Cambodian Book of the Dead (12 page)

Maier felt sick. But only a little.

“And what does Tep have to do with the execution of that young man, Sambat?”

“You will find out, Maier, of that I have no doubt.”

 

MOSQUITO

 

Maier was getting drunk. That seemed to be the best strategy in Kep. He needed a break. The case needed air. The Russian on the mountain had made him suspicious. Something didn't fit the program. Maier wasn't even sure whether the man was really Russian or truly gay. It could all be an elaborate act. Despite his doubts, or perhaps because of them, he liked Mikhail.

Back on the beach, his fifth vodka orange done with, he'd asked Les to show him to a hammock. Now he hung in an alcohol bubble between two posts under a straw shade on the flat roof of the Last Filling Station and listened to the surf, drifting off. The crab boats slowly moved up and down the coast. He could hear them putter back and forth, but he was too lazy to lift his head and look out across the sea. The surf made him sleepy. Soon the mosquitoes would come and eat him.

Rolf, the good-looking and self-confident coffee heir, a man who had everything going for him in life, was trapped in a web of trouble that Maier couldn't decode. Not yet. The detective was sure that his young compatriot wanted to get out. As soon as Maier could make a more informed judgment on Rolf's entanglement, he would provoke a situation, which would present Müller-Overbeck with an opportunity to slip away. If the younger man did not take him up on his offer, he would report to his mother, the Hamburg ice queen. He wasn't here to solve local mafia crimes. Still, the girl, Kaley, wouldn't leave his increasingly cloudy thoughts. In his drink-addled mind, Maier laid out everything he knew about her – her story, her smell, her weightlessness, her hips, the promise he had given and the moment in the ballroom of the casino. Then he left them right there, laid out, and dozed off, dark thoughts on his mind.

 

“Yeah, yeah, mate, you have no choice. But the apple is not nearly as sour as you make it out to be.”

The scratchy voice of Pete the Englishman woke Maier.

“I didn't come here to invest in some crazy esoteric scheme with the entire expatriate community. Our business is doing well, better than it did when you ran it by yourself. Without me, you'd still be saving for the next set of equipment.”

The two owners of Reef Pirate Divers sat directly beneath the entrance to the Last Filling Station, and therefore directly beneath Maier. The sunset melted in epic brushstrokes across the evening sky and the mosquitoes were getting ready to attack. Maier did not dare to move for fear of being discovered. Defenceless, he let the insects descend.

“Let's pull in your countryman first. He looks like he's got money. But he's not stupid. We just have to find his weak point.”

“It's bad enough I am involved in all this shit.”

The Brit laughed venomously. “It says in our contract that I have the right to sell Reef Pirate Divers. But I have no intention of pulling you across the table. We sell the shop, invest in the casino or the golf course, or the dinosaur park, if you like. You know, there are at least two guys in Phnom Penh who want to buy the dive shop; two guys who have the necessary cash.”

“I don't want any more deals with Tep. He is dangerous. He probably killed Sambat.”

The two men fell silent. Only the buzzing of thousands of insects was audible.

Pete began to talk at Rolf once again.

“You can't prove that. And anyway, we are in Cambodia. This is not our country. We are guests here. All we can do is adapt to local circumstances, invest our money wisely and hope that the locals will also profit. Not just Tep, but hundreds, perhaps thousands of workers he will have to hire.”

“You know that more people will die. Sambat was just the beginning. I don't understand why Tep would get rid of a guy who has nothing to do with Bokor in such a cruel and crazy way. Sambat worked with orphans.”

Pete did not answer.

“I've had enough. I want to get out and I will take Kaley with me.”

The Englishman hissed back angrily, “Then you lose all your dough, mate. And you know that you can't take her out of here. Kaley belongs to Kep. You're not the only one she's connected to. It's ridiculous that she's living with you, mate. Kaley belongs to all of us. I told you that the day after the accident. If you're sleeping with her, you know the score. She just lies there like a wooden board.” Pete coughed and lit a cigarette. “So here's some advice. It fucking rained.”

