by Johan Smits
She finishes her plate and watches the fifty-year-old Belgian dismount his barstool. With the local girl trailing, he walks past the pool tables and disappears through the double blacked-out doors that lead into the attached nightclub. Hunting season has started, she thinks, standing up.
***
Colonel Peeters is sipping on his eighth Angkor beer inside the shadowy, stuffy club. He’s propped at the bar, two young girls massaging his shoulders. Boredom is starting to engulf him while he’s watching the crowd shake their booties on the dance floor a couple of metres away. Most are Cambodian and Vietnamese girls, who all seem to be having a good time, moving enthusiastically to the beat and trying the latest Channel V dance moves. It’s more like a junior high school party than a hooker joint tonight, the Colonel muses.
Along the walls, amid the gloom, are single rows of square tables and chairs on which male customers sit with their girlfriend for the night, or alone but evaluating the talent undulating on the floor. Only a few middle-aged white men and the odd Korean businessman are dancing badly among the gaggle of girls and women, sweating profusely and painfully dismissive of anything resembling a sense of rhythm. Yes, the Colonel is officially bored. This R&B stuff they keep playing is not his thing at all; maybe he should call it a night and take a couple of sluts back, he thinks.
Then, as if he’d bribed the otherwise clueless DJ, there’s a familiar intro and, yes, one of the Colonel’s all-time favourite tunes fills the air.
“Macarena,” he exclaims. “Yes!”
He finishes his beer with an unsteady swig that spills half on his white shirt, and jumps off his barstool to join the dancing crowd. Immediately three girls surround him and thrust their slim bodies rhythmically against the new dancing barang.
They all want me, they can’t have me, so they come and dance beside me...
He is now sandwiched in between four girls; two in front and two behind him. It gets better by the second, he thinks.
Move with me, chant with me, and if you’re good, I’ll take you home with me...
He places his arms forward, palms down, right arm, then left. The girls join in. He puts his right hand on his left shoulder, then his left on the right, then on the back of his head. Right first then left... the Colonel’s brain instructs him with mechanical discipline. After all, he’s a military man. The girls follow — even Channel V plays the Macarena music video occasionally. The Colonel then puts his right hand on his left hip, crossing his arms and finishing the routine with a little jump and a pelvic rotation of 90 degrees: Eeeeeeh macarena! the speakers blast. He freezes.
The music continues but the Colonel can’t move. He’s staring straight at the most sexy, provocative, slutty, juicy creature he’s ever seen in Phnom Penh. What the fuck...! he thinks, but she smiles at him flicking the tip of her tongue along her upper lip while brushing her lower body against his, to the rhythm of the music. The Colonel slowly starts dancing again but his movements are no longer following the tune; they’re like those of a malfunctioning robot. The girl turns her back to him and slides her perfectly shaped bum in circular movements against the increasingly horny Colonel’s crotch. This is almost too much for him to bear: Peeters hasn’t had sex since arriving in Cambodia and is desperate to make up for lost time. The song is nearing its end and by the moment of the final, blared Eeeeeeh macarena, another, more personal blast occurs. Almost in sync with the song’s finishing line, he ejaculates in what to him feels like the kind of explosion that would make the heads of both North Korea and Iran sick with jealousy. The girl in front of him turns around and with one swift movement reaches between the Colonel’s legs and squeezes his still rock hard penis through his wet trousers.
“Oooh, already!” she exclaims and purses her lips in mock disappointment like a schoolmistress would admonish a naughty little boy. “Go home?” she asks innocently. Before the Colonel can say one word she flings herself around his neck and whispers in his ear, “I njam njam you?”
***
The decision had been instantaneous. When the Colonel steps out of the shower he feels refreshed and ready for action. He had almost come a second time on the way home, seated on the back of a motodop with the girl behind him, one of her hands frolicking between his legs. Fortunately, that time he’d been able to restrain himself. With a towel wrapped around his waist he walks to the minibar, where the girl is fixing a whisky on the rocks. Holding the glass in one hand, she turns round, bends forward and playfully pulls back one part of the towel, making the Colonel’s stiff member spring out.
