Holiday in Cambodia (15 page)

‘You’re good for morale, Grant. You know we appreciate you here, don’t you?’ he asked suddenly, on the eve of his fourth drink.

‘Of course.’

‘And, you seem to get along with Fannie?’

‘She’s a great girl.’

‘A great girl, a great girl,’ Alex agreed, shaking the fresh cubes about in his glass. He raised the bottle to me again but I put up my hand and shook my head. ‘Do you … how do I say it …’ He poured and took a great gulp. ‘Do you think there’s a future? For you and Fannie?’

‘A future? You mean marriage?’

‘Yes, or some sort of arrangement. Are you involved, to be blunt?’

‘Fannie and I …’ I recalled Fannie’s endearments of the night before. ‘Both live in Indochina,’ I answered. Alex laughed.

‘Enough said, I understand completely. Good chap. And what a tan you’ve got! You’re an excellent fellow!’ He moved to embrace me and I escaped, citing paperwork.

That night I slept and remembered nothing of my dreams. Gunfire woke me with a start. Outside the sun was already throwing down its early heat. The car in the street backfired again and I stretched across the huge bed, feeling just a little put out that I couldn’t order up a hard-boiled egg and a baguette and read news about the King all morning. I reminded myself that the King would be there and went to shave in the small sink in the corner of my room. As I washed my face, I remembered that Le Cercle Sportif did excellent poached eggs with a side of their famous bacon and decided to go down early. I called Fannie’s hotel to see if she would join me but the receptionist said she was out. When I arrived at Le Cercle the waitress was apologetic – the tables were completely full. I peered in and saw that the elite of Phnom Penh – some with starving daughters sipping glasses of chilled water – had the same idea.

‘You could sit at the bar, or –’

‘Grant! Grant!’ Pork Pie’s voice boomed over the café. He was sitting at a table with a bored-looking Fannie. Her eyes sparked when she saw me.

‘Take your jacket off, Fannie,’ I said as I sat down. ‘It’s stinking.’

‘Someone of her position needs to look the part,’ said Pork Pie. ‘It’s a pity you don’t have the body for it, Fannie my dear. You’d be perfect fodder for the comp otherwise.’ He patted her hand.

‘Perhaps I could just take it off until the competition starts,’ she said diplomatically and I marvelled at her social shyness when she was such a man in the boardroom. Underneath the ugly suit jacket was a pretty yellow silk shirt that brought out the tiger flecks in her eyes. Fannie didn’t sweat. I’d noticed that during our only heavy petting session, when we’d been drunk on ship’s punch on a cruise along the Tonle Sap and found ourselves in a pillowed corner late into the night. My chest hair had stuck to my skin with the heat and with the effort of being close to her, but when I’d tucked my nose under her chin and breathed there was just the smell of lightly powdered flesh.

The eggs finally arrived and we ate them, watching the contestants mill about.

As we finished our breakfast a nervous man whom I’d often seen dashing around Le Cercle Sportif edged up to our table.

‘I’m so, so sorry to disturb you and it is most certainly my fault, but the judge’s table is set up and ready if you would be so kind …’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Fannie reassured him.

‘What’s he so sorry about?’ Pork Pie bellowed. ‘We’re ready as bulls!’ The man smiled anxiously. We filed out through the crowd to a wooden picnic table under an umbrella. It was near the grass by the edge of the pool where the girls usually sunbathed. Now they lined up, trying to maintain their poses. The man approached us again.

‘We’re just waiting for the King.’ He bit his lip. The girls on the grass were asking for tissues to dab the sweat from their hairlines. Only Dominique and Fannie didn’t seem bothered. But while Fannie didn’t ooze a droplet despite her winter suit, Dominique glistened like a penguin. The effect was mesmerising. Her skin caught the sun and glinted in the eyes of the crowd. Pork Pie, sweating profusely himself, seemed particularly struck. There was a commotion outside the gate and the crowd tore their attention from Dominique and focused on the entrance of Le Cercle Sportif. The King of Cambodia managed to make his subjects awe-struck and amused all at once. Eyes opened in wonder and small smiles danced on each set of lips as he burst through the gate with his expression of apologetic command. The King had a number of publicly recognised concubines, but he wasn’t yet married and took his time greeting the girls. He held Dominique’s hand slightly longer than the others and when he gave it back, it was as a present for her.

When the young King was seated, grinning in the front row, the girls paraded in front of us in swimsuits ordered from France or copied from French magazines. Fannie and I dutifully recorded our marks. Pork Pie, like the King, only had eyes for Dominique.

