The Deceivers (16 page)

We left the restaurant on foot and Chantrea hailed a motorized rickshaw. The National Museum faced the Tonle Sab River north of the Royal Palace.

When we got off near the museum, an old woman approached me with a bird in a small cage.

“What's she saying?” I asked.

“She wants you to buy the bird so you can release it. Our people believe that freeing a bird brings you happiness and a long life.”

I bought the bird and set it free. “With my present state of luck, I should set a whole flock of birds free. Kirk said everything in the country had two faces. What's the other face of the bird legend?”

Chantrea laughed. “Some say that the birds are trained to fly back to the women who sell them.”

“Recycled fortune. Just my luck.”

The National Museum was built in Khmer architectural style with a brownish-red tone of terra-cotta. Exotic and graceful with multiple tiers of roofs gliding up to a tall spire, it reminded me more of a temple than a museum. Whimsical swirls at the edge of the roofs left an impression that the building could take magic flight.

The building was ancient and venerable, serene, and even exotic. It was hard to believe it was a twentieth-century creation, opening in 1920. In America, the facades of modern museums were often ordinary concrete because the fine craftsmanship needed to make them individualistic was lost. Here in the Far East the art of exotic building remained true.

As we went through the museum gateway, a uniformed man handed both of us a flower.

“The flowers are given in the hope you'll place a donation in the bowl that's in front of a Buddha.” Chantrea smiled. “We're a shockingly poor, politically corrupt country … but you can find Buddhist temples with donated money lying around in plain sight and no one will touch it.”

Off to our right as we approached the museum entrance a life-size bronze of an elephant peered at us from bushes. At first glance it appeared to be a whole elephant, but when I stopped and took a good look I realized it was an illusion—only the head, tusks, front legs, and feet were shown. An outstanding piece, it conveyed the majestic quality of the great beast that is so symbolic of Asian culture.

Khmer versions of fierce Chinese fu lions, the mythical protectors of temples and palaces, stood guard at the stairway leading up to the main entrance.

A souvenir shop was on the right as we entered and guides to be hired on the left. We immediately came face-to-face with an unusual creature. Terrifying in an almost comical way.

“Garuda,” Chantrea said.

The huge, elephantinelike bird in front of the elaborate metal railing to a stairwell must have weighed a ton. It had human form, along with wings, beak, tail, and talons.

“In Hindu mythology, Garuda was the bird that Vishnu rode across the sky. He carried Vishnu after he lost a bet with the god. Sometimes he's identified with the sun itself. Right now he's pointing the way into the exhibits. We have galleries for sandstone, bronze, ceramics, and one devoted mostly to Angkor Wat and Bayon styles.”

Chantrea introduced me to Rim Nol, a curator, before going off to her meeting. She told Nol that I was an art expert from New York new to Khmer art, which was essentially what I had told her.

“Nol is the assistant curator in charge of the finest Khmer pieces in the museum,” she said.

I assumed Chantrea had given his name in the Cambodian fashion in that Rim was his family name and Nol his given name.

The curator had white hair and the grave, stoic mannerisms of a scientist-philosopher.

“The museum contains items dating back two thousand years,” Nol said. “Especially significant are pieces from the golden age of the Khmer empires. Are you familiar with Hindu mythology?”

“Only vaguely. My training is in European and Mediterranean art.”

“You Westerners rather accurately called this region of Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, so forth … Indochina. We not only physically lie between India and China, but our art and culture has been influenced by both.”

I knew that most Khmer art was based upon Hindu mythology as well as influenced by Chinese art, but like dealing with Bolger, I felt it was more polite to let the curator guide me through.

“Khmer culture assimilated several religious traditions of Hinduism and Buddhism to create its own unique beliefs. Each of our ancient kings associated himself with a particular god and built a temple dedicated to his patron divinity to solidify his symbolic relationship with that god. Each king also constructed at least one temple dedicated to his ancestors to ensure the continuation of the royal line. Some further emphasized their power by constructing
barays,
or reservoirs, to symbolize their glory.

“Many of the pieces in our museum come from Angkor. Angkor Wat is the greatest and certainly the most famous of all the temples in the Angkor complex. Built by perhaps a million slaves, it is a Hindu structure whose main temples were constructed to mimic the universe. Water flowing in the surrounding hillsides represents the Ganges River in India and you can see hundreds of relief friezes depicting scenes from Hindu mythology like the Apsaras that adorn the temple. Virtually every surface is covered with carvings depicting characters and episodes from Hindu legends.”

We paused in front of a pinkish sandstone head with piercing eyes and lethal fangs.

“A yaksha,” Nol said. “An evil-tempered demigod. They were cruel, violent giants who caused troubles for the gods.”

It was amazing how someone chiseling hard stone could bring out the ugly soul of a mythical character.

I let him show me other pieces, including a bas-relief battle scene from the great Hindu epic
Mahabharata
before I made a beeline for the original Siva that had been copied and sold at a New York auction. It was a lovely piece, old and fragile yet a survivor of centuries of political upheaval, war, storms, and neglect.

I nodded at the Siva. “I understand there are significant problems with faking Khmer antiquities and selling them as authentic pieces.”

“Yes, a big problem.”

“This is the one that was copied, wasn't it?”

“That is what I am told.”

I thought he would tell me more about it but he didn't.

Nol's face remained impassive, but I sensed a subtle shift in his posture. Since I had been at auctions where millions of dollars are at stake with the flick of a bidder's paddle, I had to be aware of what poker players call the “tells,” almost imperceptible changes in body language. A Persian rug dealer once told me he knew if a buyer wanted a particular carpet just by watching the person's eyes—the pupils would widen when they were shown a rug that caught their eye.

In this case Nol's pupils narrowed when I mentioned fake art. It reminded me of temple doors closing shut to keep secrets from escaping. It set off alarm bells for me.

