A Head in Cambodia. Nancy Tingley

      1

      The head lay on the table before me, partially covered by a cloth that did nothing to disguise the fact that it had been severed from its body. The eye like a lotus petal torn from the seedpod. The curve of the earlobe like a whorl of sand in the midst of a tornado. A hole where an earring had fitted snugly in place. Hair pulled back in a chignon, each strand clearly articulated. So thick and lush that you knew the hair would spill to her waist if loosened.

      I leaned forward, better to see the lips, full and puckered, slightly extended as if reaching, arching, longing for a kiss. Longing, yet partially opened as if taking in breath.

      That was what I was missing, that taking in of breath. That link to the living and all that living entails. Breath, consciousness, attachment—not just of head to body, but of the ephemeral to the concrete, soul to body, mind to body. That connection of mind and body that our California gurus encourage us to embrace, to bring to fruition, to cultivate. We are incomplete until we do.

      I shook myself, doubting I would be thinking all this if confronted by an arm, a leg, some other body part. Seeing the head gave me a sense of the whole. It had personality. It had wishes and desires that would not exist for me if I had some other piece of her before me.

      P.P. handed me gloves.

      I put the first on backwards, thumb where the little finger belonged, because I couldn’t tear my eyes from this face, the taut smoothness of the skin, the contrasting fine detail of her coif. I pressed my body against the table as I yanked the glove off and put it on correctly.

      As I reached to touch that perfect skin, I felt P.P. move closer and heard his sharp intake of breath. “I know her,” I said. I hefted the stone, dense and fine-grained, the head dark against the white towel, and held it in my hands, her weighty cheek pressed against my breast.

      “Jenna,” he exclaimed. “No!” His rotund body slumped against the table and stilled, this man who was always in motion.

      “Afraid so. Oh, yes. Radha.”

      “Radha,” he repeated numbly, rubbing his hands together as if the friction would bring him back to life, would animate her. He knew who Radha was: consort to the Hindu god Krishna, a gopi, the gorgeous cowgirl who had captured Krishna’s heart.

      I nodded.

      “Female. But how?” he asked.

      “How do I know who she is? She’s famous, well, famous for those of us who know Khmer sculpture. It’s the head from the eleventh-century Krishna and Radha sculpture in the museum in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Detached from the body and stolen five or so years ago.” I paused and frowned. “Unless this is a copy.”

      “No,” P.P. said emphatically. P. P. Bhattacharya—a trustee and patron of the Searles Museum, in Marin County—had brought her in to show her to me, Jenna Murphy, curator of Asian art and a friend. “She’s going home,” I said.

      “So beautiful,” moaned P.P.

      “That’s why she’s famous,” I said. I turned the head around in my hands, pushing aside my niggling doubts about authenticity. I appreciated each little detail—the braids in her hair; the flowers of her narrow tiara tucked so carefully behind her ears and tied in a bow at the back of her head; the thin, carved outline around her lips that yearned for that kiss; the eyes that stared straight into mine, asking me, begging me, to take her home, back to Cambodia. I knew how P.P. felt. She expanded my heart as she did his, as only a great work of art can.

      I said, “The Baphuon—a monstrous temple. You’ve been.” P.P. had spent two weeks in Siem Reap at the ancient capital of the Khmer empire, Angkor, just a few years before. “The French have been restoring it for years. Decades. They began in the early twentieth century, then renewed their efforts after the Pol Pot era, once the genocide had come to an end. That was when they excavated this sculpture.”

      “Don’t want to.” A pout spread across his face, and he began to pace.

      I watched him, this short round man. “I know. It will be hard to let her go. But when you see her reattached to her body, you’ll feel rewarded. You’ll love her even more. And you’ll be a hero.”

      “Expensive, Jenna.”

      I gave him a look. Not because I didn’t understand him. I did. I was one of the few people who had decoded his abrupt, abbreviated manner of speaking. I gave him a look because P.P. was one of the wealthiest men in Silicon Valley, and “expensive” wasn’t usually in his vocabulary. I knew why it was cropping up now. He’d already become attached to this piece and would use any excuse—even pretending expense was an issue for him—to keep it. His raison d’être was the act of collecting—the search, the discovery, the purchase—the best of all retail therapy. Now that the piece was part of his collection he would do or say anything to protect it.

      I turned my attention back to the head. Flawless, I thought as I studied it more closely. Too flawless? No tiny chips around the edge of the ear or the eyelid, no wear to the braids or breakage to the tip of the nose, those hints that denote age. In a sculpture that had tumbled to the ground in a deteriorated temple one expected the wear of rain and wind, or breakage and rough edges caused by falling. I set the head on the table. I’m a small woman, and it was a heavy head.

      As I touched those glorious lips, I said, “I know. But the Cambodians will love you when you return this sculpture.” Yet, as I spoke, I was tallying up the pros and cons. Real or fake. Old or new. That’s always the question with Southeast Asian sculpture, as the number of fakes increases yearly and the quality exponentially. I adjusted my shoulders, as if straightening my five-foot-two frame might help me resolve the question.

      “Don’t want love,” he responded, sounding more like a petulant four-year-old than a man with a string of degrees and an accent that combined his homeland, India, with upper-crust Eton and Oxford. He hated words, superfluous words, though I’d heard him speak eloquently on occasion.

      “Well, I’m afraid there’s no other option if it is the authentic, original Radha. It would be unethical of me to do anything other than have you—”

      “I know.” He impatiently picked up the head.

      “Gloves, P.P.”

      “No,” he said crossly as his hands caressed the stone surface. As if in a daze, he repeated, “Return her.”

      I opened my mouth, horrified at the oils that his fingers were imparting to the stone. But I managed to restrain myself before saying more. After all, it was his head. I pulled my gloves off and brushed away the strand of hair that seemed always to be flopping into my eyes. P.P. turned the head over and over, perhaps trying to process, as I had, its lack of apparent wear.

      I mentally shook myself. It was so gorgeously carved, the proportions so perfect—everything about it attested it a masterpiece. It was difficult to think that it might be a fake, a modern copy.

      “Return

Скачать книгу