Carpe Diem

by Autumn Cornwell

  How many minutes had I been in here already? At least fifteen.

  Don’t panic, Sarah! You obviously got up here, so you can obviously get down. What goes up must come down.

  One would think.

  Part of my problem was the fact that in this position, I was unable to pull up my pants. My bare butt was vulnerable—in close proximity to the nastiest and possibly deadliest of germs. And I refused to sit naked on the linoleum—I’d rather die!

  Bang bang bang!

  They were getting impatient out there. I couldn’t blame them. Urgent Khmer phrases came through the door. I tried to inch my pants up slowly, painstakingly, but only got them as high as mid-thigh.

  I started to cry. Don’t be such a baby!

  Bang bang bang!

  “I’m stuck! I’m stuck!” I whimpered.

  Murmuring voices. Then silence. Then: Bang, bang, bang!

  “I said I’M STUCK!!!!”

  “Hey, toilet hog!” came Hanks’s voice through the door. “This ain’t your own personal boudoir, you know.”

  Rescue!

  “Hanks, I’m stuck!”

  “Stuck? How could you—”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions—just get me out of here!”

  “But the door’s locked—”

  “I don’t care if it’s locked. I’m going to pass out if you don’t get me off this thing!”

  “Hold on, little lady—Cowboy Hanks to the rescue!”

  Rattling of the door. Shoves. Murmurs. Then:

  BAM! BAM! CRASH! A cowboy boot—make that a Goding—exploded through the flimsy wooden door. Then the door burst open, missing my face by a half inch! And there I was, squatting, face-to-face with Hanks—and a crowd of Cambodians and backpackers all staring at me incredulously.

  Mortification!

  I didn’t know which was worse: Hanks seeing me sans pants or the entire boat population witnessing my ineptness.

  “I bet the bottle sounds pretty darn good right about now,” said Hanks, holding out his hand to help me down. He gallantly averted his eyes as I toppled on top of him in my half-naked paralysis. Well, I thought, at least he’s being a gentleman about this. Most guys would take advantage—

  “Mighty fine mole you got there on yer keister,” he said in an extra-drawly drawl.

  Fsssht!!

  Before I could pull up my pants, the Polaroid camera spit out a photo.

  “This one names itself: Full Moon in Full Squat.”

  Cretin.

  From the crowd, a female backpacker with a sunburned nose scrutinized my face. “Hey, aren’t you that girl from Ta Prohm? Who was arrested for stealing—”

  I subdued the panic welling up in me and forced myself to gaze at her with complete disdain. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Besides, even if it were true, this would be way outside their jurisdiction: We’re halfway to Phnom Penh.” Close call!

  “Nice save,” Hanks murmured in my ear—but the girl still eyed me suspiciously.

  And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, Hanks had to carry me back to my seat because my legs were numb.

  And Grandma Gerd wouldn’t stop laughing.

  The rest of the boat trip I feigned sleep to both ignore the giggles of the Cambodians, the whispers of the backpackers, the chuckles of Grandma Gerd—and to avoid smug Hanks, whom I loathed. Absolutely loathed.

  Flip-flop.

  CHAPTER NINE

  D.E.A.D.

  Our peeling red 1973 peugeot taxi pulled away from the docked bullet boat, inching its way through the swarming traffic. The cacophony of horns, random shouts, and gravel continually dinging the windows was getting on my nerves. And we always seemed thisclose to running over something with legs.

  But I could finally relax now that we’d left the backpackers behind.

  Phnom Penh: Secretive, dysfunctional, titillating, bruised. A dead count in the millions thanks to the Khmer Rouge guerillas and their militant Communism. The bloody past is not forgotten, no, it will never be. But the people of Cambodia determinedly look to the future with smiles on their faces and hope in their hearts!

  Guilt, guilt, and more guilt! Westerner guilt at having such an easy life when these people have suffered. I slammed my guidebook shut. “Okay, and what the heck am I supposed to do with all this information, editors of The Savvy Sojourner’s Cambodian Guidebook? I’m only sixteen!”

