Figurehead (18 page)
‘Please excuse me, Your Majesty, but I haven’t made myself clear: I’d rather drink beer than champagne.’
‘Tee hee: the Aussie wants a beer.’ Sihanouk pushed the coffee table aside and pulled his chair forward. He indicated that Ted should sit. ‘I think that you are disappointed in Sihanouk.’
‘May I be frank, Your Majesty? I am more than disappointed: I am distraught.’
‘Hmm. The Aussie speaks his mind. You want me to become a Vietnamese king, is that it? Like you are a Vietnamese Aussie? You understand, surely, that I cannot allow foreigners to tramp around Cambodia as if they own it. Cambodia is Sihanouk’s – and nobody else’s – to plunder. Why are the Vietnamese still in my country? In my palace? What do you say, Ted? Do you know? Will they ever leave or will they stay forever? Well? What do you say?’
‘But you are allied with the Khmer Rouge again, Your Majesty. After everything that has happened, after they fooled us, you are letting them use your name again. The world thinks that you and Nhem Kiry are the best of friends.’
‘Really, Ted. Nobody believes that. Nobody who matters, anyway. Nhem Kiry does what Sihanouk tells him to do.’
‘That’s what I believed last time because you assured me it was so, Your Majesty. Look where that left us.’
‘No: that will not do. If you think you made an error don’t go blaming Sihanouk for your bad judgment. Have the Vietnamese poisoned your mind? Or the Americans? I order you to recant your dirty accusation.’
‘I apologise, Your Majesty, for any perceived insult. I forgot my place.’
‘Are you unwell? I hear your bills are being paid by a right-wing American think-tank.’
‘That’s a dirty lie. But, Your Majesty, as for Nhem Kiry—’
‘Nhem Kiry’s life is written on his wrist: do this, do that, stand up, lie down, eat, drink, blink, breathe. Nhem Kiry is a harlot: he’ll spread his legs for anybody. He is irrelevant.’
‘I believe that you underestimate him. I’m worried that you are helping Pol Pot prepare to take charge of Cambodia once more.’
‘No. No no no. Sihanouk is doing what is right.
You
disappoint
me
, Mr Aussie. There was a time when you would have understood. There was a time when I could have counted on your help.’
‘The price is too high, Your Majesty.’
‘The price of what? Whittlemore’s reputation? You used to
130
be fearless.’
‘But you can change all this. You have the power now to achieve great things, and to sway world opinion, without the Khmer Rouge.’
‘Me? Sihanouk is as irrelevant as Nhem Kiry. Sihanouk is nothing.’
‘Your Majesty, you have never been nothing.’
‘I have a new coat of paint but I am still a condemned house.’
‘Then why not accept the inevitable? Retire, go to France.’
‘I wish I could, of course I do. Monique would be ecstatic. She might even let poor parched Sihanouk drink more often from her well: ooh la la, she plays so hard to get these days. But it is not possible for me to retire. Yes, I am nothing, I am jaded, I am wretched, but I must still do what I can for Cambodia. After everything I have endured, I cannot allow Cambodia to become a province of Vietnam. And when the superpowers decide Cambodia’s fate, I will be ready to take charge once more ... But, anyway, Sihanouk does not want to retire. He would shrivel up. But I will do it – believe me, I am serious – if, but only if, a Cambodian leader arises who is better and more worthy than Sihanouk. If only my boy would grow up.’
‘Ranariddh? With respect, Your Majesty, I hear that he and his brothers keep setting their private militias on each other.’
‘Ah well, boys will be boys.’
‘Your Majesty, if I may say so, I know you think you have your reasons, but surely you understand that people become confused when you ally yourself with the Khmer Rouge.’
‘Tee hee, I confuse them, I know it. And I confuse you, too, yes, don’t I? And do you know how I do it? Can you keep a secret? I tell the truth. Everybody says that Sihanouk changes his mind. Mr Flip-Flop, you called me that yourself, don’t deny it, you naughty rude Aussie. Monique was so angry with you when she read that awful article ... I tell the truth and nobody believes me. Sometimes I need to be the president of the Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea. Sometimes I have to give Mr Nhem Kiry a great big sloppy kiss. Sometimes I am Prince Norodom Sihanouk, private citizen. But every day I tell the truth as I know it on that day. Is it Sihanouk’s fault that the truth changes every time the sun rises? Ah, here are the drinks.’
