Weaponized

by Nicholas Mennuti

  Kyle stares at the television tuned to CNN.

  After several onsite suicides at a plant in the Chinese city of Taiyuan, the reporter says, management encircled the factory’s exterior with inflatable mattresses. The restive workforce decided that was the final indignity and is rioting in response—smashing windows, starting fires, overturning management’s luxury cars and dancing on the debris.

  A journalist is able to get a few words with Li Bao, standing member of the CCP and former governor of Shanxi Province. Li is there to speak for the striking workers.

  “You need to allow these people to unionize. No Communist country has ever allowed their workers to unionize. Why? Because it’s supposed to be a workers’ paradise. Well…paradise is burning,” Li says into the camera, which quickly cuts back to the chaos, the real reason for being there.

  “Turn the channel,” the girl in the marijuana-leaf tee says. “If I wanted to watch CNN, I’d have stayed home.”

  Armand’s body has moved past obesity and into the realm of existential claim. He wears a Hawaiian shirt, and entire petals are lost in the chasm between his chest and stomach. His shorts used to be jeans, and both of his exposed legs are as thick as someone’s waist. There’s a baby strapped to his chest, and its chubby legs kick nonstop, a machine working itself to death.

  Armand pours the girl another drink. She goes off and sits alone.

  “She got here two days ago,” Armand says in a French accent muddled by years of overseas living. “Says her name is Violet.” He laughs, a huge sound that obliterates every other noise in the room. “Bullshit, obviously. My bet…she stabbed her boyfriend and is on the run.”

  “Could be,” Kyle says.

  Phnom Penh lends itself to the mutability of identity. This is where you come to shed your current form, to mingle among other ghosts. It’s the same as when you take a plane ride; you can lie to the person next to you for the entire trip.

  Even Pol Pot changed his name, ten times.

  “You see what happened to my fish,” Armand says. “Electricity went out most of yesterday. Fucking power failures.” Armand’s fish tank—previously his pride and joy—is now a cemetery. His fish float atop brackish water, their gills clogged with drain scum. “The filter stopped working and they drowned in their own shit…I loved those fish.”

  “I know you did.”

  “This fucking city…it just takes and takes from you.” Armand swats away his negativity. “It’s always good to see you, Andrew.”

  Andrew was one of the first names Kyle toyed with upon arrival, and Armand seems to have taken to it. No sense in changing things now.

  “Drink?” Armand says, and pulls an unmarked turquoise bottle from behind the bar.

  “Yeah.” Kyle squints. “The hell is that?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “It looks like the stuff they use to clean combs at a barbershop.”

  Armand laughs, fills two shot glasses, and makes engine noises at the baby, who smiles.

  Armand’s a true child of Cambodia, raised in Phnom Penh until 1975, when most of the Westerners made a mad dash before Pol Pot’s shock troops emerged from the jungle. Until Pol’s revolution, Armand’s dad owned and operated casinos. In a desperate attempt to balance the budget, Prince Sihanouk had granted licenses to gambling houses. He needed a way to signal to the West that he was trying to stanch the flow of Communism and didn’t want his country to end up like Vietnam. The easiest way was to fly the flag for private enterprise. Financially, the casinos were a tremendous success, and both the prince and men like Armand’s dad got fat off the proceeds. However, for the populace, they proved to be a disaster. People committed suicide after incurring insurmountable debts. Business activity bottomed out as everyone from factory owner to common laborer lost his life savings on a pillow of green felt.

  Armand’s dad still talked about the last days before Phnom Penh fell, talked about it like it was Rome under Caligula minus the midgets. One night, Armand’s dad hosted a pool party. Everyone was embalmed in champagne and sniffing heroin from Laos. A Frenchwoman dove into the water and invited all the men in there with her. She traveled around the pool and fucked a stranger in every corner until they all met in the middle and had their way with her.

  The other partygoers sipped gin and cheered them on.

  Some Cambodians weren’t upset when Pol Pot and his crew put an end to this strain of Western bacchanalia. Then they learned what was taking its place. Suddenly, orgies seemed almost quaint, a foreign lark.