  “What’s that?” Hanks turned to me. He ran his hand through his pomp, then replaced his cowboy hat.

  “Nothing.”

  “Sensational!” said Grandma Gerd from up front, photographing a mound of Pepto-Bismol-pink pigs on the back of a truck—dead.

  The thought of visiting a place with such painful memories depressed me. Well, the least I could do was respect the Cambodians’ history by exploring the city of Phnom Penh like I did the ruins of Angkor.

  Phnom Penh did indeed have a different feeling from Siem Reap and Angkor. It was hard to place my finger on exactly what it was, per se. A slight gloom. But the locals here seemed to go about their day like the locals in Siem Reap: Cafés and bars flourished; the souvenir hawkers and potential tour guides roamed in packs; land-mine-victim amputees begged outside hostels and guesthouses; giggling children in their white shirts skipped to and from school; mothers balanced babies along with vegetables, kindling, fabric, and rice on their vintage bikes.

  We booked rooms on the second floor of the Smile Smile Guesthouse—a spacious place with antiques and a view of the Mekong River.

  Grandma Gerd and I were again sharing a room. Great. With the silent treatment, I’d even be willing to room with Hanks.

  Grandma Gerd paused outside our door and turned to Hanks.

  “Tell her I’m going to call Renjiro to give him the update that the lovely apsara is no longer part of his collage.”

  “And tell her that I’m taking a nap,” I said to him.

  Hanks rolled his eyes and carried his duffel into the room next door.

  Without a word, Grandma Gerd entered our room and dropped her backpack and daypack onto the nearest bed. Then turned around and headed right back out the door.

  I flopped on the other bed.

  There was a knock on the door, and Hanks poked his head in. “I hear there’s a place where you can rope a steer—okay, a cow. But I need all the practice I can get. Wanna give it a try?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t feeling up to much. “I don’t know. Maybe later.”

  “Lemme know.”

  He started to close the door, then paused. “Oh, and if you get stuck while using the facilities, just bang on our adjoining wall—”

  My whizzing sandal just missed his head.

  As I lay there, I noticed a corner of the Everything Book poking out of Grandma Gerd’s daypack.

  Since she didn’t believe in moral scruples, neither would I—temporarily.

  Besides I was curious what she’d been writing about me lately.

  I pulled it out and opened it.

  The odd phrase here and there sprang out at me that made no sense: canisters (flattened), seeds, textured paper, dill, pacifier? All round, then some not round, square maybe? glue stick texturizer sepia # 7 for edges

  Iridescent Ruffled Beetle—focal point.

  Various Polaroids affixed to the pages. Mostly of Ta Prohm.

  Then, toward the end pages: Frangi. Don’t understand. Nothing like I was at sixteen. This new generation seems so much more … serious. But maybe we have more in common than I think. Time will tell … .

  But it was the last written entry that riveted me: Both our lives will be changed forever. It’s the end of my life as it’s been.

  Then some pressed flowers, leaves, and the parchment rubbing of the naga.

  And an “E” made out of rubber bands taped to the last page—obviously the next clue Grandma Gerd was planning to give me.

  My mind raced.

  The clues: D. A. D. E.

  Her journal: “ … end of my life …”

&
nbsp; The mystery word: “Dying.”

  Together equaled: D.E.A.D.

  My mind reeled. Grandma Gerd had obviously convinced my parents to allow her to spend quality time with her only grandchild before she passed away. Maybe she had an incurable disease. Could she have contracted dengue fever? Malaria? TB? Leprosy?

  “She doesn’t look like she’s dyin’,” Hanks said after I barged into his room and showed him my clues.

  “So maybe it’s not leprosy. But there are a lot of diseases that don’t show.”

  “She doesn’t act like she’s dyin’.”

  I was forced to agree with him. But Grandma Gerd never did things the orthodox way if she could help it. I ground my teeth to stop the tears. I hadn’t realized how fond I’d become of Grandma Gerd despite her many, many, many faults. I vowed to be a whole lot more patient with her from now on. I’d miss her in my life. Miss knowing she was out there somewhere in the world … picking up scraps of linoleum. Now I saw the stealing of the apsara for what it was: the last desperate act of a dying woman. A cry for help? I groped through my buttpack for a Kleenex.

