Phnom Penh Express (4 page)

The cold water soothes his headache and makes him stay in the shower for a few more minutes.

Years after the war, towards the end of 1989, his parents, sister and he had ended up in Belgium in search of a future. Other family members found their new lives in France; some ended up in the United States. Settling in Belgium had brought on a monumental change in their lifestyles, especially for his mother. She had gone from being the wealthy, respected and well-educated wife of a successful high-ranking public servant, to an underpaid maid who barely spoke a word of her new country’s language.

Phirun’s thoughts skip to a recent conversation that he held with his friend Ratanak, a local Khmer. They had met by chance at a wedding party, and had instantly hit it off. Not that they had much in common — Ratanak was a hardcore booze and karaoke devotee, while Phirun tended to enjoy life in smaller doses, somewhat more subtly. But they still felt a respectful curiosity towards each other.

It was all the more surprising that one night, over a few cans of Beer Lao, his friend had called him an
anikachun
. It was late and Ratanak’s drunken ramblings were acquiring a sharp, bitter undertone. It wasn’t until a week later when they met again that Phirun’s friend apologised for the derogatory comment. He explained that he had lost his temper after being humiliated by an arrogant overseas-raised Khmer man who had treated him like a peasant earlier that day.

Phirun steps out of the shower dripping wet, and moves to examine his face in front of the mirror. He needs a shave, he decides, and starts lathering up.

On that particular night in the bar, his friend had been talking about how all the rich
anikachun
were coming back now, their pockets bulging with wads of money, to exploit their own people — as if they hadn’t already suffered enough.

“Oh yeah? Like me, or what?” Phirun had huffed. “You’ve got more money on you than I have.”

But Ratanak had continued unabashed.

“Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter. It’s that arrogant attitude your kind treat us with. Really, you secretly still think we’re all ignorant peasants who belong in rice fields, don’t you?”

Phirun’s attempts to object went ignored as Ratanak continued his drunken tirade.

“Your
barang
passport might be full of foreign stamps, but I don’t want a
barang
passport, you know, even if I could get one. I’m proud of my culture and my identity; I’m not selling it off like all those fake, so-called Cambodians who are only Cambodian when they reckon they can make a profit out of us.”

At that point Phirun felt it was time to go home. It would be useless trying to explain to his friend how he himself had felt more Cambodian than anyone else around him, every single day of his teenage years. Those rural foreign schools were full of local kids clueless about the effect their casual racism and exclusion can have on a young boy. The daily humiliations, the constant reminders about the tawny colour of his skin, his limited vocabulary and funny accent, the fact that his parents were living off state benefits. All was fair game to the bullies. Not all kids had been like that, of course, otherwise he would never have survived. But the exposure to persistent xenophobia, even if it was only delivered by a minority, had scarred him permanently.

When Phirun heard nostalgic stories about Cambodia from his parents, about Khmer culture before the war, certain values that were assiduously observed within his family even in exile, Phirun knew that one day he’d return to that fabled place where he might feel a sense of belonging. But he hadn’t found those old values his parents had spoken of yet in today’s Cambodia.

With one smooth stroke he finishes shaving and wipes the foam off his chin.

He had accepted Ratanak’s apologies, of course — everyone has their demons to confront — but they never really recovered the past connection they once felt. The unsavoury experience had shocked Phirun, for he had realised he
was
indeed different; he
wouldn’t
fit into Cambodian society as he’d hoped. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to, for the hit-and-run culture of greed and quick money he’d been witnessing was a far cry from the picture of Cambodia his parents had painted.

Phirun is feeling much better after his shower. He’s now reconciled to the idea of a healthy breakfast. He selects some fruit — an overripe papaya, a mango, a few small bananas and a quarter of a pineapple — and starts peeling them.

Mulling over what Ratanak had said, he could understand his frustration. Cambodians had been dominated too often, and for too long. The last thing they want now is a horde of smart-ass overseas-bred Khmer treating them like dirt all over again. But then again, he had also heard a lot of good things about ‘his kind’.

