Carpe Diem

  As she read it, a spasm of pain flickered across her face. Then she snapped it shut and slapped it on the table. “Vassar Spore. So they legally erased your middle name. Balls.” She took a big gulp of wine. “I would expect Althea capable of such deception—but not my Leonardo.”

  “What was—”

  “Let me tell you—legal or not, you really did have a middle name. A name is incomplete without the three parts. It’s like a story with a beginning and ending but no middle. No meat. No heart. Come on, which sounds better: Gertrude Spore—or Gertrude Valhalla Spore?”

  I couldn’t believe she was taking it so hard. So personally.

  “I’d still like to call you by it, anyway,” she said, straightening her mollusk hat.

  I mentally cringed at what sort of name Grandma Gerd would have chosen.

  “Don’t worry,” said Grandma Gerd, reading my face. “It’s lyrical and musical and a fairy tale rolled all in one. You’ll love it.”

  I very much doubted it.

  She exhaled dramatically: “Frangipani.”

  It was worse than I expected.

  “It’s a flower—this flower, to be exact.” She picked up something off the ground and handed it to me. A cream-colored, five-petal flower with a yellow edging and center—and a flamboyant tropical odor. “You’ll find them growing on trees like this one all over Southeast Asia.”

  “Frangi …?”

  “Pani. Frangipani—got a nice ring, don’t you think?”

  “I prefer Vassar.”

  “You have been brainwashed, haven’t you? Okay, how about Frangi? Shorter, but still with a lilt.”

  I shuddered and opened another bottle of water.

  “How about this: If you let me call you Frangipani, then I’ll let you know when you’ve guessed The Big Secret. Even though I promised your parents I wouldn’t tell you. But, hey, they weren’t exactly aboveboard with me, now were they? And now that I’ve met you in person, I think you can handle the truth. Personally, I think you’re entitled to know since you’ve turned sixteen. But only if you figure it out. Deal?”

  Why was I surprised at her unorthodox and unethical behavior?

  “But how do I figure it out?”

  “Use your intuition. Your deductive reasoning skills. Put that 5.3 GPA brain of yours to work.”

  “You’ll honestly let me know if I’ve uncovered The Big Secret? You’re not just trying to—”

  “Promise. I’ll even throw in some clues. A clue every day or so. To make it sporting. How does that sound? Fair?”

  “I guess so,” I said. What other choice did I have?

  “Then it’s a deal, Frangipani!” she said, and cheerfully pumped my hand. She tore off a piece of toilet paper from the roll in a plastic dispenser—all over Southeast Asia they used toilet paper for napkins. She wrote something on it with a green felt-tip pen.

  She handed me the scrap. “There. Your first clue.”

  “What’s this supposed to be?” I said as I examined it. “A hill?”

  “No, it’s a D.”

  “D? As in the letter D?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Like a grade?”

  “You have school on the brain, don’t you?”

  “Is it an initial? Or a monogram? Or—”

  “That’s what you’re going to figure out, isn’t it, Frangi?”

  I winced. “Am I allowed to ask questions?”

  “As long as they’re just yes or no—shoot.”

  “Does it have to do with prison?”

  She poured more wine. “Prison? Nope.”

  “Does it have to do with money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does it have to do with Grandpa?”

  Picking a bug out of her glass: “Nope.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Her attitude was a touch too nonchalant. She better be telling the truth.

  The next ones were long shots, but Hanks had planted the seed: “Are Mom and Dad wanted? Do they have disreputable pasts?”

  “Althea disreputable?” Grandma Gerd laughed.

  I took it as another “nope.”

  Was the “D” just a red herring?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Apsara

  Keeping in mind that Cambodia only recently finished a savage civil war, savvy sojourners steer clear of land mines by staying on designated paths and refraining from removing intriguing, half-buried metal objects from the dirt … .

