Category: Penh-dacity

Des woke to brutal, sapping heat, with an equally brutal sense that there was a Khmer wedding going on in his head to which he was being subjected rather than invited.  This clankingly painful wedding could have been better described as Scottish, because it was the national alcohol of that land that was the source of this particular medical drama.

He had been dreaming bad things, something of a mixture of his mother warning him about the dangers of alcohol and loose women, old public education films about the dangers of venereal disease and marijuana, official Foreign Ministry warnings about mysterious Asian nations, and his friend Belinda telling him not to take the job at Snuck Bar.

Slowly, slowly, the nightmare faded into the nightmare reality that he was forced, much against his will, to confront. In a desperate attempt to logify proceedings, he took stock of his condition and what was ahead.

First things first: the air con was dead, so the power was out again. That gave him a rough idea of what time it was. Next, he had to get well pronto, to get this concert up and off and gone. In a related matter, he had to find the act, Bong James Bong, and make sure he was in a fit state to appear. And finally, he had Sophal to contend with.

Bravely, he turned his phone back on then laid back and listened to the messages bleep in. Seventeen. Seventeen and it was only 2 o’clock. He sighed and flicked through and saw that two of the messages were from Wyndy. “In the interests of public hygiene I suggest we make peace and collaborate on getting this clown out of the country. Will drop by yours later to discuss.” And then, about ten minutes ago: “Waiting in your bar. Where are you?”

The option of assistance in what might have to be a forceful deportation was too good to resist. He glanced at Sophal’s first message, winced and knew that it needed proper time to consider how to respond. He replied to Wyndy and then dunked his pain, straddling the toilet seat and bending under the shower head to maximise the thin piss of cooling water.

Down in the dark shadows of the bar, Wyndy sat properly, like a dreadlocked nun, nursing a cranberry juice, flicking through her phone and occasionally passing light Khmer conversation with Sophea and Sopheak. She got straight to the point. “I need this problem to go away and so do you. You need my help. It’s not that I don’t trust you…” “It’s just that you don’t like me.” “I’ve got nothing against you, Desmond, you’re just another clueless… forget that, we need to work together here. We have to make sure he gets onto that plane. What flight is he on?” Desmond had to admit that he actually had no idea. “My boss said Sunday, so…” Wyndy stared at him a moment, let out a slow breath and said: “Well, let’s get that sorted out, shall we?”

Des called Sambath and was able to recover, after some delays, the relevant information. An early flight, 7am. Direct to Singapore. “I come tonight after show,” said the boss. “Give you money to pay him in cash. US dollar. Big success, everyone know Snuck Bar now. Well done Mr Desi-mond.” Des soft-pedalled the premature praise. He could see plenty of slip twixt the cup and the lip.

“OK,” said Wyndy, taking control again and waving over Phany to assist. “Best he never leaves our sight after he gets off the stage. I’ve been discussing with Bong Phany, he will go to the hotel during the show and check him out.” “How?” “I ask tuk tuk from outside Doof where hotel for crazy man,” said Phany, simply. “Then I go there and be tuk tuk for him. No problem.”

“I’ve told Phany you’ll give him a good tip.” Desmond’s hungover fuzziness was drifting him in and out of the present like dodgy wifi on a PP-SR shuttle bus. He needed to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. He couldn’t tell if Phany was still angry with him, and Wyndy was openly contemptuous, and yet their help was vital in getting rid of his problem so that he could deal with the next problem, and possibly there was even some of Sambath’s money in it for him. The mechanism crunched and he managed to grasp a moment of clarity: “Maybe you should go ask about the hotel now, Phany, make sure he comes here in the first place.”

Then who should lurch into the bar, clutching a battered guitar case, but James Bonne himself. The three conspirators watched as he walked towards the stage, put down the guitar, sat down and then slowly, gently, slid into the yoga position known as The Comatose Alcoholic.

Continues next week

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  

Desmond, an English-language expat in Phnom Penh, finds himself with responsibilities beyond his ken and his resources. So what does he do? He bides his time. Now read on for part eight of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Trying to find a missing rock star could wait. It was Friday evening and Desmond had a date. Phany offered almost a scowl as Sophal pulled up on the orange-and-white moto; he bent into the fridge to count the stock or check his phone or something and ignore Desmond’s wave and shout that if Bong James Bong shows up to tell him to call.

