Carpe Diem

by Autumn Cornwell

  At least now they were safe. Vassar Spore to the rescue!

  The owner was stunned by my actions—and at my philosophy. He just squatted in front of his hut, shaking his head incredulously. “Cow is meat,” he said. “When blow up, no waste. Meat go straight to market. For to eat.”

  Still, it wasn’t right.

  “What isn’t right is deprivin’ this guy of his income,” said Hanks. “What’s the difference if they’re killed by a grenade or by the butcher’s cleaver?”

  “Hanks, you know there’s a big difference.” But I began to doubt. Was he right?

  A couple cows meandered back. Hanks said: “Odds are most of ’em will find their way back eventually. Cows are used to their routines—like someone else I know.”

  I ignored his smirk.

  The owner turned to Hanks:

  “Your woman cause much trouble. Break fence. Lose cow. I call police.”

  Uh-oh.

  We helplessly watched him walk toward his hut. His call would trigger my second run-in with the Cambodian police in less than a week.

  “I didn’t mean to damage your fence!” I called after him. “Honestly!”

  But he kept going.

  “How about fifty-three dollars?” I held up the cash Grandma Gerd gave me to last until Laos.

  The owner paused and turned around. Then shook his head.

  “A silver medallion necklace inscribed in Latin?” I pulled it over my head and waved it enticingly. “Nulla dies sine linea.”

  Once again he shook his head.

  “What do you want?” asked Hanks in a wary tone.

  The owner pointed. At Hanks’s Godings.

  “Boot. I no call police.”

  “No way.”

  “I call police.” He continued toward the hut.

  Hanks and I tried everything, but the owner was adamant, his weathered face unyielding. “No boot, no deal.”

  Hanks lifted up his hat and ran a hand through his pomp. He looked down at his boots. Then at me. “Okay.”

  One by one, Hanks took off his bench-made 1940s Godings with their fancy red-and-white cutouts. He gazed at them, rubbing his hand tenderly over the leather. Then he handed them to the owner—who immediately pulled them on and strutted around like a rooster, chest out. Hanks grimly stripped off his socks and walked barefoot down the road toward the motorbike.

  He looked naked.

  I’m the reason Hanks is walking Goding-less down a Cambodian road! Why hadn’t I mentally prepared a Pros and Cons List before causing the stampede? At home, I’d never have acted so impetuously without careful consideration. What had gotten into me? Wait, I knew what had gotten into me: Cambodia. It had oozed under my skin and seduced me into behaving in ways as opposite Vassar Spore as I could get.

  Hanks’s eyes were opaque. Blank. This was worse than anger. I wished he’d chew me out.

  “I’ll buy you another pair of boots when I get back to the U.S. I promise.”

  He gave me a wan smile. As in: Good luck finding 1940s vintage Godings in my size.

  His listless resignation brought a sick feeling to my stomach.

  Say you’re sorry. Just say you’re sorry!

  But every time I opened my mouth, the words got lodged somewhere down in my esophagus. How could two little words be so hard to say?

  Way to go,Vassar. First, you get arrested and almost imprisoned. Second, you narrowly escape from the Cambodian authorities. Third, you almost kill your grandma (and an amputee) with black market sanitation spray. Fourth, you chalk up two counts of assault—albeit with plastic menus. Fifth, you cause a stampede. Sixth, you separate Hanks from his most treasured possession, thanks to your impulsiveness. What’s seventh, Vassar? Extortion, kidnapping, murder?

  If I didn’t get out of this country soon, there was no telling what damage I’d do—to myself or others. Cambodia was dangerous to my mental health and moral fiber.

  As I rode back to the guesthouse, my arms around Hanks’s waist, it hit me:

  I’m in love with Hanks.

  And now he hates my guts.

  PART FOUR

  Laos

  CHAPTER ONE

  Volo praecessi domus. (I want to go home.)

