further sign of love. Vayla didn’t drink alcohol because after only half a glass of wine her cheeks turned bright pink and she practically fell asleep on the spot. Hector remembered it had something to do with an enzyme deficiency common in Asian people. As a result, alcohol had a strong effect on them, but this didn’t worry some of them, like the Japanese people behind them who were bravely defying their enzyme deficiency by downing tankards of beer as if it were going out of fashion.
Hector was still worrying. He hadn’t been able to take the antidote yet, assuming there even was one, and he sensed that the longer he and Vayla left it, the less effect the antidote would have, because all these happy moments spent together would inevitably leave an indelible mark. Just then, Vayla smiled at him, and once again he felt waves of happiness flow through him.
‘Your friend is very lovely,’ said Jean-Marcel. ‘Does she speak any English?’
‘Not a word,’ said Hector.
‘And you speak no Khmer?’
‘None at all.’
This reply left Jean-Marcel looking thoughtful because you can see what a relationship between a man and a woman who can’t say three words to each other immediately makes you think of, and it has to be said you wouldn’t be far wrong.
‘And how are things between you and your wife?’ asked Hector.
‘Oh, not so good.’
Jean-Marcel explained they had been speaking on the phone. His wife blamed him for neglecting her over the past few years, for having been too engrossed in his job, and now it was over: she didn’t love him any more. Later, she had rung Jean-Marcel back to see how he was; she was worried about how he was spending his evenings, whether he was going out with friends or staying at his hotel on his own.
‘And how do you feel?’ asked Hector.
‘Terrible. When she says she doesn’t love me any more, I feel abandoned, in a panic, and I want to see her right away. Then I feel angry with myself for neglecting her. I can’t stop thinking about it. I tell myself that I’ve been a bit of a bastard. And then . . .’
‘And then you feel angry with her because, after all, you’ve been a good husband to her, a good father to your children, and she’s leaving you.’
Jean-Marcel looked surprised.
‘Exactly! In fact, the other evening, I’d had too much to drink and I phoned her to tell her what a bitch she was, total madness. I felt pathetic, but obviously she realised I was in a bad way and I don’t think she was too cross with me. And then at other times . . .’
‘You tell yourself that if you separate you’ll never love anyone as you’ve loved her. You’re afraid life will be dull. Of course you’ll have affairs, but nobody will make you feel like she did.’
‘Good God! That’s exactly it. You’re very good, aren’t you!’
‘Oh, not really,’ said Hector. ‘It’s just that I’ve been through . . .’
And it was true; before the affair with Vayla, Hector had experienced all those feelings about Clara. It was interesting to see how two men like Hector and Jean-Marcel, who weren’t so alike, felt the same emotions. And, remembering some of his female patients, he said to himself that many women had been through very similar emotional upheavals. Strangely, he had the impression that none of his colleagues had ever really studied the psychology of heartache; it didn’t seem a serious enough subject, yet obviously it was terribly serious, judging from the amount of suffering it caused.
Vayla touched his arm. ‘ Sabay ?’ she asked.
‘ Sabay !’ said Hector.
‘ Sabay !’ said Jean-Marcel, raising his tankard, and they made a toast, smiling like happy-looking people in a Chinese beer advertisement, except that Vayla was drinking iced green tea.
HECTOR REMEMBERS
H ECTOR watched Vayla as she slept. Suddenly he was reminded of these words:
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Hector was still worrying. He hadn’t been able to take the antidote yet, assuming there even was one, and he sensed that the longer he and Vayla left it, the less effect the antidote would have, because all these happy moments spent together would inevitably leave an indelible mark. Just then, Vayla smiled at him, and once again he felt waves of happiness flow through him.
‘Your friend is very lovely,’ said Jean-Marcel. ‘Does she speak any English?’
‘Not a word,’ said Hector.
‘And you speak no Khmer?’
‘None at all.’
This reply left Jean-Marcel looking thoughtful because you can see what a relationship between a man and a woman who can’t say three words to each other immediately makes you think of, and it has to be said you wouldn’t be far wrong.
‘And how are things between you and your wife?’ asked Hector.
‘Oh, not so good.’
Jean-Marcel explained they had been speaking on the phone. His wife blamed him for neglecting her over the past few years, for having been too engrossed in his job, and now it was over: she didn’t love him any more. Later, she had rung Jean-Marcel back to see how he was; she was worried about how he was spending his evenings, whether he was going out with friends or staying at his hotel on his own.
‘And how do you feel?’ asked Hector.
‘Terrible. When she says she doesn’t love me any more, I feel abandoned, in a panic, and I want to see her right away. Then I feel angry with myself for neglecting her. I can’t stop thinking about it. I tell myself that I’ve been a bit of a bastard. And then . . .’
‘And then you feel angry with her because, after all, you’ve been a good husband to her, a good father to your children, and she’s leaving you.’
Jean-Marcel looked surprised.
‘Exactly! In fact, the other evening, I’d had too much to drink and I phoned her to tell her what a bitch she was, total madness. I felt pathetic, but obviously she realised I was in a bad way and I don’t think she was too cross with me. And then at other times . . .’
‘You tell yourself that if you separate you’ll never love anyone as you’ve loved her. You’re afraid life will be dull. Of course you’ll have affairs, but nobody will make you feel like she did.’
‘Good God! That’s exactly it. You’re very good, aren’t you!’
‘Oh, not really,’ said Hector. ‘It’s just that I’ve been through . . .’
And it was true; before the affair with Vayla, Hector had experienced all those feelings about Clara. It was interesting to see how two men like Hector and Jean-Marcel, who weren’t so alike, felt the same emotions. And, remembering some of his female patients, he said to himself that many women had been through very similar emotional upheavals. Strangely, he had the impression that none of his colleagues had ever really studied the psychology of heartache; it didn’t seem a serious enough subject, yet obviously it was terribly serious, judging from the amount of suffering it caused.
Vayla touched his arm. ‘ Sabay ?’ she asked.
‘ Sabay !’ said Hector.
‘ Sabay !’ said Jean-Marcel, raising his tankard, and they made a toast, smiling like happy-looking people in a Chinese beer advertisement, except that Vayla was drinking iced green tea.
HECTOR REMEMBERS
H ECTOR watched Vayla as she slept. Suddenly he was reminded of these words:
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
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