Phnom Penh Express Read Free Page A

form one of the most intricate mosaic patterns she’s ever seen. But it’s not only the undoubted aesthetic quality that makes her so fond of this place. It’s mostly because this is where all her chocolate is being produced.
    Her family has been in the bakery business for five generations, and Nina knows her chocolate. She also knows that Phirun, her new
chocolatier
, has started creating his own strain of pralines and truffles, to hand out at the opening. Each time she enters the place, she is welcomed by a divine aroma. Nina sometimes daydreams that she’s walking inside a giant brownie. She can’t get enough of this place or its smell.
    Standing in front of a wooden double door she rummages through her pockets for the key. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, her salivary glands are already anticipating a delectable nibble on one of Phirun’s latest creations. Nina realises how lucky she is to have found him — he’s got an unnatural talent. When she opens the door she hears the electric whirring of the two chocolate-melting machines pumping their waterfall of liquid cacao into the stainless steel bowls. Bowls of heaven, Nina calls them. She enters, closing the door behind her.
    Strange, she thinks. The windows’ shutters are closed — she thought that Phirun was going to be busy producing today. Indeed, the machines are running, although the interior darkness hints at something amiss. Where are the light switches again?
    Nina takes a few steps and startles at the crunch of broken glass beneath her feet. She eventually finds the light switch, flicks it on and looks around. Nothing unusual — until she spots Phirun’s body slumped motionless on the floor.
    “Phirun,” she gasps, “are you all right?” She hurries over to him and kneels.
    “Oh...” is the only response she gets.
    Looking more closely, she notices how his face and hair are coated with an uneven mix of white flour and dark chocolate. Then she notices the broken Calvados bottle. Is he drunk?
    “Phirun, are you okay?” she tries again.
    “We are all chocolate,” he manages this time, gazing blankly at some dried-up chocolate stuck to his finger.
    “What?”
    She helps her young master chef to his feet. Apart from his dazed look he seems okay. Then suddenly he giggles.
    “Phirun, are you drunk?”
    Another giggle.
    “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
    More giggling.
    She leads him to a chair then scans around the room, seeking some clue as to what’s been going on. She opens one of the big fridges. It’s packed with plastic tubs of various chocolate products. Nothing unusual. She closes the fridge when the waft of a vaguely familiar aroma catches her nose.
    What is it? she thinks. She knows that smell. It’s what often emanates from her husband’s study when he’s claiming he’s got extra work to do. The moment she realises what it is, her eyes fall upon the culprit: a little plastic baggie of a greenish substance.
    Of course! Why didn’t she think of it sooner? Phirun must have been ‘experimenting’ by bunging dope into the chocolate mix. He’s stoned out of his mind.
    Although she allows herself a brief smirk, Nina can’t help feeling concerned that her newborn venture might be mutating into the kind of wacked-out student farce that ought to be set in Amsterdam.
    Adopting a sharper tone, she addresses her chef.
    “Phirun!”
    But the chocolate wizard is now wobbling in his chair, his arms spread skywards. The happy part has definitely kicked in, Nina thinks.
    “So we’re all laughs now?”
    “We’re all one!” Phirun shouts in reply, kicking his legs out.
    “Where have you stashed these happy chocolates?”
    The giggling man lowers his arms and looks groggily at his employer.
    “I like you,” he decides.
    “Thank you Phirun, I like you too, but where are they?”
    All she gets in response is nervous laughter.
    ***
    The House is quiet when Phirun enters — the café is about to close. Two staff sweep and mop the floor and a