  Hanks was acting just like he always did, but i could sense an invisible barrier between us. And someone unhappy with me because of my actions was something I’d never experienced before. It felt horrible. I’d never let my parents down, never let my teachers down, never let my friends down. (In Grandma Gerd’s case, she was in the wrong—so that didn’t count.) During our last two weeks in Cambodia, every time I saw Hanks walking in the cheap rubber flip-flops he bought from a street vendor, I felt a sharp jab in my chest. I couldn’t appreciate sightseeing or concentrate on writing my novel.

  I was miserable.

  Really, I realized, it was all Grandma Gerd’s fault. Her idea for me to travel through Southeast Asia, her idea for me to visit Cambodia—the country of my downfall. Now that she wasn’t dying after all, what secret could possibly be important enough to destroy her granddaughter’s life and future? D-A-D-E-P? What did it mean?

  Who cared?

  So it was a relief when we finally flew to Luang Prabang, Laos—a lush, incredibly beautiful country. Like Melaka, it had French Colonial architecture juxtaposed against a tropical backdrop. Thirty-two peaked wats (temples) dotted the town—each one more ornate than the last with their intricately carved bas-reliefs covered with gold leaf. Luang Prabang was an oasis of calm in the sea of Southeast Asia. But ironically, Laos was Communist. Highly intolerant about many things, though on the surface it seemed like paradise.

  “Isn’t visiting a Communist country promoting Communism?” I’d asked Grandma Gerd as we unpacked in our guesthouse. The Ever Charming Guesthouse—which was indeed charming. It was a two-story house with wraparound balconies and a view of a wat (complete with saffron monks and orange novices) directly across the street.

  “I don’t view it that way,” she’d said. “I think the more visitors see what’s going on, the better chance for change. The key is to take the road less traveled, getting off the usual tour routes and seeing the real Laos. Someday this country will have free elections like Cambodia—not that Cambodia’s got its act together yet, but at least it’s got the freedom to try.”

  But her real reason for coming to Laos:

  The Iridescent Ruffled Beetle.

  “It’s the focal point of the entire collage,” said Grandma Gerd. “The Holy Grail of found art. So elusive that very few ever find it. But I’ve got a lead … .”

  I should have known we weren’t here so I could experience Luang Prabang: the friendly smiles of the locals, the blue crystalline sky, the refreshing breeze, the architecture, or the flowing Mekong. Nope. It was all about her and her art. And that’s how it always would be.

  Suddenly, I was tired. Really, really tired.

  I wanted to go home.

  And I didn’t even care if I ever learned The Big Secret. I ignored the voice in the back of my head that whispered, You’ve never, ever given up on a problem, equation, or project. What are you? A quitter?

  No. I was sensible. Cutting my losses. Getting out while the getting’s good—or as good as it was gonna get.

  Amber: Keep up the AWESOME work—you’ve got one HECKA imagination! How do you come up with this stuff? Must be all that tons of time doing nothing. You CAN’T come home until you finish this puppy!

  Denise: You can’t seriously be contemplating giving up. Because Vassar Spore is NOT A QUITTER! Sorry for the Amber-caps, but I’m irate. Not only have you not completed your novel, you haven’t even figured out The Big Secret! How can your intellectual curiosity be appeased when ours isn’t? How can you possibly forfeit your academic career at this juncture? Must I say those motivating words … WENDY STUPACKER!!! (Sorry, but someone needed to do it.)

  Laurel: You can’t come home yet—Sarah hasn’t bought any spoons!

  A week later while washing my shirt in ou
r guesthouse bathroom, I mustered up the courage to tell Grandma Gerd I wanted to go home. She’d just walked through the door after snapping photos of a wat, and I broke it to her before she even had the chance to put down her bag and camera.

  It was surprisingly easy. Although she was a touch hurt, she knew as well as I did that the situation was impossible. Why didn’t she attempt to stop me? Why didn’t she convince me to stay? I expected at the very minimum: “Frangi, don’t be a wuss. Travel is broadening. Experience! Opportunity of a lifetime! You only go around once! Adventure!”

  But she didn’t. She even helped me repack my backpack and flag down a three-wheel motorized tuk-tuk to drive me back to the airport.

  “Well, you can tell me The Big Secret now, can’t you?” I asked as the tuk-tuk pulled up.

