Phnom Penh Express (13 page)

When she spots the waitress she asks her for the bill (“Yes madam, oh you speak
Khmai!”)
, pays and moves to leave. While she turns she can’t help but throw a quick glance at the muscular foreigner who looks up from his newspaper, right on cue. He throws a brief smile her way which she repays in kind, and for a moment she’s distracted by the notion that she might have seen that face before. Yeah, sure, in your wildest fantasies, babe, she admonishes herself while leaving the café.

“Moto madam!”

“Madam moto!”

“Moto sir!”

“Moto madam!”

“Moto
barang
!”

“Tuktuk!”

Even from the opposite side of the multi-lane thoroughfare, an army of drivers competes for Tzahala’s business. They are more agitated than New York stockbrokers on Black Friday and they don’t stop hustling her until she has chosen a driver. She takes seat on the back of an old, rusty, Korean-made Daelim, riding side-saddled, as is customary by local women, and starts the usual negotiating.

“Boeung Keng Kang area, how much?”

“Five dollar,” the driver tries optimistically.

I forgot I’m dressed like a tourist, Tzahala realises, and throws in the few words of basic Khmer that she’s learnt since moving to Cambodia.

“Tlai nah! Bay phuon,”
she says, cutting her offer to 75 cents.

“Oooooooh!” the driver feigns surprise, “Boeng Keng Kang very far! Three dollar, okay?”

I’m mixed blood, half Jewish, half Arab, and I deal in diamonds. This is not your lucky day my friend, Tzahala thinks.

“Boeng Keng Kang not far! Usually half a dollar.”

“Oooooooh!” the driver reacts predictably. “One and a half dollar, okay? Okay?”

“No, your motorcycle is old, not good.
Bay phuon
is a good price,” Tzahala counter-argues.

“Oooooooh! Motorcycle okay. One dollar, okay?” the driver desperately starts his clanking machine.

“Bay phuon
is a good price. I take another moto. Bye,” Tzahala says while she gets off.

“Okay, okay,
bay phuon
okay,” the driver finally agrees.

“
Orkoun bong
,” Tzahala thanks him, using the ‘brother’ title.

“Oooooooh, you good business woman,” says the man ruefully but also with respect. “First time I take
barang
for 75 cents.”

Tzahala knows this is the driver’s last-gasp attempt at flattering her into giving him something extra at the end of their trip. If he’s fast enough, she might round it up to a dollar anyway. She just enjoys testing her bargaining skills with the Khmer drivers; they make excellent soundboards.

The driver, who’s named Ratana, Tzahala learns, drives frustratingly slow along busy Norodom Boulevard, making it an unnecessary long drive, even despite him ignoring every red stoplight. By the time the motorcycle arrives in front of her villa, she knows most of his life history, including that of his wife and her extended family.

In twelve dragged-out minutes she knows that his two brothers, one younger and one older, were both killed by Khmer Rouge soldiers when they were still small. His younger sister was put on a boat along with his grandmother that set course for Thailand but was never heard of again — it was assumed they probably drowned. His older sister managed to flee across the border into northern Thailand and eventually ended up in the U.S., where she married an American and now keeps a small shop in Boston. His father was sent to Toul Sleng ‘interrogation’ centre and never seen or heard from again. His mother survived the regime but was raped by Vietnamese liberation soldiers and died shortly afterwards. Ratana stayed in Cambodia during the war and somehow survived the four-year hell with the help of one of his father’s brothers. He used to be a teacher in Kampot province but for the past three years has been working sixteen hours a day as a driver, which earns him better money. Two years ago, he married a woman who sells vegetables at Psaa O’Russei market and they have one young child.

“Are you happy now?” Tzahala asks, momentarily forgetting her annoyance with his dawdling.

“It’s okay,” he replies simply.

***

Five minutes later Tzahala is having a cold shower while Latin music plays on her stereo. The combination of the recently ingested espresso and the cold jet on her body makes her feel prepared for battle. There’s no reason to delay, she thinks. The sooner, the better. With a bath towel wrapped around her body, she walks into her living room and dials a number on her cellphone. A voice at the other end picks up.

“Hello, Miss Tz...”

“I need you to arrange something.”

“All right.”

