Three Weeks With My Brother (25 page)

While we continued on toward the hotel, everyone on the bus looked unsuccessfully for a scooter carrying eight people. As if, in this remarkable environment, seven weren’t enough.

Because of the heat and humidity in Cambodia, our day was divided into two segments. In the morning, we’d visit the other temples and sights—Ta Prohm, the Bayon, and the Elephant Terrace. After lunch, we’d spend a few hours at the hotel. Later in the afternoon, we’d visit Angkor Wat.

Our first stop was Ta Prohm, and despite the grandiosity of Angkor Wat, it would be our favorite temple to visit. It wasn’t large and lay pretty much in ruins, but the jungle growth intrigued us. Shrouded in shade, the giant roots of strangler figs and silk cotton wove around doorways and crept over walls as if the roots had been poured from the trunk. It seemed as if the jungle was in the act of devouring the temple, as it had once swallowed all the others.

The roots were unstoppable. Though the giant ones caught our attention first, closer inspection revealed the finer roots forcing their way between blocks; in time, the block would eventually be loosened. In a couple of decades, those blocks would be found on the ground with the countless others that were piled around us.

The temple, though in a terrible state of disrepair, had somehow maintained its original shape. Like all of the temples we would see, it had four concentric square walls (actually tunnels) surrounding a temple-mountain, and we gradually wove our way through the ruins toward the center. Unlike so many of the sites we’d visited, as soon as we rounded the corner, it was easy to lose sight of the others in our group.

“This is great!” Micah said.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“It reminds me of the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom ride at Disneyland.”

“You’re such a crass American,” I complained.

“Don’t you think it does? Or, it could be a movie set. Like someone had imagined what a ruined temple looked like, then built it. It looks too real to be real.”

“Too real to be real?”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “Like someone
planned
it.”

Forty minutes later, we were back on the bus; our next stop was the Bayon. There the jungle had been cut back and we made our way through the ruins. Unlike the heat in Australia, the heat in Angkor was intensified by the humidity. Mosquitoes were prevalent, and we slathered on the bug spray.

The Bayon was unremarkable when compared to Ta Prohm. It had the same configuration as the others, though we did see our first examples of the relief carvings for which the temples are famous. In the sandstone, we could make out various images, each of which came with a story.

The stories, however, were hard to follow. Of all the languages in the countries we visited, Cambodian seemed most foreign. The linguistic sounds were so different that simple words were incomprehensible. Thus, whenever the guides spoke, even in English, we had to sift through heavy accents and long pauses as our Cambodian guides stumbled over words. It was not only hard for us to understand what they were saying, but they had an equally difficult time understanding us.

“Why do they call them relief carvings instead of just carvings?” Micah asked.

“These . . . uh . . . are . . . uh . . .
relief
carvings,” our guide answered with an accommodating smile.

“But why
relief
?”

“See?” he said, pointing to the wall.
“Relief
carvings.” He enunciated the word carefully.
“Relief.”

“Ah,” Micah said, knowing he wasn’t getting through. “Thanks anyway.”

The guide bowed. “I’m welcome.”

The sun was directly overhead and beating down hard when we finally arrived at the Elephant Terrace. We were told the rulers used to sit atop the wall—essentially a long, thick wall with elephants carved on it—to watch performances on the plaza out front.

“What kinds of performances?” Micah asked.

“Like the . . . uh . . . uh . . .”

“Play?”

“No . . . the uh . . .”

“Circus?” Micah offered.

“Yes, the circus. With the swingers on the . . . uh . . .” The guide waved his hand, mimicking the word he was looking for.

“Trapeze?”

“Yes. Trapeze. And there were women . . . uh . . .” The guide moved a little, swinging his hips to the side.

“Dancers?”

“Yes, dancers. And . . . uh . . . uh . . .”

“Elephants?” Micah suggested.

“No, no elephants.”

The three-hour break once we were back at the hotel was welcome. Both Micah and I worked out, ate, and napped before heading off to Angkor Wat. By then, we’d been told repeatedly that our two hours there wouldn’t be nearly long enough to fully appreciate it.

In a way, we learned, they were right, simply because of its size and scope. And yet, unless you were well versed in the stories about the Hindu god Vishnu and had the patience to learn how those stories had been interpreted into pictures, two hours was more than enough. One of the TCS lecturers on the trip was absolutely fascinated by—and had studied intensively—the relief carvings of Angkor Wat. After making our way over the causeway to the main walls surrounding the temple, he grew giddy with excitement. As we stared and photographed portions of the carvings—and they were amazingly detailed, I have to admit—our lecturer would stop every few steps and point to the various sections of the wall, describing it in even further detail, his voice resounding with enthusiasm.

To be honest, it only confused us.

“Now this,” he might say, “is where Vishnu crosses the river. Look where he’s standing. See the temple in the foreground?”

We’d squint, searching for the temple and finding it, thinking,
so far, so good
. Then, unfortunately, the lecturer would go on.

“As you probably know, the temple behind him represents the cosmos as centered on Mount Meru—in other words, it’s the model of the universe in microcosm! This—as with everything about Angkor Wat—is the same representation! And all these reliefs come from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata as well as the Bhagavad-Gita, which is absolutely extraordinary, if you think about it. Furthermore, as we move along, you’ll also notice scenes from the life of Suryavarman II himself, who apparently decided to identify himself with Rama and Krishna, the incarnations of Vishnu, thus making himself out to be a Devaraja! You can just imagine what Jayavarman II thought about that, especially after defeating the Chams. Oh, and just up ahead, we’ll see the famous relief that depicts the myth of cosmic renewal, also known as the Churning of the Sea of Milk!”

By then, Micah’s eyes had acquired a familiar glassy sheen.