“Oooh, very big!” she laughs, handing him the whisky.
“You bet, honey,” the Colonel retorts cheerfully. “Mine’s like toothpaste: easy to get out, hard to get back in.”
He sips from the glass and reaches out for the girl, who skilfully avoids him while slapping him playfully on his rear.
“I first go shower now,” she says, walking to the bathroom.
“No need for shower. You come here!” the Colonel demands.
The girl confidently walks up to the Colonel, grabs his stiff member, leads him to the giant bed and pushes him down. She looks him sternly in the eye.
“I go shower now. First clean pussy. You drink whisky.” To kill any potential objections from the Colonel, she adds, “No shower, no njam njam!”
“Yeah, okay — but hurry up,” the Colonel gives in. The touch of the girl’s slender hand around his dick had reminded him who was in control at this juncture in proceedings. Not for long, though...
On her way to the bathroom, the girl glances over her shoulder and sees the Colonel down his whisky and stretch out on the bed.
***
When Merrilee is finished in the bathroom the Colonel is out like a light. The triple dose of Gamma Hydroxy Butyrate in his whisky has seen to that. It’s done its job not only on the Colonel’s consciousness but also on his recently proud member, which has shrunken to a pitiful memory of its former glory. It would take less than two seconds to slit his throat, Merrilee considers matter-of-factly. Tempting — but it’s not tonight’s objective. Instead, she walks back to the minibar and pours herself a glass of cold mineral water. It’s 1:12 AM, according to the digital watch below the TV. She has all the time in the world.
After switching on more lights Merrilee calmly and systematically starts sweeping the room. It takes her less than ten minutes to find what she’s looking for. Just a few scribbles on a little square notebook — a date, name and time — but to her they make sense. She steals a look at the naked, unconscious Colonel who’s now murmuring unintelligibly. Let’s hope he’ll be sober in time for tomorrow evening, Merrilee thinks. Before she leaves, she rummages through the Colonel’s clothes. When she comes across his wallet she takes out all of the cash — she doesn’t want him to suspect anything else but a classic prostitute’s robbery. She stuffs the wad of dollar bills in her handbag. I’ll invite Phirun to a fancy dinner with it, she thinks, with love from Belgium.
Chapter TWENTY FIVE
THE NATIONAL SPORTS Complex, Phnom Penh’s 1964 architectural masterpiece, is gradually filling up with locals seeking respite from the city’s demonic traffic and incessant construction. Every day at the crack of dawn, and then again at dusk, the Sports Complex, better known as Olympic Stadium, becomes an oasis for exercise, games and cheerful fun and frolics for young and old, poor and rich alike. The daily assemblage steadfastly gathers after work and school, like devoted worshippers on a spiritual pilgrimage.
A young woman is jogging through the open gates of the main entrance, past the guards collecting payment from vehicles entering the grounds. She continues straight ahead, towards the flat-roofed grandstand, the complex’s principal structure. The sun hovers menacingly above, but already half-a-dozen teams of barefooted teenagers are enthusiastically chasing footballs across the wide concrete paved space out front. The jogger continues, rhythmically breathing the afternoon air.
She tries to recall the sweet scent of the white Fra
ngipani trees that line the big playground to her right. Behind the trees, a once green haven, now hosts a row of long, three-storey buildings, having been sold to a Taiwanese construction company to build malls and car parks. The runner thinks of the girls at Martini’s last night and marvels how the city’s real prostitutes were all notably absent from the dive.
When Merrilee arrives at the mobile food stands tucked under wide, colourful umbrellas, she turns left and runs alongside a red-gravel football field. A group of semi-professional sportsmen, clad in glowing lime sports kits, are warming up with a session of sit-ups. As she passes, half of them steal glances at her.