  Kyle and Armand do the shots, and it takes Kyle three tries to force it down. “Somehow, it tastes worse than it looks,” he says, rubbing his teeth with his index finger, trying to scrub the taste away.

  Armand notices Kyle’s hand. “You’re shaking.”

  “I…I haven’t been sleeping well,” Kyle says. “How do you sleep in this heat?”

  “Air-conditioning,” Armand says.

  A Khmer song explodes from the jukebox. The singer’s voice is absolute bubblegum—remnants of a style that went out in the West with Phil Spector’s girl groups—and the stringed instruments sound like they’re mourning. The contrast is the perfect sonic summation of Phnom Penh.

  “Andrew…you have to sleep,” Armand says. “Sleep is where we work out all our problems. It’s elemental. Goes back to our origins. When it was hunting season and the men of the ancient tribes were up for days searching for prey, they would pay a shaman to dream for them.”

  Kyle points to the baby. “Maybe I could buy his brain for a night.”

  “Oh, no,” Armand says. “He dreams for me.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  Armand lets out that huge laugh that devours all other sounds. “What I mean is, I’ve seen it before. Many people like you…”

  “Americans.”

  “Westerners in general. But mostly Americans.”

  Kyle nods.

  “They come here to get away from it all,” Armand says. “You know, take some time. Lose the city hustle. Get some sun. Well, many…many of them take it too far. They forget they brought their bodies with them on vacation. They act as if touching down on another continent relieves them of all responsibility. Whatever you’ve been doing…don’t do it anymore. Please.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Kyle says. “I do. It’s the heat. Nothing more.”

  Armand points to the blue liquor. “Another?”

  “Not even if Jesus was pouring.”

  Armand grins, pours himself a round. “Suit yourself.” He tosses down the blue liquor with a full-body shudder and then wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Your package is in my office.”

  “Right,” Kyle says. “Thanks.”

  He nods, and as he walks toward Armand’s office, he locks eyes again with Violet, who sits alone, sucking on a lime wedge.

  7.

  Armand’s office has a stained sign on the door that says PRIVÉ. Three different locks dot the cherry wood, and none of them work. Armand says the illusion of security is all one needs. If someone’s determined to break in, one lock—or three locks—isn’t going to stop him. He says it’s like the concept of the law: There is no law. There’s only regulated punishment. Law exists solely to inform people of what they can—and will—be punished for, not to actually stop them from committing crimes. In fact, Armand would continue, the law is a vile institution, because it goads you into breaking it, just so it can punish you properly.

  Kyle steps into the office, which is bare except for a metal desk holding spilled files and a potted plant. On the wall, there’s a calendar from a local restaurant featuring girls in scanty bikinis lounging on muscle cars.

  Kyle fishes his package out of the clutter on the desk and opens it. He gets all his packages shipped to Armand. His hotel isn’t particularly skilled at or concerned about protecting the mail from marauding children.

  He opens it up, and inside is a well-thumbed edition of Graham Greene’s Collected Short Stories. Ky
le wasn’t much of a reader back in the States, but since arriving in Phnom Penh, he’s been searching out the poets of exile—Durrell, Hemingway, Duras, Conrad, and, of course, Greene.

  Kyle wonders if exile—either physical or mental—was what spurred all these authors to be so exceptionally prolific. Was each book a silent scream into the void with the hope a voice would answer and guide the author to a place to call home?

  Kyle slides the book back into the packaging, tucks it under his arm, walks back into the bar, and sees Armand has his drink waiting for him with a napkin laid over the rim. Kyle nods in thanks, and Armand returns only a quick nod; he’s occupied, talking to Violet. Armand would be the first to tell you that in the West, he’d have no shot fucking someone who looks like Violet, but—as he’s fond of pointing out to Kyle—people do really strange shit when they’re away from home.