“You're a bastard.”

“Rolf, there's so much money in all this. The entire business community of Kep will participate in the rebuilding of the casino. And everyone here knows about Kaley. Even Kaley believes that she is the reincarnation of the Kangaok Meas. That's the reason you could hush up the accident. Otherwise you'd be in jail or on the run. And I don't think she'd even go with you. Most importantly, Tep is also convinced she's the Kangaok Meas, otherwise he would have killed her a long time ago.”

Maier had an overwhelming urge to scratch himself.

Rolf had got to his feet below him.

“Faith is just something we hang on to, despite the fact that we know it's an illusion. I believe in the Kangaok Meas. Kaley is like a golden peacock. But there has to be a way to free a person from this ridiculous superstition, this darkness of tradition. And from Tep. The old man is not a ghost, but an ex-general who has lost his moral compass and dreams of the times when he could go round bashing people's heads in with a hammer.”

“Well, wish me a quick death, Rolf, if you believe in all this esoteric mumbo-jumbo.”

 

RAIN

 

“I need something against insect bites. Vodka orange, please.”

The Vietnamese girl silently served Maier his drink.

Les rolled the next joint, quickly and with four fingers.

“I'm surprised you lasted as long up there.”

“I fell asleep. I started drinking too early today.”

“That happens.”

“Normally it happens to other people.”

The American laughed, “I fell asleep on the roof last year, buddy. Just like you. I got dengue fever. It shook me three weeks straight. Without my girl, I wouldn't have made it. Besides the girl, there's no cure for it. That's why the Brits call it break-bone fever.”

“Black Dog” blasted from the speakers. Maier didn't really like rock music, but the sounds suited the Last Filling Station. Anything was better than disco. And Les was a nice guy. But it was time to get answers and nice people were always the first toehold in the answer game.

“Did it rain after you slept with Kaley, Les?”

For a moment the American didn't say anything at all. Maier began to worry that he'd overstretched his direct approach. Les probably had a gun or a club under his counter.

“Yes.”

The owner of the Last Filling Station looked anything but happy after spilling his confession.

“Tell me the story, Les.”

“It's a long story and you don't want to hear it, Maier. Not if you plan to invest around here.”

“I am not going to invest in Kep, Les.”

The old war vet growled.

“So what the hell are you doing here?”

“I am a private detective. I am trying to solve a case involving a German client. In order to get closer to solving it, I need to know about the accident and I need to know the story of the rain. You are the only person in Kep I can ask. You are involved in all this here, just like everyone else, and you are also the one who has the least to lose if the community ever goes pop. And that is very likely, and very soon too.”

“Might be your head that goes pop, Maier.”

“Les, the first time I came into your bar, you could see I was not just another hapless westerner about to drop a million into a hole in Southeast Asia. And you asked me whether I was OK. I mean, what a question to ask.”

“Maier, I got nothing against you, buddy. But you got no idea what kind of a swamp you are sliding into here. The people in Kep are cursed – the Khmer, the Vietnamese and the
barang
. All of them. It don't matter what you are looking for here, all you'll find is Cambodian curse.”

“And you don't find that scary, Les?”

The American brushed his thumbless hand across the faded tattoos on his left arm.

“I have seen whole valleys go up in flames, turned to steam by the payloads of B-52s. For my country, I poured napalm over children and I pushed men out of helicopters. In Khe Shan, we were attacked by Vietcong who had loaded syringes taped to their arms, syringes filled with heroin. Every time I walked out of the compound after a battle and found a dead soldier, I had myself a shot. It was always Grade A quality. The war made me both killer and victim. I saw ghosts. Before death stalks the paddies, a young woman appears. Everyone, every child, who's served at the front will tell you this. I see the same ghosts and accept the same laws of nature that people here have faith in. Kep's my final destination – as the name of my modest establishment should tell to you.”

Maier looked Les straight in the eyes. “Then you lose nothing if you tell me what is going on here.”

Les looked uncertain and began to roll another joint.

“What kind of music do you listen to, Maier?”

The detective shrugged in his vest.