A waiter, dressed in a red dinner suit, set down a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Moët and half a dozen bottles of Stella Artois. While the waiter wrestled with the champagne cork, Ted flicked the top off a beer with his pocketknife and swigged straight from the bottle. The waiter looked at him disdainfully then withdrew, taking an ice-frosted glass with him.
‘You’re not going to assassinate me, are you?’ Sihanouk asked, eyeing Ted’s pocketknife.
‘Kill my gracious host? Of course not.’
‘We still have one thing in common, I think: we avoid violence ourselves, we would not even know how to hit a man, as opposed to how to caress a woman. But as for our friends, there is nothing that they are not capable of.’
‘Yes, well ...’ Ted said, momentarily lost for words. ‘But in military terms, Your Majesty, the situation for your coalition is grave.’
‘Not at all. Your friends the Vietnamese are expert at propaganda. And they have a knack of appearing to win insignificant battles close to the Thai border. When journalists see battles with their own ears, when they see men lying in pieces, they take photographs, they collect newsreels and, alas, they think that what they witness is the key to understanding the world. You do it too, my friend, you are one of the worst. But I tell you that when it really matters – when there is nobody around to see – Sihanouk’s soldiers hold their positions. And our allies in the coalition are also doing very well.’
‘Even if that was true, how can it make you happy? Your allies are mass murderers.’
‘Do not speak to me as if I am a child. I do not need someone who watches and never acts to tell me things I have always known. You explain that Mr Pol Pot is a criminal, you say he is demented, you tell me he is a devil, and you expect me to look at you in wonder as if these things have never occurred to me before. Sihanouk is no dunce, Ted.’
‘Please excuse me, Your Majesty, I mean you no offence, of course. But if you know—’
‘If I know?
If?
They killed my family. How about yours? I sat in my prison-palace for three years while they massacred my people, hundreds and thousands of my little children. Sihanouk and Monique sat there like leaves on a tree, praying for cool weather and a wind to blow us off the branch.’
‘But with the greatest respect, Your Majesty, if you know all this—’
‘If, if, if.’
‘If you know this then how can you live with yourself for helping them? Why not abandon them? You can do it, the politics allow it now, surely you know that.’
‘Sihanouk’s world does not revolve around making friends with the Vietnamese.’
‘More’s the pity. But even the Americans, even ASEAN, are beginning to notice how badly the Khmer Rouge smell.’
An aide entered and reminded Sihanouk he had an appointment in half an hour.
‘Who is it? No, don’t tell me, I don’t care. Cancel it.’
‘But Your Majesty, it’s the American ambassador.’
‘Too bad. Tell him I have heard bad news from the war zone. Tell him I am awash with pain and guilt like at no other time in my long and distinguished life and that I cannot possibly see him until lunchtime tomorrow. Come on, old friend, drink up: so much earnest talking. You worry too much these days. You used to know how to enjoy yourself.’
‘I am sorry, Your Majesty, but—’
‘I know, you are frustrated. Well too bad: Sihanouk wants to have fun. I want to play music. You will accompany me, yes? See, I had them bring a piano especially.’
‘But Your Majesty, it has been years since I last played.’
‘And I blame the Vietnamese for that too. Is there a properly tuned Steinway anywhere in Indochina? Come, fix yourself another beer. I will prepare myself.’
Sihanouk sucked a reed, assembled his clarinet and wiped it reverently with a soft cloth.
‘What shall we play, Your Majesty?’
‘Oh, Ted, surely you don’t need to ask.’
Ted’s fingers hovered above the keys for a moment, then eased down and held a muted chord. Sihanouk closed his eyes, rested the clarinet on his trembling lower lip, and launched into his very own version of Acker Bilk’s ‘Stranger on the Shore.’ Ted watched Sihanouk’s face as he turned the old standard into a whole new composition. His enthusiasm infected Ted. As Sihanouk’s clarinet swept high and low, Ted’s chords echoed the warble and occasionally led the way.
When they finished the song, Sihanouk stood silent and immobile, transported to a higher consciousness. Ted watched him and, just for a moment, could not help but fall in love with him all over again.
As he stood to leave, Sihanouk embraced him and whispered in his ear, ‘Come back to me: all is forgiven.’
‘I’m honoured, Your Majesty. I’ll consider it,’ Ted said.
