A Woman of Angkor

by John Burgess

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘And Prince Vira’s successor decided that responsibility for his parasols would pass to another family, is that right?’

  ‘It could be said that way, sir.’

  ‘How many years ago was that?’

  ‘Twelve, sir.’

  ‘So you were too young to have learned your father’s craft.’

  Nol hesitated. ‘Sir, I was in fact young at the time, but what you said about my training is not entirely factual.’

  I had never heard any of this. Not a word in twelve years with this man. I was listening now as closely, I think, as the Brahmin.

  ‘What are you saying, then?’

  ‘I am saying, sir, that I did an apprenticeship under my father. At the time of my father’s passing, I had completed it.’

  ‘Now be careful that you tell the truth. Heaven is listening, and so am I and this woman, your wife.’ I was uncertain how to feel about the priest placing me in opposition to my husband. ‘You’re saying you know how to maintain the parasols in question? All kinds of them?’

  ‘Yes, sir. All kinds.’

  ‘With silk and peacock feathers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With lotus ornaments at the peak?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With silver-plated handles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, by now the artisans who made these things for your father, the ones who did the actual work, will have died or scattered.’

  ‘It is not like that, sir. They live at a parasol-making village six hours’ walk from here. I saw them shortly after my father’s death. They were devoted to my family and promised always to be ready to serve, if ever they were called on again. I know they would be ready, sir. Ready...like I have remained ready.’

  I was still frightened, but my husband seemed no longer to be. There was in his voice a tone approaching full confidence, as if it was he who was in control of this encounter.

  The Brahmin turned aside to chew over what he’d been told, like unpleasant food that must be swallowed. Then he let out a sigh and spoke.

  ‘Well, then. I have come to inform you, Nol One-Ear, that you are called to be Parasol Master at the palace of the lord Prince Indra. You will move to quarters there with your family. You will oversee the production of parasols, fans and fly whisks bearing emblems of the Third Order. You will be responsible for the recruitment, training, feeding and housing of young men to bear these implements, to keep sun rays and insects off the blessed form of the prince. You will keep track of our master’s schedule and you will be sure that the necessary equipment and men are ready whenever he goes into public or holds court.

  ‘You will receive a salary in silver, rice and fish and rights to collect payment from young men whom you train, up to when they complete their training, or reach age sixteen, whichever comes first. You will feed and house them until that point; after that, the men will receive wages and rations from the palace. You will have the right to train your own son to succeed you, if you have a son. The prince will provide protection against arrest or harassment by any other princely authority, and will expect you to show full loyalty and to obey only him among princes, and to obey him in all ways, without hesitation or question. And of course you will feel the full force of his justice if you fail in any of these assignments.’

  Nol pressed his face to the floor. His eyes were running with tears of the most abject gratitude. It was just one more surprise that day – I had never seen such an outpouring from him.

  The priest gave him a moment to recover, then said: ‘Now His Highness will leave tomorrow morning for the Chaiyapoom estate and...’

  ‘What? His Highness lives there?’

  ‘His Highness does not. His Highness resides here in Angkor. He will be visiting Chaiyapoom and he will be away for about one month. Now, you will come with your family to his palace an hour after dawn tomorrow to pay your respects, then you will go to your artisan village to obtain the necessary equipment and recruit parasol bearers. From there you will go directly to Chaiyapoom so as to escort His Highness on his return journey to Angkor. These are the prince’s instructions. Do you understand them?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Now in your behaviour, you must conduct yourself from this moment as if you are living inside the prince’s walls already.’ He looked around in a way that said that in such a house and such a neighbourhood that would be difficult.

  The Brahmin was finished and made to get to his feet but Nol stopped him, by speaking.

  ‘Sir, I have no right to ask by what generosity the prince has chosen to call me this way. But I request, sir, that my deepest gratitude be conveyed to the prince, may I be worthy to gaze on the dust of his feet. His orders will be carried out without fail, whatever the cost or hardship. His Highness will have the finest parasols in the Empire!’

