The Map of Lost Memories (19 page)

Despite her distaste for Stanić, Irene was flattered.

“Please, join me,” he said.

Stanić was a revolting man, with his perverse predilections, but none of this could be allowed to matter right now. Irene sat down. She had no appetite, but she ordered coffee and a croissant. At least the air was not yet laden with heat, even though the nighttime hues of the terrace’s amber lamplight had been replaced by the bright morning sun.

“So,” he said, “let me guess. Simone Merlin is searching for something, and you and Simms want it.”

Irene was unsurprised that he had made the first move. Catching an opponent unawares was essential, and she was pleased that he considered her one, for this meant his intentions—or at least the fact that he had intentions—were out in the open. She could deny or she could feint. Denial would be the easy way out, but it was a novice’s move. And what
better opportunity to perfect her lie? To parry with Monsieur Boisselier had been satisfying, but to dupe Stanić would be an achievement.

“Simone and I have been collaborating on Khmer trading routes,” she said. “We’re hoping to find a road through Tonkin into China, a path that connects Angkor Wat directly to the Forbidden City. But a few months back, I began to suspect that she’s using our studies for other means. Some of her routes are off the probable paths we’ve determined,” Irene said, purposely vague. “It’s as if she’s looking for something else.” Having edged her way toward an accusation that might nudge him into divulging what, if anything, he was scheming, she went on, “I’ve been told that you came to Saigon to make a deal with Simone.”

His hand twitched on the table. He frowned as he asked, “A deal for what?”

The coffee had invigorated Irene, pulling her out of the groggy aftermath of her sleepless night. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

In Stanić’s line of work, it was essential that a man keep his composure. He regained his quickly. “What makes you think that I’m interested in anything Simone Merlin has?”

Irene looked out at the barefoot Annamite soldiers drilling in the square in front of the theater. “Something lured you here. You should be in Bolivia right now.”

With a frankness that was necessary for entrapment, Stanić explained, “You had never left the country, Irene. When my people told me that you
and
Henry Simms were on your way to Indochina, the possibilities were too intriguing for me to ignore.”

How degrading. Even Stanić had known about Mr. Simms’s travel plans. Irene could feel a stalemate brewing, and she decided to try a different tack. “Since you know so much about me, you must have heard that the Brooke decided it no longer needs me. That it could replace me simply because I don’t have a Ph.D. behind my name. I want them to regret that decision, and for that I need a discovery valuable enough to make them acknowledge my worth. If Simone does happen to find something that could help me achieve this goal, keep in mind that I would pay a great deal for it.”

“Why don’t you deal directly with her?”

It seemed that he believed her bluff, but Irene knew it was never smart to feel sure of oneself with such men, whose lives revolved on an axis of deceit. His question may have been innocent, or he may have been trying to trip her up, and she had already stumbled too many times on this journey. Carefully, she answered, “I plan to, but I am sure she will want to sell to the highest bidder.”

“And you don’t think you can outbid me?”

“With money, maybe not. But I have many other things you might want.”

From the way he appraised her, Irene saw why he had earned his lecherous reputation. “And what would they be?” he asked.

She closed her mind to what he might be thinking about her and forged ahead, steeling herself against the fact she was about to reveal. “Henry Simms is very sick. Soon I will inherit his entire estate.” There was no way for Stanić to know that this was a lie. She had inventoried Mr. Simms’s treasures for dispersal to museums, galleries, and rival collectors around the world. It would be his beyond-the-grave coup, exposing the extent of his illicit acquisitions. “I might be willing to give you the pick of his collection.”

“Such as?” Stanić asked, sounding almost bored. His show of indifference at the pending death of one of his greatest competitors was impressive.

“The tsar’s treasures,” Irene said.

“There’s more where Caesar’s Ruby came from?”

After Lenin had nationalized the Romanov palaces, imperial possessions began to filter into the collecting underworld. Then the Soviets started plundering relics from churches, museums, and private homes, with Trotsky calling it famine relief to avoid criticism. Irene had followed this rupture in history with fascination, for she could not help comparing the House of Romanov to the kingdom of the ancient Khmer. So this was how an entire civilization’s treasures could vanish completely.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Raphael’s
Alba Madonna
? The Wedgwood dinner service commissioned for Catherine the Great?”

