Figurehead (26 page)

The next morning Nhem Kiry woke at dawn and quickly packed. In a soft towelling dressing gown and with a plunger of sludgy coffee by his side, he shredded a dozen or so documents. He made a few phone calls, showered, dressed and waited.

Around 7.30 a.m., one of the conference organisers rang to speak to Kiry about seating arrangements. Kiry had Ol tell the organiser that he was busy speaking to Boutros Boutros-Ghali on another line.

At 8 a.m., Hiroshi Yamaguchi arrived in the hotel lobby for a pre-arranged meeting to try to broker a deal with Kiry about disarmament. Kiry sent Akor Sok down to tell him Kiry had slept in.

At 8.40 a.m., Kiry gathered his aides and his luggage and left his room. The entourage walked slowly through the lobby, Kiry ahead of the others, relaxed, arms clasped behind his back. He might have been looking for a soft patch of grass onto which to throw a picnic rug.

He paused when he saw Akor Sok sitting with Yamaguchi. When he had both men’s attention he nodded once to Sok, who stood, shook hands with Yamaguchi and handed him a press release which was headed ‘Nhem Kiry Rejects False UN “Peace” Plan.’

By 11 a.m. Kiry sat in the first-class section of a Qantas jumbo. Waiting for the rest of the plane to board, he sipped iced water and chewed Juicy Fruit gum: he was a little worried about his ears, which had been playing up recently, and not only when he flew. Some nights, while he slept, a thin stream of watery wax ran down his jaw and stained his pillow.

When Kiry had signed the Comprehensive Settlement – with a commemorative gold Parker pen that he gave to Ol, who carried it everywhere, even after it leaked and left an ugly blue stain on his favourite shirt – he had dared to imagine himself minister for foreign affairs in a coalition government. And then, one day – after Prince Ranariddh had tried and failed, after Hun Sen had crashed and burned – maybe even prime minister. But now? Now he was fleeing to the jungle as if it was 1967 all over again.

* * *

One damp afternoon in June, Lea drove Ted to the Cabbage & Slug, a traditional English theme pub that sat in an alley off North Terrace in the city centre. As she held the heavy wooden doors open for Ted, he recoiled, horrified, at the interior: imitation wood panelling, plush red carpet designed to hide ale stains and the blood of soccer hooligans, a framed copy of an eighteenth-century map of Lincolnshire, a red telephone box complete with an ‘Out of Order’ sign, and a portrait of W.G. Grace above the fake fireplace.

‘What’s this, Disneyland-on-Avon? Can’t we go to a real pub?’

‘It’s got twenty-seven beers on tap,’ Lea said. ‘And my friends from the newspaper come here sometimes. They’re all dying to meet you. Especially Tim.’

‘I thought your boy’s name was Randy.’

‘Ralph, not Randy. And he’s a man, not a boy. Tim’s a colleague.’

‘A colleague, eh? Is
he
a man or a boy?’

‘He’s a journalist.’

‘I already don’t trust him.’

‘Well, I told him we’d be here. He said he’d try to drop in.’

Lea had chosen the Cabbage & Slug carefully. It had leather couches, firm yet springy. It had a disabled toilet at ground level. Although it was raucous at night, it was quiet in the afternoons, which, to Ted’s dismay, he found he desperately needed. And it had a publican called Marcia, a shapely fiftyish brunette. Marcia inspired Ted to perch on top of a barstool, in contravention of several medical directives, so he could learn the art of pouring a perfect Guinness while simultaneously staring into her green-black eyes and then down her low-slung white tanktop.

‘You know what?’ Ted said to Lea, trying to ignore the deer-head trophy that kept watch over them. ‘I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a beer in my whole life as much as this one.’

‘Terrific. Now how are your memoirs going? How about showing me some of what you’ve written?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not right now.’

‘That’s what you said last time. You’ve got writer’s block, haven’t you?’

‘Certainly not. I’ve never had writer’s block in my whole life. I don’t believe in it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘As if I’d lie to my own granddaughter. My own flesh and blood.’

‘You know what you should do?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘You should write whatever you want. If no one wants to publish it, that’s their problem.’

‘Enough: I’m writing the truth. The bloody awful truth, which is precisely the reason why you’re the last person I want to see it. We’re getting on so well and I’d like to keep it that way. I suggest you wait to read it until I’m dead.’

‘But I can help you. I could ask you questions and that might help you remember things.’

