A Woman of Angkor

by John Burgess

  I put my arm around the maid and pulled her close. How I wished sometimes that my daughter had this maid’s character. Yan told me much more that afternoon, as we sat near the sleeping Bopa, speaking in whispers. She had recognized that the pavilion’s society was poison. It of course had Rom at its centre. And increasingly, her son Darit. He did not live there, but when he arrived for a visit, everything came to a stop, and it was best that any other concubine who’d given birth from the King’s seed make scarce of her own child. Darit’s mother would take his hand and display him left and right, and there was competition to say nice things about him. Sometimes he deserved it, other times he ran riot, shouting, overturning bowls, tracking mud onto mats and sometimes right onto the laps of startled junior concubines. There was always that armed man staying close, but to Yan it seemed more and more as if Darit was in charge of the man. Rom approved of that; in fact, she declared one day that she had given the man instructions that he was to obey the boy in all things, unless there was a question of immediate danger.

  And do you know, Rom often made stinging remarks when comparing her son to Crown Prince Aroon, the child now five years old who had been born to the King’s consort in the second year of marriage. She would note what a horseman her own son was turning into, how he was fearless, had taken the reins from age two, while the prince…well, the prince seemed almost afraid to mount. It was widely known that the boy had been thrown several times. Some spirit, perhaps, had decided that horses would be a challenge. But the prince, lacking bluster, did not take it up. Rather, he had taken to pretending that he was not interested in riding. Rom would laugh over this. The concubines would join in. This was of course dangerous behaviour. I asked Yan: and Bopa, does she laugh as well? The maid hesitated, then replied ‘no.’ I think that was the only lie of the afternoon.

  Yan made a final point to me. ‘Rom has invited your daughter to sit with one of the pavilion’s own maids when Rom leads the parade of the concubines at the New Year festival next week. Lady, I am sure there will be honey wine…’

  She didn’t need say anything more. ‘Yan, she will not go as the guest of Rom. She will sit with the people of our own household.’

  I sat by my girl the rest of the afternoon. In truth I must say I felt not only concern for her, but anger. A girl with so much rice to eat, a clean place to sleep free of mosquitoes, and yet behaving this way! A girl who did not have to work in the sun in some market. A girl who had the best religious teachings. Even if no one knew of her drunkenness now, the word would surely spread. I turned all this over in my mind, but as one hour became two, some blessed spirit came into me, silently instructing that for now my own feelings were not important. This spirit bade me enter into the feelings of my daughter. I began to think that perhaps she lacked the stamina for the life here. Me, my husband, my son, we all had found roles and places in the palace compound. We were busy. But Bopa? She was not one who could find her own way. She would follow the example of whatever person took an interest in her. She would not say no, that’s not right, I won’t do it that way.

  Marriage was of course the usual route that a girl of her age took. She was well into marriage age, in fact. But who could deny that even that would be hard? Those nice young men from the old neighbourhood no longer came calling at the house. I suspect they felt she had risen above their hopes. Yet boys who had been born into palace life would probably see her as lacking. Her accent betrayed she had grown up on the outside. She had learned only a few of the skills of running a prominent household.

  By evening, my daughter was stirring, whimpering in her sleep. I lay down and took her in my arms. She murmured something heartfelt – I couldn’t understand it, I could only sense that she was welcoming me.

  I began to whisper. ‘Bopa, darling, you and I will spend so much more time together now…You will not be afraid of life here, I will help show you the way…You will not want to go to the concubine pavilion any more…We will do fun things together and we will also fill your heart, your soul with the virtue of the scriptures.’

