“So everything that happened, in Luang…”
“When we heard of the death of Doctor Samnang, Madame Tek and I immediately feared that Chemda’s life was in danger if she continued working in Laos — or here in Cambodia. However, Chemda is so stubborn, we knew that if she was pressed too hard to leave she would be even more determined to stay.”
It was true enough: Jake had already experienced Chemda’s obstinate passion. It was one of the reasons he admired her.
“But dead babies? Jesus! Why do that?”
A withered tree rustled in the near-silent wind.
“My daughter and my granddaughter, they are educated, but they are also very superstitious, like all Khmers, like so many Asians. Why is this? I often wonder. I have struggled against it, the exorcisms, the divinations, the luminously risible tattoos.” He shook his head. “Whatever the case, Madame Tek believes in the power of Khmer magic, as does Chemda. So Madame Tek arranged to frighten her daughter with the most forbidding talismans in Khmer occultism. The kun krak. The smoke fetuses.” He frowned once more. “Madame Tek knew that Chemda would be unnerved by them, and her plan worked. To a point.”
“Go on.”
“You fled, and you escaped Laos, but of course you are still in very grave danger, Mr. Thurby. As is my granddaughter.”
“What should we do?”
“Consider your options. Chemda is a beautiful young woman. She is krangam.”
The wind blew a wisp of sand. The rocks shone black in the sun.
“Y-y-yes. I guess.”
“The fusion of Chinese and royal Khmer genes is fortuitous. And also my granddaughter is very intelligent, and she is unmarried. She is a prize.”
Jake was silenced.
“I also know, Jake, that she has developed a certain tendresse.” Sen gestured, poetically. “But to enter the guha you must leave the country, take her to England, or take her to America. She has an American passport. You must leave the country because you are both in danger and I can no longer protect you. The Lao government seeks revenge for its dead police officer. The descendants of the Khmer Rouge even now are working against me and my interests. Against Chemda and you.”
Sen continued: “You have my permission. She will marry you. We can do it today or soon. You must take her, only you can persuade her to leave. But before that happens, of course, for the sake of propriety, a wedding. At once.”
“A wedding?”
Grandfather Sen patted him paternally on the knee and said, “This is the most bizarre of surprises, I know.”
“What the hell — a wedding?”
Jake could barely grasp the idea. He was being offered Chemda: like a casual meal, or a rather trifling gift.
Sen smiled regretfully.
“I understand the shock. You probably need to think about it. I shall step inside, to see if these two typhoons have exhausted themselves. Wait here and I shall bring my daughter.”
The old man quit the garden. Jake stared blankly at the gray rocks, the perfectly positioned tree, the tenderly raked circles of sand, all parched and delicate in the ruthless sun of the remorseless dry season.
He was stunned, and perspiring, almost feverish. This wasn’t good; this was horrible. These people were so desperate to get Chemda safely out of the country, and get her swiftly married, they were prepared to foist her on some man they hardly knew. Maybe fear was driving this. Maybe even the great Sovirom Sen was scared; maybe everyone was scared.
Jake was scared.
A further, darker thought occurred to him. Could Chemda be part of this? Was this some peculiar conspiracy to entangle him? But why had she asked him to come this morning? Had she lied about her grandfather being away on business?
The confusion was bewildering, even painful. He needed to get out, to think clearly. Get some advice, go home, drink too much coffee, call Tyrone.
He got up and walked to the door and quickly crossed the hallway. The house was quiet. The maid stared at him from behind a door. The mother-daughter argument had apparently been calmed by Sen, or blown itself out. But he had no desire to linger and enjoy the domestic harmony. Not in this pristine prison of a house.
Jake paced very quickly to the front door, and then virtually ran down the long, curving drive to the boulevard. Jumping in a tuk-tuk, he sat back, trying to clarify his thoughts in the sweet, warm, polluted Phnom Penh breeze. His mind was churning.
It was Sunday, so it took just a few minutes to reach his corner. He tapped the driver on the shoulder.
“Here. No problem. I can walk from here.”
Handing over two dollars, Jake turned the corner. And saw a boy climbing off a motorbike — and casually walking to the door of Jake’s apartment block, carrying a glass bottle. Something about this was odd. Jake felt an instinctive wariness: who was this? What was going on? He slowed his pace, observing. The boy was fiddling with the bottle in his hand. And a lighter. He was setting fire to a cloth stuck in the bottle; he stepped back and threw the flaming bomb through a first-floor window. The glass crashed.
The Molotov cocktail exploded inside Jake’s apartment.
Flames woofed, fire streaked from the windows. Jake stood there, gawking, quite stupefied.
It was all so casual, so fucking casual.
The street was still quiet, it was Sunday morning, a young woman was cycling past the end of the road. Couples were strolling along the riverfront. And someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail.
As Jake watched, the boy climbed back onto his Suzuki and sped away from the scene. The flames were already roaring, hoarse and hungry, licking up the walls. And then, incredibly, it happened again. A second lad drove up, on a moped, and repeated the process, calmly, half smiling — like it was an amiable household chore. The youth climbed off, Zippoed a wick in a glass bottle — and walked toward Jake’s flat. Ready to throw.
The urge to run and stop the boy was almost irresistible. Jake wanted to sprint and kick and stomp and hurt — but some deeper logic held him back. Some inner, concealed, subconscious sense of self-preservation restrained him, despite his fury.
Trembling with helpless anger, Jake watched. The boy hurled. The bottle smashed. The flames gained in strength, eating and roaring.
The fire was big now. Someone, somewhere, screamed. People were running from cafés and pointing, fear on their faces. The fire bombers were long gone.
Jake sank into the shadow of a frangipani tree. He realized, with a lucid terror, that he had just witnessed an attempt on his own life. No one knew he wasn’t in there, it was still quite early, it was Sunday, they probably presumed he was asleep, inside.
Someone had just tried to kill him.
17
Chere Julia
I don’t know how to begin this letter — this e-mail. It is perhaps the hardest thing I have been summoned to write. But I also feel I have no choice. You are owed an explanation; more than this, I want to give you an explanation, you above all people. My friend.
Firstly, you need some essential facts. We are scientists, we are nourished by facts, n’est ce pas? Though I am a melancholy sort of scientist, these days. And perhaps this is a deformation professionelle, the inevitable destiny of the archaeologist. All the bones, Julia, all the many many bones. And the skulls. The wounded skulls and bones. They sadden me. They sadden me so much, now I know what I know.