Figurehead (17 page)
‘Needless,’ Sihanouk agreed.
‘Needless to say, all of us continue to support the Democratic Kampuchea movement and you personally in your honourable struggle against the imperialist Vietnamese.’
‘Those ruthless bloodsuckers,’ Sihanouk said.
‘I’m sure you know that no one is pushing harder than ASEAN for the restoration of Cambodian self-determination. But I believe – we all believe – that collectively we could exert so much more pressure on the Vietnamese to withdraw if you considered our suggestion. It is a matter of perception. I’m sure you understand what I mean.’
‘Would you like more champagne, Your Excellency?’ a waiter asked Kiry. ‘Or would you prefer riesling?’
‘I want a glass of sauvignon blanc.’
‘I’ll have to check if we—’
‘This is a five-star hotel, isn’t it? How hard can it be to find me a glass of sauvignon blanc?’
‘If, for instance, Mr Pol Pot, deploying his well-known wisdom, chose to give up his day-to-day control of the army I would be very happy to lend a hand,’ Sihanouk said, a pyramid of clean bird bones drying in the centre of his plate. ‘My little villa in Mougins would be his for the asking. It’s very quaint.’
‘I wonder if the French would embrace their new resident,’ Kiry said.
‘The French eat out of my hand like tame birds,’ Sihanouk said. ‘But if you do not think Mougins a suitable destination then Pol Pot – and Ieng Sary and Ta Mok and Nuon Chea too – could move into my palace at Pyongyang. You have seen it, what a size, almost a wonder of the world, no doubt visible from outer space. Your colleagues and their families could each take a wing and, should they desire, not see each other for weeks at a time. The amenities are first-class: an indoor swimming pool, a cinema that I had built to the exact specifications of the one in the White House, three chefs, a sanatorium, a squash court which is also suitable for badminton and volleyball, a ping-pong table. Or if
that
is unsatisfactory, I’m sure our Chinese friends would be only too delighted to find Mr Pol Pot a palatial home in Beijing. Or perhaps even in Hong Kong.’
‘After the handover, of course,’ Ampalavanar said.
‘Really?’ Sihanouk said. ‘I think the British would look the other way, wouldn’t they, if we asked nicely?’
Kiry pushed his plate away. He made eye contact with a young Thai diplomat on another table, leaving the young man too discomforted to eat. Kiry opened his mouth but then pursed his lips. Still silent, he unfolded his arms, took up his cutlery and continued to methodically de-flesh the quail.
‘For us, unity is everything,’ he said eventually. ‘You cannot break us into pieces with promises of squash courts or ice boxes full of Moët. None of us concerns ourselves with insignificant material possessions or comforts. Brother Pol Pot will never abandon Kampuchea and nor will I. We care only about retrieving the sovereignty of our nation. That is all we have ever fought for and we will not abandon the struggle now.’
Ampalavanar stared at his plate. Sihanouk picked at his teeth and held his champagne flute aloft, waiting for someone to fill it.
‘So much for Sukarno,’ Sihanouk said. ‘But have I ever told you about the time in 1966 when I entertained Charles de Gaulle?’
As he boarded the bus Cornell Jackson accepted a complimentary lunchbox from a representative of the Thai military. Having skipped breakfast, he quickly ate the shredded chicken, a hard-boiled egg and a soft, slightly stale bread roll. Cornell closed his eyes. It was hours before they would reach the Cambodian border. He figured he might as well catch up on his sleep.
When the air-conditioning forced him awake, shivering, the musty curtain was branding a diamond-shaped pattern onto his cheek. He sneezed and sneezed again. A minder materialised with a box of tissues, a bottle of water, an offer of aspirin, and a promise: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Jackson, we will arrive at the border very soon.’ He drank two cans of warm Coke for the caffeine. He had to be on top of his game. He’d promised Ted – whose name was on a list of banned persons published by the Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea – that he would take in every little detail.
Soon the buses passed into Cambodia. After travelling less than a kilometre along a hard-packed dirt road they arrived at Phum Thmei. Cornell exited the bus and moved with the other visitors to a clearing. A narrow path led from a group of neat pine huts into the thick jungle. As Cornell stretched and yawned, a pair of teenagers, a svelte girl and a handsome boy, dressed in Levis and T-shirts and sandals, wandered from the huts towards the jungle. They tossed their hair in unison. As the foliage swallowed them, the girl glanced over her shoulder and smiled a smile that Cornell thought was meant especially for him.