  “Hey, now. Take it easy.” Hanks awkwardly patted my shoulder. “You don’t know she’s for sure dyin’. It’s just a theory. A hypothesis. You should know that, Miss 5.3.”

  He was right. It was just a hypothesis. But a “darn convincin’ one,” to put it in his terms.

  “Besides, DEAD is past tense. Am I right or am I right?”

  “It’s more dramatic. She’d choose dramatic over technically correct any day.”

  When should I ask her? The sooner, the better. I couldn’t handle the not knowing.

  We heard Grandma Gerd putting the key in the lock next door.

  I turned to Hanks. “I’ll ask her to go to lunch with me—alone. Make up some excuse why you can’t come.”

  Grandma Gerd averted her eyes when I entered. I covertly examined her as I unpacked my big backpack. She didn’t seem any sicker than normal. Didn’t look wan or wasting.

  After I showered and changed, I felt better able to face the emotional exchange to come. It’s easier to be magnanimous when you’re clean.

  “Grandma Gerd … can we stop this? I don’t want to spend the rest of our trip not talking. We only have so much time to get to know each other.”

  She looked up from labeling her stacks of photos.

  I sniffed—Vassar! Don’t be emotional in front of her! It’s probably all she can do to not fall apart!

  “I still think I was right to try to put the apsara back, but I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it would have upset you this much. It wasn’t fair to do it behind your back.”

  After what seemed like eons, she said:

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes!” My stomach lurched at the thought of food.

  “Pick a place out of that guidebook of yours. I’m taking a shower.”

  “Do you mind if we eat American for lunch?”

  “You choose. Tell Hanks.”

  “Oh, Hanks is out … researching cows.”

  I consulted my Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Cambodia. Then cross-checked it with my Savvy Sojourner’s Cambodian Guidebook.

  “How about pizza?” There was a place called Peppy Pete’s Pizzeria a block away from our guesthouse.

  “Fine. You go ahead and order and I’ll meet up with you. Order me a bottle of Chianti.”

  “I’m underage. It’s illegal.”

  She paused in the bathroom doorway. “Anything’s legal in Cambodia … for the right price. If only you’d thought to slip that guard a twenty …” She closed the door. Seconds later, I heard the shower running.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Peppy Pete’s Pizza

  As I walked to the restaurant, I tried not to dwell on Grandma Gerd’s hypothetical death. I didn’t want to get myself worked up. At least Western food would give my poor stomach a break. However, one of my guidebooks did warn that “Western food in Third World countries is as Eastern as it gets.” I’d just have to face the fact my bowels would be a constant source of pain and embarrassment.

  Or would I?

  There, in a group of souvenir hawkers, was a toothless man selling postcards, baseball caps embroidered with big Cs, and—Foreign Food Sanitation Spray! He had six bottles at $5 each. Even though I could have probably talked him down, I didn’t bother. For $30 I could buy six bottles to that female tourist’s one. I stashed the spray bottles in my daypack. Nothing could touch me now!

  Peppy Pete’s Pizzeria was like every other faux Italian restaurant I’d seen dotted throughout Southeast Asia: circular tables with the ubiquitous red-and-white-checked tablecloths, bottles of Chianti with raffia bottoms, jumbo bread sticks. But it was all a little disconcerting considering that across the street an ex-soldier land-mine amputee begged for money. Uncomfortable reminders of the war with the Khmer Rouge sat on every corner.

  Before I sat down, I ran over and dropped a wad of riel into his grimy army hat. He saluted me. My guidebooks said that amputees could become part of the normal workforce (as in relic reproduction for the bourgeoning souvenir market) but only if tourists stopped giving them money, which sapped their incentive to earn it. But I just couldn’t sit there and eat a pizza without doing something. Those guidebooks needed sections on what to do about Beggar Guilt. Especially Ex-Soldier Land-mine Amputee Beggar Guilt When You’re an American Girl Who Has Everything Including Your Whole Life Planned Out.

