The Brittle Limit, a Novel (5 page)

Severine glanced around the street and looked
up at them. “I’m sorry? Come with you to where?”

The tall lantern-jawed man stood close to her
table so that she had to look straight up at him. She pushed her
chair back from the table to get some space.

“To the embassy ma’am.”

“What embassy?”

“The US Embassy, ma’am.”

“Who, exactly, are you?” she asked. She
wasn’t completely surprised by their request. She’d known there
would be questions. But she was not in the mood to cooperate. Not
yet. As the men stared at her, their impolite eyes boring down on
her back, she considered her options. She was tempted to jump up
and run down the stairs, just to see what these goons would do. But
she didn’t have the energy. So she chose to be difficult, which was
equally satisfying.

“Why on earth would I go to the US Embassy?
I’m French,” she said.

She was tired. The past twenty-four hours had
been a nightmare, the trip back from Mondulkiri a blur. She touched
the red scratches on her legs, from nasty briars as she’d run
through the jungle after the explosion, all the way back to the
dirt road.

Then talking to the police, who had been no
help at all. They clearly felt they had bigger problems than a
single mine death. Thousands of people died every year from
landmines, one officer had told her. They couldn’t investigate each
one. Especially so far away, in Mondulkiri.

And now these American goons, acting so
imperial, she thought.

The short redheaded fellow spoke, his
Napoleon complex kicking in despite his efforts to contain it. “We
have a few questions for you about Ben Goodnight, who we understand
was killed in the jungle yesterday. Come with us now.”

The taller guard stepped closer, glancing at
his partner.

The image of Ben lying on the forest floor
seared across Severine’s brain. She’d made it past the burning
underbrush to see him lying there on the flaming forest floor. She
had rushed to him, assumed he was in pain, knocked out. She’d
turned him over onto his back, his face falling toward her. One
side of his head was blown off completely, brain matter falling
out. She’d screamed.

That was when she had started to run. She’d
run back to the pool, through the sunlit clearing, to the path
they’d taken in from the road.

Sitting there on the balcony by the river,
she realized she had stopped breathing. She inhaled.

The short guard cleared his throat. They were
impatient, as guards tended to be when kept waiting. The tall one
shifted from his left foot to his right foot and then back again.
The short man had an annoying habit of jangling his cheap
ill-fitting wristwatch, which sounded like a choke collar, the
loose chain running back over itself.

Thinking it would expedite things, it usually
did, the short guard handed his ID card to Severine. She took it.
It identified him as Bill Hannon, age 25. In his photo, standing at
attention, he looked like a puffed-up redheaded bulldog.

She handed it back to him. “Why, thank you.
You look just like your photo.” She smiled her most charming smile,
willing these men to go away.

The men stared at her, waiting. They had
their orders.

She glanced around the mostly empty room. The
waitresses, including Severine’s, were gathered at the long wooden
bar flirting with the broad-shouldered bartender, each vying for
his attention.

Soon it would be dinnertime. The tables would
fill up, people standing in line on the stairs waiting for a seat.
Even the air itself would become crowded with words, so many words,
friends and lovers deep in conversation, laughter, and storytelling
of the day. Severine couldn’t take it.

She wanted to go home. She glanced over the
balcony. The street was busy now, the old Western men with teenage
Cambodian women on their arms, tourist families from the West, all
white and smiley. A tuk-tuk driver waved at her from under the
leafy green tree across the street. Directly outside the FCC, a
black sedan was parked, waiting.

She nodded. “Fine, let’s go.”

The men walked side-by-side behind her to the
black car, their rubber-soled shoes silent on the pavement.

Without warning, Severine lurched backwards
at them, crashing into the redhead’s not insignificant bulk,
directly behind her. “My bag!” She pointed at the lone green
backpack still sitting under the table.

The redhead jogged back to the table, grabbed
the bag, and jogged back. He gave her the bag then put his hand on
her bare elbow to move her along. “Let’s go.”

Severine held the backpack close as she
followed the men down the stairs outside to the waiting black
car.

