The Map of Lost Memories (44 page)

Simone’s voice was barely audible. “I know.”

Watching her anxiously crumble the remains of her cigarette, Irene asked, “Do you even want to be a part of what we’re planning to do?”

Simone looked away from Irene, back outside, down at Louis and Marc, who were now playing some kind of game with Kiri and the gibbon. Sunlight sparked through the clouds, catching in the outbreaks of orange tiger lilies that burned like wildfires in the green dusk of the banyan trees. “It’s going to take me a while to get my bearings, but yes, I do. Or I think I do. I’m still not sure how trustworthy my thoughts are.”

Hearing this, Irene could imagine another aspect of their future: the foursome working together at the King’s Temple, building a collective reputation, so that when they were ready to reveal the scrolls to the world, their intentions would be taken seriously and their claim would not be denied. She could envision Simone grappling with the guilt she felt about wanting what she had gotten, and herself constantly wondering if Simone was going to come across a bottle of phenobarbital one day and find the temptation too great. Always there would be the fear that Simone would stumble over one of her emotional trip wires and sabotage the group in some unexpected way.

And yet, against all reason, Irene was glad Simone was not going to disappear. They were not the kind of women who would keep in touch, arranging reunions over cups of Earl Grey in the palm-studded courtyards of the Raffles or the Metropole. If they parted ways, chances were Irene would never see Simone again. Simone might never have another chance to salvage herself, and Irene did not want to miss the opportunity, no matter how slim, to know her as the woman she’d once had the potential to be.

The clock chimed. It was time. Irene examined herself in the mirror that stood in a wooden frame in the corner. She hadn’t thought to get her hair cut since her father died, and it was longer than it had ever been. Taming its sun-bleached strands into a chignon at the nape of her neck, she considered how far in the past it seemed, when looking attractive had mattered to her as much as it did now.

Mr. Simms had always taken pleasure in how well she kept herself, and although her face was mottled with insect bites, her browned skin emphasized her high cheekbones and the bright blue of her eyes. It pleased her to still be worthy of his admiration. She said to Simone, “I have to go.”

Having torn the last of the cigarette to shreds, Simone started to disassemble a new one. “You must suspect he has the missing scroll. Why haven’t you said anything about it?”

Irene took a deep breath. “I haven’t changed completely,” she answered.

“Good,” Simone said. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Mr. Simms’s ground-floor bedroom at the back of Ormond’s villa could not be reached from within the house. As Irene walked around on the path outside, a light wind shook the leaves in the mango trees. On Mr. Simms’s porch, hanging from a wire, a lantern was already burning, a porous wing of light that was pointless without the backdrop of a black night. When Irene reached the screen door, Clothilde stepped outside. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she stared at Irene like a lost child.

Resisting her own sadness was taking all of Irene’s strength. She had nothing remaining for Clothilde. Without speaking, Irene left her on the porch and entered the bedroom. The medicinal odor was sickeningly familiar, immediately bringing to mind the ampoules of morphine split open during the final hours of her father’s life. Frail Japanese cranes were etched into a glass lamp, and in the dimness of the room, her eye was first caught by what appeared to be a flock of transparent birds taking flight across the walls. Then she saw the bed. Marooned in its middle was Mr. Simms, propped against a stack of pillows.

To Irene’s relief, Clothilde had been able to dress him in his robe of black Qing silk. But as Irene sat down on the edge of the mattress, she was dismayed by how colorless his skin had become. His blue eyes had faded to gray and were lifeless as stones. She brushed her lips over his concave cheek, and she could have been kissing a corpse were it not for his meager, ragged breathing. Forcing herself not to recoil from the musty heat of his withered body, she whispered, “We found the temple
and
the library. All of it is still up there. I can show you the scrolls. Mr. Simms, I know how the story ends!”

He did not respond.

Irene lay down beside him, careful not to touch him, for Clothilde had told her earlier that the arsenal of drugs was no longer enough. His pain was beyond alleviation. Irene had never been so physically close to him, and she was overwhelmed by his presence, despite how diluted it was. Putting her mouth to his ear, she gave him the answers the two of them had sought for so long, murmuring to him about a king’s opulent lifestyle, depleted resources, Siamese invasions, and shifts in trade to the sea.

