Figurehead (10 page)

‘That’s a Jap word, isn’t it? They must have known you were coming,’ Phillip said to Nikito.

‘
Samaki
,’ Ted said, ‘is Vietnamese for solidarity.’

‘If you say so.’

As they piled out of the minivan Tung threw a bucket of water across the bonnet. The motor sizzled, then fell silent.

‘Ask them if I can have my usual room,’ Ted said to Du. ‘Room 28.’

‘Bloody favouritism,’ Phillip said.

‘Sorry, Ted. Second floor closed for business,’ Du said. He jumped onto the roof and began dropping luggage.

‘Where’s the best place to eat?’ Phillip said. ‘Hey, careful, I’ve got all sorts of equipment in there.
Careful
, I said. Will you vouch for the food? I simply don’t have the time to get sick. Have you arranged my interviews with the leaders? Well? Is there hot water? Don’t forget, I booked a room with an air-conditioner.’

Ted stepped out into the road to escape Phillip. The BBC chap appeared at his shoulder.

‘Are you going for a walk? Can I come?’

‘Well ... Yeah, sure, mate.’

‘It’s a god-awful mess, isn’t it?’

Ted nodded.

‘Do you think things will improve now? Are the Vietnamese any better than the Khmer Rouge? Really better, I mean, or do they just hide it better?’ the BBC man said.

‘You interviewing me?’

‘Just making conversation. Being friendly.’

‘Right ... Look, Vietnam has freed these people from something unimaginably wicked. Surely you can see that for yourself.’

‘Yes, of course. Still, they’ve taken over a foreign country. An invasion is an invasion.’

‘Nothing matters but defeating the Khmer Rouge. Nothing.’

‘Hmm, maybe.’

‘We must right this wrong.’

‘We?’

‘We – all of us, the whole world, led by Vietnam – must right this wrong. We must purge the Khmer Rouge once and for all.’

‘Fighting words, Teddles. But tell me, how long do you think the Vietnamese will stay?’

‘As long as they need to in order to set things right. But is that relevant right now?’

‘Yes, actually, I rather think that it is. The clock’s already ticking so far as the West is concerned.’

A couple of children shyly approached. Ted greeted them in Khmer but quickly exhausted his vocabulary. He tried French, then English, then Vietnamese. The children laughed but did not understand. Phillip arrived with chocolate – he seemed to have an endless supply of the sodden stuff. The children left with a bar each, which Ted suspected would make them ill.

‘ROOsee, ROOsee, ROOsee,’ the children chanted as they left.

The Englishman clicked his heels together and called out in a Russian accent, ‘My name is Vladimir Ilich. You know me as Lenin. I’ve come to eat you all up.’

‘ROOsee, ROOsee,’ the children continued calling as they ran away.

‘Come back. I want to take your photograph,’ Phillip said, chasing after them. ‘Bloody kids, don’t they know there’s no such thing as getting something for nothing?’

The BBC chap and Ted walked on. Suddenly Ted stopped and stared.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ the Englishman asked.

‘I, I—’

‘What is it? What are you looking at?’

‘The cathedral.’

‘What cathedral?’

‘It’s gone.’

Ted stood where the arched entrance of the cathedral had been and walked slowly down the centre aisle to his usual seat, near but not too near the back. Here he had often come to think – never to pray – and, when he was troubled, to try to catch up on sleep. But now he could only scuff the dirt. The cathedral was not damaged by artillery, not riddled with bullets and bloodstains, not rotting from neglect and high humidity, but simply erased. No rubble remained, not a single stone, no foundations, no pews or shattered stained glass, no trace of the statue of Jesus, just an empty block of land on which a few weeds eked out a basic existence.

‘Goodness,’ the BBC chap said. ‘Just like Stalin.’

‘Shhh.’

‘Don’t get all grumpy at me, Teddles.’

‘Will you shut the fuck up?’

‘You’re the one who wrote what decent fellows the Khmer Rouge are.’

Ted shaped as if to punch the BBC chap but instead he grabbed his own shirt and yanked it open. Buttons flew into the air. He threw his shirt on the ground and began jumping on it, raising a cloud of dust. The BBC chap raised a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose.

‘Steady on there, Teddles. Why don’t you try putting your head between your knees?’

In the grey light, Du came running.