Merrilee is in no hurry. She’s arrived early in order to find a good spot to observe the Colonel. She scans the enormous flat roof, admiring the four golden spires that jut out behind it. In the centre of the roof’s ledge, a golden plaque seems to be wedged into a large V-shaped concrete structure. She takes a pair of small binoculars out of her backpack and looks again, distinguishing the golden image of a mythical four-armed female figure in traditional Khmer attire. She’s seen the figure somewhere before and it looks as if the deity is holding a Naga, the protective serpent, with two of her six limbs. She lowers the binoculars and a momentary feeling of emptiness overwhelms her. Perhaps she’s finally experiencing some form of regret at the disconnection from her Cambodian heritage.
Her watch tells her there’s still plenty of time. She continues running, her mind drifting back to her youth days in Australia. She passes rows of tennis courts on her left, and pétanque pitches on her right. A surreal gilded statue, of a giant hand wrapped around an iron ball, briefly catches her attention and provokes a smile on her face. But when Merrilee’s thoughts wander over her young adulthood in Israel and then her mission in Lebanon, she tenses. Images from that time flash through her mind and she speeds up her pace, zigzagging between families with children, other joggers, cyclists, walkers and dogs.
Returning her mind back to the present she slows down at the end of the path. To her left there’s a green metal gate giving access to a long ramp which leads up towards the stadium’s tribunes. Next to the gate is a food vendor selling grilled sausages. Merrilee looks at him for a second and is struck by something but she doesn’t quite know what. Then she notices the harmony of colours. The vendor’s tricycle and stove are painted an old blue, interspersed with spots of brown rust. The man himself is wearing a faded, old blue shirt. Next to him is a small plastic bucket of raw sausages on ice in a brighter, cheaper looking blue and the entire setup is protected by a large, sky blue Pepsi-branded parasol. Merrilee smiles at the vendor who warmly returns the gesture. She then steps through the gate and runs up the long ramp. The small rucksack on her back is light but its mere touch on her body makes her sweat.
On the wide, stone platform she’s greeted by a cacophony of odours, bustle, harsh noise and clashing colours. Alongside the knee-high wall separating the platform from the tribunes, scores of food stalls compete for space. In front of her, a bunch of children is being taught high-kicking tae kwan do moves while next to them a more sizable group of Chinese-Khmers practise the slow motions of tai chi chuan. They seem oblivious to the deafening beats of the trashy techno music blasting from enormous black speakers some twenty metres away. They are the size of double wardrobes and at least a hundred Khmers, young and old, dance a synchronised workout to its distorted rhythm.
Merrilee steps over the low wall and looks out over the vast, modern amphitheatre with its 60,000 seating capacity. The grandstand opposite is now exposed in all its glory. She takes her binoculars out once more and studies the building on the far side of the sports field. She sees youth hanging out on the steep, concrete steps beneath three small portraits of the Cambodian Royal Family through the lenses. Merrilee lowers the binoculars and stares ahead. That will be my spot, she thinks.
***
Colonel Peeters’ head is bursting with pain when he opens his eyes.
“Holy fuck,” is all he manages to say, then quickly closes them again.
Two more hours pass.
***
At 3:30 PM the American doctor slaps the Colonel’s face, checking for a pulse and signs of response in his eyes with a small flash light.
“He’ll be fine,” he tells the anxious hotel manager, “he’s probably taken an overdose of some intoxicating substance. Only a blood test can say for sure, but he’s basically all right.” The Colonel finally seems to be coming to.
“Huh...?” he murmurs.
“Sir... Mr Sponsz. I’m the hotel manager. A cleaning lady found you and alerted me. We called for a doctor. Are you all right, sir?” the concerned manager explains while trying to help his sick guest sit up. A dead tourist in his hotel would be bad public relations.
“Huh...? Sponsz...?” The Colonel manages to keep his eyes open and sip from the glass of water the doctor presses to his lips. He slowly takes in his surroundings. He’s on an oversized bed with a white sheet covering his nakedness, while two foreign men scrutinising him. So far so good, he thinks sarcastically. The hotel’s manager looks at the American doctor who returns a reassuring nod. Then he addresses the Colonel again:
“Well... all right then, sir, we’ll leave you in peace. If there’s anything you need, just give us a call.”