  Preparing Bopa for the New Year’s parade was of course no simple matter, but that was good. It gave mother and daughter a task to share. For a start, there were special sampots to be purchased. A man came from the market with sample fabrics, and my girl giggled over the selection laid out on the floor, finally settling on this one – no, that one. A seamstress sewed them to order for both of us and fitted us, Bopa standing up and trying on the half-finished garment, asking for a change, more flare at the waist (I wondered where she had seen such fashions). On the day of the celebrations, Yan helped her dress, tucking in those flares – they now seemed like the wings of a great bird. The maid painted red colour on her mistress’s palms and cheeks. Jewellery, a bronze headdress and scent were added. Yan held up the polished metal mirror, and Bopa smiled at herself. Do you know what that smile was like? It was like that night after the Brahmin came to our old little house, when Nol told little Bopa that she would paint her palms red, like the palace girls, and she looked at those palms and could already see the red and she smiled the biggest of smiles.

  At the appointed time, I saw her off to the royal terrace, tended by Yan. It was a doleful moment for me. I was proud of how beautiful she looked, yet I could not go. His Majesty would be in attendance. The terrace was big, but not big enough for there to be sufficient separation between us.

  Everyone talked about the event for days afterward. Bopa took a place on a mat that Yan laid out with cool water and fruit. She was in good company, surrounded by the parasol pavilion’s foreman and several elders from the parasol-making villages, invited by Nol as a reward for good service. After a time, gongs sounded, then a conch horn, and everyone put foreheads to mat as the royal fire was carried out of the palace main gate, followed by His Majesty, the Queen and their son the Crown Prince, all on foot, beneath a forest of parasols. The royal family took their places on a dais. The boy stayed very close to his mother.

  Servants strode this way and that making final preparations. Then the parade began. First came fierce-faced commanders atop elephants, then men with spears, then priests and then the parade of the concubines.

  What a sight that was. At the fore was Rom, and she caused a collective gasp from the men on the terrace. Atop her head was a silver diadem with three filigreed points rising impossibly high. Coconut palm flowers and lotus blossoms adorned each one. Silver pendants dangled from cords beneath her shoulders; silver bracelets enclosed her wrists and upper arms. Around her neck, were three strands of set pearls, each one seeming to catch the sun’s rays. Her sampot was of bright green silk, edged in silver. Its sashes, starched, flared out like the wings of a bird. Of course. She walked in a prancing way that generated sexual longing or envy the length of the terrace. Her face was as smooth as any temple image’s; her breasts like those of a village girl who has yet to bear children. Behind her walked the two deputy concubines, and then behind them, the full corps of women, each one striking and fabulously dressed. But you know, I think that all of them were unable to draw eyes away from Rom.

  Before long, the concubine passed out of sight down to the right. People looked back to the parade, not expecting much now, but they saw a marvellous sight of a different kind. It was a boy not more than five, his neck and chest adorned with silver and precious stones and an amulet, atop a very powerful horse. Most boys of that age would have feared losing control of the animal, a war mount, but there was not a trace of diffidence in this one. The horse had recognized who was master.

  The King was wearing a look of absolute delight. He stood up, so quickly that his parasol bearers were caught unaware and scrambled to keep the shade on him. He took a step forward for a better view, and the boy on the horse turned and looked straight into the royal eye. People gasped at that effrontery, but the King did not. He smiled, watching, until the boy too was lost from sight.

  I was sitting at a window that evening when Bopa returned. A surprise: a young man – I could
not see him clearly – was with her and made his good-byes at the gate.

  As Bopa passed inside, I asked, ‘Dear, who was that?’

  ‘No one, mother. Just a boy who walked with me.’

  Of course a young girl would answer in that way. I did not press her. Then Yan came in and whispered that he held a senior position at the royal horse stables. He had approached after the festivities broke up and asked Bopa if he might escort her home. He drew a laugh or two from her as they made their way toward our house. Yan seemed not entirely approving of him, but everything she described sat well with me. Here was a young man taking a proper kind of interest in our daughter. His family was of our rank. Who could say but it might lead to something good?

  Yan was not willing to let it rest there, however. The following day, she made more inquiries, then came to me to share the information: He is the crown prince’s riding instructor. And he is a cousin of the concubine Rom.

  I did not sleep well that night.

