Desmond, an English-language expat in Phnom Penh, finds himself with responsibilities beyond his ken and his resources. So what does he do? He bides his time. Now read on for part eight of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Trying to find a missing rock star could wait. It was Friday evening and Desmond had a date. Phany offered almost a scowl as Sophal pulled up on the orange-and-white moto; he bent into the fridge to count the stock or check his phone or something and ignore Desmond’s wave and shout that if Bong James Bong shows up to tell him to call.
One of the most important skills Desmond had learned in the week was how to sit pillion properly. As Sophal was approximately half his weight and two thirds his height, and the orange-and-white moto was lightly built and apparently had a top speed of 37, and his knees stuck out either side of her thighs like elephant ears, he had had to overcome his tendency to throw the two of them off balance. Entering something like Buddha-like calm in the whirling, whipping traffic, he nailed his solar plexus in place with anxiety reducing deep breaths and made himself very still.
Still there were occasions when a passing speeding, honking, light-flashing SUV unnerved him and made her wobble a little, but Sophal just laughed and told him “Bong, be still,” and he knew anyway he could probably get off and run faster than this if the pavement wasn’t such an obstacle course.
Through the closing notes of the Friday sunset they went southwards, down the riverside, dodging trucks and tuk tuks, through the crazy clogged hardly moving mass in front of the Royal Palace to where the roads get wider, past the big hotels, past the caged-in amusement park and the glowing wedding-cake casino, and over a bridge and down into a wide, sprawling fairlyland of lights and people.
They gathered, these massed urban Cambodian youth, in clumps and on corners, showing off haircuts and motos and phones. Desmond stood to attention as Sophal lurched her moto onto the pavement and came to a rest with a group of friends who greeted her with laughter and shouts. They all looked about 12 years old, even though many of them would be marrying within the year. Everyone sat, sharing bags of village food.
Along the street at close intervals there were similar small crowds, with motos and food vendors constantly coming and going. Laps around the block were apparently being undertaken, through the blocks of stretched-out ghostly buildings, new and yet dilapidated, while the life sprawled under the orange showers of streetlights like small communities of moths.
“Where are we?” “This called Koh Pich, bong.” Desmond was introduced, acutely aware that he was meeting her friends and was under scrutiny. He offered his few tongue-twister Khmer words of greeting and was laughed with, and in between taking photos of themselves the many friends embarked on English language practice with him. He considered snacking on some crickets, or spiders, but settled on some tiny eggs from some unknown but petite species of bird. Sophal’s face exploded with her laugh and in the warm, flowing air Desmond felt more alive than he had in years.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone. Heading along the road, stopping from time to time, an anonymous Western dreadlocked photographer captured, for the historical record, this orgy of selfie-taking and insect eating. When passing through the light, Desmond recognised the urban chronicler as Wyndy and, glad to have the chance to talk to someone in English, made his way over to her. “Wyndy, hi!” Wyndy blanched at her unmasking. And then seeing who it was, double-blanched.
“Oh, it’s you.” “How’s it going?” “When is that %&#$^ meathead friend of yours leaving town? I’ve had just about enough.” “What do you mean? Bonne?” “Every night that arsehole bribes his way back into Doof, makes a complete dick of himself, scoops up three or four working girls and takes them back to his room, flatters them with money and goes rough. I’m no prude, but Jesus! Girls coming back with bruises, then he walks in and sings that @#$%@ song and they go again. Another #@#$ heartbreak of Phnom Penh, the city of never-ending heartbreak.”
“Oh. I thought he was in Sihanoukville.” “Well, he certainly isn’t. I wish he was. Remind me never to help you out again.” “I haven’t heard from him all week. And I need him for tomorrow night. Then the #$%# can’t leave quick enough for me.”
It looked like another trip to Doof Palace was in order.
Continues next week