by Johan Smits
Farina takes a deep breath.
“No more killing,” she repeats, “no more...”
“What happened then?”
“Instead of taking out the American, I looked aside, to where you were lying — bleeding, but alive. I crawled over and started tying a shirt around your wound. The American let me, then he put his gun down and started helping me. He called his embassy and some people arrived in no time. You were driven off in a grey Lexus without number plates. Then the American and I returned to the business at hand.”
She had told him everything, things he had no right to know. It took Billy two hours and numerous calls to the U.S. who in turn, Farina suspects, contacted Mossad and confronted them with some hard facts. At some point, presumably after getting confirmation of some sorts, the American had relaxed.
Then when she and Billy discovered they had been chasing the same people, they made a deal to cover for each other. Officially, the Colonel and Tzahala killed one another. Billy did not want his superiors to learn of his unauthorised activities. As for Farina’s bosses, and especially the Israeli government, it would be extremely embarrassing politically if the outside world knew an Israeli national had been financing Hezbollah.
So the only people inside the chocolate shop that evening were Phirun, Tzahala and the Colonel. The Colonel and Tzahala killed each other because of some business dispute. The neighbours’ murders were, rightly, linked to them, and the investigating police fed the whole story, supported by the usual financial incentives. As long as no Cambodians are involved, they don’t really care if a couple of barang criminals do each other in.
In the end, everybody was happy. The only outsider that Farina and Billy had to convince was Nina, because she would soon hear Phirun’s account.
“Eventually she agreed, for the sake of her business, I suppose.”
“Bravo, nice story. And now I’m supposed to take pity on you, to be thankful for not having murdered me, and to keep my mouth shut or else? Tell me, would non-cooperation land me on your hit list again?”
Farina turns her tired face without offering an answer. After a while it’s Phirun who talks again.
“I’m sorry...,” he says, quietly. Then adds, “You haven’t told me yet why you came back from Israel.”
“No, don’t be sorry... you have all the reasons in the world to think of me as... I have no right...”
“My question, Merrilee.”
“It’s Farina,” she manages to flash a smile but it disappears quickly.
“I’m not sure why I came back. Perhaps for several reasons; I don’t know. Maybe because I didn’t want to return to my life in Israel. I’m twenty-eight and am not even sure how many people I have killed. And in the end, it doesn’t make any difference. Everybody is replaceable. It’s just a matter of time before someone else, someone even worse, fills in. We may have won this small battle in Cambodia but not until we rethink some of our own convictions and conquer the minds of those we fight will the war be won. By either side.”
She pauses again to think, then continues.
“I thought that people prepared to sacrifice their lives for someone else only existed in the movies. Or were suicide bombers who give their lives in order to take many with them. But you... you were neither of those. You were real.”
“I was stoned out of my mind! I had no idea what I was doing; it was a lucky accident!”
Farina speaks just two words.
“Your poem.”
“What about it?”
“I kept on rereading it, over and over again, on the plane back to Israel. I was shocked when I realised how well it described my current life.”
“My poem? But you tore it into pieces; you mocked it to hell...”
“No, that’s not the one I’m talking about. I’m talking about your other poem, Inside the Tree,” she explains, and confesses how she’d broken into his flat.
“I don’t know why I took it. I couldn’t resist. But it wasn’t until later, on the plane, that the full extent of what was written hit me. And it chilled me to the bone. It was eerie in its description of how I was feeling, so precisely. Of how my life was.”
“It wasn’t written with that purpose. I was not writing about you, I was writing about myself.”
“Yes, I recognised that. And that recognition, of shared feelings, made me... I felt connected to you. Intensely. There were many emotions, but most of all I felt like a complete idiot. The very person who, only days before, I was planning to murder, was the person who saved my life. The person by whose poem I felt understood. That’s how screwed up my life had become. And reading those lines again on that plane... They made me cry... I think maybe that’s the reason I came back.”
They are both silent. Somewhere a dog is barking into the evening.
After a while, Phirun turns his head and rests it on the pillow, looking directly at Farina. His expression is still blank.
“I’ll go now,” Farina says softly, rising from her chair.
“No, stay.”
Chapter TWENTY NINE
Phnom Penh, August 2018
HE’D BETTER HURRY up or he’ll be late for the seminar, Phirun thinks and speeds up his car. The moment he negotiates the corner onto Norodom Boulevard, he’s stopped by the police.
“Oh, man, not now...”
He lowers his window. A young officer in a starched new uniform addresses him.
“Road tax?”
Phirun points to this year’s tax sticker, clearly visible in the correct place on his front window. The officer nods.
“Driving licence.”
Phirun hands it over and while the officer examines the plastic card, Phirun rummages through his pockets for dollars.
“Okay.”
“Excuse me?”
“Okay, go,” the officer gestures impatiently and looks away.
Phirun shakes his head. Phnom Penh has definitely changed, he thinks. He stops for the red traffic lights, just like the other drivers. Yes, it has changed. Just to his side is a sizable vacant plot of land where two years ago, a sky-high building had besmirched the urban landscape. The new government had ordered it demolished. A survey had revealed that the concrete used in its construction was of substandard quality; nowhere near even the level required by minimum safety standards. As a recent government decree now forbids new high-rise buildings on Norodom Boulevard — an attempt to restore some of its past character — nobody is sure what will eventually be built on the open site. Maybe nothing, Phirun thinks, remembering the new mayor’s vow to promote green spaces.
A few minutes later he turns into Street 240 and drives past the house where the chocolate shop was once located. He wonders how Nina is doing in Amsterdam. Since the opening of the chocolate shop six years ago, everything has been a bit of a rollercoaster for her. Phirun was still in the hospital in Bangkok at the time of the official opening party, but it had been a wild success. Three times as many people than were invited turned up; the entire stretch of Street 240 was closed off, because of the dozens of parked hummers clogging the road. Anticipating more chocolate-covered diamonds, all of the officials had turned up, too early, like flies attracted to dung.
