet. I’ve never really thought about it before. But it has made it easy to get whatever I want. After all, what could someone in my position possibly do with Rockefeller’s Ottoman travel plans? Or Hearst’s or Morgan’s?”

  “And what do you do with them?”

  “I make grids, mathematical grids, and I fill them in. One with the names of collectors divided into those partial to ancient Greece or Persia or China—every area of expertise. Another with the names of dealers, and others with schedules, missing objects, dates of disappearances, dates of acquisitions. When I fit it all together, you cannot believe how obvious it is where all of the missing Vatican sculptures and Flemish tapestries have gone.”

  “Grids,” Simone said, contemplating this.

  “As soon as I read it,” Irene said, waving her glass toward the diary still sitting in Simone’s lap, “I went back through everything I’d compiled. Copies of letters and journals, books and monographs, anything I could get my hands on written about the Khmer. Mr. Simms cleared an entire room in his house. I covered the floor with graphs and charts I’d filled in with any information that correlated with the diary. I started to see, bit by bit, that it was possible. It really was possible. Simone, you know the accepted hypothesis as well as I do. Khmer society was essentially confined to the area along the Royal Road running northwest out of Cambodia. But think about your father’s own research on trading routes. He’s the one who figured out that the Khmer sent trade expeditions into the northeast.”

  “And Wat Phu,” Simone murmured.

  “Exactly! A Khmer temple complex in southern Laos. Nowhere near the Royal Road, but almost directly north of where Reverend Garland claims to have found his temple. The Khmer could have expanded into northeast Cambodia. Perhaps as the Siamese were invading. Maybe they were preparing some kind of new kingdom based around this temple the reverend writes about.”

  Simone looked from the diary to Irene. “Your theory makes sense.”

  Irene felt a trickle of relief as she heard the shift in Simone’s voice, the approval.

  Simone continued. “There is something I need to know, Irene. Have your hands ever been dirty? Have you ever had to fight for your life? I’m not talking only about Roger. If I leave Shanghai, my every move will be watched. It may be by someone from the Municipal Government or the Kuomintang, or maybe a thug hoping to profit by holding me for ransom. The amount I know about Roger, about the revolution. Do you know how many times I have eaten a meal in Chiang Kai-shek’s home? I’m his wife’s confidante, and May-ling is a woman who does not know how to keep her mouth shut.” As Simone spoke she combed her fingers through her hair, taming her disheveled appearance. “I’m the one who worked with Shemeshko to set up the Shanghai Chronicle. I am the contact for Borodin’s arms shipments. I’ve been shot at twice. I am valuable,” she insisted, as if Irene had expressed doubt, “and Roger has made sure that I am entrenched. Even if he doesn’t come after me, someone else may find a good reason to. When we go into the jungle, we won’t be alone.”

  Finally, here was the impassioned, self-assured woman Irene had thought she would find in Shanghai. And Simone had said when. Not if, but when we go into the jungle. “One hurdle at a time,” Irene said. “First we need to deal with Roger. As I see it, we have two options. Run like hell and hope he doesn’t catch us, or go to him.”

  “And do what?” Simone shook her head, as if she thought Irene were crazy. “Do you know what face means? Do you understand its importance, especially here in Shanghai? Do you know the extreme measures a man like Roger will take to save face?”

  Irene had been raised among collectors and tycoons, men whose entire lives were guided by presumption, hubris, and their so-called honor. “Then we will make sure he does not lose face,” she replied.

  Simone held the diary to her cheek, like a cool cloth used to ease a fever. “He’s angry that I no longer care about his cause. He can’t see what he’s become, that he’s made himself into the cause. I can’t criticize anything about it without criticizing him. I can’t want to do things my own way without rejecting his. Honestly, Irene, I won’t blame you if you abandon me.”

