by Johan Smits
Phirun didn’t understand. Had Cambodia changed that much? And why did the guy suddenly speak as if he had just run headfirst into a door?
“I’fe lost a front tootf,” the man answered Phirun’s last question, as if he’d read his mind by telepathy. “It was quite a surprise, hah! But I fwould gladly break anofher one in the same way, hah hah.”
Phirun was deeply puzzled. Why would he like to break a tooth, and what on earth did he have to do with it? In the end, Phirun decided to ignore the man’s comment.
“Thank you very much, your Excellency. I am most honoured by your phone call. I am afraid though that our little business does not deserve your generous and kind offer of an Honorary Gold Membership.”
“No, no! Fhe honour is ours. I will have a courier sent to you this afternoon wift the papers. Just a quick signature would do.”
Phirun hesitated. How could he explain that he didn’t have the budget for a Gold Membership? He just wanted a cheap, ordinary one.
“Your Excellency’s goodness and generosity is too much for our little venture to accept without shame, and we would not be able to forgive ourselves if, at this early stage of business, we wouldn’t be able to keep up with the routine payments of the Gold Membership’s totally reasonable fees.”
It had then been the man who hesitated and Phirun had detected a hint of puzzlement in the other’s voice.
“Of courfe it is out of the quesfion that your honourable company would pay any money for your membfership — I deeply and sincerely apologise if I had involuntarily made any unjust allusion to such unfhinkable er...fhing.”
Phirun had not wanted to drag on the conversation any longer than necessary. Especially a conversation that he didn’t understand.
“It is I who humbly apologise, your Excellency, about any involuntarily and unjust allusion mistakenly made to the limits of your limitless generosity and professional helpfulness and goodwill and therefore I would humbly like to thank you again a thousand-fold for your most kind offer and will look forward with much excitement to the honour of receiving your most gracious papers by your respected courier.”
After ending the call, Phirun had stared out of his kitchen window for quite a while. He had an uncanny feeling that whatever it was that had suddenly opened all these doors would come back at him later and cause trouble.
Phirun chugs down the rest of his beer. He’s feeling quite inebriated now.
What is going on? Most of his country’s administrative formalities are achieved in a refreshingly straightforward manner — you pay, you get it; you pay more, you get it faster. But what he had experienced during those phone calls three days ago had turned his world upside down. He hadn’t paid a dime and things had still gotten done at lightning speed.
“Bizarre...” Phirun mumbles to himself, gazing into his empty glass.
Then he looks up to his left and stares straight into the almond-shaped eyes of the most stunning girl he has seen in the past one hundred years. Maybe two hundred, he reckons.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Chapter EIGHT
THE RINGING OF a telephone shattering the peace at three in the morning never fails to be unsettling. At the fourth brutal ring the woman, who had been fast asleep, wakes up with a fright. The effect of the sleeping pills she took the evening before is still lingering. It takes her another two rings before she realises where she is. At the seventh ring she reaches out to the night table. She presses the answer button but doesn’t speak.
“Miss Tzahala?” a man’s voice asks.
“I told you not to mention my name on the phone.”
“Sorry. We located Driekamp.”
The words wake her up instantly. Dieter Driekamp. Tel Aviv.
“What? Is he still in Tel Aviv?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make him talk?”
“That’d be difficult.”
“Hell, why?” she demands.
“Corpses tend to be reserved.”
Harah! she curses inwardly. When she continues the conversation, Tzahala tries not to betray her panic.
“What happened?” she demands from the man on the other end of the line.
“He drowned. His body washed ashore near the Sheraton. It’s in the papers. I’m faxing you one of the articles as we speak. Do you know who might be behind this?”
“Call me back if you come across more information,” Tzahala says and hangs up.