“Milk?”

“That’s what he said.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Micah went on. “And who’s Rama and what on earth is a Devaraja?”

“Do you want me to ask?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Maybe if no one asks, he’ll eventually move on.” Micah paused for a moment before shaking his head. “I mean, does he really think we know all this stuff about Shiva?”

“Vishnu. He’s talking to us about the God
Vishnu.
”

“Whatever,” he said. “My point is, I don’t know any of this, I won’t remember any of this. It’s too much—I mean, the wall is ten feet high and goes all the way around the temple. It’s over half a mile long. Architecturally, it’s amazing, and I can see why it took decades to build it. But unless you live for this stuff, the carvings seem to run together.”

“
Relief
carvings,” I said.
“Relief.
”

“Whatever.”

Meanwhile, our lecturer was still talking on and on, growing even more excited.

“And notice outside the four sandstone heads atop the perimeter wall! Can you see them? We think those represent the Guardians of the Four Directions, or maybe even the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara!”

When we reached the center of Angkor Wat and stood at the base of the temple mount, the lecturer was in full swing.

“It’s interesting to compare Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism, but for historical purposes, you might keep in mind the animism that was also prevalent in the early Khmer empire—for example, the belief in Neak Ta. Perhaps you noticed the serpent god Naga near the entrance? This—”

“Excuse me?” Micah interrupted.

The lecturer paused. “Yes?”

Micah pointed to the temple-mountain. “Can we climb that thing?”

We spent the remaining hour exploring the ruins on our own. We climbed the steep, crumbling steps and wandered through the rocky corridors, posed for pictures, and surveyed Angkor Wat from the highest spots we could reach.

“I hope there’s not a test on any of this,” Micah said as we walked back down the causeway. “I’d flunk.”

“You and me both.”

He paused. “Do you realize we’ve been gone for two weeks?”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

“It’s kind of sad to think about it. I’d been dreaming about this trip for months, and we’re already more than halfway through. It’s going so fast.”

“Dreams are funny like that,” I said. “You want something so desperately, you somehow get it, then just as suddenly it’s over. Like running races—all that training for a couple of minutes on the track. The secret, I’ve learned, is to appreciate the process.”

“Are you getting philosophical on me?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’m just talking to hear my head rattle.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ve had more than enough philosophy for one day.”

We walked a little farther.

“Do you miss Christine?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “The kids, too. How about you?”

I nodded. “I’ve been missing them since I left.”

Cat and I married in Manchester, New Hampshire, Cathy’s hometown. In the previous six months, she’d had to make the arrangements from across the country. She’d gone home only twice; my bride-to-be, I was beginning to understand, was quite efficient when she needed to be.

We were married on July 22, 1989, in the Catholic church she’d grown up attending, and as she was led to the aisle by her father, I couldn’t look away. Her eyes were luminous beneath her veil, and her hands were shaking slightly when I took them in my own. I barely remember the ceremony. The only moment that stands out in my mind was when I slipped the ring on her finger. The reception was also a blur, and we were both exhausted by the time we arrived in Hawaii for our honeymoon. The honeymoon had been a gift from Billy and Pat Mills, who had come to love Cathy as much as I did. Lisa, who’d long since found someone new in her life, jokingly began referring to me as “the ex-boyfriend that never went away.”

Because the ceremony and reception had been held on the other side of the country, only a few of my friends had been able to make it. My mom, however, decided to throw a party in Sacramento in our honor. She decorated the backyard, made a cake, set out beer and food, and everyone I knew from childhood stopped by to congratulate us. The party went on for hours, and in some ways was more fun than the original reception. I had returned from honeymooning in Maui, owned two rental properties with Micah, had finished my second—albeit unpublished—novel. I was excited about a new business I was starting, and was deeply in love with my new wife. It was, I still think, one of the best evenings, and summers, I’d ever spent.

If possible, my mom was even more excited than we were. In the course of the evening, she’d mentioned that she was thinking about quitting her job in the near future. Now that we were out of college—and with my dad earning more than he ever had—there was no reason for her to keep heading into the office every day. She’d worked long enough, she said, and she wanted to spend her time enjoying the family and riding horses with my dad.

“In fact,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement, “we’re going riding again next weekend.”

On the following Friday night—only six weeks after we’d been married—Cathy and I went to a barbecue at my parents’ house. We were the only kids there. Micah was in Cancun—he’d be arriving back home on Saturday—and Dana was in Los Angeles with her boyfriend. It was a quiet evening. We cooked and ate dinner; afterward, we settled in the living room to watch a movie. When the hour grew late, I mentioned that Cathy and I should head on home, and kissed my mom on the cheek as she sat in her chair.

“Maybe we’ll drop by tomorrow night,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “We’d love to have you. Drive safe, you two.”

“’Bye, Mom,” I waved.

By noon, my mom and dad were riding horses on the trails that run alongside the American River. Like most August days in the Sacramento Valley, the temperature hovered in the nineties and the dry air was still. Only a few clouds dotted the horizon, and my mom and dad shared a picnic lunch in one of the many shady areas that line the parkway. A little while later, they were riding again; because of the heat, however, the horses neither trotted nor galloped. Instead, my parents rode them at a slow walk, taking in the scenery between bits of conversation.

As the river rounded a bend, the trail narrowed and my father led Napoleon into the front, Chinook and my mom close behind. According to my dad, nothing extraordinary happened next; there were no sudden noises, no snakes, nothing to startle either horse at all. The gravel pathway was strewn with rocks, he noted; at times, there was a slight angle to it, but again, nothing that either horse should have had trouble navigating at all. Indeed, both horses—and thousands of other horses over the years—had passed over that same stretch of trail dozens of times.