‘Very well, I will take one. Thank you.’
‘Would you prefer tomato?’
‘Cucumber is most acceptable.’
‘Please pass on my best wishes to Pierre. I remember him as a good man.’
‘He is the finest of men.’
Kiry watched Dr Zophan’s face closely. He found it wondrous that she revealed only the barest hint of the repugnance she surely felt. This was a woman he could respect. He imagined courting her: quiet dinners in French bistros; mercy dashes to impoverished Africa when famine took hold; and then, once they married, a house in Phnom Penh and another in Madrid. It would be so different, he felt sure, than the early days spent with the woman who became his wife. He had met Kolab in the Liberated Zone in 1971. Despite her bravery – she specialised in crawling so close to enemy snipers that she could lob hand grenades into their laps – Son Sen had pulled her from the frontline and set her to work teaching groups of children new ways to behave.
When Kolab and Kiry were alone, when she was certain that they could not be overheard, Kolab was opinionated and fiery. Kiry found this appealing in such a young woman. When he tried to instruct her in Marxist theory, she said, ‘I already know all I need to know about that,’ and he found himself growing fond of her. He did not fall in love with Kolab – then or later – but he respected her and the sex was decent: Kiry considered intercourse to be an essential bodily function, like emptying his bowels or clearing his ears of wax. Besides, he needed a wife to counter the rumours circulating about his listless manhood.
‘If you will permit me to ask, Dr Zophan, if the Vietnamese want to own Kampuchea so badly, why don’t they feed the people themselves?’
‘The situation is most complex. You know this, I am certain. And I say to you again, the politics of the situation are not my primary concern.’
‘Please believe me, I am simply expressing the fears of the Kampuchean people.’
‘Indeed?’
‘My compatriots are keen students of history. Our survival has depended on it for hundreds of years. We are used to resisting the Vietnamese imperialists, using whatever limited means at our disposal. Do you know that they stole the Mekong Delta from us? And Saigon too?’
‘I hope you will understand that I cannot take account of such matters, historically significant though they may be in your view.’
‘Of course. I do not blame you for Vietnam’s behaviour. But, please, be very careful about sending food and medical supplies to Phnom Penh. The Vietnamese are like birds circling fruit trees. They will fill their mouths and fly far away to where their own babies are waiting with mouths wide open.’
Dr Zophan stood and extended her hand. Her other arm hung loose along the curve of her hip. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘The thanks are all mine. Please consider everything I have said.’
‘But of course. And you too.’
Kiry gripped her hand a few seconds longer than he should have. He felt her disgust but he also sensed in her a f licker of attraction. She was conflicted, or so he hoped.
‘Would you like to take some sandwiches with you for later?’ Kiry said. ‘I could have one of my aides wrap them up to keep them fresh.’
‘No. No thank you.’
‘A pity. I hate waste.’
After she had left, Kiry sat behind the desk, doodling and dreaming. What did she think of him now? No doubt she had shoved the thought of him aside, got on with her day as if nothing at all had passed between them. But when her work was done, when she’d finished reading some draft report on southern Africa or considered the latest research on inserting anti-malaria drugs into bananas, perhaps her thoughts would return to Kiry. Then he would rise like bile and fill her mouth until she gagged.
In his mind, she brushed her teeth then rinsed her mouth with baking soda dissolved in water. She stripped in a blur, uncharacteristically leaving a pile of clothes on the floor, and immersed herself in a bathtub full of bubbles, her hair unfurled, loose strands of it steamed to her neck, her hand gently massaging her submerged belly. Then, finally, she gave in to her desires: she stood up in the bath and gave Kiry a full view of her naked body. She held out her hand for him to join her. He invented a headline:
Red Cross Head
Elopes with Khmer Rouge Mouthpiece
.
He shook himself back into the real world, back to the shell of an office he would shortly abandon. He admonished himself for his weakness: he was forever telling Sok that lustful thoughts lead to evil acts, which made Sok a very evil man indeed.
* * *
That trip to Cuba in 1979 for the non-aligned-movement conference was dismal.