One of the most important skills Desmond had learned in the week was how to sit pillion properly. As Sophal was approximately half his weight and two thirds his height, and the orange-and-white moto was lightly built and apparently had a top speed of 37, and his knees stuck out either side of her thighs like elephant ears, he had had to overcome his tendency to throw the two of them off balance. Entering something like Buddha-like calm in the whirling, whipping traffic, he nailed his solar plexus in place with anxiety reducing deep breaths and made himself very still.

Still there were occasions when a passing speeding, honking, light-flashing SUV unnerved him and made her wobble a little, but Sophal just laughed and told him “Bong, be still,” and he knew anyway he could probably get off and run faster than this if the pavement wasn’t such an obstacle course.

Through the closing notes of the Friday sunset they went southwards, down the riverside, dodging trucks and tuk tuks, through the crazy clogged hardly moving mass in front of the Royal Palace to where the roads get wider, past the big hotels, past the caged-in amusement park and the glowing wedding-cake casino, and over a bridge and down into a wide, sprawling fairlyland of lights and people.

They gathered, these massed urban Cambodian youth, in clumps and on corners, showing off haircuts and motos and phones. Desmond stood to attention as Sophal lurched her moto onto the pavement and came to a rest with a group of friends who greeted her with laughter and shouts. They all looked about 12 years old, even though many of them would be marrying within the year. Everyone sat, sharing bags of village food.

Along the street at close intervals there were similar small crowds, with motos and food vendors constantly coming and going. Laps around the block were apparently being undertaken, through the blocks of stretched-out ghostly buildings, new and yet dilapidated, while the life sprawled under the orange showers of streetlights like small communities of moths.

“Where are we?” “This called Koh Pich, bong.” Desmond was introduced, acutely aware that he was meeting her friends and was under scrutiny. He offered his few tongue-twister Khmer words of greeting and was laughed with, and in between taking photos of themselves the many friends embarked on English language practice with him. He considered snacking on some crickets, or spiders, but settled on some tiny eggs from some unknown but petite species of bird. Sophal’s face exploded with her laugh and in the warm, flowing air Desmond felt more alive than he had in years.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone. Heading along the road, stopping from time to time, an anonymous Western dreadlocked photographer captured, for the historical record, this orgy of selfie-taking and insect eating. When passing through the light, Desmond recognised the urban chronicler as Wyndy and, glad to have the chance to talk to someone in English, made his way over to her. “Wyndy, hi!” Wyndy blanched at her unmasking.  And then seeing who it was, double-blanched.

“Oh, it’s you.” “How’s it going?” “When is that %&#$^ meathead friend of yours leaving town? I’ve had just about enough.” “What do you mean? Bonne?” “Every night that arsehole bribes his way back into Doof, makes a complete dick of himself, scoops up three or four working girls and takes them back to his room, flatters them with money and goes rough. I’m no prude, but Jesus! Girls coming back with bruises, then he walks in and sings that @#$%@ song and they go again. Another #@#$ heartbreak of Phnom Penh, the city of never-ending heartbreak.”

“Oh. I thought he was in Sihanoukville.” “Well, he certainly isn’t. I wish he was.  Remind me never to help you out again.” “I haven’t heard from him all week. And I need him for tomorrow night. Then the #$%# can’t leave quick enough for me.”

It looked like another trip to Doof Palace was in order.

