by Kae Bell
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
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nbsp; 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.
“I’m Andrew Shaw. I think Jeremy had mentioned to you that I’d need to speak with you. I recognized you from your photo.” He stuck out his large hand, which she took. They stared at each other for a brief moment, their hands clasped. Andrew noted her grip, strong, and her eyes, dark circles underneath.
“Yes. He did.” She sighed. This wasn’t going to get better anytime soon, she thought. “You have questions about Ben.”
“Yes. I do. Is this a good time?” He pulled out the chair opposite hers.
“It’s fine.” It didn’t seem like she had much choice. She watched as Andrew took a seat, the chair’s legs scraping loudly against the gray slate floor.
Seated, Andrew took a slow deep inhale, his large hands resting on the glass tabletop. His brow furrowed. He’d had little personal experience with real loss, was usually behind the scenes, pretending to be something he wasn’t, which is where he preferred it. Loss was raw and didn’t allow for dissembling.
“I am so sorry about Ben. Certainly a massive shock for you.”
Though Severine wasn’t a crier, she had cried last night, long jagged bouts. But she would not cry now. Her emotions were tucked away, folded secret notes to be read alone in the dark.
“Thank you,” she said.
The waiter refreshed Severine’s coffee and asked Andrew if he wanted a cup. “Yes. Black.” He left to fetch Andrew a cup.
“You must be reeling,” Andrew said.
“Yes.” Severine cleared her throat and sipped her ice water. “When one’s husband gets blown up, it’s certainly a surprise.” Her French accent, usually slight, slipped out, ‘surprise’ sounding like sur-preeze.
“You’re married?” Andrew asked, himself surprised.
“Yes. I am married,” Severine replied.
“Sorry, Jeremy said…”
Severine interrupted. “Jeremy didn’t know. Contrary to his belief, Jeremy does not know everything that goes on in this town.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows at her vehement reply. Clearly, a little tension there, he thought. A topic best left alone. Interesting.
Severine placed her water glass hard on the table and her hand hit the side of her full coffee cup, spilling the dark liquid on the table. Andrew grabbed white cloth napkins from an adjacent table and mopped up the mess while Severine watched him. He piled the soiled napkins on the tabletop. The waiter swooped in to clear them away.
“We’d like to understand exactly what happened out there in Mondulkiri,” Andrew said.
Severine narrowed her eyes at Andrew. “When you say ‘We’, who is this royal ‘We’?” she asked.
“Didn’t Jeremy explain?” Andrew replied.
Severine shook her head. “Like everyone I’ve encountered so far in the past 24 hours, Jeremy was less than helpful. Nothing knew. He said you would have questions and that I was to answer them. Which I will try to do. But when you say ‘We’, I’m first interested in knowing who is the ‘We’ so interested in me.”
Andrew sat back in his chair. They seemed to have broken the ice at least; she was pissed, which was better than cold and unresponsive. “You called Ben’s dad, right? To let him know…what happened?”
She nodded. “Yes. I left a panicked voicemail with his secretary. He was in a meeting, she said. Even when I told her it was an emergency, that his son had just been killed, she wouldn’t put me through. Can you imagine? What meeting is so important? I have not heard back from him. We’ve never met.”
Andrew listened to this with interest. He’d met a few businessmen who would put a meeting first. “Well, your message got through,” he said. “Ben’s father has asked for an investigation into his son’s death. He has a lot of pull back in the States.” Severine looked skeptical at this revelation. She’d assumed Andrew was conducting a routine inquiry. Jeremy, as usual, had not told her the full story.
Seeing her reaction, Andrew asked, “You didn’t know?”
She shook her head, tossing her long hair on her shoulders. “Ben didn’t get along with his dad. He didn’t talk much about family. I understood they were farmers, or ranchers, something on the land.”
Andrew, like most men, was not unaffected by a woman with an accent. When Severin
e spoke, she held Andrew’s gaze, unblinking, like a prowling cat.
“Well, yes, something like that.” Andrew didn’t think now was the time to explain the extent of influence. “Ben’s father asked that this matter be fully investigated. And the…” Andrew almost said Agency, but caught himself. “The Embassy got tasked with the investigation. As you’ve said, the local authorities aren’t being too helpful at the moment.”
Severine rested her chin wearily on her fist and looked up at the sky. The sleep-deprivation and adrenaline of the past couple days were catching up with her even before the day had really started. She looked back at Andrew and asked, “How is it that you pulled the short straw to handle this?”
Andrew paused, deciding again that some information was on a need-to-know basis. Until he had a clearer picture. Right now everything was murky and so his level of trust was low. But then it usually was.
“Mostly, I was in town and available,” he answered.
Severine nodded. “What’s your plan?” She asked.
Andrew scratched his stubble-covered chin. Three days grown, his sparse beard was flecked with red. Somewhere in his family’s past there had been a ginger.
He was not prepared for this question. He hedged.
“Unhh. I’m reviewing what information I have. I’ll select the best way forward based on my review.” Andrew didn’t have a fully sketched out approach but was not going to admit that to his only witness.
He continued, “I do need to know exactly what happened in Mondulkiri.” He paused. “I realize that might be difficult for you, but we do need to go through it.”
Severine looked down at the napkin in her lap. “Not here.”
“OK. No, not here. I also plan to go out there to the jungle, to cover the bases. So I will need your guidance on that, with the location.”
Severine scrunched her nose, thinking, wrinkles appearing on the bridge of her nose. She was about to ask a question she’d wanted to ask Jeremy but had not allowed herself to, for pride. There was, after all, a practical side to all of this. There was always a practical side to death, which, in truth, took the edge off of grief. She took a deep breath. “Are you going to bring back his body?”