On the far side of the clearing stood the welcoming committee, an entourage of Khmer Rouge identities. Cornell scanned their faces. He remembered a couple of political strategists from a conference he’d attended in Singapore and recognised a high-ranking military commander from a photograph Ted had shown him. But he had no idea who the others were. He wondered if that was a deliberate strategy to confuse the journalists or if he really was as plain ignorant as Ted was forever telling him.
He raised his camera but a minder appeared by his side.
‘No photo. No photo: security. We give you photo later. Official photographer only.’
Cornell shrugged. In his notebook he scribbled, ‘Fat man with enormous arms, thinning hair and scar under left cheek,’ and ‘Tallish man, very skinny, hollow eye-sockets, a couple of teeth missing when he smiles,’ hoping that Ted could identify them. He looked about to see who else was trying to use a camera and noticed, back towards the buses, that the teenage lovers were repeating their stylish stroll from the huts to the jungle.
Then Nhem Kiry appeared, immaculate in a grey suit despite the heat, the heavy atmosphere, the mass of bugs in the air. He began shaking hands and offering salutations. Cornell was surprised to see Kiry so relaxed, so natural. He’d been stiff as a scarecrow when he gave his speech in Geneva. As if connected to Kiry by a switch, the younger leaders instantly adopted welcoming postures.
Journalists continued to spill out of the buses. The area was soon full of visitors murmuring ‘Weird, hey’ to each other, shuffling about as if to mark the ground with their discomfort, requesting water or towels or insect repellent, trying to take photographs without getting rebuked, and admiring the flowers – for, inconceivably, the path was lined with pansies.
With a smile and a wave, Kiry singled out a man standing beside Cornell.
‘Do you know him?’ Cornell asked the man.
‘Oh no. No no no. I met him once, that’s all. That’s it.’
Kiry walked to them and held out his hand to Cornell, who gamely took it.
‘Good afternoon, sir. My name is Cornell E. Jackson.’
‘Yes, Mr Jackson,’ Kiry said. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I wanted to compliment you on the Edgar Institute. You’re doing fine and noble work. I for one share your desire for more honesty and openness in public life.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.’
‘Is your father well? Do pass on my best wishes to him. Tell him I very much look forward to meeting him again one day.’
‘You’ve met my father, sir?’
‘Ah, it’s probably supposed to be a secret. Ask him to tell you about me. Well, I must get on.’ He took a few steps away and then turned back. ‘And please give Edward Whittlemore my kindest regards.’
Cornell nodded, mute. Only now did he remember Ted’s instructions: ‘If you see that skinny runt, ask him where Bun Sody’s body is buried.’
‘Do you think you might be a little obsessed, buddy?’ Cornell had replied.
The crowd followed Nhem Kiry along the path that ran through the model village to a clearing, where Prince Sihanouk and Princess Monique waited. Sihanouk clapped his hands and waved exuberantly. He attempted to include the whole crowd in a welcoming hug. Monique did her best to look interested, but Cornell could see how distasteful she found the whole event. Ted had told Cornell that Monique was nothing more than a common thief but he had not revealed how beautiful she was. She’s just starting to get a bit old and wrinkled, Cornell thought, but she’s still quite the looker.
Sihanouk burrowed into the crowd and fiercely embraced a friend, whose name he could not quite remember.
‘My ... good man, my good, good man, I think about you so often when I read your stories. Thank you for visiting Sihanouk.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Your Majesty. This little place is very impressive,’ the man replied.
‘Yes it is wonderful, isn’t it?’ Sihanouk drew closer as if to speak discreetly. Cornell, who was twenty metres away, could hear every word. ‘This is our special make-believe camp, our little fantasy. His Excellency, Nhem Kiry, doubts that it is safe for me to be at my own Funcinpec camp. And he is embarrassed by his own rough camp, just over that ridge: you’ll be able to smell it if the wind changes. So we have all gathered here today to play a little game.’
‘Why is your camp not safe, Your Majesty?’ another journalist called out. ‘Are the Vietnamese troops close by?’
For a moment Sihanouk looked annoyed, but then he saw a French journalist he knew and he rushed to embrace him.
A line of soldiers, soft-skinned boys dressed in brand-new khaki uniforms, marched out of the jungle. Their shoulders made perfect squares. Their faces were relaxed and sincere; they appeared neither to gloat nor to scowl. Their virginal weapons gleaned in the sun, which was slowly burning a hole in the back of Cornell’s head.
