Read Carpe Diem Online

Authors: Autumn Cornwell

Carpe Diem (14 page)

BOOK: Carpe Diem
13.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Two Wrongs Don't Make a Right—But What Do a Wrong and a Right Make?
T
he 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.”
My tongue didn't want to cooperate. “But … but …”
He pointed to the bulge in my butt. “Give to me, please.”
“I was putting it back—not stealing it!”
He just stood there, hand extended.
Awkwardly, I pulled the
apsara
out of my pants and handed it to him. He examined it closely. Then looked up at the chipped lintel. I could see him putting two and two together.
“No, it wasn't me! I swear! I noticed someone had defaced the stone and the
apsara's
face had come off and—”
He took me firmly by the arm. “You come with me, please.”
“Wait! I didn't steal it! I really didn't!” My voice squeaked.
By now a small group of backpackers and tourists had gathered. I turned toward them. “Can someone do something—please! He thinks I stole the
apsara
. But I didn't! It's circumstantial evidence!”
But they all just stood there solemnly shaking their heads at me, giving me the nonverbal version of the “tut-tut.” One of them said, “Thinks she can get away with it because she's American.”
Where the heck was Hanks!?
In a voice as calm and reasonable as I could muster, I said, “I'm underage. I have a guardian—he'll tell you I'm totally innocent. Can't we wait for him? Please?”
He said nothing, continuing to escort me through the ruins, his eyes focused straight ahead, his gait measured.
What should I do? What
could
I do? Everything pointed to me being a thief. I couldn't see any way around it. It was my word against his—and his word was a whole lot more convincing. He even had “Westerner witnesses.” I'd arrest me, too—if I were in his shoes.
I scanned the groups of tourists as we walked. “Hanks? Hanks!”
The guard tightened his grip on my arm and said, “No comment, please.”
Figures my “guardian” was nowhere to be found the one time I actually needed him.
The guard led me out of Ta Prohm and down the jungle path toward the waiting taxis, motos (motorbikes with drivers for hire), and milling tourists who were bartering with drivers, buying souvenirs, and drinking beverages in the shade of the banyan trees. Instead of heading to the parked police car, we veered toward a wooden guard-shack where one guard snored in a hammock and the other smoked and read a newspaper. My guard said something in Khmer to the “awake guard,” who glanced at me with mild interest, then went back to his paper. He sat down next to him and put on bifocals from his breast pocket. Then he removed some papers from a black briefcase on the bench between them. He motioned for me to sit on another bench several feet away under a banyan tree while he painstakingly filled out the paperwork with a ballpoint pen.
 
Well, Sarah thought. This is it. You're being arrested and will probably face prison time. Prison time for a crime you didn't even commit. In a country you didn't even want to come to—
 