“This is all quite interesting.” Stanić called for the bill, and while he paid for their breakfast, he asked, “Tell me, why has Henry Simms come all this way to die?”

The question jolted Irene, and she turned her attention to the street, where the morning’s commerce was well under way. Rice, fish sauce, and egg sellers made their rounds, baskets atop their heads, clay jars hanging from bamboo poles over their shoulders. At the surrounding tables, businessmen began folding their newspapers, preparing to ease into another day of work. Irene sought an answer, but there was nothing she could say that would not cause a hitch in her voice. She had no choice but to remain silent.

“Apparently, I’ve gone too far,” Stanić said, but without apology. As he stood and returned his wallet to his jacket pocket, he once again studied Irene, but this time his look was not prurient. If she had not known of his ego, if she had not been on guard, she could have let herself believe that he considered the two of them equals. Nodding at the touring car that had pulled up to the terrace, he said, “I’m off to Phnom Penh. It would not do for me to be in the area and not pay my respects to Henry. Please stay in touch, Irene.”

Getting to her feet, she said, “Naturally.”

“And my dear, once Henry is gone, you can always work for me.” His gaze roved the length of her body. “After all, I am not a half-wit like those men at the Brooke. I do appreciate what you are able to do.”

Although Irene had learned nothing concrete from Stanić, she felt it had been worthwhile to go to him. He needed to know that she was aware of him, and that she would be keeping her eye on him, just as he would be keeping his on her. She was still concerned by how much he might know that he was not telling her, but she had to set this worry aside for the time being. When she arrived back at the hotel, she asked the concierge if Simone and Louis had come down for breakfast yet.

The burly Frenchwoman glowered. Her fleshy forearms lay as if wearily abandoned on the counter behind which she stood. “There was a ferocious argument last night,” she reported, with the vicious pleasure that
a certain type of person takes in gossip. “You did not hear it? I nearly called the authorities, but Madame Merlin left. She has not come back.”

“Did she take her luggage?”

The concierge shook her head.

Irene climbed the steps two at a time, running down the hall to her room, but the diary and her maps were locked in the bureau where she had left them. The bedsheets were on the floor where she had kicked them during her restless night, and her new outfit was in a heap on the armchair. Relieved, she pushed at the shutters to let in air, balmy with the syrup of tropical flowers. Stepping out onto her balcony, she caught sight of Louis below, slumped on a stone bench among the rosebushes in the garden. He did not seem to see her as he blinked up into the sunlight cresting over the roof of the hotel.

She was down in the garden as quickly as she had been up to her room. Standing over him, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“She’s sleeping.” His voice was hoarse. “After they pumped her stomach, the doctor gave her a sedative.”

“Pumped her stomach?”

As Irene said this, she realized that minus the jacket, Louis was still wearing his suit from the night before. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt was untucked, and he was scarcely recognizable as the man she’d had drinks with at the Continental. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and when he replied, it was as if saying the words took all of his effort. “Simone overdosed on phenobarbital last night.”

Overdosed? “What … how?” Irene stammered, afraid to know what he meant by this. “Is she going to be all right?”

Louis reached for Irene’s hand. Whether to calm her or steady himself, she couldn’t have said. “The doctor assured me she will be fine.”

Around the base of a rosebush, fallen petals lay like pink snow. Above, the magnolias were swollen with heat and light. “A person who overdoses on pills is not fine.”

“I know.” His eyes filled with tears, and he did not attempt to hide them as Irene would have.

She released his hand and sat down on the bench beside him. Their
shoulders touched, and she felt him shudder as he caught his breath. “What happened?” she asked.

“We had a fight,” he said.

“About what?”

“We used to want the same things, but now … I didn’t know how much she’d changed. I didn’t know how much it all really means to her.”

“What are you talking about? The temple?”

Louis shook his head. “We fought, and she left. She must have gone straight to the Majestic and checked in to a room there. Sometime during the night a porter saw water trickling out from under her door. They found her in the bathtub. She was unconscious.” His words faded. “She could have drowned.”

