Desmond, an English-language expat in Phnom Penh, feels like he’s looking for life in all the wrong places. Sometimes this is correct. Sometimes not. Now read on for the ninth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
“You want to go, bong?” asked Sophal, noticing the distraction that hovered around Desmond’s head like a swarm of anxiety-trophic insect. “No, I want to stay, aun, but I have to find the crazy guy.” “He get lost?” “I thought he was in Sihanoukville, but I just found out he’s in Phnom Penh. So now I have to find him for singing tomorrow night.” “He not answer his phone?” “No.”
Sophal’s forehead creased with concern. “Maybe lost, bong. Maybe stolen. Where we go find him?” “Doof Palace.” There was even more forehead creasing. “Not good place, bong. Bad people go Doof Palace. Many drug, many stupid.” “I know, aun, but I must find him.” “OK, bong, we can go now.”
They retraced their path back into the heart of the city, through a much more liquid traffic now, enjoying the cooling breeze until the orange-and-white moto pulled up at an empty Snuck Bar. The night staff lazily called ‘Hello, sir,’ until they realised it was Desmond and then went back to their phones. Now that happy hour was gone, the few customers had, as usual, moved on. Desmond thanked Sophal goodbye and went upstairs to get a fresh T-shirt to replace the sweaty one, then wandered up the street to Doof Palace.
The warm dark was yet to explode into full activity, but there were plenty of hovering tuk tuks and food vendors clogging the streets. At Doof Palace Desmond allowed himself to be patted down by the bouncer and braced for the onslaught of no-hostage-taking dance thumping. In the gloomy flashing interior it was too early for serious clientele, but a smattering of skinny girls with long, dyed-orange hair on high shoes stood on the dance floor moving in something resembling rhythm.
Desmond went to the bar and got himself a beer. “Where you from?” asked a friendly young patron who, if you squinted your eyes and paid little attention, might not be mistaken for a ladyboy. “Phnom Penh,” said Desmond. “Same same!” said the ladyboy. “You like to dance?” “Not tonight, I’m here on business,” said Desmond and he moved along, not quite prepared for that kind of experiment just at present. Particularly as his heart was now beating faster for someone in particular.
As it happened, the renegade pop star James Bonne chose that moment to make his entrance. Desmond watched as he sauntered to the bar, was immediately surrounded by working girls, ordered drinks for several of them and set about choosing his favourites for the night. Turning from the bar, he saw Desmond watching him, took a moment to recognise, and waved him over.
“Mr. Desmond, I presume. How the %$^ are you? What are you drinking? What’s going on?” “I thought you were in Sihanoukville. I’ve been calling you.” Bonne put a possessive arm around the nearest girl. “Now why would I want to be in Sihanoukville when Srey Chat is in Phnom Penh?”
“Lose your phone?” asked Desmond, as he heard his own phone bleep and then forgot it instantly. “Yeah, down in Snooky somewhere. Are we ready for the gig? When is it? You’ll have to come, Srey Chat.” “Bong James, my name Malik. Ma-lik.” “Srey Malik Chat Phnom Penh Bing Bong, you must come to my concert. I sing my songs,” and with that he broke into Sweet Sugar For My Baby Love and the entourage squeaked in delight.
“I was hoping you’d be in touch, seeing the gig is tomorrow?” said Desmond, his anger rising. “Tomorrow? Oh man, I couldn’t remember the name of the bar. Crunch or something? Anyway, here I am, ready and everything. Come on, take a whisky with me.”
For Des, few things sunk a rising anger like free scotch. And it was several free scotches later that Bong, James Bong made his choices and herded the whole crew out the door and into a tuk tuk. He turned to Desmond conspiratorially, an arm draped on his shoulder, brothers in whisky. “Wanna come? To be fair, five is a few too many for an old bastard like me.”
It took Desmond a moment or two to realise what was being offered and, as he grabbed the tuk tuk to steady himself against the rising pressure of Bonne’s arm, sticking his head into the squealing group, laughing and saying, “No, no, no…” he caught a glimpse of an orange-and-white moto lurching slowly into motion, and a hurt looking back-of-head slipping into the night.
He remembered the phone. The unread message said: “Bong I worry about you I come find you.”
Shiv.
Continues next week