“You have found my weak point, Les.”

“People who don't like music are strange, Maier. What did you do in your last life?”

“As I told you, I was a journalist, first in East Germany, then, after the fall of the Wall, in West Germany.”

The American's eyes widened with surprise. “You're a commie?”

Maier laughed and tried to steer the conversation into more profitable waters.

“I was a journalist for six years in communist Germany. I was born there and grew up there. I was a war correspondent working for an agency in the reunited Germany for eight years. I have seen a few ghosts too, in my time.”

The American digested the news and changed the subject. “Kaley was married to Tep's oldest son. He was a real piece of work, worse than the second son, whom you know from the Heart. This guy, Hen, he was a cop in Kep. He stole from tourists and set a small bungalow operation on fire that wouldn't pay him his bribes. He also had something to do with the bomb at the hotel in Sihanoukville which killed a foreigner. He opened a small brothel behind the Angkor Hotel and brought some girls in from Saigon. Kaley had Hen's child eight years ago, a daughter. A beautiful girl called Poch. Hen used to beat Kaley. At that time there weren't that many foreigners in town. But we all knew what was going on. Kaley was the most beautiful woman in Kep. She still is today, but then, she looked totally irresistible. It hurt to watch her being mistreated. But no one did a thing. Perhaps we were all sadistic swine, because we could not have her for ourselves. Of course, the entire expatriate community was scared of Hen and his father. Two years ago, Poch borrowed a hammer from the neighbours and beat her father to death in his sleep. Shortly after, Kaley and the kid stood in front of my door. What could I do? I took them both in. I slept with her and it rained. A few days later, she went back to Tep.”

Les sighed. His eyes had glazed over with sadness and loss.

“Tep took his revenge. He installed Kaley in the brothel and invited the men from the plantations. It always rained afterwards and local people believe that anyone who sleeps with Kaley is cursed and will die a violent death.”

“What do you think?” Maier asked and lifted his empty glass.

Moments later, an ice-cold vodka orange stood in front of him. Drinking was part of the job – Maier repeated this troubling thought like a mantra and held on to the bar.

“I don't think I got much time left. That's why I didn't throw you out.”

“And what happened to the daughter?”

Les held up his hands in defence. “You will have to ask Rolf that. And now go home; I've had enough of you.”

Maier left some dollar bills on the counter and drifted into the night. He'd not been this smashed in a long time.

 

ENLIGHTENMENT

 

Though Maier had spent years in Southeast Asia, he'd mostly stayed away from the taxi girls. He wasn't averse to the looks of Asian women, and he'd communed with a few. But for Maier, sex had to be an explosive exchange, a kind of celebration of body and soul. If the woman wasn't hot for it, then neither was Maier.

Taxi girls weren't hot for it. At least not hot for sex.

And when the occasional hotel receptionist or flight attendant had sought to slip between Maier's sheets, usually she had done so in the hope of being able to hang on to him. Sex was weapon and tool in Asia, especially as long as so many women couldn't emancipate themselves. Equality for women in Asia was a future as desirable as it seemed utopian to Maier. How often had he looked at a Cambodian woman's behind and then taken the young lady from Bremen or Santa Barbara who'd been drinking at the next table home with him? As a war correspondent he'd never had to worry about finding partners for the long nights on the frontlines of the world. A pretty and lonely NGO worker or reporter could be found even in the world's darkest recesses. For a private eye, having a love life was more complicated. Maier rarely told people the truth about what he did. But at the age of forty-five, his remarkable eyes had never let him down yet. Eyes like magical flashbulbs.

Lying in Maier's hotel room, Carissa slowly turned in bed so he could admire her in his own time. Her hips gleamed with sweat and Maier watched a large drop of moisture slide down a smooth thigh, before it was trapped in the hollow of her knee.

“You should meet Raksmei, Sambat's sister. She's no shrimp. Half
barang
and half Khmer, a ravishing-looking woman. If you ever look into her eyes properly, you'll never share a bed with me again. That said, she's too young for you.”