Ted left on a high, but by the time he found a bar and perched himself on a stool, he felt as if Sihanouk had jumped on his back and was crushing him with his weight. Ted jerked his shoulders and shook his head, drawing a sharp stare from the barman. Ted pondered Sihanouk’s offer and quickly dismissed it: his job was to carry on being the voice of reason, the voice against cant. It wasn’t his fault if nobody was listening.
It is difficult to believe that the Jakarta Informal Meeting has furthered
the cause of Cambodian peace, if indeed that was ever its true purpose.
At Bogor, former Indonesian president Sukarno’s getaway palace, sworn
enemies sipped cocktails and pretended that they could stand each other’s
company. They may have engaged in so-called dialogue, but it is highly
unlikely that they allowed themselves to do what normal people do at cocktail
parties: have spontaneous conversations. In all likelihood, they stood
about reciting carefully crafted scripts. All very predictable. All very pointless.
The content of the dialogue gives no cause for optimism. One example
will suffice: the Vietnamese delegation, led by the redoubtable Nguyen Co
Thach, reiterated that Hanoi is in the process of withdrawing all of its
troops from Cambodia. Everybody knows that the soldiers really are leaving,
but Vietnam’s opponents persist in pretending it isn’t true.
This observer sensed an even more worrying trend. Calls from various
parties for some type of UN peacekeeping force are wrongheaded and even
pernicious. This conflict has never been a civil war – or, at least, never
solely
a civil war. The Cambodian people are not to blame for prolonging
this war or for the continued presence of the Khmer Rouge as a guerrilla
force. The principal combatants in Cambodia have always been China, the
Americans and – as a defensive measure and against their personal wishes
– the Soviet Union. Ask yourself this: when the UN arrives to make peace,
whose interests will they truly be serving?
—Edward Whittlemore, ‘As I See It,’ syndicated column
‘This suit is a disaster,’ Nhem Kiry said. ‘And I hold you responsible.’ He tried to smooth the wrinkled white linen. ‘Oh, I give up.’
‘You look suave,’ Akor Sok said, ‘and
so
statesmanlike.’
‘I look like a tennis player sent out to save the world.’
Kiry took the paper orchid from his lapel – the purple dye was beginning to run – and threw it into the gutter. He acknowledged but waved away several reporters loitering in front of the hotel.
‘No, it’s too hot today. I will talk to you tomorrow.’
Two Cambodian monks, dressed in saffron robes and holding umbrellas to protect their shaved heads from the sun, stood waiting for traffic to pass so they could cross the road. Kiry’s bodyguards stepped forward and one of them yelled, ‘Stay away,’ but Kiry held up his hand.
‘It’s all right. I want to speak with them,’ he said.
‘But we’re late, Your Excellency,’ Sok said. ‘It will take at least an hour to reach the palace.’
‘Late?
Late
? I can’t imagine what we’re going to miss.’
‘You cannot trust monks. Talking only encourages them.’
‘When peace comes we must be a party for all Kampucheans. How do you propose I lay the groundwork for this if I cannot speak with the people who will spread the word on our behalf?’
‘It could be a dirty trick. They may want to yell at you. They may pressure you to make promises that they will then hold against you. Check their sleeves for recording devices. And for knives: they could be here to assassinate you.’
‘They are monks. I read about them in the newspaper: they have come to promote the cause of peace.’
‘They look like monks, but looks can be deceiving. I heard about a mass murderer in Japan. He shaved his head and wore robes and nobody suspected him. He killed twenty-eight women before they caught him. When the police asked him why he did it he said, “The Buddha made me do it.”’
‘Do you know your problem? You have no empathy for everyday people. It makes me sad.’
‘Wait for your guards, Your Excellency.’
‘If I do that then there’s no point in me going at all.’
‘Please, Your Excellency, be careful crossing the road. Remember the golden rule: look to the left, look to the right, look to the left again.’
As Kiry stepped onto the road Sok ran ahead, waving the traffic to a halt. As Kiry walked past Sok he hissed, ‘Get back over there.’
The monks clasped their hands together in greeting. Kiry stooped as low as his travel-weary knees permitted. One of the monks sprinkled water from a plastic bottle over Kiry’s head and blessed him.
‘Thank you, Venerable Ones,’ Kiry said, ‘and thank you for travelling such a long way.’
