Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, sleeps above Snuck Bar in exchange for duties of wearing a tie and encouraging foreign customers. Suddenly he’s been given a field promotion to music manager, a job for which he is no better qualified. But help is on the way. Now read on in the third part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
She walked in and stopped the clocks. And the air conditioning. And the lights. And the music. All of Phnom Penh had just turned its air con up to 11, so Snuck Bar rolled over and went back to sleep. Wyndy, it appeared, was here to save the day and the electricity bill. Des sighed and gestured for more beers, and one for the newcomer.
“No, thanks,” said Wyndy, in her rather small voice. “Cranberry juice?” “You must be Wyndy.” “I must be.” Wyndy had a wad of dreadlocks, tied securely in place, and a piercing look to go with her facial piercings. Her nose looked like it had been chiselled lovingly from marble by a master sculptor and then dropped by a clumsy assistant, knocking the end off. A gecko slithered up her T-shirt at the shoulder and then down the other side, tattoo-style. She got to the point. “Belinda says you need some promo.”
“Yeah. My boss says we’re a music venue now. Tomorrow and next Saturday we’ve got this James Bonne guy playing.” “Don’t know him.” “Boss found him in Bangkok. Had a hit about a million years ago called Sweet Sugar For My Baby Love.”
Wyndy made a face. “OK, profile in The Herald, easy. ‘Superannuated pop star milks his sad career in Southeast Asia, drawn to the Kingdom of Wonder, writes song about Angkor and/or the Khmer Rouge, profoundly moved by the cheap alcohol, sex and access to firearms. “I’ll be back,” says Grammy-nominated rocker.’ Any budget for advertising?” Des looked blank. “OK,” she said, craning around to check out the stage. “How about sound?”
“The boss is bringing some stuff.” “Is there someone to run it?” “Run it?” “Run the sound. I’d offer, but I’ll be too busy at Doof to do the full job.” “You work for the competition?” “I’d hardly call Doof Palace your competition, mate. The only thing we have in common is proximity to the minimart on the corner,” said Wyndy, kindly. “Anyway, you’re better off with a pro. I’ll text you the number of a guy. He’s not expensive and you’ll thank me.”
With an exchange of numbers, the business was done and later on, as the evening drew in, Des was able to feel almost confident that everything was going to work out just fine. By mid-afternoon the next day, all was still going well. On the blackboard outside, it said ‘Live Musik Tonite 9pm.’ Two mammoth sets of speakers had been wheeled in and placed either side of the stage, one arranged to point directly into the wall, the other to point directly into the street. Hiding behind one of the stacks was a mixing desk about three metres long that was flashing its little lights most impressively, and hiding behind the desk was a young Khmer dude with a shiny white shirt and a trembling moustache whose job was not to touch anything. Three microphone stands were set up equidistantly across the stage, as if waiting for some angels to come down from heaven and sing Supremes songs.
Around 3.30pm Bonne made his appearance, carrying a guitar case and a grudge. “Too &^%*% hot in this dirty %&% country,” he said as he entered. “Turn on the $%^&$ air con.” “So, this is the stage,” Desmond offered. “No shit,” said Bonne and turned to Sopheak, who was walking past. “Beer – and fast. Do these people speak English?” “Some of them,” admitted Des. “Where’s the dressing room?” “We don’t really have one. There’s the bathroom, or you could use my room upstairs I guess.” “Your office?” “My bedroom.”
With a sigh, Bonne stepped up onto the stage, muttering about amateurs. “Where do I plug in?” Desmond shrugged and pointed to the shiny white shirt. The shiny white shirt looked blankly back at them. “Where do I plug in, little man? How old are you, 12? Kerrrrrist on crutches…” Shiny white shirt spoke rapidly to Phany, who had come forward sensing the need for an interpreter.
“Cannot.” “What do you mean, ‘cannot’?” “Cannot. He just look after the equipment. He not touch. The proper technician come later.” “Come on, just plug me in, we can do a line check and I can get back to the air con,” said Bonne, then turning to Des: “You will turn it on tonight, right?” Without waiting for an answer he turned back to shiny white shirt and mimed insistently while repeating loudly: “Plug in!” “His boss, he come later.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Des noticed Wyndy had appeared in the doorway and was observing with interest. And then with an almost inaudible ‘zoompft’, the power went out.
Continues next week