  ‘That is certainly what he wants,’ the Brahmin replied. ‘Now do your best to make good on it.’

  That was all. The priest pulled himself to his feet and, stooping at the door, he passed out of the house. How I wish he had passed out of our lives as well.

  2: The ghost’s demand

  Perhaps you think my terror that day grew from the bent-backed woman’s speculation that I would be taken as a concubine. Fear of that would have been to my credit, a woman distressed at the prospect of carnal relations with an unknown nobleman, of forced separation from husband and children. But let me confess it now. The cause was different altogether. Nol and I had something terrible to hide, an event in a far-away forest clearing twelve years earlier. Nol had alluded to it, however inaccurately, in his first words to the Brahmin. ‘Whatever was done was by my hand alone.’

  So long was it all held as secret that even today I can scarcely form the words. Please, give me time before I describe what happened that day. But for now you will appreciate how blasphemous were those words likening me to the divine Sita.

  After this event in the forest, Nol and I ran away to Angkor and found refuge in the hidden quarter near the mountain-temple. No soldier or magistrate followed us, but a certain ghost did. It established itself high in the boughs of a tree that stood over the little bamboo house we built. On many days I could feel its eyes upon me as I went about my business in the neighbourhood. Sometimes it appeared to me when I slept, hovering, watching, eyes wide and face specked with blood, drawing nearer until I awoke with a fearsome start. ‘Turn yourself in to the magistrates for judgment,’ the spirit was saying. ‘If you don’t, I will alert the soldiers and they will take you and your husband away as criminals, hands bound behind your backs.’ Sometimes it underlined this message by creating some simple misfortune. One day, for instance, as I descended from our house’s door, a bamboo step gave way, though Nol had replaced it just the week before. I tumbled to the ground. Soon after, I was laid low by stomach fever, though I had eaten nothing spoiled.

  Nol did not share my concerns over these events. He was constantly on the look-out for any person who might do me harm, but as for the ghost, I am not sure he believed it even existed. He was that way throughout his life, really, more concerned with the world of humankind than the world of spirits. He never conceded, in fact, that we had done anything wrong in that forest clearing. By his logic, that meant that no ghost would have the power to come here and haunt us – other spirits would prevent it. ‘Please, wife, you must stop your worries.’ He would scold me like that. ‘I must have failed to fasten that step properly. You must have eaten a piece of fish that had gone bad. Let me buy you an herb from the doctor in the market and your stomach will be better.’ But I knew differently. After a while I stopped sharing my concerns with him. Having to carry this burden alone made it all the more heavy.

  Each morning I woke up thinking I must present myself to princely authority for punishment. The ghost was only demanding what I knew in my heart to be right. But each day, I lacked the courage and went instead to the little shrine down the road. There I knelt
and gave offerings and prayers of atonement. I dared not address the ghost itself, but perhaps the god Bronze Uncle would agree to act on my behalf.

  He was at first unreceptive. How undeserving I must have seemed, whispering claims of deepest remorse, and yet still cooking rice every day, drawing water at the canal, lying down to sleep at night as if nothing had happened. The god wanted proof of sincerity. I think I provided it not by some single act or prayer, but by the force of daily repetition. I wore the god’s resistance down. I came every day to his presence, each time with lotus blossoms, and never tried to make a profit selling them to others. On each visit I left silver as an offering. The little shrine was not well kept up, so I cleaned, I swept, I dusted. On festival days, I sewed a garland with my bone needle and placed it around Bronze Uncle’s neck. I polished his metallic form until he glowed. And perhaps the god could sense, observing me as I went about this work, that though I did lie down each night, my sleep was troubled; that though I cooked rice in my earthenware vessel each day, I could never find pleasure in this simple act of a woman’s existence.

