Desmond, an accidental expat, is on some kind of financial custodial duty for a friend, but another friend has said it’s OK for him to leave the bag with her and go on a boat trip because he might get lucky. Let’s see about that. Now read on in part five of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
A quick exchange of texts with Nancy and the details were defined. The boat is called Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong, the absolutely definitive leaving time is 5pm, he should bring something to drink, and she will be looking forward to seeing him there.
Desmond allowed some more medical drama (copper deficiency, narcolepsy, sexually transmitted lockjaw) to sweep past him as the slumbering part of the day drifted along, the time when the street calls reduce to less than once a minute, the traffic becomes more air-conditioned vehicles than bicyclists and the motodops snooze contentedly on bikes in the available shade. The gecko he had named Ernest sweetly slept upside down in the corner of the ceiling, away from the fan.
While he was choosing a new T-shirt for the afternoon, the sound of a heat-stricken northern Swedish dialect coming from the next room reminded him he wasn’t entirely alone and he wandered out of his room to check on them. They were dressed in what appeared to be matching outfits and were comparing between different photocopied editions of Lonely Planet.
“We will go out soon,” said the blonder of the two. “We find another place to stay; it was hot and hard to sleep wizout air-con. Normally we like air-con.” “No doubt.” Desmond was not a very domestic man, but he was starting to miss his living room. “Look, I gotta go soon, so… yeah, whatever.” But they were already on their feet and were exchanging maps. “Thank you, Dezmund,” said the less blonde and flashed the sort of smile that probably got rooms everywhere. “We leave you some Swedish snacks on top of the refrigerator for saying thank you.”
And with that they were off, stamping down the metal steps as if heading off for a special fjording weekend on the coast. Or are the fjords Norwegian? wondered Desmond, as he slipped into flip flops and looked about for his keys, and the bag, and the beers in the fridge… and the Swedish snacks for the hell of it as well, thinking they may come in handy.
On his way out he nodded at the landlord’s nephew, who was standing in the family doorway.
“Maybe today come fix water.”
“When?”
“Maybe after this afternoon.”
“Maybe? Or for sure?”
“Maybe. My friend call me.”
“Okay. Maybe I come back later.”
A familiar-looking motodop picked him up from right outside the door and, as they rode, Desmond thought of all the time he’d spent waiting for taxis, how many miles he’d run after rapidly departing buses and how many miles he’d walked after missing them… rather reminding him of the time he’d wasted in gyms just like the one he was pulling up in front of presently. Desmond fished in his pocket to pay the motodop, who U-turned in the narrow street, bought himself a small plastic bag of sugarcane juice from a vendor and sucked on the straw, not looking like he was going any place.
After peering through the glass into the gym and not seeing any Belindas, Desmond stood outside waiting, occasionally observing the indoor activities that looked strikingly like outdoor activities. In the going style, Pump Phnom Penh provided the opportunity to work oneself into a steaming sweat under the blast of air-conditioning, in front of floor-to-ceiling glass walls to show all the people outside just what you were doing. And, Desmond noted, just how you looked in bicycle shorts.
Even standing in the shade, sweat began to trickle from his neck and shoulders down his back. He wondered if the gym people would allow him to do something as sedentary as sit down inside, but from the layout it appeared they didn’t encourage people to use the cool interior to avoid sweat; quite the opposite. So he waited some more.
Soon he’d had enough, sensing that he needed to get across town before the boat and Nancy sailed away from him forever. Text: ‘Shiv man, it’s getting late. are you coming or what?’
‘Running late’ came the eventual response. ‘Various disasters. You can leave it there at the front desk.’
It was tempting, he thought, testing the weight of the bag again, but not tempting enough. And then another text. – Nancy. ‘Sorry for the spam but can everyone who is coming on the boat trip PLEASE come early we must leave at 5 at the latest don’t miss out.’
Shiv.
The choice was clear: Desmond signalled to the motodop and swung the bag conscientiously over his shoulders. “Riverside.”
Continues next week