Desmond, an English-language expat and accidental bar/music manager, for his sins, has been spending too much time dealing with a psychotic alcoholic superannuated pop star. But things could be worse. Now read on for the seventh part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Another abandoned plastic bag that had once held sugarcane juice sprawled limply in the breezeless street, the straw pointing awkwardly into an even brighter sky. Two tuk tuks with dozing drivers hugged the street corner, bellies bared to the air vainly trying to catch wisps of breeze. In the near distance, the sound of SUVs driving between offices and coffee shops. A coconut man running late on his routine calls his wares, ignored by a flatfooted, pyjama-wearing woman walking in the other direction carrying a large cane platter of shellfish on her head. Two slightly lost, sweaty, sunburned tourists in matching shorts and Angkor Wat T-shirts stand in the middle of the street consulting their matching photocopied Lonely Planets, alternately pointing and waving off a too-happy chap strapped into a display case of riverside Raybans. Another sleepy noontime in Phnom Penh, specific location: in the vicinity of Snuck Bar.
It’s Friday, stinkingly, swearingly hot, and we find our hero Desmond yawning and scratching himself behind the bar while his lieutenant Phany runs an errand and staff Sopheak and Sophea thumb their phones listlessly. It had been a quiet week, all in all, with the city increasingly under the influence of this insidious, smothering, air-con defying, moisture-laden heat. With no end in sight. Any foreigner who mentions how hot it is is punched by another foreigner. Anyone who mentions the soon-to-come mango rains is treated with heat-stroked derision. Anyone with the opportunity and the means has headed for the coast.
Including, to Desmond’s great relief, Bong James Bong, who was down in Sihanoukville, presumably sampling his namesakes and exposing his psychosis and general personality flaws to the seaside. The morning after his shenanigans on the Sunday, he had turned up at Snuck Bar all sheepish and apologetic, collecting the guitar, which he now claimed was borrowed from Brian May, and saying he was heading for the coast to get some air for a couple of days. Des seemed to hear the entire city exhale as his rock-star charge leapt into his tuk tuk and jolted away.
Des, indeed, was far from maudlin, as the Sunday shenanigans, involving the night moto ride from the province and the late barbecue supper, had led to the rather lovely situation of receiving frequent text messages from the charming Sophal. This then developed into Sophal making a couple of unscheduled visits to the bar, then a coffee date, and a noodle dinner. Sometimes with her aunt Mom; sometimes just the two of them. She was a sweet one, of good family, studying marketing and finance at some distantly located Phnom Penh university, with a laugh that sounded like a flock of ducks taking off from a pond.
She seemed less shocked than bewildered that Desmond was happily so far away from his family and not sending money back home to them. He didn’t have the heart to say it was the other way around, with interest accruing.
They compared noses. But that was about it for physicality.
The only downside was that Phany seemed to have his own nose somewhat out of joint. He did not greet his cousin Sophal the second time the orange-and-white moto spluttered to a stop outside the bar, and Desmond found he was behaving rather stiffly. Still, the aunt was quite friendly, even if she had no English at all.
So having floated a little through the week, and arrived safely at the comfort of Friday, Desmond was a little disconcerted to realise that he hadn’t heard from his pop star. A quick text to confirm that he was coming back and ready to play the next night was not replied to. Later in the afternoon a call was not answered; and same same 20 minutes later.
By then it was time for big boss Sambath to make his weekly visit. As usual, he smiled his big slappable smile and laughed. “Hey, Mister Desi-man. More music tomorrow?” “Yeah, sure, if he shows up.” “What you mean?” “He’s not answering his phone.” “Then you go to the hotel!” “He’s in Sihanoukville.” “He go Sihanoukville?” “Sure, he wanted to visit the beach.” “Oh Sihanoukville very bad, drugs very much, he rock star, he go crazy on drugs.” “Drugs? Nah. He’s so thick into the alcohol he wouldn’t know where to find his nose,” mused Desmond, then added: “Besides, I think his nose is broken.”
Sambath considered this and ignored it. “You better find him. Need him tomorrow night. Crazy barang. He not here tomorrow, so you must go to Sihanoukville and find him.” The boss laughed and answered his ringing phone. It dawned on Desmond that he might be serious. But Bonne would turn up; he was a professional, right?
Continues next week