Humour & Chronicle : Cambodia - Bernard Goes Home to France for Two Weeks
Bernard flies to Paris. He promised the whole bar two weeks. The bar has taken precautions.
"Two weeks, not one more."
Bernard says it the night before his flight, tapping the counter. Sophea, who has been serving here for six years, nods politely. When he gets up, she tapes a piece of paper to his stool. One word, in marker: Reserved.
Roissy airport, Tuesday morning. Seven degrees. Bernard walks out in a linen shirt and gets into the first taxi.
"Good morning, sir! What a lovely day!"
The driver pulls away without turning his head.
"Where are you coming back from?"
"Cambodia. I've lived there eight years."
"Ah. And what did you run away from?"
"Nothing. I chose it."
"Everybody says that," the driver says, and overtakes a bus on the right.
That evening, dinner at his sister Martine's, in the 11th arrondissement. Her husband Gérard is there, and so is Patrick, a friend of the couple, Parisian for four generations. Patrick hasn't left the arrondissement since 2014. He is proud of it.
"So, the expat. How's it going over there?"
"I'm not an expat. I live there."
"That's what I'm saying. An expat is a tourist who signed a lease."
Bernard puts down his fork. He is eight years ahead of this conversation and intends to use it.
"And a Parisian is a tourist who never left."
Gérard tops up his wine. Martine looks at the ceiling. She is the one who invited Patrick.
"It's thirty-six degrees in April where I live," Bernard attacks. "There are power cuts. Motorbikes drive on the pavement."
"Where I live, there's the RER B."
"I…"
"Have you ever waited for an RER B?"
"I waited six months for a visa."
"I waited eleven weeks for a plumber. He came, he looked, he left. He sent a bill."
Bernard doesn't answer. For the first time in eight years, someone has won.
Patrick, refreshed, refilled, goes on the offensive.
"You talk strangely, by the way. You say 'no problem'. You say 'same same'. You have an accent from nowhere."
"I have nuances."
"You speak French like an airport sign."
The next day, a terrace on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The waiter says €4.50 for a coffee. Bernard smiles, leans in and lowers his voice.
"And for regulars, is there a rate?"
"No, sir. It's the same for everyone."
"There it is," Bernard sighs. "The problem with France."
He leaves three euros as a tip, the Cambodian way, with both hands and a small bow. The waiter catches up with him ten metres down the street and hands back the change.
"You forgot this."
On the metro, Bernard says good morning to every passenger who gets on. Nobody answers. A teenager changes seats. Bernard says good morning louder. A woman takes out her phone and pretends to call someone.
"We don't say good morning on the metro, sir," a man in an anorak murmurs.
"Where I live, we say good morning to everyone."
"And where's that?"
"Phnom Penh."
"Then go home."
Bernard has no answer to that. It is seven in the evening, the carriage is packed, and it's the first sensible thing anyone has said to him since he landed.
Four days later, Martine comes home from work and finds her brother's suitcase in the middle of the living room. Closed.
"You're leaving?"
"There's an emergency."
"What emergency?"
"My bar. People need me."
"Patrick will be disappointed."
"Patrick will survive. He has the 11th."
The next evening, Bernard is back in Phnom Penh. Same bar, same stool. The paper is still on it. From the dust, nobody dared sit there.
Sophea puts his beer in front of him before he has opened his mouth.
"Already?"
"Paris is finished. It all goes too fast over there."
He peels off the paper, folds it in four and slips it into his pocket. Next to him, a man in a down jacket, forehead damp with sweat, turns toward the fan.
"It's hot. And it's expensive for what it is. And nobody speaks French."
"We don't say that here, sir," Bernard replies, ice cold.
"Why not?"
"Because I live here."
Bernard leans toward Sophea.
"Where's that one from?"
"Paris."
"Of course."
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