  She clicked her tongue. “Sorry. You knew the rules.”

  Figures. I threw my backpack and daypack into the back of the tuk-tuk.

  She grabbed my arm. “Remember, Frangi: I love you—no matter what.”

  I froze. Wasn’t that exactly what Mom had told me in the airport?

  “I love you, too,” I mumbled. I love you, but I don’t always like you.

  “Hey.” Hanks walked out of the guesthouse, a sucker tucked in the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t quite look me in the eye as he solemnly held out his hand—the one with the silver horseshoe ring—and said without a trace of expression:

  “See ya.”

  What? No “Mosey on, little lady”? No “Happy trails”?

  I found myself saying in an artificially high voice as if I’d just inhaled helium:

  “I’ll send you some new Godings, I promise.” Then I climbed into the tuk-tuk. I faced straight ahead as we drove off, refusing to look back at the two of them. Not even to wave.

  Once I was out of eyesight, I cried.

  “I’m coming home,” I told Mom and Dad on the airport pay phone.

  “You are?” Mom couldn’t disguise the elation in her voice. “Leon! Vassar’s coming home!” Then: “We absolutely understand, Vassar. There’s a limit to how long a sane person can handle Gertrude Spore.”

  “And don’t worry: I have more than enough material to finish my novel when I return—”

  “We’re not worried about that! Academics, you can handle. But an unpredictable, unconventional grandmother isn’t so easy.” Then her tone turned apprehensive. “Unless … is there, well, any special reason you’re returning early?”

  I reassured her there wasn’t.

  Grandma Gerd had given me just enough money to pay for the ticket to Singapore and the fee to change my return ticket to Seattle from August to July. Finally, I was doing what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I was in control of my own destiny—for once.

  I set my daypack and backpack down in front of the Laos Air ticket counter. The sparsely mustached clerk smiled and said: “Sabadii.”

  “Sabadii, sir. Are there seats available on the two p.m. flight to Singapore?”

  He checked the computer.

  “Yes. It will be one hundred fifty U.S. dollar.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Passport, please.”

  Zip-zip. My driver’s license, receipts, and return airline ticket.

  But no passport.

  I checked again. I’d never misplaced anything in my life. It had to be in there.

  It wasn’t.

  I ripped the flesh-colored money belt completely off my waist and emptied the contents onto the counter. The clerk helpfully organized the items into tidy piles. He seemed apologetic for inconveniencing me.

  No passport.

  I couldn’t believe it. My money belt was never out of my sight. Ever. I even slept with it around my waist. Had an especially adept pickpocket brushed up against me on the street? Had a sneaky guesthouse clerk slipped into the bedroom while I was showering?

  Neither of those seemed feasible.

  What was I to do? I obviously wasn’t going anywhere. I’d have to apply for a new passport at the American Embassy. And who knew how long that would take? Hanks had said most embassies in Southeast Asia suspected young Americans with “lost” passports of selling them to locals for thousands of dollars.

  As the clerk’s thin fingers deftly straightened the stacks of Cambodian currency and receipts, I noticed a folded piece of paper with smeared pencil handwriting. With a sense of foreboding, I opened it:

  I know. You’re upset. But you’ll thank me later. GG

  The clerk and I were equally surprised at the profanity that spewed out of my mouth. I didn’t even know what some of the words meant.

  When I returned to the Ever Charming Guesthouse, Grandma Gerd was conveniently out, but there was a manila envelope on my bed. It contained another note:

  Tomorrow we’re going on a six-day trek through the jungle in search of the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle. Pack light and get a good night’s sleep. If you follow directions, you’ll get your passport back. But the more stubborn you are, the more uncomfortable this whole experience will be. So why not … LIM? GG

  Hanks was right. When I called the American Embassy in the capital city of Vientiane, they didn’t look favorably upon my situation.

  The impatient male voice on the other end snorted, then said: “You don’t really expect us to believe your own grandmother stole your passport? Come on, you can do better than that.”

  Even though there were two backpackers waiting to use the guesthouse lobby phone, I made another call.