  37: The Architect’s queries

  When Sovan departed the house, my husband of course forbade me any contact with him, and for quite a few months I honoured that. But how long can a mother accept such an unnatural demand? Whether a child is infant or adult, it makes no difference – that child is part of her being, her flesh. I dreamt of my boy, I imagined him at mealtime sitting on the mat beside me, I felt resentment when I saw other women walking with their sons, carefree. And so I finally resolved that I would see him. Nol would not have to know. As long as I did not flaunt my decision, I felt, it would be all right.

  I sent a message to the assistants’ hut at the construction site. Our first meeting was at the inn by the market. We embraced; we sat down over tea and soon it was like old times. Except that his air of moroseness, of dissatisfaction, had vanished. Never mind how taxing this new life was. My boy spoke with animation about his work, about the people, about the fantastic thing that was slowly taking shape on the former rice lands south of Angkor.

  ‘You must show me this thing, Sovan,’ I said.

  The request came from my mouth before I could give thought to whether it was proper. It would be an unusual thing indeed, a woman being received at a place that was for men alone. But my boy did not treat it that way. He said he would get permission.

  So it was that a week later I found myself at the entrance to the site, at dawn.

  My boy, I learned, had acquired a daily routine. Rise from the mat before the sun showed itself, creep out of the hut so as to not wake the other assistants. Bathe at a jar in the dark, taking care to keep the noise low as he scooped water with a coconut shell. Feel with his hands for his garment, then dress quickly, find his chalk and slate and walk to the building site, following a trail tramped out by the feet of a thousand labourers. He had done all this by the time I arrived that day.

  ‘We’ll walk the perimeter of the site, mother. Anything unusual I’ll mark down here.’ He held up a slate.

  I am sure that this was his favourite part of the day. The site was largely deserted, mist hanging in the air in places. Everything was silent, still, as if awaiting his private inspection.

  We walked.

  ‘The eastern bridge, mother.’

  ‘Oh!’ I had expected things to be further along. What I saw was a rough earthen causeway, though I know that in my boy’s mind a stone bridge, carved with deities large and small, was already visible.

  To the right and left we could see where men with shovels had begun excavating the future Sea of Creation. So far, they’d made a pair of broad, shallow holes that were as dry as any village fishpond at this time of year. The hole on the left, focus of the previous day’s spadework, had grown by perhaps half a cubit, my boy said. That was not so much, he added, but the team digging it had been short a few members the day before, due to an outbreak of fever.

  We crossed the causeway, the soil pleasantly cool against our soles. At the other end was a series of ropes running long and taut along the ground at right angles to our path’s direction. Another mystery to me, but to Sovan all was clear – they were outlines of the future perimeter wall, he explained. A few steps further he showed me how with each end secured by an iron stake, the ropes stretched taut and would guide the start of foundation digging here. ‘One set of labourers will sink the trenches to clay level, another will pour in basketfuls of sand to prepare the bottom for the first blocks of laterite that will underpin and stabilize the sandstone walls.’ Such big words he was using.

  Looking again, I began to comprehend patterns and planning, all for the noble purpose. I told Sovan as much, that it was a salute to the hard work of him and everyone else. Such a design – how long it must have taken to think out!

  He smiled. ‘Yes, but thankfully we don’t have to devise it all ourselves. In his work pavilion, the Architect has holy texts that give us guidance.’

  ‘Ahh…’

  ‘They require that moat and walls be built first, so as to mark off a zone of Heavenly earth fit for a mountain-temple. That’s what we’re doing now. But you know, my master has shown me that in insisting on this sequence Heaven is giving some practical benefit to us down here.’

  ‘I don’t think I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, we excavate the moat first, and it will be linked by a canal to the Capital’s main river, because that’s how it will get water. And when the main construction begins, we’ll have a water route all the way from the quarries in the north right to a place on the moat. We’ll need to drag them just a short distance.