‘You must not wander about like this. I worry that you will get lost. For goodness’ sake, Ted, put your shirt on ... Please, it will be dark soon. You must come and check in now.’

Ted looked at him. ‘But where’s it gone?’

‘It went away,’ Du shrugged, as if that explained everything. In Vietnamese, he added, ‘Please, let’s go. Before you get me in trouble.’

* * *

It seemed to Nhem Kiry that the whole world wanted to talk to him. As the new prime minister of Democratic Kampuchea, he barely had any country to rule over. But that only seemed to make him more popular. In the months since the Vietnamese had captured Phnom Penh and pushed the Khmer Rouge to the far west, he had criss-crossed the globe. First, he accompanied Pol Pot to the Cardamom Mountains, where they skirted around Vietnamese patrols and lived rough while they retrieved their pride and dreamed up a new strategy. Then, in April, when Vietnamese battalions pushed hard into Khmer Rouge territory, Kiry had walked into Thailand. From Bangkok he had flown to Beijing, Singapore, New York, back to Bangkok for a meeting with Pol Pot and Nuon Chea on the border, Beijing again, Florence and Belgrade. Today he was in Geneva and shortly he would begin a tour of four African states.

Although his limbs and especially his knees ached morning and night, he found the hard work, the urgency, invigorating. And he took solace from acting the grump. An hour earlier he had made Leang Sros, the Khmer Rouge’s permanent envoy to UNICEF, completely clear his desk, even the drawers, just so Kiry could sit there for half a day and pretend it was his office. He leaned back in the chair and surveyed the desk, on which sat two telephones, a pristine blotter, an upturned metal stake onto which he had impaled several pages of briefing notes, and a silver-framed photograph of him, Kolab and their daughters that Akor Sok had produced as if by magic.

Kiry arranged his ballpoint pens, the lids slightly chewed, in a straight line on the left-hand side of the blotting paper, adjacent to a small flag of Democratic Kampuchea. He half-listened as Akor Sok briefed him on his imminent meeting with Dr Corinna Zophan, Director of Operations for the International Committee of the Red Cross.

‘By all accounts she is unflappable. She speaks seven languages but not Khmer.’

‘A good thing, too.’

‘She speaks Spanish, German, English, French, Mandarin, Welsh—’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘By all accounts she is a very determined woman. She will not be easily swayed.’

‘Yes, yes ... I like this chair.’

‘I, um ... I like it too, Your Excellency.’

‘Why? Have you sat in it?’

‘No, Your Excellency, but it looks very comfortable from a distance.’

‘I like that I can rock back on it. And swivel. Do you think we could take this chair with us to Africa? Do you think Comrade Sros will miss it?’

‘I think they have chairs in Africa. You may insult your hosts if you bring your own.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Dr Zophan recently gained considerable publicity for criticising the Pope.’

‘Yes, yes. What is she a doctor of?’

‘I, um, I do not have that information with me, Your Excellency. But I will check immediately.’

Kiry sighed. ‘You must be fully prepared at all times. She has a doctorate in chemical engineering but it is fifteen years since she practised in her profession.’

‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry, Your Excellency … Please remember that in private Dr Zophan has criticised our revolution most severely. There is no telling what she might say to us behind closed doors.’

‘She has no choice but to see me. So she will behave.’

There was a single knock at the door. Leang Sros entered and formally presented Dr Corinna Zophan. Kiry abandoned the sanctuary of his desk to shake hands. Her touch was firm but light, her skin cool and dry.

‘You can leave us,’ Kiry told Sros and Sok. ‘Now.’

‘As you wish, Your Excellency,’ Sok said unwillingly.

Kiry directed Dr Zophan to a couch and sat opposite. A coffee table and two glasses of water kept them apart.

‘I must thank you again for taking the time to visit me. The whole government of Democratic Kampuchea – and I personally – have the greatest respect for the work of the International Committee of the Red Cross. You honour me with your presence.’

‘Thank you for inviting me, Mr Prime Minister. And my congratulations on your recent appointment.’

Kiry liked what he saw. This Dr Zophan was businesslike neat. Her starched white shirt was stiff as cardboard, her breasts a mystery. Her woollen skirt – brown, almost black – followed the curve of her thighs all the way to her knees. She wore dull stockings and sensible leather shoes that hid, Kiry felt certain, dainty feet.