‘Such breeding,’ he murmured.

‘Not much of a gut,’ I observed as Dominique did a turn.

‘That girl couldn’t get a gut if she tried!’ exclaimed Pork Pie. There was a short break before the next round. Fannie excused herself and Pork Pie leaned towards me as far as his seat would allow. ‘They’re just like bitches,’ he explained.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Those girls, they’re like dogs. You can breed them pure as you like and you’ll get a good-looking one alright, with excellent papers, but there’ll always be something wrong. Oh, they’ll develop arthritis of the hip or have breathing problems or be prone to diarrhoea –’

‘The girls?’

‘No, the dogs. But the girls are just the same. If you mix them up, one parent from Europe, and another Indochine, well, then you get a true beauty. And strength, too. Just look at her!’ We looked at Dominique, who was being approached by one of the King’s men. She was different when she smiled, younger. She craned her neck towards the King. Fannie returned and Pork Pie sat upright again. ‘What is your ancestry, Fannie, dear?’ he enquired.

‘One hundred per cent French.’

Pork Pie glanced over to me and raised his eyebrows. Over on the grass, Dominique locked eyes with the King.

When the contest resumed, Pork Pie and I let Fannie know what we thought of each contestant, which she recorded: it was easier that way.

‘Well, that’s that then. Dominique wins!’ Pork Pie announced to us before the last girl had finished her turn.

‘We have to tally the results,’ protested Fannie.

‘Some finance manager you are, my dear. You can see clearly that Dominique has won. Anyone could see that.’

‘But there’s second and third places to calculate …’

‘Yes, well, you do
that
and Grant and I will go and get a drink.’

‘Do you need me?’ I asked her as Pork Pie strode towards the bar.

‘I
do
need to talk with you.’

‘I know. I’d like to talk too.’ I almost touched her hand. ‘We’ll be rid of him soon.’

‘Grant! Grant!’ Pork Pie hollered above the crowd.

Pork Pie wedged himself into a seat at the bar. Over in the corner, the King’s set were gathered, with Dominique and her mother at their centre. While Mrs Rossi wore a smile of terror, Dominique looked as though she was with an old friend – if not the person she was in love with. The King, meanwhile, was doing a very good impression of a man on his honeymoon.

I glanced out the big bay windows to where Fannie sat at the judges’ table. She was wearing the high-powered grimace she used in meetings. In front of the table was Alex. I could have sworn he was flirting with Fannie, were it not for his wife standing beside him, also smiling. Alex reached to shake Fannie’s hand. She stood to meet him.

Fannie had prepared a careful list of the winners with reasons why. Alex took it and went to the microphone with his wife and stood to attention. Over the tinny loudspeakers, which were set to full volume, came the ghostly strains of the national anthem and the audience stood and sang in their high, exquisite voices. The song always roused something in me – I could have thrown all of Britain in the pool and become a citizen of Cambodia, if they would have me. At my side, I felt Fannie looking at me anxiously. After the last notes had faded, Alex’s voice came through the cones, paying his deepest respects to the King, who inclined his head and beamed.

‘Before we announce the beautiful winners of this competition …’ Alex indicated the be-swimsuited line of girls without looking at them, for which his wife stroked his arm affectionately. ‘I would like to take this opportunity to announce a new position at UNESCO. The Director of Management will oversee finance, hiring, marketing and activities while I have more time for … other things.’ Pork Pie glanced around frantically, then gave a wide smile and started to rise from his seat. ‘And now, introducing the new Director of Management, the best man for the job: Françoise Roux.’

‘Who on earth is Françoise Roux?’ Pork Pie asked, sitting down with a huff. Fannie frowned and rose to take the microphone. In my effort to get the waiter’s attention I missed Fannie’s speech. Pork Pie needed a drink, too. By the time Fannie sat down again I’d already downed most of my gimlet. Her grimace had gone and her eyes were soft and enquiring.

‘It won’t change anything, you know,’ she said, turning to me.

‘Well done, Fannie!’ Pork Pie boomed angrily. ‘You may not have the body for this sort of thing …’ He waved his hands at the swimming pool. ‘But you’ve got the brains and that’s what counts if you’re not the marrying kind. Well, I’d better go and say congratulations to the
other
winner.’ He charged off towards Dominique, who was, again, by the side of the King. She was dressed in a Khmer-style skirt, but it was shorter than usual and made her appear curvy and leggy at the same time.

‘… that’s all I really feel like doing,’ Fannie was saying.

