The Map of Lost Memories: A Novel by Kim Fay

Author:Kim Fay
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Thrillers, Historical, Action & Adventure, Fiction
ISBN: 0345531345
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2012-08-21T00:00:00+00:00

“I’ve read the accounts, I know what the French say—that the Cambodians have no ambition. But really, hasn’t that always been what colonials say about the natives?” Irene asked. “I just thought the French were envious because this was the one place they knew they could never get the upper hand. How could they, given what the Cambodians have come from? But I never expected it to be like this. I truly didn’t expect to see so many people like her.”

Sitting over lunch with Simone and Marc in an arcaded café on the Quai de Vernéville, a drowsy boulevard that ran alongside the torpid canal that encased the European quarter, Irene watched a young Cambodian woman walk past. Her gait was slow and without purpose in the looseness of her sampot, a piece of fabric that was neither trousers nor skirt, wound around her waist and drawn up between her legs. With her wide features and shorn black hair, which stood as stiff as a bristle above her forehead, she could have been male or female. Only her blouse gave her gender away.

“It’s as if she doesn’t even see a point in lifting her feet.” Irene examined the woman’s expression, the deadness in her eyes, as she stared straight ahead, avoiding the foreigners. “She looks tired. And unhappy. They all do. It’s as if they have no idea that they’re descendants of such nobility.”

Simone and Irene had spent the morning at the customs warehouse, sorting through the crates Irene had shipped from Seattle, and now Simone was cross-referencing those supplies with her own list of benzene, gaiters, and mackintosh water bags. “Most of them know what the government wants them to know, and it gets worse every year,” she said, annoyed, drawing a dark black line through “wicks.” “Unfair land taxes and random punishments for crimes that can’t be anticipated. The undermining of traditions. And that’s the least of it. Unhappy? Of course they’re unhappy!”

Simone had been irritable all morning, and Irene, still a bit woozy from her visit to Angkor Wat, as if the temple were a particularly strong drink she’d had one too many of, was trying to ignore her mood. “You sound as if I’m faulting them, Simone, but I’m not. That’s the last thing I want to do. In fact, I want the opposite. The scrolls have the potential to bring them the kind of recognition they deserve, not just from the outside but from within too. By knowing how their story ended, they can know how to start over. The scrolls could turn out to be just the thing to show the Cambodians how they can be capable of it all again. The art. The architecture. Just imagine it.” Stirring her asparagus soup, Irene looked across the street, where flame trees spread their carmine branches above the shore of the canal. Three Cambodian men were squatting on the deck of a sampan, halfheartedly playing cards. A clay jug that had been full of rice whiskey was now discarded next to an ugly yellow dog passed out at their bare, splayed feet.

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