The Map of Lost Memories (10 page)

“I’m terrified of him,” Irene admitted. “But I’m even more terrified of failing, and my chances of failing once I’m in Cambodia are much higher without you.”

“You
can
find this temple without me.”

“For some reason, Henry Simms wants me to take you out of Shanghai.” Irene did not add her own reason, one which she was only beginning to understand. Somehow, in saving Simone, she was also saving herself.

While Simone drove beyond Shanghai’s shadowy city limits, Irene gazed out the passenger window, but night was falling, and as the area north of the city grew dark, she could see nothing beyond the headlights. It was as if they were traveling through a tunnel that would bring them into the heart of the night. They did not speak, but the silence between them, their fragile new conspiracy, was louder than the rush of wind through the open windows. After nearly an hour, Irene felt the car slow. Simone was leaning over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield. Irene saw only faint ruts in the dirt. With no guidepost showing her the way, Simone turned the car. A side lane appeared, lean trees gathered along its embankments, illuminated in the
feeble wash of the headlights. Above, their high, broad branches vanished as if fitted tightly into niches in the night sky.

The darkness ahead was punctured by a rusty glint. As Simone drove toward it, Irene made out a lantern on a verandah railing. Slowly, Simone circled a house. The tires pressed into the spongy earth, and tall, marshy grass grazed the fenders. She parked the car in a shadow, with its nose aimed in the direction from which they had come, and shut off the motor. The evaporation of that steady rumbling was like the loss of a companion who had been whispering assurances in Irene’s ear.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“A hideout,” Simone said. “Roger and I are the only ones who know about it.”

“Why is he out here tonight?”

“He likes the silence.” Simone laughed. “He’s writing his memoir. He wants it to be ready for publication the moment the Communists take power.”

They got out of the car and shut the doors softly. The stars were very high, as if this part of the world was farther from the heavens than any other. Holding on to Irene’s sleeve, Simone guided her up the steps and onto the verandah. Irene felt anesthetized, and she wondered if this draining of all emotion was a precursor to courage. Simone drummed her fingertips on the door three times. She waited a moment and then did it again. There was no response. When she tried the door, it was unlocked.

Irene followed Simone into the bungalow. They both stopped just inside. Two old armchairs and a scarred teakwood desk stood at the end of the front room. Seated at the desk with his back to the wall, Roger did not take his attention from his writing. With his head bowed over the page, he looked like any ordinary man doing office work, surrounded by a blotter, an inkwell, and a tray containing pens and a brass letter opener that caught the light. His face was pinched, and his arms were thin, and if Irene had passed him on the street without knowing who he was, she would not have taken him for a man who beat his wife.

He paused as if he were contemplating what to write next. Instead, his eyes traveled from Simone to Irene. He blotted his pen, carefully screwed
on its cap, and set it in the tray. “You must genuinely want to find this temple,” he said to his wife. And to Irene, “She is forbidden to bring anyone here.”

He is only a man, Irene told herself, nothing more.

“I have already made it clear,” he said. “Now is not the time to leave Shanghai.”

Irene said, “I just want to talk to you.”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“Actually, I’ve come to make you an offer.”

Scraping his chair along the bare floor, Roger stood up from his desk. “An offer?”

Just a man, and men thrive on transaction. They can be bought, as long as they believe they have the better end of the deal. “I understand this isn’t a simple situation. I’m aware of the risks of Simone going where you can’t protect her. But this temple, it may be the most important discovery of our time. It will bring prestige. It will bring honor to her name—and her name is yours, after all. Think about what it would do for the reputation of your cause, to have your wife restore the history of Cambodia. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what your cause is about? Giving these countries back to their own people?”

Taking a pipe from the top desk drawer, Roger asked, “This is your offer?”

Irene laughed lightly, intent on hiding how intimidated she was. “No, this is my prelude.”

“It’s interesting, I must admit.”

“I want this to be worthwhile for you. I can give you fifty thousand dollars.”

“That’s quite a sum—a good starting point. Come in. Have a seat.”

Irene started forward, but Simone grabbed her wrist. “No.”