  ‘And sometimes the help in these texts comes through what they don’t say, mother. Nowhere in them, for instance, do they say that the mountain-temple’s eastern gate, nor lesser ones that will face the three other cardinal directions, have to be erected at an early stage. So on each of the four sides, the perimeter wall will for years have a broad gap through which elephants and men will be able to haul stones to their final places in Heaven’s design.’

  We reached what would be the southeast corner of the outer wall, then turned right to walk along its future southern edge. My son was happy; everything seemed in order this morning. Further on, he pulled on a rope to check tautness and smiled at what he found. Over on this side, the digging had already begun. Neat spade marks were visible.

  ‘But where is the soil?’ I asked.

  ‘Carried away in baskets by the labour volunteers, mother. Their children trail behind to pick up whatever clods drop to the ground. This is one of my master’s abiding principles – the labour that builds a mountain-temple must be as precise and ordered as the finished monument itself.’

  Just then something caught Sovan’s eye, and for a moment he forgot me. He stepped quickly to one of the holes. Rocks, three of them, were visible at the bottom. He hopped down into the hole for a closer look, and, standing there, made some notes on the slate.

  ‘You never know how big they are – they may be showing just a tiny part of themselves,’ he said. ‘Removing them may be a huge job, provided the priests let us do it. Every time we find something like this, they come in to make a determination as to whether Heaven has intended the stone’s removal or its incorporation into the design.’

  We passed on to what would become the temple’s rear wall, on the side of the setting sun. I could not but help notice that Sovan glanced not entirely easily out toward the trees beyond the site – our trees, our land, owned by our family.

  We had not talked about his father, on this or any of our other meetings. But now he brought him up. ‘Sometimes, mother, I imagine that I’ll see him out there, between one of those trees right there, staring at me. Sometimes I imagine him holding that stick again.’

  My poor boy. He hadn’t forgot that evening at the house.

  ‘Sovan, you will be reconciled with him. I pray for it daily and in those evenings when his mood seems right, I bring up your name.’

  An hour after we’d begun, we were back at the future entry bridge. From there we went to a communal drinkin
g water bowl. As we stood with cups in our hands, I heard a voice.

  ‘Hey – we’ve run out of lamp oil at the hut.’

  It was a male voice, speaking in an almost abusive kind of way. I turned to see another young man approaching. It seemed he was ordering my son to go the market to get some oil. Then this man saw me, and his tone changed in a flash. He put hands together, he inquired after my health and my tour of the site.

  Sovan later told that this Pin was one of the few problems of his new life. Though my boy had been on the job a year he was still the junior-most of the assistants. The petty ordering around had become more common, it seemed, in the three months since the Architect had assigned the morning inspection to Sovan.

  Work was beginning in earnest all around us. It was time for me leave.

  I had no idea of how important the rest of the day would turn out to be for my son. The following morning, I knew all about it. My boy came all the way into the city just to tell me.

  Shortly after I had left, Sovan had gone to the design pavilion for a regular morning meeting. Pin and the other assistants were present. Soon the Architect strode in, leading a servant who carried a wooden case, and the assistants began giving their reports. One described efforts to lease another ten oxcarts to carry food and other supplies to the labourers’ camp. Another outlined plans for a trip to a quarry to the north to inspect a new outcrop of sandstone discovered there. Sovan spoke of the moat diggers’ need for a doctor, and the rocks that had been partially uncovered.

  The Architect listened to all this, then moved on. ‘I’ve got something to show you all.’ That was the cue for the opening of the wooden case that the servant had carried in. The Architect took from it a large sheet of palm leaf and laid it with some flourish on the table.

  ‘Here we are, then – the outline of the future mountain-temple itself. It was approved by His Majesty last night.’

  Sovan and the others pressed quickly close, jostling each other. The plan was drawn in the Architect’s own flawless hand. It was a stepped pyramid of five levels. From each cardinal direction, stairs led to the top, with a pair of sculpted lions standing guard at each level. At the top was a square platform, a large tower at its centre and four smaller ones at each corner.