Continues next week  

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  

Desmond, an English-language expat and accidental bar/music manager, is at a wedding somewhere in Kampong Speu, walking in circles and twisting his hands. He’s had a call from a mad musician threatening to burn down the bar. Stuff like that happens. Now read on for the sixth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

“Dude, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” “What’s the story with this #$%@ country?” shouted James Bonne down the phone. “I hold you personally responsible for this. I know people, buddy. Screw with me and you’ll never work outside this town again.” “OK, OK, don’t panic. Jesus. I’ll come back.” Sighing heavily, Desmond watched his spirit ebbing around his ankles. Then he squared his shoulders and pulled Phany off the circular dance floor. “How do I get back to Phnom Penh?” “You no have good time bong?” “Having a great time, but James Bonne call me.” “He very crazy, bong.” “I know.” “Very, very crazy man. But sing nice song.” “He wants me to go back and open up Snuck Bar, he wants his guitar. It’s stupid. But I gotta go. Can I get a tuk tuk or something?” “Oh, very difficult bong. No have. Hmmm. Bad thing. He crazy, crazy man. You wait, bong, I find something for you.” Phany returned with the young lady in the bright orange dress, drifting with unconscious grace on impossible heels across rough ground, hair piled sky-high and beaming like it was her birthday.  “Bong, this my cousin Sophal. She go back to Phnom Penh tonight on her moto. She take you.” And so it was that Desmond was riding through darkest Cambodian highway night on the back of an orange-and-white low-powered moto staring at the back of an orange helmet trying to keep balance as buses and trucks with deafening horns passed perilously close to his exposed left knee, while clutching a plastic bag filled with a bright orange dress and a pair of impossible heels. Wilder than anything Kerouac ever imagined, he thought. “You’re very brave,” he shouted into Sophal’s ear. She chirped something back that he could not hear, but he suspected it was: “I can’t hear what you say.” So he left it at that. By the time she dropped him safely at Snuck, it was late evening. “Thank you so much.” “Pleasure, bong.” There was an awkward silence and then she said, “Maybe soon we have barbecue?” And so numbers were exchanged. The orange-and-white moto spluttered off and farted its way around the corner. Bong, James Bong had found a place to wait. Tem Pting Fate, as it happened, Desmond’s favourite after-hours spot, conveniently located across the road from Snuck. The rock star was in the rear, again sprawled in a booth, but this time with his clothes on. Not much less drunk than the last time he was seen, though. “You know this guy? Crazy guy,” said Dalin, the regular cashier, from behind the bar. “Yeah, I know this guy.” “You make him go, bong?” “Yes, yes. I’ll try,” said Des with a sigh. He slid into the booth and into Bonne’s blurry field of vision. “OK, here I am.” “And you are who?” “Des, from Snuck bar.” “Ah, Des, my man. Good to see you, good to see you. What is wrong with this #$%@^ country? They keep putting ice in my beer.” “Time to go home?” “Not yet, I’m staying around for a week. Got a gig, man.” And then, conspiratorially: “Do you know who was president when the US government fraudulently claimed they went to the moon?” “No idea. Washington?” “Pshaw! Nixon. And do you know who was illegally bombing Cambodia and Laos around the same time?” “The Chinese?” “The $@%# Americans. Nixon again. I’m just putting some links together. It’s very interesting. And I hear there’s some kind of Cambodian space project going on. I bet there’s a link, some kind of cross-funding deal, covert… do you know anything about that?” “It’s a band.” “A band? Are you sure?” “Yeah. So you want your guitar?” “Snot my guitar,” Bonne slurred. “Ray Davies’ guitar. Lent it to me.” “You want it?” “Tomorrow, mate. Don’t think it’s safe with me now,” he said with a goofy grin. As angry as he was at leaving the wedding for nothing, Des was feeling a little more than delighted with the thought of barbecue with Sophal. So his forgiveness swung to the foremost and he managed to convince James Bong that there was a better place to drink just around the corner. He guided the whiskey-sodden singer into a tuk tuk, gave the name of the hotel, noted the expenses he was racking up in babysitting this clown, and was free. The phone rang, and for once it was a pleasing ring. “Bong, you come eat barbecue now?” Continues next week    

Desmond, an English-language expat of uncertain skills, has survived his first gig as music manager at Snuck Bar. Things went well, until the superannuated pop star known as ‘Bong, James Bong’ began to display difficulties in handling his liquor and, many hours later, has been found in the corner of a popular nightclub, where it appears he has taken off his clothes and found a fist to break his nose. Now read on for the fifth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

The scene was all a bit British gangster movie, but without the guns. Somewhere around the edges of the repetitious, reptilian thumping dance-sound, the drunken moanings of James Bonne could be heard as he was dragged from the booth by two bouncers, following behind the third who macheted a pathway through the crowd. Desmond followed with an armful of leather pants and satin shirt, and an earful of Wyndy promising all manner of tortures in the event of repeated behaviour.

