Category: Penh-dacity

Desmond, an accidental expat, is on some kind of financial custodial duty for a friend, but another friend has said it’s OK for him to leave the bag with her and go on a boat trip because he might get lucky. Let’s see about that. Now read on in part five of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

A quick exchange of texts with Nancy and the details were defined. The boat is called Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong, the absolutely definitive leaving time is 5pm, he should bring something to drink, and she will be looking forward to seeing him there.

Desmond allowed some more medical drama (copper deficiency, narcolepsy, sexually transmitted lockjaw) to sweep past him as the slumbering part of the day drifted along, the time when the street calls reduce to less than once a minute, the traffic becomes more air-conditioned vehicles than bicyclists and the motodops snooze contentedly on bikes in the available shade. The gecko he had named Ernest sweetly slept upside down in the corner of the ceiling, away from the fan.

While he was choosing a new T-shirt for the afternoon, the sound of a heat-stricken northern Swedish dialect coming from the next room reminded him he wasn’t entirely alone and he wandered out of his room to check on them. They were dressed in what appeared to be matching outfits and were comparing between different photocopied editions of Lonely Planet.

“We will go out soon,” said the blonder of the two. “We find another place to stay; it was hot and hard to sleep wizout air-con. Normally we like air-con.” “No doubt.” Desmond was not a very domestic man, but he was starting to miss his living room. “Look, I gotta go soon, so… yeah, whatever.” But they were already on their feet and were exchanging maps. “Thank you, Dezmund,” said the less blonde and flashed the sort of smile that probably got rooms everywhere. “We leave you some Swedish snacks on top of the refrigerator for saying thank you.”

And with that they were off, stamping down the metal steps as if heading off for a special fjording weekend on the coast. Or are the fjords Norwegian? wondered Desmond, as he slipped into flip flops and looked about for his keys, and the bag, and the beers in the fridge… and the Swedish snacks for the hell of it as well, thinking they may come in handy.

On his way out he nodded at the landlord’s nephew, who was standing in the family doorway.

“Maybe today come fix water.”

“When?”

“Maybe after this afternoon.”

“Maybe? Or for sure?”

“Maybe. My friend call me.”

“Okay. Maybe I come back later.”

A familiar-looking motodop picked him up from right outside the door and, as they rode, Desmond thought of all the time he’d spent waiting for taxis, how many miles he’d run after rapidly departing buses and how many miles he’d walked after missing them… rather reminding him of the time he’d wasted in gyms just like the one he was pulling up in front of presently. Desmond fished in his pocket to pay the motodop, who U-turned in the narrow street, bought himself a small plastic bag of sugarcane juice from a vendor and sucked on the straw, not looking like he was going any place.

After peering through the glass into the gym and not seeing any Belindas, Desmond stood outside waiting, occasionally observing the indoor activities that looked strikingly like outdoor activities. In the going style, Pump Phnom Penh provided the opportunity to work oneself into a steaming sweat under the blast of air-conditioning, in front of floor-to-ceiling glass walls to show all the people outside just what you were doing. And, Desmond noted, just how you looked in bicycle shorts.

Even standing in the shade, sweat began to trickle from his neck and shoulders down his back. He wondered if the gym people would allow him to do something as sedentary as sit down inside, but from the layout it appeared they didn’t encourage people to use the cool interior to avoid sweat; quite the opposite. So he waited some more.

Soon he’d had enough, sensing that he needed to get across town before the boat and Nancy sailed away from him forever. Text: ‘Shiv man, it’s getting late. are you coming or what?’

‘Running late’ came the eventual response. ‘Various disasters. You can leave it there at the front desk.’

It was tempting, he thought, testing the weight of the bag again, but not tempting enough. And then another text.  –                                               Nancy. ‘Sorry for the spam but can everyone who is coming on the boat trip PLEASE come early we must leave at 5 at the latest don’t miss out.’

Shiv.

The choice was clear: Desmond signalled to the motodop and swung the bag conscientiously over his shoulders. “Riverside.”

Continues next week  

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  

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 third part of a new fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, taken possession of a heart-stoppingly large amount of money, and may still have a chance with someone who took his number last night. It’s been a busy morning so far. Now read on.

……

An old man struggled past the Running Dog, leaning heavily on a stick, every few steps stopping to spit absently towards the gutter. In the opposite direction, a coconut seller pulled his cart, singing his wares in an irritatingly perfect repetition.

New message. Nancy. Desmond finished his beer with a swig and opened the message. ‘Missed u last nite ☹ thinking boat trip at 5 with some people, r u up? xx Nancy (from Humdinger).’ Hmm.