He’d been noticing how quite a few local Cambodians seemed to be starting to appreciate the straight-talking returning Khmers, a nice change from the corruption and cronyism of the happy few that tend to run the show. And when overseas Khmers return to Cambodia, they bring back a minimum of respect for the rule of law, rather than just the rule of money and intimidation.

Phirun awakens from his reverie. He chops the peeled fruits and puts them in a bowl with plain yoghurt — his usual breakfast.

But the fact remains, he concludes, whether local people loathe or love us, we’re not fully accepted yet. That much is clear.

His mind drifts back to happy chocolates. He’s still tempted to continue with his experiments, despite Nina’s warning. Then he remembers his promise. Damn! He’s supposed to visit those officials today.

Back up in his bedroom, Phirun selects a white formal shirt — the best he has — and his only tie. He knows that appearance is important to his people. Dressed up in his fanciest outfit, he takes the gift boxes from his old, third-hand fridge and arranges them on the kitchen table. Six visits, six gift boxes: perfect.

When he loads them into his bag, something catches his eye. It’s part of a white label loosely attached to the side of one of the boxes. One of those labels that can be easily peeled from the packaging without damaging the box; it was probably left over by the transport company. But the odd thing is, it bears characters from a language he doesn’t recognise. At first glance he thinks the alien script might be Arabic, but the characters are too boxy for that. Upon more careful scrutiny he recognises it — it’s the same script that he saw in Antwerp every time he passed through the diamond quarter on his way to work. He saw it on the signboards of kosher food vendors, adorning the entrances to certain clothes shops, but mostly on diamond shop displays: it’s Hebrew.

That’s odd, he thinks, he didn’t know that the Antwerp supplier was Jewish. It’s unheard of for them to venture into chocolate-making. Besides, this label must have been attached by the transport company not by the supplier, which, on reflection, makes it even stranger that it should be in Hebrew. He takes out a few other boxes and turns them over. It’s then he notices that all of the boxes are labelled. One bears the words
Tel Aviv
and
Israel
in Roman script.

These boxes come from Tel Aviv not Antwerp, Phirun ponders. No wonder Nina complained, this is the wrong shipment altogether. Except, it couldn’t be — she did order them. It must be the supplier’s curious mistake. He studies a box for further clues. Perhaps some Belgian
chocolatier
has a distribution agent there? Perhaps it was cheaper to ship them from Israel, rather than directly from Antwerp?

Should he open them? He hesitates for a moment, then picks up a box to inspect its sealed lid. If he opened it, he’d have to find a sneaky way to close it again properly. What the hell, he thinks, and carefully removes the plastic seal. Lifting the cover, the usual rich smell of dark chocolate greets him, wafting up his nostrils and filling his head with desire for cocoa. He looks inside the box and admires the beautifully crafted black, brown and white pralines.

“Why not,” he mumbles and takes out one of the chocolates. But when he’s about to put it into his mouth, he freezes, wondering what on earth he’s doing. He’s supposed to deliver them, not scoff them. He decides he can’t afford to mess up a second time with Nina while she’s so volatile. Besides, he can have all the chocolate that he wants at work.

Phirun puts the praline back inside the box and carefully seals the lid with transparent tape. He gives the stock of gifts a final once-over. Let’s hope they look expensive enough to loosen up those rigid officials, he thinks. Then he relegates the matter to the back of his mind as he hurries downstairs.

RETIRED LIEUTENANT-COLONEL PEETERS of the former National Gendarmerie of Belgium hesitates to answer his phone. The 21-year-old Thai girl he had brought back to Antwerp from his last trip to Thailand — a birthday present for himself — has her lips tightly wrapped around his fifty-year-old penis. He’s about to come when the call to the private line, which hasn’t rung for seven months, comes first. On the last occasion he’d received a call on this line, it was to alert ‘The Colonel’, as he is usually known, that one of his heroin shipments was being busted by Dutch customs. That had been a genuine mistake — the relevant authorities had been paid off, as usual, but a communication breakdown had occurred somewhere along the line. It had been most inconvenient, costing him numerous telephone calls and an extra five grand to get the container released. A real headache. But his little red phone only rings when there is a crisis — that’s why he had chosen red in the first place. The other handset, a bland, outdated model, is for everyday use. The red phone is still ringing. He allows himself one more second of pleasure, then pushes the girl aside and angrily picks up the receiver.