The moment she puts away the phone she hears the high-pitched beep of the fax machine coming from her living room. When she gets there she watches closely as the paper slowly slides from the machine. The short report appeared in the newspaper Haaretz, she notices. She reads it carefully, trying to elicit clues to who was behind the killing
Tuesday night, the sea spewed up its twentieth victim of the summer. A male’s body — later identified as Dieter Driekamp, a 42-year-old South African national — washed ashore on Metzizim beach fronting the Sheraton Tel Aviv. The body was found at 11:30 PM by an elderly couple walking their dog who called the Magen David. The emergency ambulance service established that the man had died three or four hours before he was found.
Tzahala frowns. That means that he must have died within hours of calling her. She continues reading but the story digresses on to how foreigners underestimate the powerful currents and drifts beneath the water’s surface.
Israel’s beaches are dangerous compared to those in other countries. The fact that Israel is located in a corner of the Mediterranean creates a ‘regime of winds’ that makes our seas capricious and unfriendly.
“This unfriendliness is catching,” she says aloud.
She sets the article aside and sits down on her sofa. The more she ponders it, the more confusing the picture becomes. This is really not good news, she thinks, but realises that she has little choice other than to lie low until she receives more information.
Tzahala stands and walks towards the bathroom. There she opens the cold-water tap, cups her slender hands and splashes water onto her face, then stares at her image in the mirror. She’s half-naked, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. Still in excellent shape at the age of thirty-five, she thinks surveying her firm breasts. The feeling of panic has made way for a renewed sense of determination.
“Whoever is behind this will pay for it. In blood.”
Chapter NINE
COLONEL PEETERS AWAKES feeling tired and grumpy. He has hardly caught any sleep. Moreover, his agent in Cambodia had woken him up at half past three in the morning, blissfully unaware of the global time zone phenomenon.
The agent had confirmed that the rival diamonds had been shipped from Tel Aviv and were hidden in Belgian chocolates, packed per dozen in luxury gift boxes. A selection of Cambodian government officials had received the consignment, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“Talk about a public relations campaign,” the Colonel had said, almost in admiration for his new enemies.
“I think it serves a dual purpose,” his contact had suggested. “Bribery is one, the other is about making a statement. They made no effort to conceal their stunt. It must be a message.”
“What message?” the Colonel had asked, irritated at being bothered with bad news in the middle of the night.
“For us to piss off?”
“But who the fuck are these clowns? This is my market! I developed it! Do they think they can just stroll in and fill their shopping trolley or what? They’re making the biggest mistake of their lives since they nailed Jesus to the cross!” The Colonel had almost been panting with rage.
“They nailed someone to a cross?” the other voice had asked, sounding worried and confused.
“Forget it.”
The Colonel was advised to handle his unknown rivals carefully. The fact that the Israelis had acted so brazenly... maybe they had some powerful backers he didn’t know about.
“And our local government contacts, what do they say?” the Colonel had asked.
“Nothing. They smell new business and are discussing amongst themselves which new Hummer model looks most impressive to be seen driving.”
“Shit. I’m coming over.”
***
Colonel Peeters is a big man. Not particularly fat, but tall and of impressive physicality. He likes exerting himself: a legacy from more active times in the police force. Sport’s good, he finds, for clearing the mind. That’s why he chose to walk instead of driving one of his fast cars. Besides, with all the traffic jams in Antwerp these days it won’t take him that much longer on foot.
He walks through a residential street, crosses a major road and continues at a steady trot alongside the city’s central park. If they want war, they can have it, he thinks. But if it really comes to that, I need to be in Cambodia to lead the operation, he realises. It would be wise to arrive unnoticed — if things got out of hand, he wouldn’t want his name splashed all over the media. There’s an easy solution for that — a fake passport — and Colonel Peeters knows exactly where to get one.
Half an hour later he arrives at the Dageraadplaats, a charming little square at the edge of the Zurenborg quarter, Europe’s highest concentration of historic buildings of every imaginable style: Flemish Renaissance, Byzantine, neo-Gothic, classicist, art deco. The Colonel knows this area well enough as he once tried to build a shopping mall smack-bang in the middle of it. To no avail — even his name and money hadn’t been enough. But he hadn’t yet become a Lieutenant-Colonel.