The car was running, as if ready to speed
away at a moment’s notice. Its diplomatic plates were in plain view
against the shiny chrome. The back door opened as she approached.
Bill gestured to the back. Severine peeked in: It was dim, the
windows were heavily tinted. She climbed in, the door shutting
behind her.

Inside the car was quiet and cool, the bright
sun thwarted by tinted glass. The car smelled of lemons. The AC
whirred overhead, offering solace from the heat. The luxury of the
soft tan leather seats felt good to Severine, something she was not
accustomed to.

She looked at the man seated across from her
and back at her lap.

He smiled. “Hello Severine.”

She spoke, barely moving her lips. “Hello
Jeremy.”

He slid forward on his seat toward her, his
wool trousers making a swooshing noise on the fine leather, and
placed a slim hand on Severine’s bare knee, his long fingers
pressing on the inside edge of the bone.

“I’m so sorry about Ben.”

Staring at her lap, unmoving, she replied,
“Thank you.”

Jeremy, watching her, leaned back, removing
his hand from her leg, and reached for a blue handkerchief tucked
neatly into his breast pocket. He held this out to Severine, who
glanced up and took the smooth silk fabric.

Jeremy settled back again in his seat,
spreading his arms wide across the seat back.

“It’s good to see you Severine,” he said. His
hungry eyes looked her up and down.

Severine, focused on the fine grain of the
seat leather, said nothing. She tucked one small foot up under her
legs, adjusting her ankle then folded her small hands in her lap,
leaving the blue kerchief on the seat. It was cold in the car, the
AC on full blast.

Jeremy sighed and brought his arms down,
steepling his hands in front of his dark suit jacket. He’d dressed
for her this morning. She’d always liked this suit.

“There is a man in town. He’ll need to speak
with you about Ben, a formality really. I’ve given him your
number.”

“OK.” She looked up at Jeremy. “Is that it?”
She started to reach for the door handle, but Jeremy blocked her
hand.

“No. No, it’s not.” Jeremy pressed his lips
together. He was looking forward to this next bit. “With regards to
Ben…I am not sure if you know and I am sorry to be the one to tell
you - it is a bit awkward, considering.” His hands fluttered in
front of him. He glanced at her piercing blue eyes. He
continued.

“When an American citizen dies overseas
without a next-of-kin present in country, the Consular Officer
becomes the executor. In this instance, that would be me. So. I’ll
need a key to his apartment, so I may sort out his things.”

Severine looked up, her face flushed, her
eyes wide.

“He has next of kin in country,” she
said.

Jeremy’s face twisted into an ugly mixture of
disdain and doubt. He disliked being contradicted.

“Who?” he asked. The word, spoken more
forcefully than he’d intended, sounded like an accusation.

“Me.” She dropped this bomb, knowing full
well the devastation it would cause. Jeremy had not made things
easy for Ben. Nor for her.

It had been a full three years since she and
Jeremy had met at an art show at the Chinese House, a photography
exhibit that they had discussed for hours; two and a half years
since they began dating seriously; and one year since he’d proposed
to her on the bank of the Mekong River and she had turned him down,
in no uncertain terms, having met Ben at a riverside cafe only days
before.

Ben had changed everything for her. When
Jeremy found out the reason for her refusal, he’d called her a
whore and they had not spoken since.

“We married two weeks ago. It was a private
ceremony.” She said, glancing out the window at a passerby who
tried to see in the tinted glass.

“So, you needn’t trouble yourself about his
things. That’s my role. As his wife. I’ll take care of it.”
Severine stared at Jeremy, unblinking, daring him to question or
belittle her or simply deny her what she needed most. To be left
alone. She held out his unused handkerchief.

Jeremy closed his mouth, which had fallen
open. His face, for the briefest moment, wore the expression of a
man punched, hard, in the gut. But he was a diplomat, and the
surprise was replaced by a serene, accepting smile. He took the
handkerchief and tucked it back into its pocket, neat and tidy.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Severine reached for the car handle again and
now pushed open the door. The steamy night air flowed into the car,
bringing with it the smells and sounds of early evening, hot oil,
spices and laughter. It was a welcome change after the frigid
forced air of the car. At a nearby bar, a radio played, a tinny
cacophonous sound, the woman’s voice hitting ethereal high
notes.

