Desmond, an English-language expat in Phnom Penh, is babysitting a troublesome, alcoholic ex-pop star through a bar gig and then onto a plane. If all goes well. Things haven’t been going so smoothly lately. Now read on for the latest in our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Once Wyndy left, and as Bonne noisily slept, Desmond chose to avoid looking at Sophal’s text messages by chatting with Phany. Or attempting to. “He crazy guy, yeah?” Phany nodded and polished glasses. “Crazy man. But famous. You really sing that song all the time?” “Yes, bong.” Des let silence descend.
“Two kinds of girl, bong,” said Phany suddenly. “You like bad girl or good girl?” Desmond braced himself. They were going to talk about his little romance with Phany’s cousin. “I like good girl. Like Sophal, she a good girl.” “Yes, she a good girl,” admitted Phany. “But I think you not good man. You no have money, you no have good job. And you go with bad girl.”
“I don’t go with bad girl,” said Des. “Well, just once or twice. But before Snuck bar. No more.” “You go with crazy man and bad girls last night.” There it was: a confrontation, in a most un-Khmer fashion. “No, crazy man try to make me, but I say no.” “Why you do like that? Why you bad with Srey Phal? Plenty bad girls you can choose. Then you can go back your country, be happy, drive big car.”
Shiv, thought Desmond. And I haven’t even kissed her. The tension was broken by two hairy hands grasping Desmond’s shoulders and beery breath in his ear, repeating his name like a lover: the unmistakable voice of a one-hit wonder from deep in the dregs of karaoke DVDs. James Bonne himself.
“Yeah, hey man,” said Des. “All ready for the show?” “Are you kidding man? I’m always ready. Ready to perform for my public, whichever strange corner of the world they are in. $%5#$ hot, isn’t it? Whisky for my biggest fan?” “Um, no. I’ll wait.”
“Well, one for me then. Do you know why I’m always ready to perform for my public, whichever-strange-corner-of-the-world-they-are-in?” Desmond didn’t. “Because, my friend, I have a guitar that simply sings for me. It was given to me by David Bowie. Well, not given. But he let me have it. Or at least, he never asked for it back.”
Bonne roared with laughter that turned into a coughing fit and Desmond disentangled himself from the hands and the arms and the whole pop star closeness. It was going to be a long night, he could tell. Bonne appeared to remember something and he whispered conspiratorially towards Desmond.
“There’s a reason I decided to take up whatsisname’s offer in this strange corner, you know. Because I’ve been adding up two and two and a-coming up with fours all over the place.” He seemed particularly proud to be accomplishing this arithmetic, which frankly looked beyond his intellect at that moment, but maybe that was just the glaze in his eyes. “I’m very interested in this lie about the US government putting people on the moon.”
“You mentioned that.” “I did? OK. Well, do you know who was president when Apollo claimed to have visited the moon?” “Nixon?” said Desmond, remembering a previous irritating conversation. “Right. And then where did he drop lots and lots of bombs?” “Cambodia and Laos?”
Bonne brightened with a knowing smile. “Right. So there’s a connection. And then I heard that there’s this Cambodian space project…” “Yes, but it’s band. They play music.” “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Down in Sihanoukville I met a guy who admitted that he had been with the Cambodian space project, years ago. And they’d been doing all these experiments and leaving the stratosphere and everything. So don’t go peddling your misinformation, buddy.” And with a laugh, he punched Des jovially in the shoulder, lost his balance and collapsed on the floor.
Come show time, though, Bonne once again let his professional shine come through. Maybe it was a magic guitar after all. Under the stage lights his blank glaze accepted the adulation that washed over him. Patrons were five deep at the bar, and the mini mart on the corner did huge business in cans of beer for those prepared to take a short walk for a shorter wait.
The show built to a climax that gushed forth with the opening chords of the great hit – remember, a one-hit wonder is better than a no-hit wonder – and Sweet Sugar For My Baby Love leaked like treacle out of the speakers, with Sambath arriving in time to stand at the back, beaming at the crowd, nodding his head to and fro in pleasure, casually clutching a black briefcase.
Then as the final note faded, to wild applause, Wyndy appeared at Desmond’s elbow, eyes extra piercing for serious business, and the power went out.
Next week: the grand finale