  “What do you mean you’re not coming?” Mom’s voice escalated.

  Patiently—more patiently than I was feeling—I explained it all again, to the annoyance of the backpackers. Before I’d even finished, Mom interrupted:

  “We can’t let her get away with this! We’ll call the embassy—the U.S. ambassador—the White House—”

  “Althea, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “There’s always something you can do!”

  Dad’s voice came across the wire, surprisingly firm: “No, Althea. This time there’s nothing … you … can … do.”

  Mom hiccupped, then was silent.

  “Here,” said Dad. “Have one of these.” There came the unmistakable sound of a bottle of pills being opened. “Vassar will go on the trek and have a good time. Won’t you, Vassar?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I said. Then I added for Mom’s benefit: “Now that I think about it, a trek actually sounds fun. Really fun.”

  Dad was right. I had no choice. I was a prisoner in Laos, and Grandma Gerd was the warden.

  And there was a solution: Follow Grandma Gerd’s instructions. The irony. She who abhorred plans was inflicting them on her granddaughter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bounmy

  Do not hate Grandma Gerd. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.

  Grandma Gerd handed me a chocolate bar. “Here. You need some pep.” The label read CRUNKY! “It’s from Japan. They’re big into wacky brand names.”

  I took it without speaking or changing my expression whatsoever. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. This time I was administering the silent treatment.

  The three of us were walking along the Mekong to meet our trek guide. We all wore daypacks (traveling light; the rest of our luggage remained at the guesthouse) and new green-and-black jungle boots Grandma Gerd had bought us—along with hiking socks that wicked away moisture.

  “You can’t make this trek in flip-flops or sandals—even if the locals do.” The rugged jungle boots made a humorous juxtaposition against Grandma Gerd’s fisherman’s pants, Cubist-patterned blouse, and Vietnamese mollusk hat—as well as Hanks’s cowboy hat and chops.

  As for me, well. If Mom and Dad could see their only daughter now: Gone were my stylish travel linens and trusty Spring-Zs—replaced with baggy green fisherman’s pants, a Laos Ale T-shirt, jungle boots, and a tan, which I’d managed to acquire despite repeat applications of 45 SPF. But I still had my big white hat.

  Grandma Gerd’s daypack bulged with ext
ra boxes and cotton for all the Iridescent Ruffled Beetles she was planning on capturing. “This particular part of Laos is the only place they’re found in all of Southeast Asia,” she explained to Hanks.

  Grandma Gerd abruptly dropped to a squat and groped through the dirt. After a moment she jumped to her feet clutching a smashed cigarette pack. She wiped it off on her shirt, leaving skids of brown across her chest. “Brilliant! Just look at the design: It’s a lotus. A red lotus on a golden yellow background. Isn’t that just sensational?”

  “So we’re taking the road less traveled,” I said. Giving her the silent treatment was getting old. I shifted my daypack. My shoulders weren’t used to carrying something so heavy.

  “Frangi,” Grandma chortled. “We’re taking no road!”

  I wasn’t liking this.

  “No Road Travel—we’re taking their Trek Where No Trekker Has Gone Before!’”

  “But my guidebook says that the Laos government doesn’t allow overnight stays in the tribal villages—”

  “Unless you’re with a licensed outfit. And as it so happens, No Road Travel is the only licensed outfit in Luang Prabang. We’re going to see the real Laos—not a tour simulation. Our guide, Sone, is the expert on Laos hill tribal areas. The authority on the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle.” She dug around in the side pocket of her daypack.

  “Now that you’re talking to me again …” Grandma handed me a cluster of tiny pebbles glued together to form a “T.”

  “What makes you think I’m still interested?”

  “That intellectual curiosity of yours.”

  D-A-D-E-P-T.

  Bicycles, motorbikes, and tuk-tuks cruised past us. Outside a handicrafts shop, wooden boxes containing flattened paper pulp peppered with tiny orange flowers were drying in the sun. Grandma Gerd oohed and snapped a photo with her Brownie camera. Then bought eleven rolls of dried paper to be picked up on her return.