He swiftly turns into the Transvaalstraat and stops in front of a large, impressive belle époque house. A gilded plaque reads ‘Kris Van Noten — painter’, in elegant script. The Colonel always wondered why a successful, internationally acclaimed artist, whose works keep rising in price, wants to maintain such a risky side-business as passport forgery.
“It’s a hobby,” had been the painter’s matter-of-fact explanation.
“Besides, we like to make our modest contribution to shoplifting the Belgian state,” his partner had added, “as a matter of principle.”
The Colonel doesn’t like gay men but nobody equals Van Noten when it comes to forgery. Likewise, nobody equals his partner, who calls himself Alexander, when it comes to haggling. He had never come across a more ruthless negotiator, even in his diamond or heroin businesses, and he always ended up paying more than he had bargained on. This Alexander guy could potentially be twice the crook the Colonel is himself, but the arrogant bastard had already refused several offers to work for him.
“Colonel! What a pleasant surprise.” It’s Alexander who answers the door and kisses Peeters on both cheeks. “To what do we owe the honour, business or pleasure?” he winks at the ex-police commander.
Already pissed off by the greeting kisses, the Colonel steps into the giant hallway and conspicuously ignores the teasing question.
“Is Van Noten in?” he asks gruffly.
“Kris? Of course, of course...You want to buy a painting? Prices have rocketed lately, but I can make you a deal, my Colonel.”
“I need a passport. As soon as possible.”
“Oh! Naughty, aren’t we?” Alexander grins. “Well, if time is limited, then we’ll have to choose one out of our available stock, won’t we?”
“Okay, as long as it’s fast, whaddayahave?”
The Colonel is uncomfortable and doesn’t want to stay any longer than necessary.
“I’ll show you, my dear, but why don’t you make yourself at home in the orangerie,” Alexander proposes, grabbing the Colonel’s hand and leading him further inside. “Would you like an espresso? Cognac perhaps?”
“Cut the crap! I wanna talk business.”
The moment the Colonel says the words, he regrets them. But he knows it’s already too late — now he’ll end up paying at least double. Alexander gives him a long, cold stare. His tone takes on an icy edge:
“Fine. Let’s do business.”
***
Forty-five minutes later, the Colonel finds himself back on the street. Alexander managed to rip him off by six times the black market price. But he hadn’t any choice, he needed the best.
First Alexander showed him some stolen passports of black Africans, deliberately, winding him up, no doubt.
“Do I look African to you?” the Colonel had said.
Alexander then tripled the price. “If you’re not happy with your skin colour, that’s not my problem,” was his response.
After that, Alexander chose a new name for his client, increasing the price again by a hundred per cent.
“But you always change the name in the passport anyway. This is pure robbery!” the Colonel objected, in vain.
“Tut-tut,” Alexander scolded, wafting himself with one of the stolen passports, “it’s all about market economics you know. Supply and demand, darling. It’ll be ready tomorrow. Ninety-five per cent deposit now, fifteen at delivery.”
“That makes a hundred and ten.”
“Mmm.”
Colonel Peeters had no choice. Especially when, during the final, crucial negotiation, a clearly drunken Van Noten entered, swung himself around the Colonel’s neck, landing square on his lap and let his hand rest on the Colonel’s left thigh, all the while staring into his eyes with a longing smile. At that moment, money no longer topped the list of Colonel Peeters’ concerns.
Back within the safety of the street, the Colonel orders his thoughts. All that’s left to do is book myself a ticket, he thinks. Via Bangkok, so he can return his supposed Thai fiancée to her shack. She’s been boring him out of his mind. What’s her name again, Nit, Nat, Noi? Something like that. Whatever...