‘Remembering things is not my problem, love. I wish it was.’ Ted sipped his beer and smacked his lips. ‘Your dad wants me to talk to you about going back to law school next year. He’s got it in his head that I might wield some influence.’

‘Once I’ve got this “ridiculous photography diversion” out of my system?’

‘I think that’s the expression he used, yes. So let’s agree that I lectured you severely but unsuccessfully for, say, half an hour. Sound okay?’

‘Fine. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook. I want to see your memoirs.’

‘I’m too busy right now.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Getting myself another drink.’

‘You’ve hardly touched that one.’

‘It takes forever to pour a Guinness. Trust me, I’ve seen it done.’

‘It’s a pity that you didn’t know me when I was a baby.’

Ted reared back. ‘Well, I’m truly sorry, love, but … Are you upset about that? You’re not, are you? I chose to live a certain sort of life and there’s no point getting all soppy about it now. Move on, girl, that’s my advice.’

‘It’s not that. I was just thinking of the women you could have pulled if you’d had me to carry around as a baby.’

‘Pulled? What do you mean, pulled?
Pulled?
I never would have used you in that way.’

‘If you’d been around at all, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I was a cute baby.’

‘I’ve seen the photographs. You were somewhat cute.’

‘Maybe you should get a puppy.’

‘I don’t think the nursing home would be too impressed.’

‘For the pulling power. And I read somewhere that old people—’

‘Careful.’

‘I read that old people find pets to be excellent therapy.’

‘I don’t need therapy. I’m not a bloody nutcase.’

‘Don’t try and wriggle your way out of it, Grandpa. You’re disassociating yourself from those aspects of your past that embarrass you. It’s not healthy.’

‘Disassociating myself?
Disassociating?
Do you think you’ll ever recover from your education?’

‘My point exactly: the last thing I need is any more of it. But look, Grandpa, from what Dad has been telling me—’

‘You shouldn’t believe a word he says. He’s a lawyer.’

‘He says you’ve spent your whole life upsetting people.’

‘That’s never been my intention. It’s just been an added bonus.’

‘Well, why stop now?’

‘It’s not that, it’s—’

‘You doubt your own beliefs. You’ve gone all timid.’

‘
Timid?
You’re joking, right? Just because I choose not to show you my draft.’

‘Take America—’

‘I’ve never been able to stomach the place. Why start now?’

‘What happens if America stops doing all those terrible things you say they do? What happens to the world?’

‘Peace and harmony and goodwill in our times.’ Ted licked at the froth on his glass. He wasn’t sure where Lea was taking this discussion. She was setting him up and he couldn’t follow her moves.

‘Why aren’t you married?’ he said.

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘A-ha. Got you. I—’

‘Hey: you’ve got Dad’s grin.’

‘No, no, he’s got my grin. I’m the senior partner, remember?’

‘Well, whatever, no wonder you’ve irritated so many people in your life, if every time someone catches you out you flash that “I’m still smarter than you and there’s nothing you can do about it” look.’

‘Don’t change the subject. I
was
married once, to your grandmother, which is why you exist. What have you got to say about that?’

‘I say you should see a therapist about your writer’s block. And get yourself a puppy.’

‘I say I’m getting us another drink.’

‘I say that woman behind the bar is half your age.’

‘I say you’ll make a great lawyer.’

‘I say that you should write your book as if you’re telling
me
the story of your life.’

‘That’s the last thing I’ll be doing. But, listen, when I die—’

‘When you die? Oh, Grandpa, don’t be piss-weak.’

‘I’m just saying, when I die—’

‘When you die.’

‘Stop interrupting. When I die I want you to cremate me.’

‘Me, personally? I’d really rather not. I might set the whole nursing home on fire. I couldn’t live with the guilt.’

‘When I die, have me cremated. Okay?’

‘What you should do is arrange to see a funeral director. Lots of old people—’

‘Whoa there.’

‘Lots of people in the sunset of their lives are planning their own funerals, did you know that?’

‘Excellent. Let’s plan it now.’

‘No.’

‘I want the Internationale.’

‘Not that you were ever a signed-up communist.’

‘That’s right, I wasn’t. But I had a lot of friends, so I want you to sing the Internationale. Solo. Unaccompanied. And—’

‘Do you want me to sing it in Russian? In Chinese?’

‘Stop interrupting. I want you to get me cremated. I want you to take my ashes for a drive around the city. Then I want you to find a monstrously expensive sports car – a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, something like that – and pour my ashes into its petrol tank.’

