Lawrence Osborne - Hunters in the Dark

“Just follow me,” he called out.

—

Robert nodded and walked back to the car and got in the back. The night suddenly felt a little hotter and he rolled down the window despite the air-conditioning. There was a scent of burning rubber coming from somewhere and of singed hay. The Milky Way had appeared and yet there was still a cloying rain in the air, a claustrophobia of monsoon.

“We’ll go for a drink at this Angkor Town and it’ll be OK,” he said to Ouksa. “It won’t take more than an hour or so.”

The driver said nothing, merely caught his eyes in the mirror. He was not happy about it but he would not say why. There was something tough and unspeakable in the air.

Perhaps he didn’t like being out in the fields at night. One never knew. He didn’t trust what he found on those roads where ghosts roamed. They set off anyway and they followed the taillight of the bike. Soon they were passing through more of the lifeless fields and the lines of tall sugar palms that made the sky seem even larger than it was and the wind rushed against his face. He had noticed that at night a ghostly music floated across those same fields, a music of roneat, bamboo xylophones, and pai au, flutes, as if being played by men wandering through the fields blind. Of course, the farmers had radios. Within ten minutes the river had come into view, mostly dark but with a few lights strung along it. It was the outskirts of town, the same road that led straight to the French buildings on Street 1. He didn’t know where exactly but he didn’t care, it was just the same river and a river was a welcome thing in that flat, disorienting land. The suffocation lifted and one felt, paradoxically, the intimate immensity of the land again. The air changed and a voice inside Robert said “Yes” and he licked his lips and he saw the houses on stilts on the far side and felt glad to be down by the water at last. The road had many small houses with gardens on the water and a temple called Wat Kor.

Angkor Town was the only bar on this stretch, a large red Angkor beer sign — as always — hung above its gates. A narrow courtyard led down to the deck over the river. It was a Khmer place through and through, almost boisterous but never quite reaching that critical point. Red tables and red plastic chairs, jungle foliage right at the elbows of drinkers on the deck. Rows of small Angkor flags hung from the rafters and posters for Freshy orange juice. There were longtails hauled up into the reeds, red blossoms arching down to the water.

Beaucamp waited for them, with the bike tilted in the courtyard, and when they came up he pointed at the red sign above the roof and for some reason made a face.

They went out onto the deck.

The waters glided past like black oil, momentarily lit by fusty lamps with their color of honeycombs. On the far bank the massive trees looked like the columns of some destroyed Babylonian palace which even centuries of violent rain could not wear down.

“This is my spot,” Beaucamp said, the place where he passed his evenings reading novels. “It’s a fine spot, too.”

The barman did not move from the bar, but called out Simon’s name and waved a pair of ice tongs. Then he came over with a bottle of Royal Stag and a bucket of hacked ice and they laid out their tumblers and filled them with the ice. Ouksa finally relaxed a little and the smell of the opened bottle chased off his superstitious timidity. When the glasses clacked some of the fear seemed to go out of his eyes and he swigged back the Royal Stag with a relish that was clearly customary. The suave American spoke fluent Khmer to him, a language he seemed to speak as easily as he did English. It must have taken years to master. He said his house was a little way upriver, a place he had built himself after buying the land from a policeman.

“So you’re passing through our little town,” he said to Robert. “Not that many people come through here. You came over the border at Pailin?”

“I took a taxi from Bangkok.”

“It’s a cheap way to come. I like that trip myself. See the casinos?”

“I played.”

“That’s what my friend said.”

Robert cocked his head, and he felt a small disbelief.

“Everyone seems to know—”

“It’s a small world up here. A barang wins two grand at the Diamond, everyone knows. That’s the way it is.”

Beaucamp crossed his legs and laughed.

“Like our Ouksa knew too, I’m sure. Yeah, everyone knows those things.”

“I got lucky for a night.”

“Everyone gets lucky for a night. You’re not here for the casinos though.”

“As a matter of fact, no. I’m not here for anything.”

“When I first came here years ago I didn’t know why I came either. Then I ended up never going back. Don’t ask me why. You could get a house back then for about ten grand, which is what I paid to build it. Got real teak from the Cardamom Mountains too. Can’t get that now.”

“Like you say, it’s a sweet spot. I can see that.”

“It is and it isn’t. It’s a tough spot too. I like it. Not everyone likes it. Seems like you’re undecided.”

“I don’t know,” Robert said, “I only just got here.”

“So you did. How do you like our Indian whisky? It’s better than the Thai one, I think.”

“It’s great.”

“You can drink it all day and not get a headache. One day I’ll give you some Golden Muscle wine. The local stuff. It’s made from deer antlers.”

Simon switched to Khmer.

“Did you give him a fair price, brother?”

“Sure I did,” Ouksa said. “Same price as everyone else.”

“Every other barang, you mean.”

Ouksa shrugged. “Every other barang, sure.”

“Why don’t you drive back to the hotel and get his stuff and bring it back here? I’ve decided to ask him to stay tonight with me. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t forget anything in the room. It’s paid in advance, I think.”

Ouksa put down his drink and Simon explained to Robert in English.

“At your place?” Robert said.

“Why not? The Alpha is a fleapit. It used to be called the Teo and it was a fleapit then too. You’ll like my place much better, believe me. We can play chess. Do you like chess?”

Robert shrugged. “I do, sometimes.”

“Splendid. Then we can play chess.” Simon’s eyes began to shine with mocking humor. Did he really enjoy these sorts of games? “I haven’t played in months. I can’t find anyone here to play against. You’d be doing me an enormous favor actually.”

But the favor was also the other way around.

Within a few minutes, in fact, Robert had begun to feel curiously attracted to Simon. It was not a sexual attraction, but it was certainly physical. The American’s body was relaxed and affable and confident. His elegance was simple, unaffected. It suggested a man who didn’t care what judgments he was subjected to because they couldn’t possibly be all that bad. And usually they would be flattering. It was Robert who was confused and a little blinded, and both of them knew it. Simon had acquired a fluent familiarity with his surroundings. He obviously spoke the language perfectly, and it was not by any means an easy language. At first Robert had wondered if Simon was gay and the purpose of the game all too easy to understand. But gradually his instinct told him that this was not the case; he might be bisexual, but either way the game was not sexual. It was about something else. Perhaps Simon was bored on his luscious river and he needed something, or someone, to manipulate.

Ouksa finished off his drink and stood up.

“Drive straight back here,” Simon said in Khmer. “I don’t want to go looking for you.”