So am I, said the journalist, kissing the hole on another can of Tiger beer. You see, Monsieur, I married a flower in Phnom Penh.
A flower — in Phnom Penh! Hee, hee, hee!
The journalist did not want a Battambang flower. He wanted Vanna. But he did not want to disappoint or humiliate the hostess. And he did not want to make the Cambodian officials think less of him. It seemed so important to them. .
The woman smiled at him shyly. He smiled back. He could think of nothing to say to her. He was exhausted.
Tell her I'm in the KGB, he said. Tell her I want to take her to Russia with me. My name is Communist Number One.
She says, she don't want to go with Russian. She afraid. She go your friend.
So the photographer got two girls that night. The journalist was relieved. He yawned and blew his nose. The Chief of Protocol was very sorry for him. It all worked out welclass="underline" the journalist with a good night's sleep, the driver and interpreter well amused, the photographer with his girls grinning vanilla-teethed, nodding on his shoulder, the Chief of Protocol grinning hilariously in the dark doorway behind. .
Riding atop the jolting Soviet tank in the rain, he saluted the staring or laughing girls, kissing his hand to them, waving to the kids, the old men and ladies, tossing ten-riel notes down into the road like bonbons (the photographer and the driver did the same; the driver was dressed in a black uniform today, and wore his Russian pistol especially for the occasion); and the interpreter and the Chief of Protocol and the soldiers with their upraised machine guns watched the journalist, grinning, and the journalist saluted for hours as they rolled back in from the tame battlefield. He was utterly and completely happy. In Cambodia he could never disappear; now at least when people gawked at him they saw someone comic and grand, a man with a private army who gave them money; he felt like God — a loving God, moreover; he loved everyone he saluted; he wanted to love the whole world, which (it now seemed to him) was all he'd ever wanted when he had whores; his balls still felt funny; all he wanted to do with people was hug them and kiss them and give them money. His forehead glowing with sunburn and three beers, he sat against the spare tire, blessing everyone like the Pope, nodding to his elders, wishing that his lordliness would never end. Most of the time they waved back. Girls on bicycles giggled to each other. Children saluted back with slow smiles. Skinny white-grinning men waved back. These gratifying demonstrations almost balanced those other stares they'd given him and Vanna… He ached to hold her. Since he was drunk and only a flightless butterfly, he squeezed the spare tire instead.
The Hotel Victoire, which just after the liberation they used to call the Hotel Lavatoire, was a very good hotel, possibly the world's best. It had running water, electricity, air conditioning, a toilet and screen windows. No matter that none of these worked. Sleeping there was like sleeping in a sweltering locker room. It cost two thousand a night for the photographer's and the journalist's room, and five hundred for the driver's and the interpreter's room. This infuriated the photographer, but the journalist said: Look on the bright side. We're paying for everything. At least we don't have to pay twenty bucks a night for their room, too. - He went up to the room, and the interpreter told him that it was his turn to get a girl that night.
I only want to salute her, he said.
Excuse me? said the interpreter.
OK, I'll make her happy, he sighed.
His fever was getting worse. Even his lips felt sunburned. He picked a cunt-hair out of the K-Y jelly and slathered some on his forehead. .
He went for a walk in the rain to cool down; everyone laughed at him. After awhile he came back drenched, and a dirty gentle little boy came into the lobby (which was otherwise utterly empty) to slap palms with him and smile. The journalist had a nasty cough from Vanna. - Every time you get a new whore, you get a new disease! growled the photographer, shaking his head. - The boy stood very sincerely wiggling the sheets of glass that lay evenly spaced upon the long white-clothed table that no one used, and the boy hummed to himself and said unknown words, yawning and smiling and stretching his neck; he sat down in an adjoining chair, and when the journalist winked at him the boy winked back, singing and holding his knees. Outside the big fancy windows it was grey and dripping and peaceful. The palm-trees seemed to stretch, drinking in cool mist. - He went out again and saluted a line of white cows running in the rain, necks down, halters dragging, ears flapping; somehow it wasn't the same. .
So are you going to do one or not? the photographer wanted to know.
Not me. No whores for me. I'm going to wait for Vanna.
Oh, Jesus, said the photographer, covering his face in disgust.
Besides, my balls ache.
All right, all right.
So, said the journalist, the long and the short of it is: maybe. After all, I'll never see Vanna again. .
At these cheerful tidings the photographer brightened markedly. He came out from under the sheet, killed two mosquitoes, played with his flash, and initiated a fabulous conversation on a subject which they had never before discussed: namely, whores. For hours the two of them discussed whose cunts had been tightest, what the differences were between Thai and Cambodian women, how many times the photographer or the journalist had been so low, cowardly, perverted and immoral as to use a rubber, and so they whiled away the suffocating hours until it was time to pick up the Chief of Protocol and head for the Blue River restaurant. .
Ask this sixteen-year-old if she wants to marry me, said the photographer, with a mirthful glance at the journalist.
She says, she will bear you children, cook for you, do dishes, but she cannot marry you because she is too far beneath you.
The photographer shrugged. - Tell her she is prettier than a flower.
She says, a flower that is smelled too many times begins to wilt.
Interesting that the photographer, who wanted to break as many hearts as possible, and the journalist, who wanted to make as many happy as possible, accomplished the same results. .! Does that prove that the journalist was lying to himself?
A sweet fat girl in yellow silk pajamas was already sitting next to him, cutting up his food. Her flesh had the odor which fat girls sometimes have; he'd always found it pleasant. If it weren't that such tidings would further complicate this already intricate tale of betrayed commitments, I'd tell you that he once almost married a fat girl. .!
I don't want her to get sick from me, he said. That would be too cruel.
But no, it is nothing! cried the interpreter. It is her duty, her occupation!
Tell her I'll be blowing my nose all night. Tell her I have so much nasal mucus I hope she knows how to swim.
The interpreter only laughed. The Chief of Protocol winked -
Tell her it's up to her. Tell her I'll pay her regardless, but she doesn't have to come with me. It won't hurt my feelings. .
She says she don't mind about that. She says please don't worry. She want to come with you.
Please believe me when I say that he did not want to be unfaithful to Vanna this time, that he took her to the Hotel Victory for the same reason that he bought other girls drinks: when anyone asked him for something, he hated to cause disappointment. I honestly think that the journalist was fundamentally good. I believe that the photographer was fundamentally good. Even Pol Pot must have meant well.