  Kyle grabs his drink, sits down at a table close to the door so he can get a hint of a breeze, takes a swallow, and cracks some ice with the back of his teeth. For a moment, his eyes do a slow close. Not because he’s got any chance of sleeping; it’s pure reflex.

  His eyes are tired of being open.

  Almost as soon as they close, they’re brought back to bloodshot life.

  The beads are swaying. Someone’s crossed into the bar.

  8.

  Kyle registers the newcomer first as shadow, then as a cloud in the mirror behind the bar, then as shoulders, and finally as a man.

  Definitely Western and, Kyle figures, judging from the color of his skin, new in town. His face and hands are freshly burned, crustacean pink and red, and look painful to the touch. The man doesn’t yet have the obligatory tan. Even if you’re not trying for one, you get it. It’s part of the price of being here.

  The guy is also way overdressed for Armand’s.

  His suit is exceptional, white linen offset by a perfectly folded pink handkerchief. The suit looks custom-made but not by a tailor in the West, not someone used to dealing with a bulky body and this man’s height. The cut is a little too tight in the chest, and it’s a little too short in the legs. With his pouty, pillowed lips and swept-back hair, this newcomer would have looked at home during French rule sipping gin at a bamboo table with a rotating fan overhead.

  Kyle squints. Another Westerner? Too many in one day.

  The man holds a Tumi briefcase in his left hand and casually loosens and tightens his grip on the handle.

  He approaches the bar, takes in the tableau of Armand, Violet, and the kicking, squirming baby, and says: “Vodka. No ice.”

  Armand puts his hand atop Violet’s, excuses himself, and approaches the stranger. “No ice?”

  “What’s the point? This heat’s epic,” the man says as Armand goes for the bottle.

  Violet parts her lips but doesn’t give him a smile, just a welcoming flick of the tongue. The man smiles at her. His teeth are magnificent alabaster squares ready to do his bidding.

  “I’m Violet,” she says, unconsciously rearranging her long legs for maximum effect.

  The man nods, another flash of teeth.

  Armand places the drink on the bar.

  The man lights a cigarette, clenches it between his teeth, tilts his head slightly so the smoke stays out of his eyes, and drops a bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  As the man wanders away, both Violet and Armand look over to Kyle’s table. Each wears the same expression, the same dazed stare Kyle suspects he’s sporting as well.

  Because this man, this stranger, looks uncomfortably like Kyle.

  Similar height, give or take an inch or two. The same pronounced jaw. The same aquiline nose, dangerously close to becoming a beak but pulling back in time. The same eyes, green orbs with a coat of frost. The only big difference between them is their hair, both color and length. Kyle’s is lighter, and his current look could be called unintentional bohemian; the new arrival has a close shave and a triple-digit haircut.

  The man approaches Kyle’s table, pulls out a seat, and settles in. “You look like you could use a friend.”

  Kyle shakes his head, subtle but forceful. “Not really.”

  “All right.” The man throws up his hands, called out. “I could use one. And I nominate you for the job.”

  Kyle motions toward Violet with his head. “Looks like you already made one.”

  “That’s not a friend. That’s someone looking for death.”

  “Yours or hers?”

  “I don’t think it matters. She just wants to set up a meeting.” The man crosses his legs, leans back in the chair. “I picked you because…well, you’re American. We search out our own kind, right?”

  “That was the only requirement? You might want to think about shooting higher.”

  The man laughs. “Also, you don’t look like you’re here working for an NGO. I don’t want to talk third-world politics, the evils of Western Imperialism, et cetera…”

  “I see…”

  The man raises his drink to his lips. Kyle sees a Patek Philippe watch, a chunk of gold for a bracelet, and what could be a wedding band. “Why are you here?” He takes a drag off the cigarette, then exhales, sending smoke through his nose like his adenoids are on fire.

  “Vacation,” Kyle says.

  There’s an uncomfortable subtext beneath the conversation, an almost hazy flirtation, as they both try to avoid bringing up the obvious.

  You look like me.

  The man brings his briefcase onto the table and quickly enters a combination; the top pops open. Kyle jumps back, his instincts hardwired to react to any unexpected sounds that could presage violence.