He slid his phone into his pocket, paid the bill, picked up the backpack – surprisingly, he realised, the weight of a two-year-old child – and eased as casually as he could into the street, sweating just a little more than usual. Ignoring the calls from the motodops, he walked, regretting the beers, at least the second one, and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

After a block or so it seemed the best thing to do would be to have one of those box-set weekends where you ignore the rest of the world and consume several series of television while lying completely still apart from visiting the fridge for more beer. He peeled down to the riverside and into the nearest DVD shop, where he grabbed all eight seasons of the medical drama Dr Cranky, five seasons of the cops and robbers show On The Side Of The Angels, and a complete box of the legal comedy drama In Litigation We Trust. He’d just add it to the invoice, he figured.

Then he treated himself to a tuk tuk back home. Status update: ‘More hungover now than when I woke up but feeling important.’ By the time he was crossing Monivong, five likes, two responses: ‘treasure that feeling, it’ll be gone tomorrow’; ‘I was feeling important, but then Important got out of bed and I felt Grumpy.’

Armed with beers and visual entertainment, he struggled through the front gate and was picking his way between the sniffing dogs and randomly parked motorbikes towards the staircase when the nephew of the landlord appeared; the English-speaking one, naked from the waist up and belly scratching, in the doorway. Behind him a television flickered and blared while granny stared blankly towards the street.
“Maybe today come fix water.”
The shower head had been leaking for several weeks. Approaches had been made, negotiations had set in. Landlords everywhere: so tight they squeak when they walk. Now it was down to timing.
“What time?”
“Maybe after this afternoon.”
“Maybe? Or for sure?”
“Maybe. My friend call me.”
Landlords everywhere: I’ve got a mate…
“Okay. I’ll be home.”
“You not home okay, you leave key.”
Whatever. Upstairs, put down bag, put down beers, fish for keys. Three more likes, another response: ‘I always thought you were a dwarf.’

Swedes asleep, no signs of attempted escape or cabin fever so far. Beer placed in fridge. Laptop found under pile of laundry. AC on, headphones in, DVD started, beer open. Two more likes, three more morning-caffeine-inspired responses, each sillier than the last. The brain of Desmond commences to operate on a higher plane.

Oh shit how did I get into this what if I lose the bag jesus where did he get a shitload of money why me I guess I’m trustworthy not such a bad fellow buy my share of rounds what the hell so shall I stay in until I get his message? What about this Nancy bird, wouldn’t mind a boat trip screw the shower hell I should ask Belinda he didn’t say don’t tell anyone…

New message, to Belinda: ‘Need advice. Conflicting priorities. Large amount of money to look after for a few days. Invited on boat trip by random connect from last nite. Fancy my chances. Your thoughts in 140 characters or less.’

Two more likes, one more response, conversation heading swiftly sideways. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda.
New message, to Belinda:‘Well?’

Continues next week  

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 the second part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, recovered a text from last night and had a call from trouble-causing Hank so he’s heading for Riverside – and he’s only been awake for 25 minutes. Now read on.

…..

The Running Dog was an elegantly seedy bar a couple of blocks back from the river, run by a bald, chain-smoking Belgian named Philippe and his dog, Rex, who treated his staff like princesses but refused to serve Spaniards (Basques and Catalans excepted). The red, stained walls were decorated with vintage propaganda posters and movie stills. Desmond sat outside with a beer, smelling the morning garbage, waiting for Hank.

He and Hank had a strange history. Desmond struggled to remember whether he had ever seen him in daylight. They had first met in Happy Joy Club, a now disappeared bar that Hank loved precisely because he claimed it had the saddest-looking bar girls in the city. “Pure misery! In the Happy Joy Club! It’s too banal, too perfect!”

Desmond had shuffled in one midnight soon after arriving in the city and they had struck up an acquaintance at the bar, Hank holding forth on a variety of subjects from phone companies to contraception and answering Desmond’s new-arrival questions with a blend of fantasy, mythology and rumour. The older man’s English Colonial façade, fenestrated with thick glasses, suggested gargoyles dangling from the walls of a Norman castle and yet he was able to blend into the crowd faultlessly. Perhaps it was the white suit that one always thought of him wearing, even though he never did.

They ran into each other every few weeks and loosely called each other friends. More than once they had stumbled down Street 51 at dawn in pursuit of the next one. The beer, like all morning beers, was going down disturbingly quickly. ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there?  xx Nancy.’ Options/new contact: Nancy; saved.

“Desi!” Hank was coming from the north, his ambling walk suggesting that he was swinging a cane, though of course he was not. He sat himself down and ordered with a flick of his wrist. “How are you, my dear man?”

“Been better. Been worse.” “Excellent,” said Hank and simultaneously there was the swift appearance of a tall glass of ice filled with two strange-coloured liqueurs arranging themselves around each other. “Ahhh,” he sighed at the first sip. Inspired, Desmond ordered another draught.

