second sigh and the Tournedos Rossini arrived, the foie gras laid carefully on their surfaces. It was
service au guéridon,
the steaks prepared tableside.
“Then her chances for happiness will increase?” Robert said to himself.
“Wrong wine for steak,” Sar laughed, “but I don’t care. Do you care, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“I don’t care, no.”
“Then we don’t care. If we don’t care, no one does!”
“It’s delicious wine—thank you.”
“Thank you for coming to a job interview at such short notice. Bon appétit. Now tell me about you. What brought you to Phnom Penh?”
On his long walk over from the National Museum Robert had prepared his story. He thought it best to be at least half truthful. The issue was whether he should own up to being a teacher; it had its pros and cons.
In the end he decided against it. English teachers were a dime a dozen in this city and in most cities like it. They formed a kind of sub-society all over the Far East, a loose confederation of dubious individuals with their own social niche and their severe reputation for being mangy and broke, though somewhat successful with the girls. Several of his friends at college had gone on to pursue that way of life in places where the koel birds sing and nothing more was ever heard of them. The tropical English teacher in his cargo shorts and flip-flops and his bad haircuts, saving his pennies by eating local every night and scouring his adopted city for sexual scraps and tidbits: easy to find here and free for the young. No money, yet still plenty of honey. But that was not his niche and he intended to stay as far away from it as he could. The clothes he had unexpectedly inherited, strangely enough, had nudged him into other ideas. It seemed absurd, in fact, to
step down
from them. He didn’t really want to go this route at all, it was just that he couldn’t think of any other way to make some quick cash. It was ironic, given that it was the only skill which he actually possessed. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed to sense—or rather wanted to believe—that this artfully disheveled youth was more than he appeared.
“The truth is,” Robert said, “I’m just traveling around Asia for a few months. I know it’s a horrible cliché—but there we are. I was working at a bank in London and got absolutely fed up with it.”
“A bank, you say?”
“Just a company that audits banks, actually. Terribly boring.”
“I see. What was the company called?”
“Deloitte.”
“Well, all you young people seem to be traveling these days. Sophal says she wants to travel as well. Travel where? I ask her. She has no idea. Anywhere as long as it’s travel. I can’t really understand it myself, but then I am not twenty-five anymore. What is the point of travel just to travel? How old are you, if I may ask?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“A fine age, a fine age. A fine age for a man if you ask me.”
A fine age for anyone, Robert might have replied.
“At twenty-eight,” Sar added, “you can do whatever you want. Or you can nowadays. When I was twenty-eight it was rather a different matter. When I was thirty I was in the countryside being whipped.”
This seemed like an unpleasant topic so Robert steered the conversation away from it. He talked on about himself. Outside, the light visible through the windows dimmed a shade and Robert knew that the sunny part of the day was already over. He talked about England, life in London—tedium, monotony, gray skies, high taxes, the usual things that people living far away always like to hear about, as if they simultaneously both damaged and solidified the sterling image of Albion. He began to talk about his parents, but then stopped, thinking that he was overstepping the mark.
“No, no,” Sar objected, “do go on.”
“My father worked in a bank as well and my mother wrote plays for the radio. They live in East Grinstead.”
“East Grinstead?”
A thin smile came to the old man’s lips. He
service au guéridon,
the steaks prepared tableside.
“Then her chances for happiness will increase?” Robert said to himself.
“Wrong wine for steak,” Sar laughed, “but I don’t care. Do you care, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“I don’t care, no.”
“Then we don’t care. If we don’t care, no one does!”
“It’s delicious wine—thank you.”
“Thank you for coming to a job interview at such short notice. Bon appétit. Now tell me about you. What brought you to Phnom Penh?”
On his long walk over from the National Museum Robert had prepared his story. He thought it best to be at least half truthful. The issue was whether he should own up to being a teacher; it had its pros and cons.
In the end he decided against it. English teachers were a dime a dozen in this city and in most cities like it. They formed a kind of sub-society all over the Far East, a loose confederation of dubious individuals with their own social niche and their severe reputation for being mangy and broke, though somewhat successful with the girls. Several of his friends at college had gone on to pursue that way of life in places where the koel birds sing and nothing more was ever heard of them. The tropical English teacher in his cargo shorts and flip-flops and his bad haircuts, saving his pennies by eating local every night and scouring his adopted city for sexual scraps and tidbits: easy to find here and free for the young. No money, yet still plenty of honey. But that was not his niche and he intended to stay as far away from it as he could. The clothes he had unexpectedly inherited, strangely enough, had nudged him into other ideas. It seemed absurd, in fact, to
step down
from them. He didn’t really want to go this route at all, it was just that he couldn’t think of any other way to make some quick cash. It was ironic, given that it was the only skill which he actually possessed. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed to sense—or rather wanted to believe—that this artfully disheveled youth was more than he appeared.
“The truth is,” Robert said, “I’m just traveling around Asia for a few months. I know it’s a horrible cliché—but there we are. I was working at a bank in London and got absolutely fed up with it.”
“A bank, you say?”
“Just a company that audits banks, actually. Terribly boring.”
“I see. What was the company called?”
“Deloitte.”
“Well, all you young people seem to be traveling these days. Sophal says she wants to travel as well. Travel where? I ask her. She has no idea. Anywhere as long as it’s travel. I can’t really understand it myself, but then I am not twenty-five anymore. What is the point of travel just to travel? How old are you, if I may ask?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“A fine age, a fine age. A fine age for a man if you ask me.”
A fine age for anyone, Robert might have replied.
“At twenty-eight,” Sar added, “you can do whatever you want. Or you can nowadays. When I was twenty-eight it was rather a different matter. When I was thirty I was in the countryside being whipped.”
This seemed like an unpleasant topic so Robert steered the conversation away from it. He talked on about himself. Outside, the light visible through the windows dimmed a shade and Robert knew that the sunny part of the day was already over. He talked about England, life in London—tedium, monotony, gray skies, high taxes, the usual things that people living far away always like to hear about, as if they simultaneously both damaged and solidified the sterling image of Albion. He began to talk about his parents, but then stopped, thinking that he was overstepping the mark.
“No, no,” Sar objected, “do go on.”
“My father worked in a bank as well and my mother wrote plays for the radio. They live in East Grinstead.”
“East Grinstead?”
A thin smile came to the old man’s lips. He
Similar Books
