Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater Page B

that’s haunted, the Bokor Casino is it. As I said, built by the French as a pleasure palace in the Twenties and full of ghosts, just crammed with em, like no Hollywood haunted house ever could be. The area around it is a national park.”
    Maupai suddenly stood next to Maier. “And today it is all fucked. Ca m’enerve . Bokor was a French institution and one of the most exclusive hotels in l’Indochine. Guests came from all over the world to lose their money in Le Bokor Palace.”
He leaned past his wife towards Maier. “If Kep-sur-Mer was once the Côte d’Azur of Asia, then Bokor was the Monte Carlo of Indochina.”
    The Frenchman’s eyes had glazed over, he was badly drunk.
    â€œBelieve me, M Maier. Bokor is a monument to our greatest days. And perhaps to Cambodia’s greatest days too.”
    â€œChérie, please sit down with Hervé and Celine, otherwise they will think that we don’t want them here. They came all the way from Paris.”
    Madame Maupai did look poorly. She was about ten years younger than her husband and might once have been a great beauty. Now she was in her mid-fifties and she’d probably bought her skin-tight dress in a children’s clothes store in Paris. The high heels didn’t help, as she had the legs of a stork. Her face was deeply lined, the march of time barely disguised by a thick coat of make-up underneath which she sweated. Her eyes lay deep in dark caverns beneath darker brows and she wore her hair short. Her illness had progressed so far that the attempts to hide it were pathetic. Despite all this, she exuded more dignity than her husband.
    Maupai gestured impatiently.
    â€œLet me drink my beer in peace, Joséphine. You hassle like a bloody Arab.”
    Madame was obviously used to the tone and, without another word, she returned to the table of their friends.
    â€œEverything is broken. C’est comme ça ,” Maupai groaned, without turning around.
    The silent Vietnamese girl pushed two cans of beer across the counter at him. Maier waved briefly to the young woman. A few seconds later he had another vodka orange in his hand.
    Rolf did not look as if he wanted to talk to the Frenchman and turned his back on him.
    â€œMaier. Let’s drive up to Bokor tomorrow. Great place. Change of scene. My customers from Frankfurt have left for Kampot. After our experience yesterday, they aren’t going to dive in Cambodia. I could do with a break from the business; working is hard work. And I have to go visit Mikhail.”
    â€œMikhail?”
    â€œMikhail. Mikhail is a true original, an exceptional guy and a free spirit. A Russian who has been doing guided tours through Bokor Casino for the past weeks. Nothing official, but I’d like to offer his service to my clients, as long as there’s no development up there. That man is an enigma. Never answers a question directly. Knows more about Kep than all of us put together, even though he has only been here once, and very briefly. But he tells a good story. He’s an interesting guy. Sits in the clouds and drinks with the park rangers. And no one knows whether he’s a real Russian. He does seem Russian though. He drinks like a Russian.”
    Maier drifted away, wondering about what abductions of children might have to do with his case. He was missing far too many pieces to form any assumptions. And Maupai didn’t like being ignored.
    â€œYou probably want a break from your luxury slut? Isn’t that a bit of an extreme swing, from Kaley to the homo Russian on the hill?”
    Rolf suddenly looked stone cold sober.
    â€œWaiting for the Man” by the Velvet Underground came to an end and for a second one could have heard a pin drop in the Last Filling Station.
    â€œMaupai, you’re a drunken asshole, a real pig. My ‘luxury slut’ told me that a guy like you would never get near her, not even for a thousand dollars. So shut up,