  —The Savvy Sojourner’s Cambodian Guidebook

  That night, Grandma Gerd and I silently got ready for bed, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts—which were punctuated by Hanks’s footsteps above. His boots did make a lot of noise. (We’d moved into the room that the German tourists vacated—“Too much Schlangen chasing,” they told the clerk.) But the sound was somehow reassuring and added to the music of the night: the clicking sounds of the chinchas on the ceiling, the croaks of the toads in the pond, and the buzzing of a flying beetle repeatedly hitting the screen.

  I wanted to question Grandma Gerd further on the “D,” but simply didn’t have the energy.

  The next morning I awoke to find I’d gotten six more bites on my face. That made a total of eleven red welts—not to mention the purple protuberance that still hadn’t faded in intensity. I couldn’t understand it. I had completely saturated myself with extra-strength bug repellent.

  And my attempt at disguising them with makeup was useless. Within thirty seconds of stepping into the heat, anything on my face melted completely off.

  Fsssht!

  “Did you know that your bites form the Big Dipper? And that there big bump of yours is the sun,” said Hanks as he analyzed the Polaroid photo he’d just taken. He pulled out a Sharpie and carefully labeled it Vassar #5: Solar System.

  “Grandma Gerd won’t be happy when she finds out you’re wasting all her film.”

  “I don’t know. This would look mighty fine on Renjiro’s wall … .”

  By now I’d grown resigned to the fact he’d continue taking my picture whether I liked it or not. My plan was that at the end of my trip, I’d somehow confiscate his entire stack of “Vassar Photos”—and burn them. But for now, I’d simply bide my time and ignore him. I refused to give him the satisfaction of annoying me. Otherwise every minute of every day would be one of perpetual irritation.

  “Do you mind tryin’ to cover up your affliction? After all, I do have to be seen in public with you … .” He handed me my white face mask.

  “Very funny.”

  We were walking down an overgrown path toward Ta Prohm, a Buddhist temple built in 1186 but since then overrun by the jungle. Grandma Gerd was already way ahead of us, snapping photos with her Brownie and picking up various leaves and rocks.

  A red sign up ahead caught my attention: a white skull and crossbones.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Watch out for land mines.”

  “Land mines!?”

  “Yeah. The Khmer Rouge left their callin’ cards everywhere. Don’t worry. Most of them have been dug up.”

  That put a wee damper on my mood. I scanned the well-trod dirt in front of me. What did a land mine look like, anyway? Solution: I’d just follow right behind Hanks—let him go first.

  “Watch your footin’—Frangipani,” said Hanks.

  Uch. I would never get used to that name.

  While Angkor Wat had been practically pristine, Ta Prohm was one big mess. A hodgepodge of foliage and stone that had remained untouched for centuries. No attempt had been made to restore it. Banyan and fig trees had spread their giant trunks and roots through the stone blocks, splitting apart walls and foundations, and toppling towers.

  “This is my absolute favorite ruin, Frangipani,” said Grandma Gerd.

  To my surprise, Ta Prohm turned out to be my favorite, as well.

  Grandma Gerd stepped over a dozing guard in uniform and paused in a doorway. She pointed to a row of dancing women carved above the door frame.

 
“Look: apsaras. Celestial nymph dancers, courtesans of the sky. They seduce men with their perfect beauty—”

  “Something you won’t have to worry about, Miss Mass of Bites,” murmured Hanks in my ear. I jabbed him in the stomach with my elbow. “Ooof.”

  The apsaras mesmerized me with their mysterious yet whimsical expressions and their graceful in-flight positions. These were the most glorious creatures I’d seen in any of the bas-reliefs. There was something beckoning about them. When I blinked, I could have sworn I saw one kick up her heels. I wanted to sit and just drink them in.

  “Watch out!” Hanks grabbed my arm before I sat down on a flat bit of rock.

  “Land mine!” I shouted as I scrambled away, arms flailing.

  “No. Somethin’ a tad less explosive … ,” said Hanks, pointing.

  There, exactly where I would have sat, was a centipede—a foot-long centipede! I staggered back at the thought of that segmented, thick, reddish-amber-colored body with its multiple legs under my derriere.