  Gradually I began to feel as I knelt in prayer that communication was flowing in two directions. Bronze Uncle was whispering that he would help. It is impossible for us to know what goes on between two spirits, but I can say that as time progressed, I no longer felt the eyes of the ghost upon me. There was an end to the strange mishaps. My heart was lightened of some of its burden. Bronze Uncle had frightened the ghost away, or more likely he had convinced it that however terrible the thing I had done, it was past. This woman my servant, he was saying, is showing proper penitence. Please direct your attentions elsewhere.

  Bronze Uncle went on to show remarkable benevolence in many other ways. Under his patronage, Nol and I were able to enter into an existence that now seems idyllic. We were poor, yes, but we had work, we had rice to eat, garments to wear, a bit of silver with which to shop in the market. We had a bamboo house adequate to our needs, with jars for rain water and a pen for ducks. And by the god’s grace I gave birth to a son and a daughter who were growing up healthy and free of evil influences.

  So you will understand why the arrival of the priest set off panic in me. On seeing him I had the terrible thought that the ghost had only pretended to go away, and had finally found the means to betray our presence to human authorities. Yet now the priest was making his way down our steps. We were not to be taken away, hands bound.

  I held position, face to the floor, eyes closed, until his footsteps faded. Then I let out a very deep breath, and, trembling, turned to seek my husband’s embrace again. His arm brought me close and I wept, my cheek against his shoulder. Then we broke apart, because just then we each had separate concerns and priorities, as we did so often in our life together.

  I stood up, intending to go straight to Bronze Uncle to give thanks. My husband stood up too. I saw on his face yet one more expression that I had never seen before. His eyes were clouded, his mouth slightly open. He was unaware of me; he was off in his past, or his future, someplace, but not here and not now. He was standing straighter than I could ever remember. It was like his soul had flown clean out of him.

  I had to speak.

  ‘My husband, trained in the bearing of a prince’s parasols? And fluent in the language of the palace? You never told me any of this.’

  His trance broke. ‘It was a long time ago – you heard me just now.’

  ‘I’m surprised nonetheless. I’ve told you everything of my life before we met...’

  ‘It was safer if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Why do you say safer? Is there some danger other than what you and I shared?’

  He frowned. ‘Please, please, wife, don’t ask so many questions. But you don’t believe I know the craft? Well, look at this!’

  He began to walk up and down in the room, chin tilted up, hands out, gripping the shaft of an imaginary parasol, and I must say that he did look like the men who walked at the sides of nobles processing down the Capital’s avenues, always attentive, holding aloft beautiful, delicate things that provided shade and colour and signalled to one and all that the master was a person on whom Heaven smiled. But still, this was my husband, who was a small man and a canal dredger at that. For a few beats of the heart a look of amusement came to my face.

  He saw it, and I felt sudden shame for such unkindness.

  ‘You still don’t believe it?’ I nodded that indeed I did believe, but he kept up. ‘Well, you will when you see the grand house you’re going to have at the palace, the maid who will sweep your floors. The garments you will wear will be made of silk, not this cheap cotton. It will be embroidered. One tatter and you’ll throw it away! We’re going to be important people – can’t you see? We won’t be sparrows any more, we’ll be swans!’

  He turned his back, following his thoughts, and I knew to leave him to himself. After a moment, he asked, without looking at me: ‘How much silver do we have?’

  ‘None, husband.’

  ‘But I saw some yesterday in the market bag...’

  ‘I ordered a week’s supply of eggs from one of the wholesalers, to supplement the ones our own ducks produce.’ As I have told you, that was my occupation at the time, the vending of duck eggs in the morning market.

  A husband and wife always have secrets from one another, and each knows it. The real secret, I suppose, is how big the secrets are. My husband had kept a very large one from me; now I was keeping a small one from him. You see, I left unsaid that I had given a quarter of that silver at that shrine down the road. My husband would not approve. He believed, dare I say it, that silver put before a god was silver thrown away, that the priests who eventually collected it took their vows to avoid honest labour and faked their spiritual revelations.