Out on the street again, the moanings became clearer: some mixture of abject apology, maudlin explanations and the name of his hotel, over and over. The tuk tuk drivers stood back and looked the other way so Desmond was forced to bargain hard, but eventually Bonne was sent off into the night. Exhilarated by the action but wary of reprisals, Desmond headed off into his own night, pulling the darkness around him like a cape, warding off evil spirits as best he could.

More apparent malevolence appeared after insufficient sleep the next morning in the surprising form of Phany, who rang him soon after 8am. “You ready come province?” Shiv, thought Desmond. He had forgotten his promise to attend Phany’s cousin’s wedding (actually, it might be the cousin’s brother-in-law’s sister’s wedding, he couldn’t quite get it straight). “Sure, Phany, hang on a minute.”

Rousing himself with a rapid shower, Desmond ran through the previous day’s events in his mind and decided it would be a blessing to get out of the city for a while. When he got downstairs, Phany, wearing a bright pink shirt, was waiting in a tuk tuk with Sopheak and Sophea in pyjamas, and a large number of plastic bags full of unknown unknowns. They set off through the quiet Sunday morning city, down wide boulevards, rattling and shaking and feeling their teeth loosen. With Phany and the girls talking a steady stream.

After about ten minutes they came to a stop on a street corner on the far side of town, where a crowd clustered around and hopped in and out of a dark-coloured transit van, and within moments Desmond was crammed into a fraction of a seat, contemplating how many more than the recommended eight passengers could possibly fit inside. By the time they peeled off and headed towards the highway, he counted 17 people squeezed around him, passing uncategorised fruit and savoury insects back and forth.

The laughter and conversation were deafening rather than contagious and Desmond lay back and thought of England, trying to catch just a little more sleep. And somehow he did sleep, waking up as they left the highway and took a left turn down a road consisting mostly of potholes. The van shifted dangerously from one centre of gravity to another, almost not quite turning over several times, before finally coming to a stop.

“Where are we?” “In province, bong.” “Right. Which province?” “Kampong Speu, bong.” The passengers were leaving the car, but there were no houses anywhere.

“So where’s the wedding?” “We walk now. Road too bad for van. Just over there. You can hear?” And sure enough, there was music on the wind. Very loud, quite distorted and appropriately exotic, Desmond thought. Following the crowd, they made their way in the direction of the music.

A few hours, beers and appropriately exotic plates of food later, Desmond found himself dancing in a circular fashion, twisting his hands about like a good visitor. A young lady in a bright orange dress showed him how to twist his hands better, but it wasn’t working so well for him. She kept smiling at him, though. The other dancers were smiling and laughing. Desmond felt really good. Better than he’d felt in a while, in fact. Fresh air, liveliness. The only barang at a country wedding. And then the phone rang.

Then it rang again and again. Finally, Desmond walked away from the dancing to answer. A torrent of expletive gushed down the line. James Bonne had woken up and was demanding his guitar.

“The bar’s closed, dude, I’m at a wedding.” “I need that guitar. It’s extraordinarily rare and valuable. Paul McCartney lent it to me.” “I’m miles away, dude, I’ll be back tomorrow.” “I need it now. If you don’t come back, I’ll burn the sodding place down.”

Continues next week  

Desmond, an English-language expat of uncertain skills, sleeps above Snuck Bar in exchange for duties of wearing a tie and encouraging foreign customers, and has now become music manager. Tonight is the first night for music and the act, James Bonne, is new to Phnom Penh and adjusting slowly to things like power outages. Now read on for the fourth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.    

“What’s the story with this #$%@ country?” shouted Bonne, among other things. “I’ve got to get back somewhere cooler, and some journo is coming so we can get some punters into this sorry-ass place.”