  “Supposedly its bite is worse than a scorpion’s. Highly painful,” said Grandma Gerd cheerfully.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. I eventually counted eleven of these despicable creatures on the ground, on walls, and in the crevices of Ta Prohm. My Savvy Sojourner’s Cambodian Guidebook identified them as the Vietnamese giant centipede (Scolopendra subspinipes), common in Southeast Asian countries. Their bite was not only excruciatingly painful—it could even be lethal. (“Savvy sojourners steer clear of these creatures and refrain from attempting to pick them up or take them home as pets.”)

  We split up: I to jot down notes for my novel, Hanks to take Polaroids, and Grandma Gerd to get rubbings.

  “When are you going to pull your weight around here?” Grandma Gerd asked me. “Found art doesn’t find itself.”

  “I’ll look,” I promised. “After I write up my chapter.”

  I found the perfect writing spot: a square chunk of stone covered with light green-and-orange lichen—but centipede (and land mine) free. Before getting to work, I applied more sunblock and pulled my hat down over my nose. No need to court melanoma, as Mom would say.

  I opened my notebook and gazed around me. Now to encapsulate Ta Prohm vividly:

  Sarah sat contemplating the tentacles of trees raping the ruins of rock.

  Not bad. I was about to continue when something half-buried in the dirt by the stone wall caught my eye: a partial remnant of a stone apsara’s face. About the size of my palm and about as thick. It must have come from the row of dancing apsaras above.

  She smiled up at me. Even though most of her right eye and cheek were gone, she managed an enigmatic expression. The lips sweetly curved, the eyes twinkling.

  On the lintel over the doorway, relatively new chisel marks pocked the stone around the now faceless apsara’s body. What were the guards paid to do around here? Obviously someone had recently attempted to chip off the entire apsara when no one was looking. Maybe they’d been scared off and just left the damaged relic in the dirt.

  Grandma Gerd wandered by, carrying a parchment paper with a rubbing of what looked like a sea serpent.

  “How do you like this naga? Check out his nostrils—”

  “Look,” I said, pointing to the apsara. “Anyone could just pick that up and stick it in their backpack!”

  Grandma Gerd looked at the apsara and slowly rolled up her parchment. “You’re absolutely right, Frangi.”

  I glanced around us: a group of backpackers videotaping each other, a middle-aged Scandinavian couple holding hands, and an elderly Cambodian nun with a shaved head and a face like a shrunken apple. Bent over at the waist, she swept, swept, and swept the same space of ground over and over and over with her broom made of twigs.

  Any of them could potentially pocket the treasure.

  I turned back to the apsara. It was gone. “What!?!”

  And there was Grandma Gerd cinching her oversize woven bag.

  “Grandma Gerd!”

  “Good work, Frangipani! Now that’s what I call found art.”

  “But I wasn’t … that’s not what I meant … .”

  I couldn’t believe it. My very own grandma blatantly stealing a priceless relic from one of the Wonders of the World. I couldn’t fathom stealing. I’d never stolen anything before in my life—not even a lip gloss from the drugstore back in junior high when Wendy Stupacker tried to peer-pressure me.

  “Put it back!” I’d hissed. But she’d just walked away.

  I snatched up my daypack. A guard in a wrinkled uniform strolled by—wrinkled because he’d probably just woken up. He paused. Gave me a piercing look.

  Don’t look at me, I wanted to say, the culprit is the silver-haired delinquent in the mollusk hat!

  Before bed that night, Grandma Gerd and I washed our shirts and underwear in the bathroom sink. After she finished, she removed the apsara from her bag.

  “There you go, you enchanting creature you,” she said, positioning the stone fragment on her bedside table.

  I clipped my bra to the portable clothesline we’d strung across the bedroom, in hopes the ceiling fan would facilitate drying. “I still can’t believe you stole it.”

  “She’d have just been taken by someone else, who’d sell her on the black market or turn her into an ashtray. Think about it: Those snoozing guards have allowed thousands of antiquities to be pilfered over the years.”

  “But that doesn’t make it right.”

  Grandma Gerd snapped photos of the apsara first with a digital camera, then her Brownie. “At least with me she’ll be prominently displayed in a Southeast Asian collage, as a tribute to Southeast Asia—in Southeast Asia.”

