Desmond, an English-language expat of uncertain skills, sleeps above Snuck Bar in exchange for duties of wearing a tie and encouraging foreign customers, and has now become music manager. Tonight is the first night for music and the act, James Bonne, is new to Phnom Penh and adjusting slowly to things like power outages. Now read on for the fourth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
“What’s the story with this #$%@ country?” shouted Bonne, among other things. “I’ve got to get back somewhere cooler, and some journo is coming so we can get some punters into this sorry-ass place.”
Meanwhile, Wyndy made herself quietly useful, crossing to the shiny white shirt behind the mixing desk to have a quiet conversation which resulted in the making of a phone call. Then she made her way around to the stage and introduced herself to Bonne as the ‘some journo’ he was waiting for. “Sound tech will be here in half an hour. Let’s go around the corner and do the interview; we have back-up power at Doof Palace.” Suddenly docile, Bonne carefully put down his guitar and placed it lovingly back in its battered case.
“We’ll be back in 45 minutes,” Wyndy said to Desmond, who was trying to form words of thanks with his slow-moving lips. “I don’t like the look of this sound system: it’s far too big for the room, but I can’t solve everything. If the sound guy comes early, keep him here; don’t let him leave. I’d advise you to call my sound guy to tee up something for next week; this is hopeless.”
“Guard that with your life,” said Bonne fiercely, pointing at the guitar. “Right,” said Desmond. Being a music manager wasn’t so hard, he thought, so long as you had the right helpers. Status update: sound check proceeding; get ready, teenyboppers, for some sweet sugar for my baby love.
An hour later, Wyndy and Bonne returned, a little better acquainted but without any obvious warmth. A few words between them and the recently arrived sound guy and all seemed to be under control. Desmond watched from the quiet of the counter, where he was overseeing the staff with his usual absent-minded attention and making sure Sophea kept the beer and ice coming. Shiny white shirt was dispatched, returning five minutes later with a box full of materials that seemed to satisfy everyone.
Wyndy left, and Bonne stood on the stage shouting out things like “More top!” and “Take out that #%%$^# reverb!” that were generally ignored, until he ordered whisky and seemed to lose all interest in the sound. Desmond took this as an important turning point and, when Bonne joined him at the bar, he too switched to whisky. In an effort to be friendly, Desmond mentioned that it was a full moon.
“Wrote a song about the moon once,” said Bonne, who appeared to be a much nicer character with a little strong booze in him. “It’s one of those topics, I suppose. Walking in the moonlight, that sort of thing.” “It’s not a romantic song. It’s about lies.” “Lies in the moonlight?” “Lying Flight,” said Bonne, his eyes glittering with a manic twinkle, and he finished his glass in a flourish and waved for another. “It’s about the moon-landing hoax.”
“Hoax?” “The US government lied to us, Desmond. All of us. The whole world. Nasa, the Apollo programme, it’s all based on lies.” “I guess I don’t know too much about it.” “Two words for you: YouTube, Google.”
YouTube and Google took quite a hammering in the late afternoon as the James Bonne links were passed and word spread, and smart phones all over the city twittered and buzzed with the news that an Important Pop Star was in Phnom Penh. Despite the short notice, the grapevine worked; the crowd was quite decent and Desmond was pleased to spend the gig walking around like lord of the manor. Bonne was a little more charming on stage than off and even Wyndy, who popped by for the end of the night, acknowledged that he was quite the performer. Shortly after midnight, Bonne – surrounded by a cluster of young Khmer girls about half his height – approached Desmond and handed him the guitar. “Guard that with your life.” With that, he waved a jovial farewell and disappeared, surrounded, into the night.
The trouble started a couple of hours later, when Des had finally found his way across the road to Tem Pting Phate, his favourite end-of-night drinking spot, for a few closing scotches and the call came through from Wyndy to come at once to Doof Palace and deal with a disturbance.
He lurched through the surreal middle-of-the-nightlife streets, with their flashing lights, fully randomised traffic and food vendors, around the corner to Doof Palace, up the red carpet, was patted down for weapons by the bouncers and passed into the deafening blackness. The crowd packed in around the bar like an intersection at peak hour, shouting and jostling as if they were taking part in a sensory deprivation experiment. Desmond pushed his way around the perimeter, eventually coming across the incident.
Bonne was sprawled in a booth wearing only underpants and a scowl, holding a quantity of bloodsoaked pink toilet paper to his face. Three bouncers stood watchfully. The atmosphere was thumping with occasional flashes of multi-coloured light. In the air hung the smell of confrontation.
Wyndy was suddenly at Desmond’s elbow, whispering harshly in his ear. “Get the stupid #$% out of here,” she said, “or I’ll break his other nose.”
Continues next week