Desmond, an English-language expat and accidental bar/music manager, is at a wedding somewhere in Kampong Speu, walking in circles and twisting his hands. He’s had a call from a mad musician threatening to burn down the bar. Stuff like that happens. Now read on for the sixth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
“Dude, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” “What’s the story with this #$%@ country?” shouted James Bonne down the phone. “I hold you personally responsible for this. I know people, buddy. Screw with me and you’ll never work outside this town again.” “OK, OK, don’t panic. Jesus. I’ll come back.” Sighing heavily, Desmond watched his spirit ebbing around his ankles. Then he squared his shoulders and pulled Phany off the circular dance floor. “How do I get back to Phnom Penh?” “You no have good time bong?” “Having a great time, but James Bonne call me.” “He very crazy, bong.” “I know.” “Very, very crazy man. But sing nice song.” “He wants me to go back and open up Snuck Bar, he wants his guitar. It’s stupid. But I gotta go. Can I get a tuk tuk or something?” “Oh, very difficult bong. No have. Hmmm. Bad thing. He crazy, crazy man. You wait, bong, I find something for you.” Phany returned with the young lady in the bright orange dress, drifting with unconscious grace on impossible heels across rough ground, hair piled sky-high and beaming like it was her birthday. “Bong, this my cousin Sophal. She go back to Phnom Penh tonight on her moto. She take you.” And so it was that Desmond was riding through darkest Cambodian highway night on the back of an orange-and-white low-powered moto staring at the back of an orange helmet trying to keep balance as buses and trucks with deafening horns passed perilously close to his exposed left knee, while clutching a plastic bag filled with a bright orange dress and a pair of impossible heels. Wilder than anything Kerouac ever imagined, he thought. “You’re very brave,” he shouted into Sophal’s ear. She chirped something back that he could not hear, but he suspected it was: “I can’t hear what you say.” So he left it at that. By the time she dropped him safely at Snuck, it was late evening. “Thank you so much.” “Pleasure, bong.” There was an awkward silence and then she said, “Maybe soon we have barbecue?” And so numbers were exchanged. The orange-and-white moto spluttered off and farted its way around the corner. Bong, James Bong had found a place to wait. Tem Pting Fate, as it happened, Desmond’s favourite after-hours spot, conveniently located across the road from Snuck. The rock star was in the rear, again sprawled in a booth, but this time with his clothes on. Not much less drunk than the last time he was seen, though. “You know this guy? Crazy guy,” said Dalin, the regular cashier, from behind the bar. “Yeah, I know this guy.” “You make him go, bong?” “Yes, yes. I’ll try,” said Des with a sigh. He slid into the booth and into Bonne’s blurry field of vision. “OK, here I am.” “And you are who?” “Des, from Snuck bar.” “Ah, Des, my man. Good to see you, good to see you. What is wrong with this #$%@^ country? They keep putting ice in my beer.” “Time to go home?” “Not yet, I’m staying around for a week. Got a gig, man.” And then, conspiratorially: “Do you know who was president when the US government fraudulently claimed they went to the moon?” “No idea. Washington?” “Pshaw! Nixon. And do you know who was illegally bombing Cambodia and Laos around the same time?” “The Chinese?” “The $@%# Americans. Nixon again. I’m just putting some links together. It’s very interesting. And I hear there’s some kind of Cambodian space project going on. I bet there’s a link, some kind of cross-funding deal, covert… do you know anything about that?” “It’s a band.” “A band? Are you sure?” “Yeah. So you want your guitar?” “Snot my guitar,” Bonne slurred. “Ray Davies’ guitar. Lent it to me.” “You want it?” “Tomorrow, mate. Don’t think it’s safe with me now,” he said with a goofy grin. As angry as he was at leaving the wedding for nothing, Des was feeling a little more than delighted with the thought of barbecue with Sophal. So his forgiveness swung to the foremost and he managed to convince James Bong that there was a better place to drink just around the corner. He guided the whiskey-sodden singer into a tuk tuk, gave the name of the hotel, noted the expenses he was racking up in babysitting this clown, and was free. The phone rang, and for once it was a pleasing ring. “Bong, you come eat barbecue now?” Continues next week