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh. I said, all I really feel like doing is going on a jaunt with you along the quay but Alex has arranged some damned dinner and Pork Pie is coming. Perhaps we could sneak out early and –’

‘You go, Fannie. I’ve got paperwork to do.’

‘Paperwork? On a Saturday?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I think “Paperwork” is your code for drinking in your hotel room. Well, I positively command you to dine with me instead. I can do that now.’ She smiled. I drained the sour gin into my mouth and swallowed.

‘You know I told Alex that you call Gustave “Pork Pie.”’

Fannie’s smile faded.

‘You told …?’

‘Yes, I told him and he laughed and said he was relieved that at least you were a little bit –’

‘What?’ Fannie asked sharply. I rose and gathered my things into a bundle. ‘Grant?’

’I thought you knew how to have fun, that’s all, Fannie. Just some fun.’ Fannie remained seated, staring straight ahead and looking boxy in her hot suit.

Out the front of Le Cercle Sportif, a cream Lancia waited with the King in the driver’s seat. Dominique walked through the arch with her mother and whispered in her ear. Then she opened the passenger door as though she’d always done it and arranged herself in the seat beside the King.

‘I’ll give her back in good time,’ said the King. The Lancia purred away down the long palm-treed boulevard and turned out of sight. I was left standing next to Dominique’s mother. The smile was still stuck on her face but when I turned to her I saw in her eyes a country where one might find a peaceful future.

‘Holiday in Cambodia’ is a Dead Kennedys song, released in 1980.

The sayings ‘Do not give up on taking the indirect road: do not take the direct one; take the road tracked by your ancestors’ (in ‘The Real Cambodia’), ‘Don’t bend hard wood; don’t educate a prostitute’ and ‘A soup may be bitter but it must be hot; a wife may be brown but she must be young’ (in ‘Massage 8000’) are adapted from
Khmer Sayings
by Alain Fressanges.

The author hopes that readers, especially from Cambodia, will understand if some historical details have been changed to tell these stories – for example, Operation Breakfast was carried out at night.

Versions of the following stories have appeared in literary journals in Australia and Cambodia: ‘The Real Cambodia’ was published in
Going Down Swinging
No. 34, 2013; ‘A thousand cobs of corn’ was published in
The Lifted Brow: Atlas
, 2010, and in
Nou Hach Literary Journal,
2010; ‘Coming Up’ was published in
Ampersand
Issue 6, 2013; ‘Massage 8000’ was published in
The Big Issue Fiction Edition
, 2011, on the Alan Marshall Short Story Award website, and in
Award Winning Australian Writing,
Melbourne Books, 2012.

*

Extra special and endless thanks to Anne (Ma) Whisken, and also Hayden Whisken, Gavin McKay and Nana Hodgson for raising me with books and words. Also to the memory of Ross McKay.

Thanks to Nou Hach Literary Association and all its members, especially Kho Tararith, Teri Shaffer-Yamada, Khem Akhaing, Phou Chakriya and Long Linna. To Oum Suphany, whose books and words are always an inspiration. Chan Samnang for friendship and unquestioning advice. Jan Noorlander for his generosity and the Kep retreat I was lucky enough to live in.

Thanks to the Phnom Penh pack: Chanthy Kak, Julien Poulson and in memory of Justin Foster.

I couldn’t write a word without the support of Brea Acton, Michelle Ferris and Kelly Chandler – the most talented, caring and hilarious three.

So much thanks to Tom Doig, Henry Feltham, Anna Krien and Romy Ash for the many, many hours spent getting structural on the whole book. Thanks to Ronnie Scott for commissioning the first story. Also Sharon Wilkinson, Kylie Mannion, Monika Nowaczyk, Vincent Hanon and Davy Chou.

Admiration and thanks to Black Inc. – especially Chris Feik for seeing the book and Denise O’Dea for taking it through.

Thanks to Amanda Johnson for all that unwavering support. Also Kevin Brophy, Tony Birch, Steven Carroll, Fiona Capp, Alice Pung, Cate Blake and Aviva Tuffield.

Thanks to the Wurundjeri people, the traditional custodians of the land where much of this book was written.

Thanks to the Australian Volunteers for International Development Program, CARE Australia, Asialink, the University of Melbourne, Rosebud Writers Fellowship, Laughing Waters Residency, ArtStart, Jenny Gill, Harry Doig, Mary Slater and Andrew Watson, and Emilio Fuscaldo at Nest Architects, for funding and housing me for the years it took.

And thanks to younger sister, Chan Linna, who makes Cambodia feel like home.