“What?!” he shouts.

Now it is the person on the other end of the line that hesitates.

“Colonel Peeters?”

“Who the fuck else would it be? Alice in motherfucking Wonderland?”

The voice on the other end still hesitates.

“Er... we have company in Cambodia, sir.”

A momentary silence as Colonel Peeters absorbs the words while gazing down at his fast-shrinking member.

“Serious company?”

“Yes sir, it very much looks that way, sir.”

“Where from?” the Colonel barks.

“Tel Aviv, sir,” the voice answers.

“Exactly how serious are they?”

“They didn’t even try to conceal the fact that they are breaking into our market.”

“What makes you think that?” the retired police commander asks, sounding more worried.

“Just three days ago they openly handed out free boxes with items to a number of high-ranking Cambodian government officials, as if they wanted to spread the word. They concealed the diamonds in Belgian chocolates; it’s like they’re mocking us.”

“Bastards!”

“Yes sir.”

“You no like me?” the Thai girl calls from the leather sofa upon which she and the Colonel had just been having sex.

“Shut up,” the Colonel bellows, very irritated.

“Yes, sir,” the voice in the handset answers immediately.

“Not you, idiot. So, you think these imbeciles want to start a war?”

“I don’t know, sir. They’re certainly not shy about provoking us.”

“Them damn Jews are usually more careful,” the Colonel thinks aloud.

“Yes sir, but maybe they are so confident that they think you will back off?” the other voice suggests.

“Nah, if they’ve done their research they’d know I never back off that easily. They must be up to something big.”

“What would you like me to do sir?”

“Nothing for now. Find out more and call me back tomorrow. I need time to think. Maybe I’ll come to Cambodia,” he says, leering at the young girl, who is now playing games on her touch screen mobile, the latest Nokia.

“Yes sir.”

Colonel Peeters switches off the phone without replying. He looks puzzled.

“I
njam njam
you?” the Thai girl asks enthusiastically.

“Nah... just gimme a massage,” the Colonel replies, distractedly. “My head, not my dick,” he puts in quickly.

He reclines on the sofa, resting his head in the girl’s lap as she begins expertly rubbing his temples. The Colonel has a bad feeling about all this. Something isn’t right. He could understand if Tel Aviv wanted to enter his market — he’d try the same if he were in their shoes. That someone should try to cut in on his lucrative venture was to be expected sooner or later. But the fact that they evidently didn’t even bother to be discreet about it, surprises him. And the Colonel doesn’t like surprises. Never has, never will.

The girl slides her hands round to the back of his head and skilfully manipulates the pressure points all the way down to the base of his neck.

Starting even a little war will be fucking expensive, the Colonel ponders, but Cambodia has become too important to his business setup. Far too important to lose, goddammit! He has worked hard on building his little empire. He had trafficking Afghan heroin into The Netherlands via Antwerp when he was still Lieutenant-Colonel of the Belgian National
Gendarmerie
. Laundering the proceeds through his Antwerp diamond trading company had become a logical extension to the business.

He stands and starts pacing his plush penthouse apartment. He recalls how in 2001 the
Gendarmerie
was merged with countless other Belgian police forces. To make the country’s police force more efficient and combat corruption, had been the explanation by the Minister of Interior at the time. The ambitious little prick. As if some cosmetic facelift would weed out the bad seeds, he had openly mocked the Minister.

Colonel Peeters pauses by the floor-to-ceiling bay window overlooking the River Scheldt, watching a container ship slowly pass by.

When the force was reorganised into local and federal police units, it became increasingly difficult for him to sustain his illicit side venture with the discretion required. The decision had therefore been easy: he had retired early in order to devote all his energy and attention to expanding the private enterprise.