Nausea pressed into the back of Irene’s throat. “She didn’t.” She said this as if it were a command. She lit a cigarette. “Do you think it was an accident?”

“Do you think it was deliberate?” Louis asked, startled.

Irene recalled the Luminal she’d found in Simone’s desk in Shanghai. “I don’t know.”

“There was a time when she wanted to find the Khmer’s history more than anything else, when the history would have been enough for her. When we were young, we talked about it endlessly. To hell with Sherlock Holmes. The Khmer were the greatest mystery story we’d ever been told. But a mystery without an ending. We were half-crazed by it. Everywhere we went, we wondered about it. Was the maid at the governor-general’s residence the descendant of a princess? Was the debonair old man who repaired shoes at the market a descendant of the last king? They were all out there among us, they had to be. Their world was our entire life. I don’t know if you can understand such a thing as this, Irene, but—”

“I can.” Envy rushed through her. To have someone who shared your past. “I do.”

“Did Simone tell you how I fell in love with her?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I was nine years old. She was only six.”

As he stared straight ahead, Irene observed the outline of his thin nose, the light brown shading of stubble along his tensed jaw.

“We’d ridden out to Ta Prohm with Monsieur Commaille, and while we were climbing around the ruins, we found a grove of pansy butterflies. Hundreds of them filled the air. If you stood perfectly still, they would land on you. I can see Simone, her entire body fluttering with blue and green. Even Monsieur Commaille had never seen such a thing. He called it
extraordinaire
. As a man whose life was shaped around the Khmer temples, he did not use this word lightly. A week later, she gave it to me for my birthday. The entire grove, as if it was hers to give. Think of it, at six years old. She even painted a sign:
LOUIS LAFONT BUTTERFLY GARDEN
. Sometimes when I missed her, I would drive out to the grove and spend the night.”

“Are you still in love with her?”

“We had always known that we were going to be married. Then her parents died.” He lifted his shoulders, rising out of his reminiscence. “It was terrible for everyone. She did the only thing that made sense to her at the time.”

“You’re generous.”

“I’m realistic. I have to be. I know that I alone am not enough anymore to make her happy. I know that if you hadn’t come along with the temple, she never would have left him. She couldn’t have. But I never imagined that she wanted to leave him for …”

“What?” Irene asked, her thoughts turning to Monsieur Boisselier’s cryptic comment about Simone’s first love. If it wasn’t Louis, she was baffled as to what it could be. “Please, tell me what she wants.”

But Louis began to cry again, not the undone weeping of a woman but the stifled, resistant sadness particular to men. Irene let him take her hand once more, let him trust her so he might keep on trusting her, as the moist warmth of the garden spun around them like a cocoon.

Plane trees flanked the pathway leading from the road to the hospital, their branches joining to form a vault of flickering sea green leaves overhead. Irene and Louis followed Simone’s physician, the grizzled Dr. Kessler, through a shadowed corridor. Although the sun was as potent as usual at this midmorning hour, the passage delivered them into the protection of a large courtyard, surrounded by a gallery of patios, all shielded by latticed partitions. Irene tread cautiously over the raised roots snarled between two camphor trees. As they walked, Dr. Kessler said, “She’s been asking for you.” He could have been speaking to either of them. He nodded to the patio in the farthest corner. As they started toward it, he put a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

Reluctantly, Louis stopped. Irene wanted to hear what the doctor had to say, but the moment she had stepped into the hospital, the horror of what had nearly happened convulsed through her. Struck by how thankful she was that Simone was alive, she left Louis with the doctor and hurried across the courtyard to the open doorway of Simone’s room.

Glossy green shutters hugged the tall windows. Above the bed, a rosewood cross hung askew, while on a chest of drawers, a tin image of the Buddha resided on an areca wood altar. Simone was sitting up, her narrow shoulders engulfed by pillows. She wore a nightdress with a crocheted collar that was the same sickly beige color as the walls. A thin blanket was pulled over her lap. Her skin was more pallid than usual, and deep lines of exhaustion pursed the corners of her mouth.