The Edge Of Darkness

7. On the Beach-2

barang“Howdy, Maupai.”

The new arrival pulled a sour face. He looked like a man who’d recently retired to a life of leisure and hadn’t yet worked out what to do with the free time at his disposal. He was about the same age as Les, in his mid-sixties, but he was a different type altogether. A man who’d probably spent his entire life in the same job and the same marriage. If such people could live here – the man wasn’t a tourist, he was wearing a worn but reasonably clean linen suit, a white shirt, the three top buttons undone – then Cambodia was on its way. But where to?

Maupai had thick grey hair that fell across his forehead in a lock that was too heavy for its own good. A gold chain hung around his neck. A French bank director perhaps, used to the good life, who had aspirations to be a mid-career Belmondo or late-career Cassel. More like Belmondo with a season ticket for the opera.

“My wife’s not well. And the doctors talk about the sea breeze.”

“Your wife’s not well, cause you’re always in a foul mood and because you screw the local girls.”

“A beer.”

Les shrugged. The Vietnamese woman handed the man a can of Angkor. My Country, My Beer, it said on the can. He looked across at Maier, lit an Alain Delon, Cambodia’s fanciest cigarette, and raised his can.

My Country, My Beer“Be careful if you’re considering buying land in Kep, monsieur. Many of the documents of the old properties which you will be shown are fakes.”

Maier tried his most respectable smile.

“Is real estate the only subject people talk about?”

The man nervously brushed his hair from his eyes and laughed defensively, “The only subject that is safe to speak with strangers about. Everything else our little community talks about is so evil, you won’t want to know.”

He put special emphasis into the evil, like a real estate salesman or a priest talking up an unspeakable product to keep consumers tied to their wares.

“Maier.”

The hand shake was slack. His English was perfect, but for the pronunciation. His voice was full of pride he took in his own importance.

“Henri Maupai, from Paris. I was regional director of Credit Nationale, but I got out of the rat-race early. Life is too short for working only, n’est-ce pas?”

Maier grinned at the Frenchman. That’s exactly what he looked like. Like a man who wanted to get something out of life, but had somehow missed the boat. Really a good-looking guy, but way too boxed in. Here, he could let go. Maier tried to imagine Madame Maupai.

“Well, you don’t look like much of a backpacker, Monsieur Maupai.”

“Ha,” the man laughed drily. “This Lonely Planet, the Guide de Routard, they should be banned. The people who travel with a book like that, they leave their brains at home. The little bastards come and destroy everything. They f**k on the beach and upset the locals. They drive their bikes too fast and sleep in the old villas, so they are not paying anyone anything. They hardly bring any money into the country anyhow and they bargain for every riel, and if the room price in the guidebook is lower than offered, they have a fit. This generation is a weird one, incomprehensible. And just think, we put them into the world. We gave them life, everything.”

His second swig finished the can and he waved at Les. The Vietnamese girl silently put another can on the bar. She smiled, but not at her customer. Maier didn’t like the man much. One couldn’t fall in love with every-one.

“I have retired here with my wife. I grew up in a France that no longer exists. My children left home. In my time, one might have bought a little holiday house or apartment in Provence, but these days, too many Arabs and Africans live there. They steal your car while you are sitting in it. The concept of the Grande Nation is dead, completely dead. There’s a McDonalds, Burger King or kebab on every street corner. If the Arabs don’t burn our cars, the Americans force their fast food down our throats.”

The second can was empty.

“Ca m’enerve. Compared to that, the Khmer are just great. Here the communists killed everyone who could think, but at least the Cambodians have respect, and they smile when I ask them something.”

Maier silently played with the bar mat and tried to look neutral.

“Maupai is our village racist. He doesn’t enjoy life,” Les offered.

“You just enjoy life because you f**k your little Vietnamese and take drugs all day.”

“You hit it on the head there, buddy,” Les chuckled, not trying very hard to diffuse the Frenchman’s aggression.

“Have another beer, Maupai, and enjoy the unique ambience of the Last Filling Station. Soon you’re gonna die from misery.”

“Enjoy, enjoy, you’re just running away from something. One day Kep will be returned to its former glory and guys like you will be thrown out. Kep will bloom, I tell you. Just like it did fifty years ago. A little island of civilization in this tired country. Imagine if we had kept l’Indochine. There would be hospitals, schools, roads, electricity and good coffee.”

Les sighed and turned to Maier, “People travel around half the world because they don’t like their own country and then they complain about how things are done in their adopted home.”

Maier was content everywhere. Maier never spent enough time anywhere to get bored. But the Frenchman was drunk and wouldn’t let go.

“That’s all just talk. You know as well as I do, how mad and murderous the Khmer really are. How can one be happy in a country like Cambodge, a land with so much sorrow? Look at what happened to Monsieur Rolf. A pleasant countryman of yours by the way, Monsieur Maier. A young man from a good family, that much was immediately clear. He came with great ideas and ideals. He wanted to help. And look what happened. And then take a good long look in the mirror.”

“One day I’ll bar you from the premises, Maupai, because you have a big mouth. You can go sit on the beach, converse with the dogs and get eaten by crabs.”

The retired bank director laughed loudly, his bitterness gurgling in his throat like long suppressed bile, “By then there will be a bistro and a wine bar here and only the rats will visit you. Until that time, you need my money. See you tomorrow. Salut.”

Maupai slammed a handful of dollar notes onto the bar and walked out into the sun. Les shrugged while the Vietnamese gathered up the money. ZZ Top played from the speakers overhead.

“Don’t ask me about the young German straight away, otherwise I might really think you’re a snoop, buddy.”

Maier also paid. There was no sense in putting a man like Les under pressure during a first meeting. The conversation would continue another time.

“Nice to meet you, Les Leroux. I will be in the area for a while, so I will drop by again. Great bar.”

“You alright, Maier, ain’t you?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then take care. And don’t believe everything you hear. Kep is a small place. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone thinks they know everything there is to know about everyone else. Almost everything. It’s wonderful, really.”