As we walked around the museum, I asked questions about the different pieces in an attempt to get him to open up more. My impression was that this gentle, intelligent curator, who loved museum pieces like parents love their children, could not be involved with art fraud, yet I was sure he wanted to tell me something but was too rigid, perhaps too frightened, to speak up.

I'd been in other third world countries like the Middle East and Africa so I knew better than to put someone on the spot with a subject matter that could get him into trouble with the police.

As I examined another thousand-year-old Siva piece, this one a beautiful sandstone in which the powerful god was holding a smaller version of his consort, the mother goddess Uma, I caught Nol staring at me, as if he was about to say something. Whatever it was, the impulse passed and he moved away.

“Chantrea didn't mention it, but I was also once a museum curator,” I said. “We specialized in Mesopotamian art.”

He nodded. “The land between the rivers. The cradle of Western civilization. Certainly a worthy area of study for a curator.”

“I screwed up. Royally.”

He stared at me.

I smiled and shrugged. “In American terminology, I made a huge mistake. I bought a Babylonian piece that had been looted.”

“Yes, I understand. The museum in Baghdad was extensively looted when law and order broke down as American troops entered the city. You must have felt bad to have purchased one of the stolen pieces, but I understand thousands were lost during the looting.”

“Close to fifteen thousand. But I felt more than bad. I lost my job because I had paid a lot for the piece, relying on a phony provenance.”

He stared around, as if he worried that our suddenly intense conversation was being watched.

“Let me show you the courtyards,” he said.

I followed him into a lovely area where a statue of what I first took to be a Buddha was surrounded by a small pond.

“The Leper King,” Nol said.

“Is there a legend about him?”

“We call him Dharmaraja, but it's most likely he's based on the Hindu god of death, Yama. Some people say he's called the Leper King only because of the discoloration from moss and fungus growing on him, but there were two Cambodian kings who suffered from leprosy.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “I know the story of the Babylonian piece.”

I nodded. “That doesn't surprise me. The entire universe of museum antiquities isn't that large. Besides, nothing can be hidden from the Internet.”

“The story was carried in a French journal of art. I didn't recognize your name when Chantrea spoke it, but I do now that you have refreshed my memory.”

“I have a great sympathy for your situation here in Cambodia. Your looting has been going on for decades.”

“Many of the finest pieces of our national heritage are in museums and collections in other countries.”

“I don't know what that article you read about me said, but the Babylonian piece ultimately went back to where it belonged.”

A woman who had come out of the building spoke to him in Cambodian.

“I'm sorry,” he told me, “my superior has a question I must respond to.”

“Perhaps we can talk later?”

He shook his head. “Not today. I will be attending a staff meeting most of the afternoon.”

“Perhaps tomorrow—”

“I will not be here. I volunteer one day a week at Choeung Ek. Have you been there?”

“No. I haven't heard of it.”

“The Killing Fields exhibit.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I will be there all day tomorrow. If you decide to come, I will show you around the exhibits and explain this saddest period in our history.”

I wandered back into the museum to get another look at the Siva that had been duplicated by the world-class forger. Rim Nol had left me with the feeling that the invite to the genocide exhibit was more than just a polite invitation to get a guided tour. I had deliberately brought up the story of my own connection to the rescue of a cultural treasure of a small, poor country in the hopes of striking a cord with him and I think I had.

I just wished we could meet and talk about the Cambodian art scene over a cold drink rather than going out to the notorious site. The grisly display was mentioned in the guidebook as a must-see, but it wasn't on my list.

I studied the Siva. It was an extraordinary piece, but after seeing what the forger could do with Apsarases, making a perfect imitation of the small statue was certainly within his abilities.

What had drawn me back to the Siva was a question that had been gnawing at me probably from the time I found myself in an interrogation room with Detective Anthony and Prince Ranar.

Why was the Siva chosen to be duplicated? It was a museum piece. Well known to experts on Khmer art. A catalogued museum piece. Its sale in New York would have set off alarm bells throughout the world of Far Eastern art. At least I would have thought so. But it didn't. It took a nationally televised display to raise questions and then it turned out it was only a reproduction.

Why choose a museum piece to duplicate? Why not start from scratch and make a quality piece and pass it off with a false provenance with the implications that it's a looted piece that no one would be able to trace? A much safer way to go than duplicating a museum piece.

Maybe the Siva was chosen because the forger didn't have the ability to create a masterpiece from scratch—there is a paradox that art students can copy a great work of art almost perfectly but can't themselves create a masterpiece.

If Sammy's Apsarases was an original creation, as opposed to being a copy of an existing sandstone, the artist certainly could do the quality work necessary to duplicate the Siva.

I realized that if I came up with the answer to the mystery of why a prominent museum piece like the Siva was chosen to be duplicated, more pieces to the puzzle would fall into place, maybe all of them.

At the moment trying to put together pieces to a puzzle gave me a headache.

16

My head was still throbbing as I went past the fu lions and down the steps of the museum. What had Kirk said about Cambodia? That everything in the country had two faces? I was beginning to wonder if that wasn't an understatement.

Another word that came to mind:
chaotic
. I was a product of a society where things were orderly and could be anticipated. There were stoplights at intersections and even if an intersection didn't have a light, the law that said you stopped for pedestrians was usually obeyed. If there were rules in Cambodia, no one obeyed them.

I was experiencing the impact of a culture that was new to me—the exotic Far East, a small, traumatized country that had endured a decades-long nightmare, and an awakening third world country whose top echelon were making a greedy grab for luxury while young girls spread their legs for the price of a pack of cigarettes … yet there was also that really nice curator at the museum, the people at the hotel, the friendly, smiling people on the streets who were sincere and guileless …