The doctor places his name card on the bed and the two men discreetly exit the Colonel’s suite, clicking the door shut behind them.
Colonel Peeters slowly stands, letting the bed sheet slide off and stumbles to the bathroom. Supporting himself with both hands on the large marble sink, he glances at his reflection in the mirror.
“I look fucking two hundred years old...” he murmurs and starts coughing.
He spits into the sink, steps gingerly into the shower, opens the cold water tap to its maximum and cautiously sits down onto the shower’s floor. While the fresh water gushes over him, he tries to reconstruct the past, lost hours; it takes him a while to remember Martini’s.
By the time the Colonel is sat on a sofa in his suite, drinking a coke with ice, he has more or less reconstructed last night’s events — but only up to entering his room with the ravishing girl from the nightclub. His empty wallet lies in front of him, forcing the Colonel to face the inevitable. He hates to admit it but he’s been done by a simple, cheap whore. She must have drugged him and he, who’s patronised brothels all the way from Berlin to Bangkok and back, went into it with his eyes wide open. If he ever comes across that nasty bitch again..., the Colonel curdles, but then startles.
“The appointment!”
***
At 6:05 PM the Colonel is standing on the platform atop the Olympic Stadium’s terrace, next to a large gilded bowl affixed to a concrete structure. It reminds him of his mother’s vegetable soup with meatballs. Then he realises that the wide, ceremonial receptacle is in fact the stadium’s bowl for the Olympic Flame. His head is still throbbing. Five minutes late, he thinks, glancing at his watch. Not too bad considering today’s events.
He looks wearily around. Far below him, in the middle of the stadium’s central sports field, Cambodian footballers are sprinting across the grass. Right opposite him, the impressive grandstand seems to hover above the ground. It reminds the Colonel of one of his favourite old science fiction TV series — ‘Battlestar Galactica’ — and its impressive enemy robots, the Cyclones. He wasn’t a great fan of Apollo, the human hero, and he definitely didn’t like that little shit of a robot poodle that was always tripping over. But the Cyclones, whose mission was to wipe out the human race, they were awesome.
“Shalom.”
The Colonel turns around and looks into the face of a dark-haired, tanned woman. Shocked, he recognises her: the gazelle from The House!
“Aha...!” is all he manages to say, trying to keep his poker face.
They don’t shake hands. The woman looks penetratingly into the Colonel’s steel blue eyes. His earlier disguise having clearly failed, the Colonel has stopped wearing those irritating contact l
enses.
“It’s time to talk,” the woman says.
While she addresses him, Tzahala tries to read the Colonel’s thoughts. She’s slightly disappointed with his appearance at close quarters. At The House he had seemed more attractive. She remembers him radiating a strong, mature, sexual energy — but the man standing in front of her right now looks dishevelled and exhausted.
“Otherwise I wouldn’t be here,” the Colonel answers, also trying to assess his opponent. He’s briefly distracted by a familiar sound blaring from the massive speakers some fifty metres down the platform. He recognises the familiar tune of Macarena and cringes at the memory it stirs.
“Something wrong?” Tzahala asks.
“It’s too noisy here,” the Colonel answers. “Let’s go down.”
They both descend the steps of the stadium’s tribunes until they reach somewhere relatively deserted. The Colonel looks up, Tzahala looks down, and then they both look sideways. There’s not a soul within twenty metres on any side. Almost simultaneously, they lower themselves onto the concrete bench.
“Maybe you can start by telling me why you insist on stealing my market here,” the Colonel begins.
“I’m not stealing anything,” Tzahala retorts. “The market is big enough for me to share it with you. That’s business, not theft. Secondly, I hadn’t even entered your market when you killed Driekamp. Wasn’t that overreacting a little bit?” Tzahala throws him a sharp look. She wants this conversation to stay friendly if possible.
It takes a moment for the Colonel to reply. He looks puzzled.
“Treekamp who? Whaddaya talking about?”
“Am I wasting my time here or what?” Tzahala stands up.
“Sit down. Explain what you’re talking about.”