Time stopped. Hank farted quietly and gave a little smile. The two men gazed at each other through sunglasses in masculine indifference. A motodop rolled to a stop and sat astride his machine, sucking at a straw stuck into a small plastic bag of undefined liquid. “I need your assistance, Desi,” said Hank suddenly. “I hope I can count on you.”

“Sure, whatever, man. What’s up?” “I’ve got to go to Bangkok on business for a couple of days and I need you to look after this.” Hank nonchalantly patted the backpack he had casually dropped between their cane recliners. “I don’t want to leave it in my apartment. Not even in the safe. And I can’t take it with me.”

“Sure,” said Desmond. Then after a beat it occurred to him to ask: “What’s in it?” Their voices had instinctively dropped low.

“Some money.”

“How much?”

“You don’t want to know. “

“I don’t?”

Hank turned and lowered his glasses like a Bond villain. One of the old, classic ones, nondescriptly handsome but acting poorly. “You don’t. A heart-stoppingly large amount of money.”

It got quiet again. More drinking. The bag was black with grey trim, sturdy but still portable. An unassuming padlock hung from the zipper carelessly, hardly worth noticing.  “I’m just going to get up and walk down the street shortly. I’ll call you in a couple of days. I know this may inconvenience you a little, but remember that if I can afford to leave this behind with you, I can afford to pay you handsomely for your time.” Again, the lowering of the glasses. It was less dramatic this time, but just as effective in keeping Desmond quiet.

Hank pulled himself up out of the recliner, drained the last from his glass, rolled the ice cubes in his mouth and spat them into the street, and then with a step or two and a “Tuk-tuk, sir?” was gone.

Leaving Desmond alone with the remains of his beer and a heart-stoppingly large amount of money.  Then the phone buzzed at him. New message. Nancy.
Continues next week  

Something was definitely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desmond lay with his eyes closed and tried to focus on what it was. The oceanic wash of sound clinked and clanked with building noise, running children, street vendors, barking dogs, but nothing unusual in the first scan.

And there it was, just under the shush of the air conditioner: the distinct sound of humping. Rising and falling and rising and falling. And it was coming from the living room.

The morning sun had risen onto his face, warming him into the gradual waking up that would take a good hour or so to be finally formed, and he cursed it. The curtain next to the bed was not entirely drawn, allowing the brightness of the day to rush in and disrupt the precious last hours of sleep.

So Desmond lay awake listening to the indiscreet noises, which sounded more like National Geographic than porn, and wondered why that was so, why the heavy breathing was not encouraging his old fella to respond, why he was more pissed off than turned on. It was probably because the sun had yanked him into an awareness of his need to pee. Also, as he began to piece the previous evening together, he realised it was plain bad manners.

He had been very charming at Humdinger and the Swede had seemed quite flirtatious herself. A little young for his taste, perhaps, but still. And then when they found each other again in the Squalor he had been only too glad to offer his sofa to a young lady in distress. And of course it wasn’t until they were all in a tuk tuk together that he realised there was a boyfriend included. A little revenge was extracted by buying beers from the mini mart on the way home, and insisting on staying up late to drink them all and watch a Black Books DVD while the Swedes were uncomfortably falling asleep. Screw ’em, it’s a free room.

But that’s just bad manners, isn’t it, to bonk on the couch when the guesthouse is overbooked and someone is nice enough to provide some alternative accommodation?  Under a threatening cloud of impotent defiance, Desmond roused himself from the bed, threw on some clothes and emerged from his room into the bordello, crossed to the bathroom and pissed loudly with the door open as the moans and grunts continued to escalate. Then he grabbed the keys and left, locking the door behind him. That’ll teach them.

On his way down the stairs, Desmond wondered whether to head towards the stinky canal for coffee, where it was better and cheaper but sometimes overwhelmingly smelly, or in the other direction and try his luck.

He wound up in a mini mart on a busy road, sitting at the window with a Red Bull, flicking through his phone and remembering more of the plot. There had been an American girl. Kathy? Karen? There had been kissing. And… shit, that was who he thought he found at Squalor. Kathleen? Klara? He scanned through the Ks in his contacts and found nothing. In the inbox, from an unrecognised number: ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’  The phone buzzed angrily, making him jump. Hank. This could be trouble. It usually was.
“Desi, man!”
“What up, Hank?”
“Look man, can I meet you?  I gotta ask something.”
“Sure, I…”
“The Running Dog, twenty minutes.”
Then the screen was abruptly returned to ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there?  xx Nancy.’
He considered the Swedes, but only for a moment, before flagging down a moto and heading for the riverside.
Continues next week