‘Can’t we throw you off the end of the Brighton jetty?’

‘You know how much I hate the ocean.’

‘If you’re lucky, you might float all the way to Vietnam.’

‘I’ll probably get eaten by a jellyfish. It’s been happening all my life.’

‘Very appropriate, too, seeing you’re too scared to write your memoirs. Oh, there’s Tim,’ Lea said, waving at a young man in a navy-blue suit, his tie yanked down and his top button askew.

‘Great.’

‘Behave yourself, Grandpa: Tim knows all about you. He’s a bit of a fan, so be nice ... Hi, Tim, how’s it going?’

‘Great, great. Hello, Mr Whittlemore, my name is Tim Jones. It’s a great honour to meet you. A real highlight. Thanks for the opportunity.’

‘G’day, mate. Pull up a pew. And call me Ted.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Tim took a tiny tape recorder from his inside pocket. ‘With your permission, Ted, I thought we’d make a start today. We’ll keep it informal of course, just a get-to-know-you chat. Then I’ll do a bit of research and we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty next time.’

Ted peered at Lea. ‘What’s the boy on about?’

‘I’m sure I mentioned it, Grandpa: honestly, your memory is just shot to pieces. Tim wants to write a profile on you.’

‘He wants to put my voice on that thing? No chance, girlie.’

‘Come on, it’ll be interesting. And good PR. And it might help you get going on your memoirs.’

‘I told you, the memoir’s going just fine.’ Ted leaned forward and grabbed the recorder. ‘You’re welcome to stay for a drink, sonny. But I’ll just keep hold of this for a while.’

‘Grandpa: that’s so rude.’

‘Really? Sorry, lad, let me make it up to you. You look like a Heineken man, right?’

Breathing heavily, Ted dragged himself to the bar. ‘Where’s Marcia gone?’ he said to the young woman who was serving.

‘She’s on her break. What can I get you?’

‘A pint of Heineken and two pints of Guinness.’

‘Are you okay? You don’t look so good,’ the woman said. She reached out to pat his arm but thought better of it and pulled back.

Ted knew for certain that she was f lirting with him. She’d wanted to touch him but she was too shy. As she pulled the handles and poured the beers, the tip of her moist tongue appeared between her lips and her cleavage beckoned to him. Ted leaned as far across the bar as he could manage, clutched his side in pain and gasped, ‘I … just … love … your … bahoonies.’

Reaching for the beers, he panted like a dog and then commenced a coughing fit, spraying an earthy mist all over the beer taps and the woman’s singlet.

Lea grabbed Ted’s elbow and yanked him towards the door. ‘He’s not well,’ she told the woman. ‘He gets so confused in the afternoons. It’s very sad.’

‘But what about the beers?’ Ted said.

‘Leave them.’

‘I need to pee.’

‘Not here, you don’t.’

‘Goodbye, Tom. We’re leaving, I think.’

‘Tim. I hope to see you again, Mr Whittlemore.’

‘Call me Ted.’

‘Bahoonies,’ Ted yelled as Lea shunted him away, ‘is an old-fashioned word for earrings.’

The door closed. Tim raised his eyebrows at the barmaid, who shrugged and dabbed her front with a sponge. Then the door opened and Ted’s head reappeared. ‘That’s all off the record, Tom, if you don’t mind.’

Lea’s a good girl but she’s got it all wrong. Do what you’ve always done, she
says. But what I’m writing is completely new for me. I’ve never written a
word of history in my life – the past is the past – and it’s no fun trying now.
I’m getting on with it, I’m making progress, but it’s not my forte.

I’ve always written about the here and now. I’ve always dressed and
shaved and gone out and witnessed some great event and then come home
and written it up and then gone for a drink. But now I’ve got nothing to
say about the present, unless I describe what Mrs Marsh ate for dinner last
night or how no one ever visits Charlie Watkins or how Essie Burke takes
eleven different pills every day only she’s hoarding the little blue ones so she
can do herself in before she goes gaga. I’ve got no idea what’s been happening
in Vietnam since I left. I can tell you that Hieu’s wife has been ill but
she’s all right now; that Hanh and her husband have to move to Hanoi and
don’t want to go; that Tran’s daughter is thinking of going to Moscow to
study. It’s not that I don’t care about what’s happening in my friends’ lives.
But it’s not news. It’s gossip.