THE CAMBODIAN CURSE AND OTHER STORIES

by Gigi Pandian

  I tried to shake off the bad feeling creeping up the back of my neck. It was probably nothing. I was jetlagged, starving, and dressed like a neon sign. Needless to say, I wasn’t at my best. There must have been an innocent explanation. Daniella probably felt bad that I’d flown in from San Francisco and she was running late. Surely that was all there was to it.

  I tucked my phone back into my messenger bag and hurried down a street lined with colorful shops at street level and faded stone facades above. The broad sidewalks were full of people watching street performers in town for the festival. I eased my way past a band of fiddlers surrounded by an enthusiastically clapping crowd, and around a teenage comedian who was making small children laugh as he pulled out colorful silk scarves from behind their ears. The energy of the crowd was contagious, and I found myself pushing my worries aside and smiling along with the kids.

  The Edinburgh Fringe was an eclectic combination of performances that had begun as side projects to the more formally organized Edinburgh International Festival. It had grown into the largest performing arts festival in the world because they didn’t keep anyone out. There were no applications. No juries to approve performances. Actors, comedians, dancers, musical theater troupes, and other performance artists needed to find financing to put on their shows, but there were shoestring budget street performances next to expensive productions. There was room for everyone.

  Since Daniella was running late, I had time to stop by my hotel to take a quick shower. I said a silent thanks when I found my laundered clothes waiting for me. I wouldn’t have to look like a florescent pink fashion victim when meeting up with Daniella and her friends.

  After taking a three-minute shower, I changed clothes and towel-dried my hair while on hold with the airline. A harried employee regretfully informed me they had no idea where my bag was. Great. My jeans and sweater would do fine for today—as long as the looming storm held off—but my high heels wouldn’t do for the scenic jogging routes or hiking I’d planned. I eyed the stranger’s suitcase that looked so much like my own. I never imagined anyone besides me would have a vintage Wedgwood suitcase in blue with white trim. It was one of the things my dad had saved from his childhood in the 1950s, and I’d found it in the back of a closet at his house when I moved out of the house at age sixteen. I made a mental note to never again fail to pack an extra set of clothes in my carry-on bag.

  I would also never again pack anything important in a checked bag. Earlier that summer I’d found a faded old letter about a chess game tucked into the pages of a book at a used bookstore in San Francisco, and I packed it to show Daniella, thinking she’d get a kick out of it. Now I wouldn’t be arriving at the picnic with a fun conversation piece.

  The hotel wasn’t far from our designated meeting spot in the Princes Street Gardens. As I entered the gardens, Edinburgh Castle loomed above me, the dark stone enclosure sitting on a mound of volcanic rock high above the center of the city.

  The gardens were crowded with people attending the festival, but I was able to find Daniella’s group thanks to a bright yellow poster board with hand-drawn black lettering that spelled out Fool’s Gold. Two women sat on a picnic blanket next to the sign. In spite of the crisp wind, they were both dressed as if it was summer in southern California. They were drinking from plastic champagne flutes and speaking animatedly with each other in thick Scottish accents. Though it had taken me almost half an hour to arrive after receiving the voicemail message, there was no sign of Daniella.

  As I walked up to the two women, they fell silent. They stared at me, wide-eyed. I was no longer wearing the bright pink gift-shop attire, so I wasn’t sure what was so shocking about my appearance. I smoothed my hair, making sure I hadn’t accidentally left a comb sticking out of it or some other silly thing I might have done in my sleep-deprived state. When I reached them, I realized it wasn’t me they were staring at.

  A middle-aged man came up from behind and stopped next to me. Now this was someone with an unforgettable appearance. He was dressed from another era. He wore a perfectly tailored tweed jacket, glasses with thick gold-colored frames, a bright green ascot around his neck, riding boots over jodhpurs, and to top it all off: a deer stalker hat over his salt-and-pepper hair, a la Sherlock Holmes.

  “This is Daniella’s party?” he said in a posh English accent.

  The two women murmured in unison that it was, scrambling to stand up.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he added.

  “Not at all,” the taller woman said. “It’s great to have you. Daniella should be here soon.”

  “Champagne?” the second woman offered, swinging a bottle in one hand and lifting a platter of cheese and sliced baguette in the other. “Or Brie?” The open bottle swayed in her hand precariously. Clearly she’d had too much champagne and not enough cheese.

  “I’d love some cheese,” I said. The woman holding the cheese platter looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Sorry!” she said. “You must be Daniella’s American friend. She mentioned you were coming.”

  The women introduced themselves, but I immediately forgot their names. Between worrying about Daniella and wondering about the man in the outrageous outfit, I was far too distracted for multitasking.

  “American, eh?” Sherlock said to me with an overstated wink as he accepted the glass from Daniella’s eager friend.

  “Guilty,” I mumbled through a mouthful of bread and cheese. Travel had left me famished.

  “Clayton Barnes,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Jaya Jones.”

  Clayton Barnes had one of the most enthusiastic handshakes I’d ever encountered. If his over-the-top attire and handshake were indicators, he was having a lot of fun with life.