Phirun laughs out loud. It seemed that the last happy chocolates somehow ended up among the free handouts — which resulted in an unusually uplifted mood. Everybody was high, yet nobody really knew why. A couple of Canadian tourists paid $500 to a tuktuk driver, requesting he circle the Independence Monument for two hours — they were so transfixed by the incandescent water fountains surrounding the monument.
Nina had been scared that she’d have to close down or even be prosecuted, but quite to the contrary, the effect of the happy chocolates neutralised the officials’ initial disappointment. Instead, after stuffing themselves with the sweet treats, their newfound elation resulted in some unusual scenes. In one, five wives of highly placed officials vied for the amorous attention of a young bodyguard and ended up dancing naked on the roof of a hummer
in traditional Khmer Apsara style, encouraged by their cheering husbands. Since the local press was covering the event, the embarrassing moment threatened to prematurely end their potentially lucrative careers. Instead, the media were promptly ordered to destroy all evidence of the debauchery, and the entire incident was swept under the carpet, including the controversial ingredients of Nina’s chocolates.
There had also been a particularly large turnout of Dutch people among the crowd, no doubt attracted by the prospect of free handouts. One, a wealthy entrepreneur from Amsterdam, had been so impressed by the quality of Nina’s product that he proposed on the spot that she start a luxury chain of happy chocolate shops in his country. Space World will soon be opening its twelfth branch, he had recently heard.
***
Phirun parks his motorcycle inside the grounds of a large white building. He glances at his watch — just in time for the seminar. Where’s the Italian guy? he wonders. When he walks towards the entrance, a smiling man approaches him.
“Ciao Phirun! Good to see you again,” he says, firmly gripping his hand.
“Giorgio, there you are. Good to see you, too. How’s your stay been in Cambodia?”
“Wonderful!” he laughs. “Apart from the prahok, that is,” he adds sheepishly.
“What do you mean? I’m eating it at lunch, these days. I’m fully Cambodian now, remember?”
The man makes a face and slaps Phirun on the back. They enter a large room and take place at two of the last remaining back-row seats.
“Listen, I have some good news,” Giorgio says. “Our government has approved the funding for the Cultural Minority Enterprise Development project. It views your organisation’s work with the Cham minorities as exemplary, and wants to help promote it throughout the region.”
This is music to Phirun’s ears. Ever since recovering he had been dedicating all of his time to the promotion of ethnic and religious minorities in his country. He has set up his own nongovernmental organisation and established a special fund with it. It’s called ‘The Zaza-Coco Fund for Cultural, Ethnic & Religious Minority Development’, after Tzahala and Colonel Peeters. After they had departed the material world all those years ago, they had most generously — albeit utterly unwittingly — left him a small fortune in diamonds. The six parcels that he had distributed to the government officials had been worth only one-fifth of what The House had received from Tel Aviv. The rest had never been claimed back, naturally, and Nina and him had agreed to use it to kick-start his NGO.
Over the years Phirun’s NGO has slowly grown and achieved several notable successes. He had proposed regional expansion and now the Italian government approved financing for new projects abroad.
“That’s fantastic news Giorgio!”
“Yes, and that’s partly why I’m here; to talk to the seminar’s keynote speaker. It appears that she’s a real innovator. People say she’s had an incredible approach to engaging with the Cham. Apparently she’s from Cham descent herself, but grew up abroad — in Australia, if my memory serves me right.”
The screech of a badly adjusted microphone fills the room. The noise subsides while a technician fiddles with the volume, just in time for a Cambodian man to start his welcome speech. After customarily thanking the organisers, sponsors and participants, the man announces the keynote speaker. A short burst of polite applause follows.
“Mama mia! Look at her, what a lady!” Giorgio exclaims. “Wouldn’t you kill for a woman like that?”
“Who?”
“There, her,” he points at the stage.
“Oh, her. No, that’s my wife, she already killed for me.”
“Your wife!? Oops, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’ll introduce her to you when she’s finished.”
***
An hour later, Phirun, Farina and their Italian visitor are standing among the crowd, chatting and sipping their drinks. Phirun excitedly explains his plans to start up a project in Burma. After its disintegration, Burma’s military regime had left a dangerous legacy caused by its decades-long suppression of its own people. The notoriously unstable nation could easily explode with more ethnic tribal violence, he argues. While he extemporises on his vision for a better future, Farina’s phone rings. She excuses herself and walks out of the room into the quietness of the building’s back yard.
“Mr Lee, very honoured to hear from you.”
“Mrs Ahmad, the honour is mine. How are you?”
“I’m fine, only I’m suffering from having a little too much time on my hands. I was hoping you might be of help in that respect.”
Farina hears her interlocutor clear his throat.
“I might. My employer has one concern, though.”
“Yes?”
“Your husband.”
A short silence follows.
“Please assure your employer, Mr Lee, that I married my husband because he’s a naïve do-gooder whose NGO serves as the perfect cover for our little enterprise. I guarantee absolute discretion.”
This time the silence is longer. Farina waits patiently.
“Very well, then. The shipment will be leaving Antwerp tomorrow morning. Our suppliers in Africa are very excited about the Chinese market, especially since the price of diamonds is rising worldwide. They want to talk to you about larger volumes. What do I tell them?”
“Tell them, Mr Lee, that I’m ready for business.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Johan Smits started writing while working in a consultancy agency in London and eventually made a profession of it in Cambodia. He was lured to the Democratic Republic of Congo by his fiancée where he is currently writing his second book and looking for a decent barber. Phnom Penh Express is his first published effort.