“I want someone removed. Tomorrow if possible.”

“Khmer or
barang?”
the voice enquires immediately.

“Belgian-Khmer.”

“Ooooooh! Expensive.”

“Cut the crap, no negotiation, I know the rates. I’ll pay fifty per cent over the usual fee but it has to be reliable, you understand?”

“Yes, can do. Where and who?”

“The target works daily in a colonial-style building two doors next to a bakery called The House. It’s in Street 240. You can’t miss it, it’s a chocolate shop. It’s not open yet, so the sooner you can arrange it the better. Tomorrow, the target will be working there alone. All clear so far?”

“Yes.”

“I want it to be a quick job, no funny business with acid or anything like that; no cowboy stuff either. Just have someone pay him a visit, one bullet, and out again. Can you deal with that?”

“No problem, can do tomorrow.”

“Good. One more thing. I want you to write something on some paper and give it to the, er... your friend. I want him to leave it on the body.”

“Fine. What do you want to write?”

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, not a man’s
. You got it?”

“Er... sure...”

“Good. One last thing: immediately after we finish talking I want you to delete my phone number. Remember it instead and call me from the street next time.”

“Okay. And the payment?”

“Tonight. I will send someone to your restaurant. Call me when it’s done.”

“Okay.”

Tzahala puts down the phone and turns up the volume on her stereo. The loud Latin music is filling her villa. She lets the bath towel slide off her naked body, closes her eyes and starts swaying rhythmically to the music.

AT 9:15
AM
a large SUV with tinted windows parks in front of a popular Phnom Penh café, occupying half of the street, blocking off the motorcycles parked beside it. The driver — a tall, blond, muscular man — brusquely opens the door, nearly catching a passing motorcyclist in the process whose yelled insults he ignores, and steps out. He is dressed in black combat trousers, black sports shoes and a white, plain t-shirt. The man slams the door, removes his sunglasses and hangs them from his collar. He pauses to survey the green signboard — The House — placed above the café’s entrance. The man yawns expansively; Colonel Peeters is still jet-lagged from his flight two days ago. He walks into the café and stands near the counter, his eyes scanning the busy place. All the tables are taken.

“I want to sit down,” he sullenly tells the waiter who came up to greet him.

“Yes sir. I think one table is free in the patio, at the back. Can I take your order? I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready,” the Cambodian young man replies, professionally ignoring the Colonel’s rudeness.

“Triple espresso,” the Colonel barks.

“Oh, we don’t have triple espresso sir, we only have double.”

“You should have,” the Colonel retorts. “Make it two doubles, one now and one in six minutes.”

He picks up a copy of
The Phnom Penh Post
from the counter and walks into the back. A minute later, the Colonel gulps down his first double espresso and starts reading the newspaper.

He’s just about through the headlines when the waiter brings his second cup, which the Colonel immediately consumes. He feels his mood picking up and his thoughts wander back to his current business problems. Bizarre place, he thinks, glancing around from behind his paper. The café reminds him of home — it wouldn’t be misplaced in one of Antwerp’s hip neighbourhoods. How come a bunch of Israelis have set up a business like this, even if it is only to cover for their diamond trade? he wonders. Or do they have a Belgian background?

Since setting up CPSYBT Diamonds, the Colonel had over time learnt a lot about the tight-knit community. He knows that after London and Paris, Antwerp has Europe’s largest community of Haredi Jews. And most of them work in diamonds. He has also witnessed how, over the course of the past decade, the Jews have lost a lot of their influence in the diamond business to the growing Indian community. Over the past few years, an increasing number of Antwerp Jews have opted to reside in Israel and seek Israeli citizenship.

That could be the connection, the Colonel muses. Jewish diamond traders in Antwerp have seen their businesses declining and decided to make the move to Israel, probably to Tel Aviv.

Diamond trade is heavily reliant upon trust and the Jews had established an iron reputation for reliability: a good trait for a dealer of precious stones. But of course there are always some rogue traders; the exceptions that confirm the rule. The Colonel knows this all too well. They sometimes launch illegal sidelines trading blood diamonds in emerging markets like Thailand, just like he does.

