Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the fourth part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Desmond, Phnom Penh expat of no fixed reputation, is engulfed in digital and brewed stimulation, wallowing in uncertain informal financial responsibility and considering a boat trip with a possible hook-up. He awaits the advice of a friend while watching a medical drama on DVD. Now read on.
This blood was definitely taken in the morning. Do you know why I can tell? The way the plasma curls around the nifting rod like milk in a properly made latte. You have much to learn, my young students.”
The reason Desmond was asking Belinda’s advice was that she was the first person he met when he arrived in Cambodia. He had arrived with great hopes, perhaps more personal than charitable, but with courage nonetheless. By some freak of nature he’d been hired to work for an NGO which, by a similar freak of nature, had ceased to exist while he was in transit in the airport in Riyadh wishing he’d not flown through Saudi Arabia and could have a beer.
“The question is, why should we take blood in the morning? Any ideas? You’d make extremely poor vampires. It’s a matter of the bromsk content.”
Arriving in Phnom Penh without this knowledge, he had been swiftly brought up to speed by Belinda, who would have been his colleague. Instead she became his tour guide, chaperone, drinking partner, short-term financier and agony aunt.
“But honey, I won’t able to get away until early this evening, there’s a case that has just come in… I know. I miss you, too. Yes, and I miss that also. Yes, and that. I’ll text you later…”
Her message came, like a commercial break, at a critical point in the narrative of Dr Cranky, just when Desmond had started to follow the story. Apparently there had been a gas leak in the building when he was a baby… this could be important.
‘Belinda Theory 101: Fancied chances should be always followed, at least until 2am. After that nothing good happens. What money? Can you pay me back now?’
“Was it sulpuric nitrosate or nitrous sulphate? Think! There’s a very serious difference!”
Dr Cranky’s frowning face faded into the background as Desmond replied.
‘Thx. Will provide extensive reporting if and when accomplished. The money is a custodial duty, but it may turn out to be an earner. Perhaps you could look after it for me this afternoon? The boat leaves at 5.’
The next reply seemed to take even longer than the first, but maybe it was the narrative. The disease that appeared to be diverting blood from the brain into the bile duct turned out to be a rare form of indigestion called Tungsten’s disease. Carl Tungsten was born in the poor section of Vienna in 1902, and was rescued from a fate worse than…
‘Gym at 3. Massage at 5. Cocktails at 7. Dinner at 9. After that it gets fuzzy. At least I hope it will. Does that help?’
“… will have to intubate with a number 7 fraxilator. Scalpel, please, nurse. No, not that one; the one with the corkscrew on the end.”
‘Meet you at Pump at 4.45?’
“What’s going on? You’re operating on my son without my permission? Don’t you realise he’s got threadworm?”
‘Sure. If I’m late you could leave it with Mr Rith, he’s pretty reliable.’
“If you hadn’t been spending all morning sexting with your not-very-secret lover, you’d have noticed from his chart that he had threadworm and was therefore unable to undergo surgery.” “You leave Clarinda out of this.” “Do you realise what could happen to this hospital if you…”
Then Belinda was back at him again: ‘This isn’t a Hank thing, is it?’
“Eureka! I’ve got to get back to the hospital. I just realised that if he’s got threadworm then the fruccipatory nerve will be inverted, leading to a reduced lymph count. It must be Fliscosity Syndrome!”
‘Sorta, yeah.’
‘He’s mad, you realise that, don’t you?’
‘Sorta, yeah.’
Continues next week