Weighed down by facts I couldn’t stomach – the Khmer Rouge catastrophe,
China’s shameless persecution of Vietnam and its ludicrous spat with the
Soviets, Sihanouk’s refusal to see me – I felt as if I was attending the funeral of
my own life and times. I wanted to be friends with everybody but nobody else
saw it that way. So I, too, had to take sides. Of course, I stuck with Vietnam
but I was stunned – I’m still stunned – that I had to make the choice at all.
I arrived in Cuba feeling ill. The advance gusts of Hurricane John (or
Robert) (or Edward) rocked the plane as we came in to land. I stayed
nauseo us the whole trip. None of these people, I realised, truly cared about
the Cambodians (or the Afghans or the Palestinians or the Namibians). Half
the delegates loved Russia and hated China, which made them anti-Khmer
Rouge. The other half loved China and hated Russia, which made them pro-
Khmer Rouge.
So that they could get on with their meetings and their parties, the delegates
declared the Cambodian seat vacant. This they called ‘even-handed’
but it made me want to rage up and down waving a placard that read
‘COWARDS, THE LOT OF YOU.’
I knew that the conference would upset me. I don’t know why I bothered to
go. Habit, I suppose. And because I wanted to see Nhem Kiry.
Several hours after he landed in Cuba, Ted Whittlemore pegged a tie to his shirt and wandered into a reception hosted by President Fidel Castro. He pushed his way through the throng with resigned determination. He could not see Castro, nor hear him over the tin kle of glasses and the hubbub of politicking, but he knew where he was by observing how the individuals who made up the throng positioned their bodies.
When Castro saw Ted approaching, he broke through a wall of minders and well-wishers.
‘Ted. You made it then,’ Castro said in Spanish. ‘Sorry about the weather.’ He lifted his arms in momentary excitement. Ted steeled himself for a brutal hug, but Castro merely clapped his hands and said, ‘Good to see you, my friend.’ Castro’s translator, a tall woman with an Oxford accent, repeated the welcome.
‘A present for you, Mr President,’ Ted said, handing Castro a purple and orange Hawaiian shirt which he pulled from under his damp armpit.
Castro let off a low burst of words. ‘Thank you, Ted, how delightful,’ the translator said, her pursed lips indicating that she was not relaying Castro’s first and spontaneous reaction. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of … some use for it.’
‘You’re looking fit, Mr President,’ Ted said.
‘But of course. Why not?’
‘I heard a rumour about you when I was in London,’ Ted whispered, leaning close.
‘Oh yes? Was it the one about Castro arriving at the gates of heaven with three women: a blonde, a brunette and a redhead?’
‘Better. Apparently, so the story goes, you’ve been dead for a decade or more. Your aides have stuffed you – “He’s shinier than Lenin,” my source says – and lodged a tape recorder in your chest cavity. They prop you up – “When’s the last time you saw him when he wasn’t leaning on a podium?” my source says – and move your mouth with fishing line attached to your jaw.’
‘So I’m immortal? So nice of you to say so.’ Castro clasped his hands together atop his stomach. ‘I have a confession to make. I hope it will make you very happy.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s a Cambodian confession: right up your alley, I think. I’m afraid I have accidentally dropped Mr Nhem Kiry’s conference accreditation papers in a bowl of punch. They are all wet and sticky.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I know. I feel terrible. But I will certainly deliver them to him just as soon as they dry out.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘His accreditation papers? They are hanging from pegs on a rope in my garden.’
‘It’s quite windy outside. The newspaper mentioned something about a hurricane.’
‘How unfortunate. But I have another confession to make.’
‘Do you need a priest?’
‘Probably but not now, Ted, I’m trying to confess: I’m afraid that this hotel is overbooked. I have, with great reluctance, been forced to house Mr Nhem Kiry and his entourage in another hotel. It is only a half hour or so away ... depending, of course, on the state of the road.’
‘Cuban roads are terrible.’
‘I read something about that in the
New York Post
. But it’s the best I could do. I feel dreadful, but as the leader of my country sometimes I am forced to make unpleasant decisions. Such is the lot of a president. Please believe me, the burden is heavy … What’s the matter, Ted? You look like you’ve eaten a lemon.’