And, because they usually aren’t stupid, many have chosen Cambodia as their favoured point of transit. In the process, one soon-to-be-unfortunate outfit, set up this Belgian bakery. They will even go so far as to open a shop dedicated to Belgian chocolates, the Colonel remembers from the intelligence he received. This could mean that they plan to regularly smuggle in large volumes of stones, since they opt to hide them in chocolates. Opening a chocolate shop would make perfect sense, he concludes.

The Colonel sits back. He might have done exactly the same as this bunch, if he were in their shoes.

Suddenly his thoughts are interrupted by the buzzwords ‘chocolate shop’ mentioned nearby. He peers out from behind his paper and notices one of the waitresses conversing with an unusually attractive woman. For a moment the Colonel is distracted. How come he hadn’t noticed her before, she’s quite a
gazelle
. He guesses she’s in her early thirties. His connoisseur’s eye has a gift for recognising gems. Obviously a tourist, he reckons, maybe from North Africa; possibly the Middle East. Perhaps even that rare blend of both? The Colonel sighs. There’s a real woman for you, he thinks, she’d make a spectacular change from all those cheap hookers who only communicate in two-word echo language —
boom boom, njam njam
, dollar dollar...

He returns his gaze vacantly back to the newspaper. He’s not reading, though; his thoughts linger on the forthcoming course of action to defend his local interests. He’s still intrigued by these arrogant Israelis bribing local officials so overtly. Must be the new generation, the Colonel thinks, he’d teach them some manners. I’ll go right for their balls — their new chocolate shop — before the fucking thing even opens!

He glances up from his paper and notices in a split second how the
gazelle
is staring at him before she quickly averts her eyes. Satisfied, the Colonel buries his head in the
Post
again. He has managed to follow her conversation with half an ear, picking up some useful information. The talkative waitress has let on about some guy working every day in the new shop, preparing chocolates for the opening. He didn’t catch the name, though. From the corner of his eye, the Colonel observes the
gazelle
pay her bill and prepare to leave. When she turns round, he looks up. The moment their eyes meet he throws her a quick smile which, to his satisfaction, she briefly returns. If I didn’t have more pressing business to take care of, I’d go straight to business on her, he thinks.

After she has left, he walks inside to find the waiter.

“This business is going to open a chocolate shop, right?” he asks him directly.

“Yes sir, very soon. Only chocolate.”

“Where?”

“Two doors next from here. Just turn left when you walk out,” the waiter replies.

“I heard you’re already producing, yeah?”

“Yes sir, that’s right, Mr Phirun, he comes in every day now. To prepare for the opening party, you know. Will you come?”

“You bet,” the Colonel replies, walking out without paying.

The chocolate maker is the same fucking Phirun guy who delivered the bribes, he ponders. Perfect!

He turns left into the street and stops in front of the beautifully restored building that is soon to be the new chocolate venture. Those Israelis have style, the Colonel thinks, watching two Cambodian workmen erecting a large signboard.
The Chocolate House
, it reads in elegantly flowing script. The Colonel doesn’t linger; he knows what to do. I’m gonna make a killing, he thinks, walking back to his SUV.

He cuts off two motorcyclists and four pedestrians in true Phnom Penh style while powering his sizeable vehicle out of Street 240, turning left onto Norodom Boulevard. He speeds around the Independence Monument, his right hand almost continuously honking the horn while bellowing aloud, gloriously off-key, his favourite ABBA tune
Money money money
.

He continues past the Royal University of Cambodia but is suddenly halted by red lights, or rather the queue of idling cars blocking his way.

“Godvermiljaar!”
he curses in Antwerp dialect. “What’s the matter with these people,” he shouts. “Have they finally discovered the significance of the colour red?”

He now notices how five policemen have formed a mini roadblock; they have pulled a few motorcyclists aside.

“Of course!” Colonel Peeters exclaims, recalling a conversation with the owner of the car rental shop this morning.

Tomorrow is
Pchum Ben
, the Cambodian religious festival of the dead, a three-day public holiday. As with all such traditions, the police need extra pocket money to cover the festivities, so in a rare display of activity they enforce traffic rules. But they only dare to stop ordinary looking cars, motorcycles and the odd tourist here and there. The expensive government cars and large military SUVs with their blue and red RCAF number plates never get stopped, unless the cop wants to lose his job, or worse.