Meanwhile, Wyndy made herself quietly useful, crossing to the shiny white shirt behind the mixing desk to have a quiet conversation which resulted in the making of a phone call. Then she made her way around to the stage and introduced herself to Bonne as the ‘some journo’ he was waiting for. “Sound tech will be here in half an hour. Let’s go around the corner and do the interview; we have back-up power at Doof Palace.” Suddenly docile, Bonne carefully put down his guitar and placed it lovingly back in its battered case.

“We’ll be back in 45 minutes,” Wyndy said to Desmond, who was trying to form words of thanks with his slow-moving lips. “I don’t like the look of this sound system: it’s far too big for the room, but I can’t solve everything. If the sound guy comes early, keep him here; don’t let him leave. I’d advise you to call my sound guy to tee up something for next week; this is hopeless.”

“Guard that with your life,” said Bonne fiercely, pointing at the guitar. “Right,” said Desmond. Being a music manager wasn’t so hard, he thought, so long as you had the right helpers. Status update: sound check proceeding; get ready, teenyboppers, for some sweet sugar for my baby love.

An hour later, Wyndy and Bonne returned, a little better acquainted but without any obvious warmth. A few words between them and the recently arrived sound guy and all seemed to be under control. Desmond watched from the quiet of the counter, where he was overseeing the staff with his usual absent-minded attention and making sure Sophea kept the beer and ice coming. Shiny white shirt was dispatched, returning five minutes later with a box full of materials that seemed to satisfy everyone.

Wyndy left, and Bonne stood on the stage shouting out things like “More top!” and “Take out that #%%$^# reverb!” that were generally ignored, until he ordered whisky and seemed to lose all interest in the sound. Desmond took this as an important turning point and, when Bonne joined him at the bar, he too switched to whisky. In an effort to be friendly, Desmond mentioned that it was a full moon.

“Wrote a song about the moon once,” said Bonne, who appeared to be a much nicer character with a little strong booze in him. “It’s one of those topics, I suppose. Walking in the moonlight, that sort of thing.” “It’s not a romantic song. It’s about lies.” “Lies in the moonlight?” “Lying Flight,” said Bonne, his eyes glittering with a manic twinkle, and he finished his glass in a flourish and waved for another. “It’s about the moon-landing hoax.”

“Hoax?” “The US government lied to us, Desmond. All of us. The whole world. Nasa, the Apollo programme, it’s all based on lies.” “I guess I don’t know too much about it.” “Two words for you: YouTube, Google.”

YouTube and Google took quite a hammering in the late afternoon as the James Bonne links were passed and word spread, and smart phones all over the city twittered and buzzed with the news that an Important Pop Star was in Phnom Penh. Despite the short notice, the grapevine worked; the crowd was quite decent and Desmond was pleased to spend the gig walking around like lord of the manor. Bonne was a little more charming on stage than off and even Wyndy, who popped by for the end of the night, acknowledged that he was quite the performer. Shortly after midnight, Bonne – surrounded by a cluster of young Khmer girls about half his height – approached Desmond and handed him the guitar. “Guard that with your life.” With that, he waved a jovial farewell and disappeared, surrounded, into the night.

The trouble started a couple of hours later, when Des had finally found his way across the road to Tem Pting Phate, his favourite end-of-night drinking spot, for a few closing scotches and the call came through from Wyndy to come at once to Doof Palace and deal with a disturbance.

He lurched through the surreal middle-of-the-nightlife streets, with their flashing lights, fully randomised traffic and food vendors, around the corner to Doof Palace, up the red carpet, was patted down for weapons by the bouncers and passed into the deafening blackness. The crowd packed in around the bar like an intersection at peak hour, shouting and jostling as if they were taking part in a sensory deprivation experiment. Desmond pushed his way around the perimeter, eventually coming across the incident.

Bonne was sprawled in a booth wearing only underpants and a scowl, holding a quantity of bloodsoaked pink toilet paper to his face. Three bouncers stood watchfully. The atmosphere was thumping with occasional flashes of multi-coloured light. In the air hung the smell of confrontation.

Wyndy was suddenly at Desmond’s elbow, whispering harshly in his ear. “Get the stupid #$% out of here,” she said, “or I’ll break his other nose.”

Continues next week  

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