Chapter TEN
ONCE AGAIN, PHIRUN wakes up to the penetrating stench of prahok rising from the flat downstairs and the relentless wailing of the karaoke addict upstairs. This morning’s cut is the Khmer dubbed version of Whitney Houston’s ‘Can’t Live Without You’. At the part in the song where the ‘live’ becomes ‘liiiiiive’, the neighbour sounds like a tortured cat, making Phirun wince in sheer pain.
He tries hard to ignore the raging headache throbbing in every cell of his alcohol soaked brain. This must be the worst hangover since... since when? he wonders. He tries to focus his memory on last night and recalls a lot of Leffe beers, but the sheer concept of alcohol makes him feel sick now.
He lets out a faint moan while upstairs the neighbour’s voice is still raping the airwaves. Why is it that countries that don’t need the death penalty have one, and those who do, don’t? Phirun wonders. For the second time this week, he tries to remember where the Paracetamol tablets are.
Grumbling, he rolls over but then stiffens with surprise at the human body lying just inches from his. It’s the body of a young brown-skinned woman, Cambodian, lying motionlessly as if sculpted out of palm tree wood. The white bed sheet exposes one of her plum-shaped breasts — quietly undulating in harmony with her breathing.
Oh my God... Phirun thinks. At least she’s alive, he assures himself, but nevertheless panics about what he should be doing next. For what seems a very long moment, he remains frozen, undecided about the right course of action and fearful of waking her up. He quietly studies her face and can’t help congratulating himself. She’s exceptionally beautiful, floating in a little silken lake of abundant black hair that seems to flow with sensuality. No earrings, no necklace, no tattoos, as far as he can see, just a cute birthmark on her cheek. She seems vaguely familiar and he racks his brain trying to remember how this wondrous creature ended up in his bed. Suddenly her eyes flutter and a moment later she speaks.
“You saat,” the girl says, calling him beautiful.
Phirun’s heart skips a beat before he manages a smile.
“You saaaaaat,” the young woman’s voice insists. She moves her body and reaches for Phirun’s nose, pulling it playfully. The white sheet drops further and exposes the girl’s other breast. She doesn’t seem to mind.
The upstairs neighbour has meanwhile moved on to ‘Take Me To Your Heart’, at ful
l blast. It’s preventing Phirun from gathering his thoughts and trying to remember what might have happened over the past eight hours. It’s not his style to bring a random girl home, but now that she’s here, perhaps he should consider changing styles. Maybe she kidnapped him. And brought him to his own flat?
The girl has now curled her slender brown body up against his. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation, Phirun admits to himself, but he’s in far too much pain to enjoy it. Where’s the damn Parecetamol?
“Er... sorry er... but... what is your name again please?” he tries to establish contact with the alien girl.
“You shkoot!” she laughs, now calling him crazy and pulls his hair.
“Ouch! Where you from? Moak peenaa?” he asks in Khmer.
“From bloody Melbourne, you tit. So you don’t remember a thing then?” she suddenly replies in a heavy Australian accent.
“What? Jesus!”
“Merrilee, for the record, not that you seem to care much anyway.”
Phirun hesitates, still unsure what to do. This is all too confusing. One moment he’s asleep, the next he’s got a stunning Cambodian-looking Australian curled up to him, asking him complicated questions such as whether he remembers her. Did he really drink that many beers? She seems pretty blasé about it all, Phirun thinks, judging from the way she’s now casually playing with his penis. It resoundingly fails to respond.
“So, ‘up with the cock’ is not part of your morning vocabulary, then?” she joshes with a tinge of cruel amusement in her voice.
Phirun is concentrating hard on several things at once. Getting his little man into action (because, despite his nervousness, this is an opportunity that may not occur again for some time), remembering who this irresistible apparition might be, and ignoring the neighbour from hell upstairs. Unfortunately Phirun’s never been good at multitasking.
“What the hell is that bloodcurdling racket upstairs? Is your neighbour slaughtering animals?” the girl asks. Then she cups her hands around her mouth and yells toward the ceiling, “Please! Put the poor beast out of its misery!”
