Free Phnom Penh Express by Johan Smits

separates animal from human. Chucky is now beside itself with blind rage.
    “One day I’ll turn you over to the Vietnamese,” Phirun says in a low voice and calmly walks away from the raging poodle.
    ***
    A short while later Phirun steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, and over to his unmade bed. It hasn’t changed since he left it that morning, and he wonders if Merrilee’s scent is still lingering between the sheets. He sniffs the fabric, then the pillow hopefully, even while pondering what exactly has made him into a dog or a pervert. To his disgust, the only thing he can smell is his neighbour’s wife’s omnipresent fermented fish. He throws himself onto the bed, ready for his long awaited nap.
    The wet towel around his waist chafes so he unwraps it and lets it slide aside. Phirun’s own nakedness awakens vivid memories of Merrilee’s. “Way too late, you traitor!” he shouts at his erect member. She must be used to having loads of men eating out of her hand, he thinks, and wonders if he’s been nothing more than a drunken one-night-stand to her.
    He hadn’t told Merrilee much about his own life. He only explained that, just like her, he had been a war refugee. But, unlike her, he was born here and could speak Khmer reasonably well. He told her how both of his parents are alive and being cared for by his younger sister, who lives in Antwerp. Phirun had returned to Cambodia nearly six months ago, the second time since his parents had fled the war with their children. Merrilee expressed surprise at the passion with which he spoke of Cambodia.
    “Until now, I’ve been mostly disappointed,” she told him, but Phirun on the other hand is intrigued by what he now considers to be home.
    “Hey, if you could hear my parents describe
their
Cambodia, their culture, the music they and their friends partied to — I had to experience it for myself,” he told her. “And I’m sure there’s some of that past spirit left, enough to kickstart a new future.”
    But Merrilee wasn’t convinced. “There’s not much spirit to be found these days,” she objected, “only the spirit of money and greed.”
    “But who did our people acquire that taste for money from?” Phirun countered. He was not disagreeing with her but he’s convinced that this is a passing, admittedly ugly phase his country must wrestle itself through.
    It was a long breakfast and Phirun could not avoid the impression that, behind the sceptical look in her beautiful brown eyes, there was something else too, just a glimpse of it, once or twice. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a certain interest there. It was enough to keep his hope alive. His hope that maybe some day, Merrilee and him would be having another one of those long breakfasts.

Chapter     ELEVEN
    “FINALLY!” TZAHALA EXCLAIMS when her phone rings. She glances at her watch — 6:30 AM . Tel Aviv again, she reckons, and quickly walks into her living room to answer it. But she’s wrong, it’s a local Phnom Penh call.
    “Miss Tzahala?”
    Tzahala curses inwardly.
    “Don’t mention my name on the phone,” she yells.
    “Right, sorry,” a man answers in a non-committal tone. “I have just received news. Very interesting.” The voice speaks in a thick Cambodian accent.
    “It better be,” Tzahala answers.
    “We have managed to locate three of our boxes. Four days ago they were presented as gifts to officials — I mean here, in Phnom Penh — who, it seems, are very impressed. Impressed by not only the chocolates’ secret contents, but more so by the generosity of the donor. We’re still trying to track the other boxes, but we’ll find them soon enough, word is spreading.”
    Silence on the other end of the line.
    “Miss Tza...”
    “Who’s the donor?” the woman interrupts sharply.
    “A Belgian-Khmer man called Phirun.”
    “What? Who? Whoever the hell he is, he’s as good as dead!”
    “He made the delivery personally, with