  The women smiled at him and told him to help himself to anything before giggling and sitting back down on the picnic blanket. They must have been pretty drunk to be giggling so much.

  “Here for the festival?” Clayton asked me.

  “Daniella and another friend of mine are performing.”

  “Have you attended before?”

  I shook my head as I chewed and wondered if he was consciously trying to look like Sherlock Holmes. Of course! The festival. He was in costume.

  “You’re in for a treat,” he said. “I’ve lived here for over ten years and come to the festival each summer. But this one is special.”

  “You’re in a Sherlock Holmes play?”

  He looked at me blankly for a second while I froze, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I might as well have taken off my shoe and stuck my foot in my mouth along with the cheese.

  But a moment later he broke into a large grin. “You mean my clothing for a midday picnic,” he said with a smile. “I’m a bit old fashioned, I know. It’s because of my avocation. You see, I’m an alchemist—”

  “An alchemist?” I interrupted.

  “Yes.” Clayton beamed at me, rocking back and forth in his riding boots. “An alchemist.”

  “You mean you study the history of alchemy?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. I’m a practicing alchemist.” He took a small sip from his glass, the cheap plastic looking entirely out of place in his hand. “Changing base metals into gold. It’s how I made my fortune, you see.”

  Great. Daniella was late to her own party, possibly because something was horribly wrong, and I was stuck talking to the crazy guy who thought he was in a comic book.

  “Uh huh,” I said. I glanced over at Daniella’s friends, wondering if I could join their conversation on the blanket.

  “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” Clayton said. “It took over a decade of rigorous study before I was able to perfect the process. Now I’m connected to the elements to such a degree that I can sense the presence of gold. That’s why I was intrigued by Daniella’s show and why this year’s festival is special. There’s a gold and silv
er chess set—”

  “The centerpiece of her show,” I said. I’d heard about the idea from Daniella. Antiques dealer Feisal Khattabi was sponsoring Daniella’s play at the festival, including the loan of an antique chess set made of gold and silver to be used in the show. It was a replica of the famous Lewis Chessmen. Feisal’s gold and silver chess set had been commissioned by an eccentric Scottish laird who’d lost his bid to purchase the original Lewis Chessmen after they were unearthed in a remote region of Scotland in the 1800s.

  “It’s brilliant,” Clayton said.

  “I still don’t understand the logic of using this chess set to drum up business for an antiques store,” I said. “Doesn’t the risk outweigh whatever buzz it might create?”

  “Hardly,” Clayton said. “Feisal has precautions in place. You said you haven’t been to the festival before. There are tens of thousands of people here. Performers need to do something to stand out from the crowd. This chess set is great publicity for Feisal’s antique business as well as Daniella’s play. Here in Scotland, the Lewis Chessmen are a big deal. This gold and silver replica is almost as old—and perhaps even more valuable.”

  I held my tongue. It still sounded like a terrible idea. Whatever precautions might be in place, flaunting a valuable set in front of thousands of theatergoers wasn’t a good idea.

  “Do you know the history of the Lewis Chessmen?” he asked, reading my expression.

  “I’ve heard of them,” I said, “but don’t know much about them. Aren’t they in a collection at the British Library in London?”

  “Don’t remind the Scots,” Clayton said with a wink. “Yes, that’s them. Some of the pieces are in England, but many of the best pieces from the set are here in Edinburgh, and Scotland wants to get the rest back from England. There’s a great deal of national pride wrapped up in those pieces.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be humorous as well?” I asked.

  “You know more than you said.” Clayton gave me a mischievous grin.

  “It’s the curse of a historian,” I said. “Whenever I know only a bit of history about something outside of my field, I feel like a fraud to claim to know anything at all.”

  “That humor you mentioned is one of the reasons the set has fascinated people since their discovery. Aside from the pawns, all the pieces are human figures, and real characters. The artists who carved the pieces created humanity that resonates across time and culture. A scowling king, a shocked queen, a crazed berserker rook. This gold and silver replica doesn’t capture the details of the original, but you can see why it’s still something that would interest a lot of people.”

  “All right,” I said. “Maybe it doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. But it’s still a stressful idea. I wouldn’t want to be the security guard in charge of safekeeping.”

  Clayton laughed heartily, but I didn’t join in. I couldn’t shake the memory of the usually confident Daniella’s shaking voice on the phone.

  “I wonder what’s keeping Daniella,” I said.

  “And Feisal,” Clayton said, his smile disappearing. “He wouldn’t miss this celebration, either.” The worry on his face was obvious, but when he caught me studying his expression he laughed. “Do you know the story of how the chess pieces were discovered? A farmer and his cow discovered the walrus-ivory and whale-tooth carved pieces on his land on the Isle of Lewis in 1831—which is why they’re called the Lewis Chessmen. Nobody can agree on where they originally came from, but they are truly works of art.”

  Past Clayton, I saw Daniella approaching. She was accompanied by a tall, waif-like blonde woman who must have been the other actress in Fool’s Gold. She gave us all quick hugs and introduced Astrid, all the while with a forced smile. Daniella’s short brown hair had always been a bit unruly, but in a stylish punky sort of way. Today it was lifeless and messy, and her face creased with worry.