Roger tamped a plug of tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. “That is all you have to say?
No?
” He stepped around his desk. “This generous lady is offering to buy you from me, and you have nothing to say about it?”

Irene remained silent. She did not want to antagonize Roger. She wanted to know what Simone would say, but Simone said nothing.

Roger asked Irene, “Do you really think she is worth fifty thousand dollars?”

Simone whispered, “Stop it.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to give me orders. Tell me, Irene. That is your name, yes? Irene Blum of the Brooke Museum in Seattle? Are you willing to include a pig in the deal?” The edge of his voice grew sharp, cutting through the stupefying heat of the room. “That’s how we barter out here in the Chinese countryside.”

Irene retrieved a cigarette from her pocket. Steeling herself, she walked up to Roger until she was no more than a few feet away. She forced herself to stand close to him and keep her hands steady as she held out the cigarette, giving him no choice but to light it. “So,” she said, as an idea began to take shape, “it’s true what they are saying about you.”

Roger was leaning against the desk. He could not move away without pushing past her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re becoming a liability.”

“What are you talking about?” He glanced at Simone.

Irene’s hand started to shake, and she lowered the cigarette to her side. She studied Simone, whose reaction she could not read. She took a few steps back, enough to claim a space of her own, hoping he could not tell from the heat in her face how much she feared him. “I’ve been asking about you around the city.”

Roger said, “Do you think I am concerned with what the government has to say about me?”

Irene’s mind was a machine, shuffling through every scrap she had acquired since coming to Shanghai. “I’m not talking about the government. I’m talking about people like Voitinsky.”

Grigori Voitinsky was the Comintern adviser responsible for the formation of the Communist party in China. The hush that followed Irene’s mention of his name was impenetrable. She was not sure who was more startled, Roger or Simone. Firmly she held Roger’s gaze. She refused to break the silence.

“I’m curious,” he said, finally. “How would you know what Voitinsky is saying about me?”

It was as if she had reached a clearing within the dense forest of her thoughts, an uncluttered expanse in which the lies simply waited for their turn to be told. “A good friend of mine, Marc Rafferty. Do you know him? An information man.”

Roger’s expression was taut. “The best. Works for Henry Simms. Of course, yes, of course. The Brooke Museum. Simms. You would know Rafferty.”

Irene said, “Your stunt on the ship to Shanghai was noted, and not favorably. Trying to throw your wife overboard. You’re irrational. Everyone knows you killed the baby.”

Roger glared at Simone.

“Irene,” Simone said, faltering, “what are you—?”

“She didn’t tell me,” Irene said. “She didn’t have to.”

“So Voitinsky is talking about me.”

“He’s worried about you, about both of you. Worried about what you might drive Simone to do. What revenge she might take. She could do quite a bit of harm, considering her involvement with Borodin’s arms shipments.” Irene drew on her cigarette. Her hand was no longer trembling. Roger appeared to be mulling what she was telling him. Perhaps these were not lies. Perhaps—inadvertently, instinctively—she had homed in on the truth. “But what if you send her away?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You could send her home to rest for a while. To recuperate. In the company of bodyguards, whom you will choose and I will pay for. It would be seen as more than a gesture of kindness on your part. It will mean that you put the cause above your personal feelings. This is what concerns Voitinsky the most.”

Roger looked Irene over with disdain. “She won’t come back.”

“I wouldn’t if I were her.”

“You’re smarter than I expected you to be.” Roger began walking toward Irene. “But you’re ignorant at the same time. Do you know how easy it will be for me to check on your story?”

“Be my guest.”

“I do admire your audacity.”

“The thing is,” Irene said, “we are going whether you like it or not. You can benefit—or not. But if you kill her, you
will
take the blame. You won’t have any choice.”

He came closer still. “How is that?”

“I can’t give away all of my secrets.”

Roger was at Irene’s side, standing so near that she could smell the oily pomade that slicked his hair. Only now did she see the leather holster wrapped around his belt. He was holding the walnut grip of a Colt single-action revolver. An American cavalry gun. A gun Irene had come across in more than one collection of firearms over the years. “Courtesy of Borodin, with my wife’s assistance,” Roger said. He slid the cold steel barrel down the length of Irene’s cheek. “And if I kill
you
? I can do it right now, bury you here, and no one will ever know. Do you understand me?”