  Irene watched with dismay as Simone visibly deflated, slumping into her robe. But Simone’s choice of word struck her: abandon. It was a word that she had worn out in those days after the museum’s trustees disowned her. “Where is he?” she asked. “Do you know if he’s alone? We shouldn’t approach him unless he’s alone.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of him?” Simone asked.

  “I’m terrified of him,” Irene admitted. “But I’m even more terrified of failing, and my chances of failing once I’m in Cambodia are much higher without you.”

  “You can find this temple without me.”

  “For some reason, Henry Simms wants me to take you out of Shanghai.” Irene did not add her own reason, one which she was only beginning to understand. Somehow, in saving Simone, she was also saving herself.

  Chapter 6

  The Letter Opener

  While Simone drove beyond Shanghai’s shadowy city limits, Irene gazed out the passenger window, but night was falling, and as the area north of the city grew dark, she could see nothing beyond the headlights. It was as if they were traveling through a tunnel that would bring them into the heart of the night. They did not speak, but the silence between them, their fragile new conspiracy, was louder than the rush of wind through the open windows. After nearly an hour, Irene felt the car slow. Simone was leaning over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield. Irene saw only faint ruts in the dirt. With no guidepost showing her the way, Simone turned the car. A side lane appeared, lean trees gathered along its embankments, illuminated in the feeble wash of the headlights. Above, their high, broad branches vanished as if fitted tightly into niches in the night sky.

  The darkness ahead was punctured by a rusty glint. As Simone drove toward it, Irene made out a lantern on a verandah railing. Slowly, Simone circled a house. The tires pressed into the spongy earth, and tall, marshy grass grazed the fenders. She parked the car in a shadow, with its nose aimed in the direction from which they had come, and shut off the motor. The evaporation of that steady rumbling was like the loss of a companion who had been whispering assurances in Irene’s ear.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “A hideout,” Simone said. “Roger and I are the only ones who know about it.”

  “Why is he out here tonight?”

  “He likes the silence.” Simone laughed. “He’s writing his memoir. He wants it to be ready for publication the moment the Communists take power.”

  They got out of the car and shut the doors softly. The stars were very high, as if this part of the world was farther from the heavens than any other. Holding on to Irene’s sleeve, Simone guided her up the steps and onto the verandah. Irene felt anesthetized, and she wondered if this draining of all emotion was a precursor to courage. Simone drummed her fingertips on the door three ti
mes. She waited a moment and then did it again. There was no response. When she tried the door, it was unlocked.

  Irene followed Simone into the bungalow. They both stopped just inside. Two old armchairs and a scarred teakwood desk stood at the end of the front room. Seated at the desk with his back to the wall, Roger did not take his attention from his writing. With his head bowed over the page, he looked like any ordinary man doing office work, surrounded by a blotter, an inkwell, and a tray containing pens and a brass letter opener that caught the light. His face was pinched, and his arms were thin, and if Irene had passed him on the street without knowing who he was, she would not have taken him for a man who beat his wife.

  He paused as if he were contemplating what to write next. Instead, his eyes traveled from Simone to Irene. He blotted his pen, carefully screwed on its cap, and set it in the tray. “You must genuinely want to find this temple,” he said to his wife. And to Irene, “She is forbidden to bring anyone here.”

  He is only a man, Irene told herself, nothing more.

  “I have already made it clear,” he said. “Now is not the time to leave Shanghai.”

  Irene said, “I just want to talk to you.”

  “There is nothing to talk about.”

  “Actually, I’ve come to make you an offer.”

  Scraping his chair along the bare floor, Roger stood up from his desk. “An offer?”

  Just a man, and men thrive on transaction. They can be bought, as long as they believe they have the better end of the deal. “I understand this isn’t a simple situation. I’m aware of the risks of Simone going where you can’t protect her. But this temple, it may be the most important discovery of our time. It will bring prestige. It will bring honor to her name—and her name is yours, after all. Think about what it would do for the reputation of your cause, to have your wife restore the history of Cambodia. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what your cause is about? Giving these countries back to their own people?”