  ‘We’ll need to raise some money,’ he said.

  That didn’t sound like being rich.

  ‘Now then – please, don’t make such a face,’ he told me. ‘But you heard what the Brahmin said. I should begin on my own to obtain the necessary things. It will be like your duck-egg business, though you’ll have to close that down, of course. We can’t have ducks quacking around in a prince’s compound. We’ll spend money getting started, but we’ll make it back when the prince gives me a salary. And once we get established in the palace, people who want to serve as bearers, or come inside the palace and petition the prince will have to pay a fee to me.’

  He cast his eye around for things to sell, and everything he saw seemed to inspire in him the same disapproval the Brahmin had shown. Everything except the Chinese tea set. The Brahmin’s cup remained on the mat; Nol’s eyes lingered on it.

  ‘Husband, we can’t sell that. Please.’

  I had acquired it perhaps five years earlier, as payment for a debt by a market woman with whom I did business. I hadn’t wanted to take it, feeling it was too fancy for a family of our standing, but over the years it had grown on me, and now it came out on those few occasions for which the coconut shells and clay cups from which we normally drank seemed unfit. Sometimes, when I was alone in the house, I sat and took cups and pot in hand, just to experience their smoothness again. I had no idea of the meaning of the strange patterns – blue and white lines and curves – nor the writing, nor how the lithe people pictured on the pot could bear to wear clothing that covered their entire bodies, even their breasts and shoulders and feet. My husband’s eyes left the cup. ‘In any case, we’ll need much more than what we’ll get for the set.’

  ‘The house....’

  ‘Perhaps the house, Sray.’ Now there came from him a sympathetic tone. You know, for all his shortcomings in sensing a woman’s feelings, my husband could always see when I was truly upset. He put an arm around me. ‘Don’t be sad! Please! But the fact is it’s all we have, don’t you see? We could lease it to someone. Or we could go to the men in the market who lend. They would give us something with the house as security.’

  Raindrops were pattering on the thatch over our heads. That normally comforti
ng sound seemed now to signal impending dark events. We would arrive at the palace gate, belongings packed in old baskets, and be turned away and have no place to return to. Or we would be let inside, only to be scorned by people who lived there, who would laugh at my unschooled way of speaking.

  Shouts carried in from outside. Was there more? I stole to the hole in the wall to look. My son and daughter were approaching the house, surrounded by neighbours who were peppering

  them with questions. How remiss it was of me to have forgotten the children.

  My girl was in those days in her ninth year. A small, delicate beauty, blessed of Heaven. All mothers think that of their daughters, of course, but I do feel it was true. Her brother was two years older. Thankfully, he continued to mind his sister at a later age than most boys do. He had followed her that afternoon as she went to play in some alleyway and now people had spotted the two of them and demanded to know why the Brahmin had come. It was that kind of neighbourhood – your long-ago past was your own, with no one daring to pry. Nol had never been asked how he lost the ear. But things that happened a few minutes ago? That was everyone’s business. My boy was leading his sister by the hand, shaking his head politely to the questions. He had maturity beyond his years, even then. A man stepped in my children’s path, seizing my girl’s arm. He seemed to say: Stop this insulting behaviour! You must answer the questions! I sprang up to go help, but when I got to the door I saw my son dealing with the problem himself. He had pulled his sister free of the man’s grip, and was hurrying her toward the house.

  When they reached the door, I put a mother’s hand to both, then directed them to the mat. ‘Sit down, children. Your father has important news to tell you.’ They looked to me, uncertain. News from their father was often something unwelcome. But this news was too large, too complex for me to give them any idea in advance. So I merely mouthed a blessing and motioned that they take their places, remain quiet and listen.

  ‘Children, don’t look so worried!’ Nol began. ‘A fabulous thing has happened. We have become rich!’