  She could rationalize anything.

  I headed back into the bathroom to get ready for bed. When I returned, Grandma Gerd was already asleep—early for her—and there was an “A” on my pillow made out of matchsticks.

  Nice try, Grandma Gerd. Trying to distract me from your crime with clues.

  For hours I lay awake staring at the apsara through the filmy gauze of mosquito netting, hypnotized by the languorously swirling ceiling fan.

  Thief … thief … thief … thief …

  The apsara’s one eye stared solemnly at me. The apsara’s one eye stared solemnly at me.

  We both knew what I had to do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two Wrongs Don’t Make a Right—But What Do a Wrong and a Right Make?

  The next morning the three of us ate breakfast at the Angkor Wat Café and Bar. Mine: yogurt. Theirs: fried eggs, toast, and coffee. I cleared my throat and then said as casually as possible for a non-actor: “Oh, hey, I think I’m going to … uh, ahem, head back to Ta Prohm.” Then quickly before they could ask why, I added: “I found it so tranquil yet, uh, mystical that I’d, uh … well … I’d like to sketch it.”

  Grandma Gerd stared at me a moment. I shifted in my chair and stared back—at her forehead. I couldn’t quite look her in the eye.

  “Well, well, well,” she said to Hanks. “Some of my artistry has rubbed off on Frangipani.”

  “Like grandma like granddaughter,” said Hanks.

  “Whatever artistic talents I may have did not come from Grandma Gerd,” I said. “We’re not blood related. Dad was adopted.”

  “You don’t say,” said Hanks as he stirred cream into his third cup of coffee.

  Grandma Gerd got up and hoisted her woven bag over her shoulder. “Do whatever you want. I’m going to the Bayon. I’ve got to take lots of photos there since it’s Renjiro’s favorite ruin.”

  “Well, since Ta Prohm’s my favorite ruin,” drawled Hanks, “I’ll go with your granddaughter. Keep her outta trouble.”

  “I can go alone. I’m not a baby. I’ll just hire a taxi—”

  “Don’t forget I’m your guardian. Gotta keep an eye on my ward.” He winked at Grandma Gerd, who laughed.

  “Then I’ll take the Polaroid camera, Hanks,” said Grandma Gerd, picking up the camera next to his
plate. “Since you’ll be guarding my non-blood-related relative.”

  She snapped a candid Polaroid of us sitting at the table. Then handed it to me.

  “Memory.”

  Actually, it was a pretty good one of me—in that light, you could hardly see my bug bites. And Hanks didn’t look bad. For him. I slipped it into my daypack.

  Breaking away from Hanks in Ta Prohm was harder than I’d anticipated. While I sketched, he stuck to me like the adhesive on his faux chops. I simply couldn’t shake him.

  He leaned over my shoulder to examine my rendition of Ta Prohm. “Why all the noodles?”

  “They’re not noodles,” I said stiffly. “They’re roots.

  “Well, they look like noodles.”

  Desperate because it was only ten minutes before closing, I blurted out: “I need to be alone.” Then cringed at how gauche I sounded.

  He pushed back his cowboy hat and gave me a look. A discerning look? I quickly turned away. I wish he’d stop staring, staring, staring.

  “Sure thing.” Then he disappeared around the corner.

  After confirming there were no stray tourists heading my way or lackluster “guards” snoozing nearby, I swiftly unzipped my backpack and pulled out the apsara. I’d taken it when we left the guesthouse that morning—I pretended to return to the room to get my sunglasses.

  I scrambled over a mound of stone blocks and was just about to tuck the apsara into a hidden crevice when I heard:

  The crunch of footsteps behind me. Why couldn’t he just leave me alone?

  I subtly slipped the stone fragment down the back of my pants, then whirled around. “Would you leave me—”

  I froze.

  For it was not Hanks the Malaysian Cowboy who stood behind me, but a guard. A non-sleeping guard. A guard in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and pockmarked cheeks, wearing a crisp uniform and a stern expression. “Removing relics from Ta Prohm is against law.”