“No massive earthquake?” he mumbled.

“What did you say?”

“No giants thrashing the temples down?” he said with a slight smile.

He wasn’t rambling. He was aware. She sat up and leaned over him. “Where is it?” she asked. “Please, tell me where it is.”

“No grand finale,” he sighed.

“The last scroll. Do you have it? Do you know what it is? There’s a map, it’s a map to the king’s last treasure.” She rushed to tell him everything in this split second when he might be able to comprehend it.

“No matter how magnificent the story is, it always ends.” A cough shuddered his chest. “No blaze of glory.” Phlegm rattled in his throat. “Just a dying light.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Irene asked.

But his gaze lit upon her without acknowledgment before jumping onward, searching the trellis of frangipani that climbed the porch, the fire-polished beads of her tunic. His words grew muffled. She turned away, shutting her throat against the sobs. She wanted desperately to share this with him. For him to congratulate her, cherish her, tell her how beautiful she was, live forever. Live long enough at least to see his journey all the way through.

She was so used to the jungle that she could smell how near nightfall was, sweeping against the thick veneer of the day’s heat. A sheen of soft light spread its liquid mercury across the room. Irene made herself look again at Mr. Simms, whose attention was drawn to the last of the sun crawling across the floor. Together they watched as the pale yellow trail
inched toward the bureau, its top scattered with needles and vials. A bottom drawer was hanging open. The light wound up the bureau’s claw foot, prowling into the drawer, and as a flash of copper struck the air, Mr. Simms drew in his breath, fast and sharp. Irene glanced at him, but it did not seem to be pain that had caused his small convulsion. She followed his eyes back to the drawer.

From inside the house, the soft melody of “Clair de Lune” drifted down from an open window. Outside, the landscape was dissolving into the coming night. Mr. Simms’s eyes were closed. Irene pressed her lips to his brow, and he did not wince. Whispering “Thank you,” she got up and went to the bureau to receive the tenth scroll.

In the course of writing this novel, I was fortunate to have received the advice and encouragement of many generous people. I would like to thank the following for their individual contributions: Connie Brooks, for graciously reading countless versions of this novel and providing invaluable moral support. Alexandra Machinist, the most magnificent agent in the world, for finding this novel, believing in it, and pushing me to the finish line. Janet Brown, Beth Branco, Blair Mastbaum, Jen Bergmark, Colette Sartor, Jenny Fumarolo, and Jessica Barksdale Inclan, for reading and offering insights along the way. Susanna Porter, my terrific editor, for providing the perfect balance of give and take, and for giving me the classic editing experience I have dreamed of since childhood. Priyanka
Krishnan and many others at Ballantine/Random House for helping guide this book through its final stages. Suzie Doore at Hodder & Stoughton and Whitney Lee at the Fielding Agency for enthusiastically giving Irene and her cohorts a chance to travel the world. John Rechy, for inspiring me to start this novel. Andy Brouwer, for invaluable advice on jungle exploring and temple hunting. Lisa Okerlund, for beginning this journey with me in the sixth grade with the Shona and April Lewis mysteries. My great aunt, for sharing her name, strength, and spirit with Irene. And my gramps, for telling me my first stories and giving me Shanghai.

I used countless resources for researching this novel, and of those I would like to note:
Angkor
, by Dawn Rooney;
Angkor and the Khmer Civilization
, by Michael D. Coe;
Shanghai
, by Harriet Sergeant; and
Silk Roads
, by Axel Madsen.

With all my love, I would also like to thank: my sister Julie, for cheering me on with every book I’ve written since I was ten. My mom, for giving me my love of books and for countless readings of
Miss Twiggley’s Tree
. My dad, for sharing my passion for books. Both of my parents, for never wavering in their faith in me as a writer. And Jim Vitale, for being the icing on the cake!

Born in Seattle and raised throughout the Pacific Northwest, K
IM
F
AY
lived in Vietnam for four years and still travels to Southeast Asia frequently. A former bookseller, she is the author of
Communion: A Culinary Journey Through Vietnam
, winner of the World Gourmand Cookbook Awards’ Best Asian Cuisine Book in the United States. She is also the creator/editor of a series of guidebooks on Southeast Asia. Fay now lives in Los Angeles. This is her first novel.

www.kimfay.net