  The man laughs and removes a ham and cheese sandwich from inside the case. It’s shrink-wrapped and looks so loaded with additives it could survive the apocalypse. The type of sandwich that’s the staple of international airspace.

  The man holds up the sandwich like someone surrendering or confessing. “I’ve been out of the developing world for too long. My insides have gone soft against parasites.” He takes a bite of the sandwich, another drag off his cigarette. He’s always doing something with his mouth. “So, vacation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m on business. I think I’ve got my card around here somewhere.” He starts searching through the various inner pockets of his linen suit. “I work in telecommunications. Southeast Asia is ripe for smartphones. Expendable income is up sixteen percent.”

  Kyle’s interest is slightly piqued—is this a fellow tech guy, a brother in coding? “You an engineer?”

  “Salesman. I work for a German telecom company. VodaFone. That’s Fone with an F, then o-n-e.”

  “But you’re not German…”

  “God, no.” The man gives up the search for his card. “American. I pursued the Germans for a position. American telecom companies have lost their fire. All fat off their monopolies. While they rub their bloated bellies, the Chinese and Germans are buying up the contracts to build infrastructure throughout the developing world. The action isn’t in the States anymore, and I adore the chase. I told the Germans, Look…turn me loose. I want to make all of you fucking rich.”

  Kyle looks over his shoulder, not used to staying in one place this long. “That’s what it takes to make it in sales, I imagine.”

  “That and slightly jaundiced scruples. You have no idea who you have to deal with in order to get a contract signed in some of these places. Warlords who a few years back were eating young girls’ hearts for power before riding off to slaughter. These same fucking lunatics now control the rights to half the infrastructure. And their idea of bargaining differs slightly from what they teach in MBA programs. But if we want to be competitive with the Chinese, we need to turn a blind eye to that, because the Chinese sure do.” The man raises his glass. “They don’t call them emerging markets for nothing.”

  “You like getting sent all over the world?”

  “Love it. Massively. I love to sell.” The man takes another bite of the sandwich, discreetly bru
shes some crumbs off his lower lip, and says: “Christ…manners. I’m Julian Robinson. My mother read the Forsyte Saga like the Bible. I’m the beneficiary of her Anglo lust.”

  Kyle sees a way around giving up a name. “Could be worse. She could have named you Trevor.”

  “Trevor’s my younger brother.” Robinson lights another cigarette. “So who are you?”

  Kyle stares at the cigarette held between Robinson’s thumb and index finger. “Andrew,” he says. “I’m Andrew.”

  “Andrew,” Robinson says. “And what do you do back in the States?”

  “Tech support,” Kyle says. “Databases. Networks, mostly.”

  “Deal with charts and graphs all day,” Robinson says. “I don’t know how you do it. Bores my tits off. The company sent me to an Excel course to learn how to keep better expense reports. I left after an hour and told them, You want me to sell or fill in boxes?” He brings the cigarette to his lips. “Been at it long?”

  Kyle tries to avoid specifics. “Freelance. I float from company to company.”

  “Like me,” Robinson says.

  “Except I don’t sell anything.”

  “Sure you do. You sell yourself. You sell confidence in you. We all sell something. Been doing it long?” he asks again.

  “Floating? Or tech support?”

  “Either.”

  “Tech support…longer than I care to remember. Floating the past five years. Mostly New York.”

  “Well, it sounds great,” Robinson says.

  Kyle’s relieved, assuming the conversation is over and he’ll be rid of Robinson any moment now.

  Robinson leans across the table. “For being complete bullshit.”

  “Sorry?” Kyle says, stunned, tensing up.

  “It’s okay, Kyle,” Robinson says. “I know who you are.”

  Kyle starts to get out of his seat. Robinson holds Kyle down by his hand. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay, Kyle. It’s okay. I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”

  The reassuring words don’t stop Kyle from trying to get loose. He looks to the bar, sees Armand giving Violet change for the jukebox.