Winter entered the room. Frost coated her throat. She could not speak.

He shifted the revolver, pressing its tip into her cheekbone. “Do you still want me to let my wife go to Cambodia with you?”

The air was phosphorescent. Irene saw darts of light, nothing more. “Yes.” Her voice was almost nonexistent.

“This is what is called point-blank range. At least you will feel no pain.”

“Let her go,” Simone whispered. “Please, Roger.” She had made her way to the desk and was propped against it, using it for support. “I will beg you if that’s what you want.”

“How does it feel?” Roger asked Irene. “To have your life in my wife’s hands? If I were you, I would be uncomfortable with such a situation.”

Simone’s weakness was evident in her every aspect, from her pale skin to her scrawny arms crossed tightly over her chest. But when she spoke, her words were as hard as iron. Holding her gaze steady on the gun in her husband’s hand, she said, “Irene, move away from him. Slowly. Take the car and go.”

“I can’t leave—”

“You can. Please, do what I ask.”

Irene took one step backward, certain that Roger would grab her, but for reasons she could not begin to fathom, he did not move. Slowly, slowly, her face slipped away from the gun. She took another step, and another, until she bumped against the door. Then she was outside on the porch, and the door was kicked shut behind her. The kerosene lamp had expired, and she shook as she felt her way down the steps, inching toward the car.

Cicadas seethed in the night. Her head dropped between her knees, and her breath came in rolling heaves, choking her until she was vomiting in the grass. With one hand she pulled her hair away from her face, and with the other she gripped the side of the car, as if it could keep the world from spinning. Finally, she stood up. She went back to the house, because she had no choice. She paused at the window beside the door. The curtain was loose, and through the gap she could see that Roger had shoved Simone against the wall. His hand cupped her chin, his fingers digging deep into the bruise. They were arguing, both of them talking fast and furiously at the same time. Irene could not make out what they were saying. The gun was on the desk. Could she get to it fast enough? And even if she could, she had never shot a gun before. She stepped away from the window, and as she pushed at the door, Simone screamed. Irene saw Roger fall backward, his hand clutching his throat. “You bitch!” he shouted, the words gargled.

“Run! Run, Irene, run!” Simone tripped over Roger, who was up on his hands and knees. He grabbed for the hem of her skirt, but the lace was delicate, and as she kicked out at him, it tore away.

Irene was already in the car with the motor running when she looked back and saw Simone’s silhouette fastened into the brightness of the doorway. Then it pulled away, dissolving as she stumbled down the steps. She ran to the passenger side and climbed in, shouting, “Go!”

Soft earth spun from the tires, and Irene cursed the rain-soaked ground, her entire body tense as she put the car into reverse, rocking it backward, then pitching it forward, and then back and forth again until it lurched past the porch. She saw Roger in front of the car at the same instant she felt the collision. She stomped on the brake pedal. The clutch
shuddered. The car jerked, and she was thrown against the steering wheel. The engine sputtered out.

“You hit him.” Simone gasped. The shoulder of her blouse was dark with blood. She jumped out of the car and hurried around the hood, kneeling, disappearing from view.

Irene caught a flash on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. She reached for the brass letter opener from Roger’s desk. It was smeared with blood. She climbed out of the car.

In front of her, Roger lay on his side, with one arm flung out, as if he had attempted to stop the car from smashing into him. The headlights picked out the wire of his eyeglasses, curving down behind his ear. His face was the color of tallow. She could not see where Simone had stabbed him, there was so much blood running down his neck.

Irene looked until she found Simone on her haunches, balanced in the blurred space that separated the headlights from the darkness beyond. The grasses parted as Simone leaned forward, moving toward Roger on her hands and knees. She crawled cautiously around him as if she had been taken in by his tricks one too many times. She reached out for his face, but her hand dropped and she stroked the ground inches beyond where his cheek pressed against the damp earth.