  “Sorry Astrid and I are late,” she said. “There was a security problem at the theater.”

  The sirens of police cars drowned out our voices as they passed us and sped down Princes Street. My eyes followed the cars. They screeched to a halt a block past us.

  “What kind of problem were you talking about?” Clayton asked. “Not the chess set, I hope.”

  “A broken window,” Daniella said. “They think it was a drunken prank. The city is crazy right now. But….”

  “But what?” Clayton asked, adjusting his Sherlock hat. “As you said, it’s festival time.”

  “It worried Feisal,” Daniella said. “And I didn’t like the look of it either. He wanted to make sure the theater got it fixed right away.”

  “Why did Feisal go?” Clayton asked. “That should be security’s job.”

  Astrid gave an unladylike snort, detracting from her stunning appearance. She stood six feet tall in ballet flats, a full foot taller than me, though her bone structure was as small as mine.

  Daniella wasn’t looking at either Clayton or Astrid. Her gaze was focused past all of us.

  “The police cars,” she said. “That’s our hotel.”

  She was right. The police cars had stopped directly in front of the Old Town Hotel.

  Without giving us a backward glance, Daniella marched away from the picnic, heading straight for the hotel. Clayton squinted at Daniella through his gold-rimmed glasses, his expression unreadable. Astrid’s face was set in an angry glare. Nobody made a move to follow Daniella except for me. I hurried to catch up with her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked when I caught up to her. She had her phone to her ear, but hung up when she saw me.

  “I’ve had a bad feeling ever since this morning,” she said, not slowing her pace. “It’s always a bad sign for a show when something is sabotaged at the theater.”

  “What does that have to do with the hotel?” I asked. I was half-jogging to keep up with her. Not an easy feat while walking through a grassy park in heels.

  “Maybe nothing,” she said. “I hope it’s nothing.”

  Daniella’s friends hadn’t followed, but Astrid and Clayton caught up with us at the edge of the gardens. The four of us entered the hotel together. We didn’t get far. The elevator and stairway off the hotel lobby were being blocked off with police tape, leaving the adjacent bar packed with wall-to-wall people. Families squished themselves into the three tartan-patterned loveseats off to one side, and a lucky few were sitting in the half-a-dozen matching chairs. Everyone else stood wherever there was a free few inches of floor space. The crowd quickly swallowed us up, and I found myself separated from Daniella, Astrid, and Clayton.

  I caught a glimpse of Daniella pushing her way through the crowd to the closest police officer. Before reaching him, she paused and changed course. She’d spotted someone.

  A tall man with dark, olive-hued skin stepped through the main doors of the hotel lobby. He was easy to spot. The man had presence. This was the type of person you could easily imagine commanding the attention of the room. He wore a dark gray suit that must have cost several thousand dollars. In spite of his businessman’s attire, he reminded me of an older version of someone I knew.

  Daniella greeted him with a hug. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but their animated body language made it apparent something was wrong. A group of exceptionally tall men with German accents walked past me, and I lost sight of Daniella. This was one of those times when I really hated being short.

  Craning my neck, I spotted a deerstalker hat. Clayton Barnes. I made my way in that direction. When I reached him, he was with Astrid and Daniella. The charismatic man wasn’t with them.

  “It’s the chess set,” Daniella said, her voice shaking even more than it had on the phone. “A thief used explosives to blow up a safe in the hotel. The chess set has been stolen.”

  FOUR

  “You can’t be serious,” Clayton said. He shook his head from side to side repe
atedly, as if willing his words to be true. His previous calm disposition was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the demeanor of a small child throwing a tantrum. “How could this have happened?

  “I don’t understand how it happened,” Daniella said, looking at the floor as she spoke. “It shouldn’t have been possible.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “We thought we were being so clever,” Daniella said, her voice almost a whisper. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled up, but she kept the tears at bay. “We made a show of putting the chess set in the main safe at the hotel desk. But it was a fake set we gave them. Nobody was supposed to know the real chess set was in the safe in our suite.”

  “How did you learn what happened?” I asked. “Was it from the man I saw you talking with?”

  “That was Feisal,” Daniella said, nodding and meeting my gaze. “The chess set is his, so the police told him about the theft. He’s gone off to the police station with them.”

  So that was the antiques dealer, Feisal. He reminded me very much of a great uncle of mine I only knew from family photographs. Their faces were superficially similar based on skin color and the shape of their eyes, but my great-great uncle’s photographs had captured a bold look in his eyes and in the way he carried himself. I recognized that same adventurous spirit in Feisal.

  “I never trusted that security guard of his,” Astrid said. Though she didn’t seem to speak much, her voice was confident, verging on arrogant. Her accent wasn’t Scottish or English, but I couldn’t place it.

  “You don’t mean Izzy,” Daniella said.

  “Of course I mean Izzy,” Astrid said. I placed the accent. Her English accent was tinted with French. “Who else would I mean? You said it yourself—since it was stolen from our suite where the four of us were staying, it had to have been one of us. You, me, Feisal, or Izzy.”

  Clayton remained silent, looking between Astrid and Daniella with his deerstalker hat pulled low on his brow. He wore an expression that combined anger and confusion.