‘If I may say so, Mr President, I believe it would be better to let Nhem Kiry speak, to let him be seen for what he is. To hide him away is to protect him and to make him a cause célèbre.’
‘If you may say so? If? If? You’ve already said it.’
‘Mr President, all I meant—’
‘This is my home. I will not just go inviting any old riffraff into my home. If that bothers you, I don’t care.’
‘I want to interview him. Nhem Kiry. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘And what if I do? You are Edward Whittlemore, fearless and independent. What could
I
do to stop
you
? And why would I bother? If you want to waste your time, feel free, just don’t ask for my endorsement. Mind you, you might need a good map to find him.’
Castro turned his back on Ted and handed the Hawaiian shirt to his translator. ‘Get this thing out of my sight. I wouldn’t blow my nose on it.’
For the next three days and nights Ted wandered around buffets and cocktail parties, engaging in small talk while eavesdropping on as many conversations as he could manage. He sat through a hundred or so interminable speeches, not one of which was interesting or controversial enough to report to the world.
He witnessed the signing of several memoranda of understanding – pieces of paper that resolved some minor issue or other using words that, so far as Ted could tell, the signatories had only agreed to after years of painful negotiation to remove all possible meaning. If the parties deemed the resolution especially important, they signed their documents on a table adorned with a linen cloth and a bowl of flowers, after which they swapped pens. If their relationship had been truly poisonous, they hugged and kissed for the cameras.
At one point, desperate for signs of life, Ted sat in a toilet cubicle for two hours and collected three stories that he began with, ‘Sources close to the delegation confirmed today that ...’ He was a close source, too: Ted felt intimately connected to these powerful men after listening to the animal noises they made as they relieved themselves. But when he finally emerged from his cubicle and headed to the basin to make a show of washing his hands, all heads turned towards him and all conversation ceased.
On the afternoon of Ted’s last day in Cuba, after Hurricane John had blown itself out, Ted convinced a reluctant local to drive him to Nhem Kiry’s hotel. Sitting in the lobby, sipping a beer, waiting to find out if Kiry would see him, Ted read a copy of the speech that Kiry had planned to read before the delegates had banned him from addressing the conference: ‘The current tragedy in Kampuchea fills us with sorrow but also with exasperation. We cannot comprehend that a certain country, posing as a non-aligned friend, has used brutal force to occupy Kampuchea. If the non-aligned movement rewards behaviour that is so at odds with the principles of non-alignment, then the naked aggression currently being waged against innocent Kampucheans will surely spread throughout South-East Asia and perhaps even the world.’
‘Good afternoon, Edward. What a pleasant surprise after all these years.’
Ted half rose, compelled to take Nhem Kiry’s extended hand and shake it. Although Kiry did not squeeze hard, Ted fought to contain a shudder.
‘Very nice to see you, Mr, uh, Mr Prime Minister. Would you care to join me?’
‘For a moment. Thank you for coming. I’ve been rather bereft of visitors here.’ Kiry paused, then smiled. ‘Apart, of course, from my many friends and allies from fraternal governments and from the world’s media, who have called on me to express their solidarity and to reinforce our mutual commitment to the dear principles of non-alignment.’
‘Yes, I was just reading your speech.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘Well, I haven’t finished it yet. And it is such a detailed document that I confess I might need to ponder its complexities before I offer comment.’
‘Really, Edward, you surprise me. Will you not speak your mind?’
‘Very well. I was surprised to read that you are predicting World War Three.’
‘You’re right. You
do
need to ponder the speech’s complexities.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, I have sent you several requests for an interview in the last week. Have you considered them?’
‘I think that will be impossible today. I’m waiting for a car. I’m going to take in the sights, now that this wild weather has eased. I am keen to visit the former residence of the famous writer, Mr Ernest Hemingway. If it has not blown away.’
‘Might I ask you, Mr Prime Minister, your opinion of Hemingway? Are you a fan?’
‘As a writer or as a man?’
‘Well ... Let’s say as a writer.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘I think that Hemingway believed that war existed so that he could write about himself.’
‘Can I clarify, Mr Prime Minister, are you referring to his reportage or his fiction?’