  I swatted away the kamikazing bugs as I read the menu. Now this was more like it: starch, starch, and more starch (and rice didn’t count). The ideal placater for a churning stomach.

  When the overweight, shiny-faced proprietor—Peppy Pete himself, if you went by his shirt—came to take my order, I couldn’t resist:

  “Da mihi sis crustum Etruscum cum omnibus in eo,” I said. Then: “Sorry about that. It’s just that my friends—”

  “Ah, Latin. You want a crust with everything on it, yes?”

  A Cambodian speaking Latin? Just wait until I emailed Denise, Amber, and Laurel!

  “How do you know Latin?”

  “Classics education. Parents very proud. But no jobs. Pizza pays much better.”

  Wow.

  “So, one large pizza with everything—okey-dokey! Extra peppy?”

  “Peppy? Oh, no. Nothing remotely spicy or peppy for me.”

  “Okey-dokey!”

  “Oh, and a bottle of Chianti,” I said, but added hurriedly: “For my grandma.”

  “Okey-dokey smokey!” And he waddled off.

  I discreetly sprayed both glasses with Foreign Food Sanitation Spray before I poured my Coke—sans ice. Then I opened my notebook and worked on the next chapter while I waited.

  “Pizza actually does sound good,” said Grandma Gerd as she slipped into the chair opposite me fifteen minutes later. “Haven’t had it for years.”

  I quickly closed my notebook before she could read any of it.

  Peppy Pete waddled back with a bottle of Chianti, which he poured into Grandma Gerd’s glass with a flourish. She drank deeply and leaned back in her chair.

  Now. Ask her now.

  “Grandma, there’s something I want to ask—”

  “Have some.” She slid her glass across the table.

  I promptly slid it back. “Grandma Gerd, you keep forgetting I’m only sixteen. Besides, I don’t see how you can drink alcohol in this weather. As if you weren’t dehydrated enough from the humidity and sun. And you know it’s not good for your health.”

  I paused to let that sink in.

  “Okey-dokey smokey! Pizza with everything!” With a flash of teeth and a sprinkling of sweat from his forehead, Peppy Pete plopped the pizza onto the table. He picked up the Chianti bottle and topped off Grandma Gerd’s glass: “Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis!” Then whirled away to welcome a bunch of granola-type backpackers.

  “What did he say?” asked Grandma Gerd.

  “‘Good wine gladdens a person’s heart.’ It’s Latin.”
/>   “I guess you are learning something at that posh school of yours.” She put her glass down. “Not that this is ‘good’ by any stretch.”

  The pizza smelled amazing as only dough and cheese and tomato sauce can. A welcome change after rice, rice, and more rice.

  Right as Grandma reached for a slice, I sprayed every inch of the pizza thoroughly with my Foreign Food Sanitation Spray. She jerked her hand away as if she’d been burned.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not taking any more chances with my stomach. Remember, this eliminates every germ and bacteria. Don’t worry, it’s tasteless and odorless.”

  Grandma Gerd did not look convinced.

  “Delicious,” I said with my mouth full. “Just like home.”

  She shook her head. “When are you going to just LIM, Frangi?”

  “If you’d had as many bathroom emergencies as I’ve had, you’d be spraying, too.”

  Grandma Gerd took a tiny bite of pizza. Then a bigger bite. “Not bad. Luckily you can’t taste all the chemicals you just added.”

  “Be right back,” I said, grabbing a slice and pushing back my chair.

  I ran across the street to the amputee and bestowed him with the additional gift of starch. He was even more pleased than before and gave me a double salute.

  “That was nice of you, Frangi,” said Grandma Gerd as I slid back into my chair.

  Before I could reply, I froze: There on my plate was the rubber band “E.” A chill ran down my spine. Talk about perfect timing. Too perfect.

  “Making any headway with the clues?” She asked in a casual voice. Too casual.

  To mask my surging emotions, I devoured an entire slice of pizza in three bites.

  Now. Tell her NOW.

  “Grandma, I want you to know, that … that I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut, holding back the tears that were trying to push their way out of my lids.