“Passport, please,” the guard said a few minutes later without looking up.
I untucked my shirt, relieved to have something to do. Anything to stop that depressing train of thought. Just as I was about to unzip my money belt:
“Pssst!”
I swiveled around. There behind another banyan tree was Hanks! Sitting on the back of a running moto. The driver was a skinny teen with a cutoff T-shirt and arms covered with tattoos. He revved the engine and grinned at me. Hanks gestured for me to jump on the back.
Is he crazy!?! As if I'm not in enough trouble as it is!
Hanks gestured again, then mouthed: “It's your only chance.”
My heart started to thump-thump-thump in a deafening bass.
I looked at the guards. One still slept, the other yawned as he turned the page, and my guard peered closely at his form. Apparently there were so many tourists milling and motors running that they didn't notice a thing.
What did I have to lose? I remembered the horror stories I'd heard about teens put in prison for life for drug trafficking in Southeast Asia. And teens stealing irreplaceable relics probably didn't fare much better. After all, I realized, the only way I could prove I wasn't stealing was for Grandma Gerd to admit she had. But I didn't want her to get arrested either. Catch-22.
Hanks waved his hand urgently. As in: DO IT NOW.
My body tensed, my adrenaline surged. I slowly pulled my daypack over my shoulders … then stood up like I was
stretching … inched around the bench … behind the tree …
and ran for it
!
One second I was on the bench, the next I was zooming off on the moto, gripping Hanks's shoulders. The driver circled the perimeter so he wouldn't have to drive past the guard shack.
I glanced behind me: The guards hadn't even noticed I was gone!
“Don't look back! Here. Put this on.” Hanks snatched my big white hat and replaced it with a blue baseball cap with CAMBODIA embroidered on it. “Shove your hair up in it.” Then he handed me his red bandanna. “Tie this around your face.”
I did as I was told.
The smells of gasoline, exhaust, and Old Spice mingled together in my nostrils.
Hanks craned his neck. “Here they come—hold on tight.” Then he spoke to the driver in Khmer. I threw my arms around Hanks's waist just as the driver put it into the highest gear and sped onto the main road. With casual dexterity he navigated around taxis, motos, bikes, and pedestrians.
I darted a look behind me. The police car was only a couple blocks away—heading in our direction.
Our driver sharply turned down a side road, where we missed flattening two kids on bikes and a skin-and-bones cat by inches. Then we took an abrupt left into a maze of narrow alleyways that crisscrossed through a residential neighborhood. We finally emerged onto a busy street where we
blended into the crowd of taxis, motos, and bikes. Many of the drivers and passengers wore face masks and bandannas to keep from inhaling too much exhaust. And I looked just like them. There was no way the police could track us down now.
I could feel Hanks's muscles relax.
“Thanks,” I said, semi-muffled by the bandanna. “I don't know what I would have done—”
“I shoulda let you serve time. That'd teach you not to steal.”
I yanked down the bandanna. “It was Grandma Gerd! I was putting back what she stole!”
He turned. His eyes searched mine. Then he pulled the bandanna back up over my nose. “You're durn lucky I was keepin' an eye on my ward.”
“So you were watching me the whole time?”
“I'm your guardian, ain't I?” Then he laughed. “Contraband down your pants. Wish I coulda gotten a Polaroid.”
 
It took a while for Sarah's heart to stop thumping. Could Wayne hear it? And a while to process what just happened: I—Sarah Lawrence—have narrowly escaped from the clutches of the Cambodian police!
 
When our moto driver dropped us off at the guesthouse, Hanks paid him $20 of Grandma Gerd's money for his role in the getaway. He gave us a grin and a thumbs-up, then roared off, dirt billowing in his wake. As Hanks and I walked toward our bungalow, I removed the baseball cap and bandanna
and handed them to him. “Wow. I don't know what to say … . I really appreciate how you … you …”
“All in a day's work.” He stuffed the bandanna into his back jeans pocket. “Although I think I'm due for a raise.”
“Frangi, have you seen the
apsara
?” called Grandma Gerd from the doorway of our room. “I can't find her anywhere.”
Hanks and I exchanged looks.
 
It took a while for Grandma Gerd to fully comprehend the situation. She paced our room in her bare feet, her baggy fisherman's pants making swooshing sounds, running her fingers through her disheveled hair and fingering her jade nose hoop. When she finally faced me, she said, “Well, I'm glad you're okay. You're lucky Hanks had his wits about him.”
“I know, I told—”
She continued as if she didn't hear me: “But I'm having a hard time forgiving you about the
apsara
.”
“It was for your own good. What if you got caught in customs? After all, I almost went to prison for putting her back where she belonged.”
“I didn't ask you to. In fact, I wish you didn't.”
“But—”
“I would have been fine. The
apsara
would have been fine.” She put on her Vietnamese hat and slipped on her sandals. “Yes, I'm happy—
fantastically
happy—you're fine. But I'd rather you be fine
and
have my
apsara
back.”
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. It was futile to explain that it wasn't
her apsara
.
BOOK: Carpe Diem
13.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Girl of Ink & Stars by Kiran Millwood Hargrave
Prince of Outcasts by S. M. Stirling
Bet on Me by Mia Hoddell
Capture the World by R. K. Ryals
Face Value by Baird-Murray, Kathleen
Edge of Black by J. T. Ellison
Lethal Lily (A Peggy Lee Garden Mystery) by joyce Lavene, Jim Lavene
Texas Iron by Robert J. Randisi