One foot on the pavement, but still seated in
the car, Severine turned to Jeremy, whose mouth had settled into a
thin unpleasant line. She started to say something, thought better
of it, and stepped out alone into the welcoming warm night, leaving
the door open behind her.

On the side street by the car, a lone junk
man wandered down the road, honking his plastic horn and pulling
his pushcart full of bottles, cardboard and junk metal.

Chapter 6

The short Cambodian waiter buzzed from table
to table, ensuring his guests had adequate coffee, tea, cream, and
sugar for their breakfast. Another napkin? Just one moment. Extra
sauce? Right away. His white uniform was spotless, his jet black
hair brushed back to smooth shine, his wide smile bright and
sincere. He was a perfect waiter.

It was hectic today, Le Hotel Royale busier
than usual at the end of rainy season. The waiter did not mind.
These well-heeled tourists were polite to him, respectful and
interested. They asked him about his wife, his three children, the
oldest of whom was fifteen, with plans to go to overseas one day.
And these visitors to his country tipped well, appreciative of the
oasis of calm, the excellent service and the friendly manner, which
bolstered them against the unmannered streets. It was a fascinating
city, they’d found, but it had a hard edge, honed and ready.

The Hotel attracted all sorts, some drawn by
the sweet mystique of Jackie O’s famous cocktail served at the
hotel’s venerable Elephant Bar; others to the proximity to Wat
Phnom and bustling Sisowath Quay, its shops a mecca of silk and
guide books, only a short walk down the street.

Basking like turtles in the morning sun,
guests enjoyed their morning meals on the balcony, the clink and
clank of silverware on china and quiet hum of conversation
accompanied by the buzz of blue dragonflies that flitted among the
clay flower pots that lined the patio. People, excited to be on
holiday, plotted their course through town: The Silver Pagoda, Tuol
Sleng, so much to see in such a small city. Although rain was
predicted for later, the tourists were undaunted. They would simply
duck, laughing as they escaped the massive rain drops, into one of
the endless cafes that peppered the city.

Outside the hotel, tuk-tuks waited in the
street for the first guests to depart. They were not allowed to
drive their tuk-tuks on to the pristine hotel grounds until called
for by the concierge.

Severine took a bite of her dry toast, as she
listened to the other guests talk. She’d decided en route home last
night that she was not ready to face her apartment yet. She’d go
home later, after a day of work. The children would distract her,
make her smile. Then perhaps she could handle going home.

She turned the page of the Phnom Penh Post,
not reading, but turning the pages for the familiar feel of paper
on her fingers.

She didn't feel Andrew's eyes on her as he
watched her from the pool bar.

*******

He had seen her on his way out of the hotel;
her photo had made an impression. He had planned to call her later
but decided to take advantage of this opportunity. But first, for a
moment, he studied her before his approach. Andrew thought she
looked resigned. And tired. But who wouldn’t be, he thought, after
what she had been through.

Andrew too was tired. When he’d left the
embassy last night he’d gone sightseeing. When he was on a case, he
liked to get the feel of the street, especially the buzz of the
city after dark. He’d wandered along the waterfront and then down
Street 178, rife with Western bars and tourists, where he’d stopped
at one bar called Ruby’s and eavesdropped on several grungy expats
talking about Ben Goodnight’s demise. As he had listened, Andrew
had thought that Phnom Penh had the hallmark of a small town
anywhere, where gossip was a well-worn but treasured currency.

Andrew watched Severine turn the white pages
of the paper, one after the next, not reading. Just a soothing
habit. Normalcy amidst insanity.

He hopped off the bar stool and walked
towards her table. Best get this over with.

“Severine Chandon?”

“Yes?” She looked up at the tall man standing
by her table, wearing shorts and a button down Hawaiian shirt. She
saw he held her picture in his hand, like a calling card. A
backpack was slung across his back and a camera hung from his neck.
He looked like an old-school tourist. As he’d intended.