Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

Camus in his bag. The old friends had endured enough government propaganda sessions to know a prepared script when they heard one. The guide was on ‘play’ and they wouldn’t get in a word until he reached the end of the reel.
    “…laid out in our four-year agricultural template for the future, drafted in 1976, collectives will be the key to unlocking the door to independence and prosperity. We have almost tripled our rice yield and in five to ten years we anticipate that eighty per cent of farms will be mechanised. In fifteen years we should have established a base for industry. We currently have…”
    “Any idea how far the airport is from the city?” Civilai asked Siri.
    If the guide was upset by the interruption he didn’t show it.
    “…of our new National Technical college which already has three-hundred students and will…”
    “No more than twenty minutes, according to the map,” Siri replied.
    “Could be one of those Einstein twenty minutes,” Civilai sighed.
    It was only the sight of one or two large buildings showing off with actual electricity that signalled their arrival in Phnom Penh. Most of the city was black blocks and empty unlit streets. There were no other car headlights to guide them. At last, the large wooden sign, HOTEL LE PHNOM was exposed in the full beam. Half hidden beneath untrimmed trees, it seemed to issue a plaintive plea for help rather than a welcome. Siri recalled the hotel from his previous visit. It had been a gay, noisy place then, with elegant French high-socialites taking cocktails around the pool. Fawning French-speaking servants in starched white uniforms running back and forth with trays. Floodlights flaunting the new white paint of the façade and highlighting the greens of the tropical garden. Two uniformed guards in white caps had stood guard at the front barrier to keep out riff-raff. Siri and Boua hadn’t been allowed inside. After speaking to them rudely in Khmer, the prim bouncers had asked in French;
    “Are you guests?”
    “Mais, oui,” Siri had lied.
    “Show me your receipt.”
    “It’s in our suite. My personal French secretary has it in her purse.”
    The guards had eyed their peasant clothes, their sandals and their cloth shoulder bags and laughed at them. They’d laughed right in their faces and pointed to the street. Phnom Penh had been a city back then in which natives were not welcome. The Khmer made up ninety-three per cent of the population but the Chinese had all the money and the Europeans handled the culture. The Khmers cooked and cleaned and begged and threw scum out of luxury hotels. Such was their lot.
    The floodlights were gone now, the grounds overgrown. Only one or two lights glowing from rooms here and there gave any suggestion of the size of what the guide told them was no longer Hotel Le Phnom, but House Number Two. They pulled up in front of the large entrance but nobody came running down the steps to open the door for them. The driver switched off the engine but the guide was still running.
    “…that worklessness no longer exists in Democratic Kampuchea. All our citizens work with vigour to the hours of the sun. There is no longer salaried employment and our Khmer brothers and sisters voted unanimously that we should do away with money. We use a system of…”
    “You don’t have money?” Civilai asked.
    “We are a…”
    “So we can’t give him a tip,” Siri lamented, climbing out of the car. “Too bad because he’s been so helpful and informative.”
    The guide continued to drone on in the background.
    “Then we’ll show our gratitude in some other way,” Civilai decided. “We’ll tell his president what a good guide he is.”
    The guide stopped.
    “We don’t have a president,” he said.
    “No? What do you have?”
    “We have Brother Number One.”
    “Is that so?” Siri asked. “And does Brother Number One live in House Number Two?”
    “No. He lives in House Number Three.”
    “I might have known. Then it is Brother Number One whom we shall inform of your diligence.”
    “It is my pleasure to serve Angkar,” the boy said.
    “I bet it is.”
    The car pulled away and there was faint but undeniable pride on the face of the guide as he peered from the rear window. But it quickly became clear they shouldn’t have dispatched their interpreter so soon. From that moment on they could communicate with nobody. The hotel staff, or at least the figures standing in strategic positions around the