Sex and death stuck close to one another. The little death and the big death. Carissa had heard of the underwater execution and travelled down from the capital in search of the story.

“The NGO is called Hope-Child and Raksmei founded the orphanage and pulled in the foreign donors. Her brother Sambat used to help her, but for the past year, he has been hunting down paedophiles and kidnapping their victims right from under their noses. You know, some of these sex tourists that come here – as well as many well-connected locals – are after kids. Sambat had very good connections in the media who protected him. Even had a couple of Swiss guys busted, with the help of journalists. They had this mutually beneficial relationship and as he was half-
barang
, he thought he'd be reasonably safe. Raksmei thinks that his murder has something to do with Bokor.”

Maier slowly slid his hand down Carissa's spine. Despite the conversation, he found it hard to keep his fingers off her. He liked this woman more than he remembered.

“Why are these two young Khmer so active? You definitely need protection if you are going to kidnap trafficked children from their captors. This sounds so incredible.”

“Raksmei and Sambat are orphans. No one knows anything about their parents. That means that the most beautiful woman in Cambodia is alone right now, drowning in sorrow, vulnerable. Why don't you go and see her? She might help you with your case. As you won't let me help you…”

“You can help me any which way you want, Carissa. I am powerless. And I like older women.”
The Kiwi journalist pushed a few stray white hairs from her face and laughed.

“When I first met Raksmei, she thought I was an old woman. In Cambodia, only old women have white hair. In her eyes I must have looked sixty.”

“You'd pass for fifty any time.”

The kick in the ribs hurt.

“Maier, you are a low-down chauvinist.”

“Let's celebrate that.”

“Help me with my story. You know much more than I do about what's going on here. What's happening up there at the casino?”

Maier held his aching side and contemplated into which cheek of her delectable arse he would sink his fingers and twist. Then he shrugged and feigned innocence.

“I have no idea what is going on at the casino. I was in Bokor but not in the casino. I fell off my bike and broke my head open, as you can see.”

Carissa carefully pulled a lock of hair away from his ear.

“I can see a man who got whacked over the head with a blunt object and won't admit it. Maier, you're a right bastard. You pump me all the time and give nothing back.”

“I like pumping you, Carissa.”

“Until your case is solved, then you run off and work some other exotic locale where you'll also pump a journalist or an NGO secretary who is so lonely that she will go to bed with a down-at-heel private eye and think it's romantic.”

Maier had nothing to say. She was right, he also knew women in Kathmandu, Bangkok and Singapore. Women with whom he'd almost stayed. And now, in his room at the Angkor Hotel, with his old flame in his arms, he could imagine staying with her. It
was
all pretty romantic.

“Can you imagine me moving back to Phnom Penh? What would I do? Prove that half the older men in town have committed crimes against humanity?”

Carissa sighed, “No, of course not. We're both used to our freedoms. And after forty, people rarely change. But I have another seven years to go before I am forty, Maier. You're too old for me. Your life has already run its course. Mine is almost still ahead of me.”

Maier had only recently started thinking about his age. He had got as far as deciding to avoid wars for the rest of his life. He had decided that he wanted to grow old. But a relationship, or a family, the concept of permanent cohabitation in compromise lay a long way off. Still, he felt hurt by Carissa's sarcasm.

“Don't be macho now and don't start feeling sorry for yourself. You're great in bed and I have to be careful, otherwise I'll fall in love with you a second time. You're a strange man. Just looking into those eyes of yours, which never rest until they see something pleasant or foul, makes me dizzy. But then they move off somewhere else. You're an obsessive. You're like a child in a toy shop, blown away by all that's on display and you go all the way to get it. Life just offers too much to a man like you. And that's why you're so lonely, Maier.”

She crawled into his arms. He did not have to look at her to know she smiled sadly.

“There's a Chinese curse…”

“Yeah, Maier, with which you tried to impress me years ago. ‘May we live in interesting times.' You're cursed, lover. All that time ago, it was just your way to pull me in, now it's the truth.”

A few minutes later, they'd reached another place, free from the tired obligations of verbal communication.