‘What do you think?’ a journalist behind Cornell said. ‘Whose soldiers are they? Sihanouk’s? Khmer Rouge? KPNLF?’
‘They can’t be KPNLF,’ someone else said. ‘My information is that they barely have enough soldiers to field a football team.’
Sihanouk emerged from the throng, his cheeks glistening. He gathered himself into a formal pose and commenced a slow review of the soldiers. Nhem Kiry followed a few steps behind, pausing whenever Sihanouk paused. When it was done, Kiry walked to a building, opened a door and ushered forward the Yugoslavian and the Egyptian ambassadors to Thailand. Each man presented his credentials to Sihanouk and then bowed so low that Cornell stood on tippy-toes to see if their noses kissed the dirt. When the Yugoslav ambassador finally straightened, he was blinking uncontrollably. Cornell could not decide if he had sweat or dust in his eyes, or if he was overcome with emotion.
Champagne appeared on a silver tray. Cornell looked on longingly. He wondered if he could get himself a glass if he offered to make a donation to the cause.
Sihanouk raised his glass and spoke. ‘My heart breaks – Sihanouk’s heart breaks, I tell you all – when I see Cambodia turning into Vietnam’s newest province. But we fight on. I want to take this opportunity to thank Sihanouk’s special friends for the delivery of a thousand new rifles for my soldiers, although I cannot give you the specifics because these friends like their privacy. Sihanouk is obliged not to reveal the names of our donors because Singapore is so shy, tee hee. And others, too, including ... no, I cannot, I must not ... I apologise to our eminent and honoured guests, Mr Ambassador and Mr Ambassador, that I cannot currently receive you in my palace in Phnom Penh but it is, so my spies tell me, filled night and day with Vietnamese generals living the high life.’ He paused and peered over his shoulder into the jungle and leaned close to the Egyptian ambassador.
‘I will tell you a secret,’ he whispered. ‘Our enemy is not so far from this place.’
‘I find this a most intriguing fact, Your Majesty. I am a former soldier, you see.’
‘A military man? Oh good: if things should happen to get desperate before we depart you can defend us, tee hee.’
And then Nhem Kiry closed the meeting. The crowd turned and headed back through the village. Cornell sat on the bus, ate an orange, wiped his hands on the military-issued moist towelette and wondered what the point of all this was.
At Aranyaprathet, just inside Thailand, the buses slowed down and pulled off to the side of the road. Four black Mercedes sedans with darkened windows passed: one for Kiry, one for Sihanouk and Monique, one for the Egyptian ambassador and one for the Yugoslav ambassador. As they went by Cornell’s bus erupted with claps and cheers. The bus driver, eager to please, honked his horn long and loud. He’ll pay for that later, Cornell thought, which got him thinking about what he’d say to Ted.
Ted Whittlemore had almost given up on ever seeing Sihanouk again when Sihanouk unexpectedly contacted him and suggested they meet in Singapore. They came together in the enormous lobby of the prince’s hotel suite. Ted stood with his arm extended, offering a Western handshake. But Sihanouk rushed towards him and Ted inclined his head, bent his knees slightly and opened his arms. Sihanouk launched into the embrace but mistimed his leap. As he tumbled, Ted caught him by the collar and stopped him from careering into the door. Finally they hugged and both men noticed that their stomachs nestled together like old friends but the rest of their torsos were further apart than ever before.
‘Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why didn’t you ever try to contact me? Never mind, I forgive you,’ Sihanouk said. ‘It has been too long, my dear friend, to worry about your trivial offences.’
‘It must be nearly ten years, Your Majesty.’
‘Many things have changed.’
‘And sadly, some things remain exactly the same.’
Sihanouk fell silent. Ted wondered if he was about to throw him out before they had even begun. Or if Sihanouk was going to tell him what he really thought of him. You’ve let yourself go, Ted imagined Sihanouk saying. Where is your hair? I had no idea, no idea I tell you, that your head was such an odd shape. Is that bump from birth or is it from an accident or a war wound? Why don’t you try a wig? And your skin is too thin: it’s not pleasant for Sihanouk to have to look at another man’s veins.
Instead Sihanouk said, ‘It’s so good to see you. Please, let’s sit. Champagne?’
‘Perhaps not—’
‘I see. A formal interview, is it? I was hoping that we might be two old friends renewing acquaintances.’