‘I understand that the Red Cross has received a letter from Mr Hun Sen in his capacity as foreign minister of the illegitimate Kampuchean government.’ As Kiry spoke, and despite realising that he was behaving undiplomatically, he could not help but stare at the hem of her skirt. ‘I understand that this letter requests Red Cross assistance.’

‘That is correct. It’s no secret.’

She had, Kiry noticed, clear hazel eyes. Her skin was pale, enhanced by smudges of pink on her cheeks. She had imperfect earlobes: one was noticeably fatter than the other, even when half-hidden by wisps of auburn and grey hair.

‘As the principal representative of the government of Democratic Kampuchea, I am obliged to point out that your agreement to any such request would indicate that the Red Cross supports the illegal invasion and occupation of Kampuchea by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Indeed. Such support would, with respect, breach the political neutrality of the Red Cross. What is more, the Red Cross would place itself at odds with the United Nations, which quite rightly refuses to recognise this new illegitimate regime.’

Kiry sensed that he should stop running his fingers through his hair. He laid them flat on his knees, spread them out like fans. A Bulgarian diplomat had once told him that he had the fingers of a pianist, but he supposed that wasn’t appropriate information to share with Dr Zophan. Unless she herself commented upon the elegant beauty of his fingers.

‘With respect, Mr Prime Minister, the letter from Mr Hun Sen is a plea for help. It takes into account a set of circumstances that are dire. The foreign minister predicts that many people will go hungry this season. As I am sure you know, I myself visited Phnom Penh in June, accompanied by Marcus Thompson of UNICEF. We were deeply disturbed by what we saw. The concern of the Red Cross is for innocent people – not for the politics of the matter. That is the essence of how we intend to apply our neutrality to these circumstances. Subject to negotiations with officials in Phnom Penh we will—’

‘Surely you mean officials in Hanoi.’

‘Once certain issues are resolved with the appropriate authorities, I must tell you that I intend sending a larger delegation to Phnom Penh, as a matter of urgency, to further review conditions and to begin the transfer of material aid as soon as possible.’

‘Very well, though I must restate my objections. And I might remind you that any food shortage, any famine, that occurs inside the country is a direct result of Vietnamese imperialism.’

‘Please understand me, sir, the humanitarian situation is my sole concern.’

‘Of course. I simply wish to reiterate that my colleagues and I are not fighting an ideological struggle. We are defending our territory and we are defending the integrity of the Khmer race. This is our task and it is connected directly to the struggle of the Red Cross with regards to foodstuffs. Which brings me to another matter. We are doing what we can for the thousands of our countrymen who have fled from the Vietnamese invaders. You are aware of the refugee camps near Thailand?’

‘Of course.’

‘The situation in some of our camps is dire. In the interests of humanitarianism, as well as neutrality, my government requests Red Cross assistance in our territory.’

‘Of course, we will consider your request. And as you know—’

‘Good. We have hungry children too.’

‘We have, as you might know, already spoken with Thailand and with various other interested parties. And as you are probably aware, we have taken initial measures in certain locations.’

‘Yes. Good. Nevertheless, I reiterate that Democratic Kampuchea is the sole legitimate government so far as the international com munity is concerned. Therefore, we should receive all Red Cross aid available and we should be free to distribute it as we see fit.’

‘Please permit me to ask you, Mr Prime Minister, why did your government never respond to our offers of help when you controlled all of Cambodia, when the situation, as I understand it, was also dire?’

‘Yes, that represents an entirely different set of circumstances. And I hope you might recognise that the former Democratic Kampuchean government is much misunderstood.’ Kiry paused and smiled. ‘But I do not wish to upset you with all this political talk. I am very conscious of the difficult position you find yourself in.’

The door opened. An aide entered carrying a tray on which sat a coffee pot, two cups and saucers and a plate of sandwiches.

‘Would you care for coffee?’ Kiry asked.

‘Yes, thank you, I will take a cup.’

‘And, please, take a sandwich also.’

‘No thank you.’

‘No? Well, I will have one. Ah, cucumber and cream cheese: my favourite.’

After Kiry chewed and swallowed a tiny bite of sandwich, he said, ‘I believe Pierre Dubrecilh works for you.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Good old Pierre. I met him when I was a student in Paris. We had some very good talks; he even convinced me to go to a bar with him a few times. He wrote a thesis about Algeria, as I recall. Are you sure, no sandwich?’