Figurehead (30 page)

‘This chamber is empty.’

‘I have no bullets. I have no idea how to load such a gun.’ Kiry dropped to his haunches and accepted a bottle of water. He took a swig and poured a little over his exposed neck.

Samnang recognised the other gun. It was Ta Mok’s Luger, circa 1930. Mok claimed it was worth a fortune. He only ever brought it out when he was drinking. Samnang slowly raised his arm and pointed the gun at the bridge of Kiry’s nose. Kiry forced a weak smile. Samnang squeezed the trigger. A tiny blue flame appeared. A soldier stepped forward and lit his Marlboro.

* * *

Ted Whittlemore wanted desperately to skip the opening of Lea’s latest photography exhibition. The thought of a room full of people petrified him. But he knew he had to go. He’d missed the last one, Lea’s first-ever solo exhibition. He’d been holed up in bed, the whole right side of his body quaking. It was a pretty decent excuse, he thought, but Lea only forgave him once she spoke to Nurse Wendy, who had wasted most of the afternoon trying to help Ted get dressed.

Ted was waiting in the lobby when Michael arrived at five-thirty to collect him.

‘Where’s Anne?’ Ted asked

‘She can’t come.’

‘Can’t come? Why ever not?’

Michael paused. ‘She’s gone,’ he said.

‘Gone? What ... Gone where?’

‘She’s gone, Dad. Left. She’s taken a job in Brisbane.’

‘Brisbane? Brisbane,
Queensland
? She’s nicked off? Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘But Brisbane: bloody hell, that’s halfway to Jakarta.’

‘Yes, well—’

‘When’s she coming back?’

‘I don’t think she’ll be back. She’s left me, Dad. For good.’

‘But ... But I really liked her. She had spirit.’

‘She’s not dead, Dad. She’s just not here anymore. Do you want to bring the wheelchair?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘The subject is, do you want to go in a wheelchair?’

‘I’d rather we drove.’

‘Come on, Dad, we can’t be late. Do you want to br—’

‘But just like that? You had no idea she was planning it? Didn’t you know she was unhappy?’

‘Of course I did, Dad, but that’s hardly the point, is it?’

‘No? Isn’t it? ... She didn’t even come to say goodbye to me.’

‘She said to tell you she’d write you a letter. Wheelchair?’

‘No.’

‘Walking stick, then.’

‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll lean against a sculpture. Or I can get one of Lea’s sweet little friends to prop me up. That brunette with the funny nose and the red cheeks: I’ll take her.’

‘Walking stick or you’re not coming.’

Ted peered at Michael. ‘Don’t take it out on me. I didn’t tell her to leave.’

‘It’s quarter to six, Dad. Come on. What’s it to be: wheelchair or walking stick?’

‘I could get a taxi, you know. You can’t stop me.’

‘Oh, just come on, will you, it’s only a stick. Ho Chi Bloody Minh carried a stick with him everywhere, didn’t he?’ Michael said, on the verge of tears. Ted recalled what Anne had confided one day about Michael. ‘He’s so sensitive,’ she’d said. ‘He gets upset about the oddest things. Don’t tell him I told you: that’ll just get him all hot under the collar.’

‘Ho Chi Minh, eh? I can’t argue with that,’ Ted said.

Michael went to Ted’s room and came back with his walking stick, an ugly gnarled length of oak with a rubber bottom. It was the last remnant of Ted’s father, who’d hobbled for the last fifteen years of his life after his hip healed badly after a fall. When Michael held it out, Ted leaned close and grasped his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry about Anne,’ he said, almost too quietly for Michael to hear.

‘Me too, Dad, me too. Come on, let’s go.’

Half an hour later, father and son stood and stared at a photograph that was labelled ‘L.I.f.E.’ It was five feet by four feet, glossy blue with an indistinct object in the top left-hand corner. It was housed in an enormous gold frame that threatened to bring the whole wall down.

‘I like it,’ Ted said firmly. ‘You could certainly use a couple of those around the house. And only three thousand dollars. Good value for the frame alone, I reckon.’

Michael smiled. ‘I’ll get us a drink.’

‘Do you think that will help?’

‘Keep your wits about you, Dad. It’s a minefield in here.’

Lea floated into view, wearing an ankle-length dress that Ted thought had to be a nightgown. She took Ted’s arm. ‘You made it, then.’

‘What a tail you’ve grown,’ Ted said, indicating the men Lea dragged behind her and who, as she settled in beside Ted, fanned out, each choosing an image to ponder.

‘What do you think, Grandpa? Be honest, now.’

‘I think they’re all too scruffy and too vacant. Especially him,’ Ted pointed at one of her admirers, a short bloke with a bad haircut and three days of stubble who was dressed in jeans that didn’t quite fit him and a red T-shirt that had lost its shape. ‘And that one over there: Jesus, love, he’s almost as old as I am.’

‘What do you think about the photographs?’

‘Well, I ... They’re certainly original, I’ll give you that.’

‘You hate them.’

‘I don’t hate them, love, not at all. I think they’re wonderful. All congratulations to you. Really. It’s just that—’

‘It’s just that what?’

‘If you’ll let me finish – it’s rude to badger your elders, didn’t anybody ever teach you that? It’s just that, I mean, for instance, if … Well, take this one: is it supposed to be called “life,” or “ell-one-eff-
ee
,” or ... ?’

‘It’s up to you. Whatever you prefer. Whatever you see in it.’

‘No, that doesn’t help me, love. That’s exactly the problem. I need to know what to call my art. Otherwise I can’t tell you whether I like it or not because I don’t know what it is I’m looking at.’

Lea laughed. ‘You haven’t got a drink. Are you ill?’

‘Your dad’s getting me one now. Now listen, why di—’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Stop interrupting while you’re listening. Why didn’t you tell me about your mum and dad?’

‘He’s told you, then. About time, too.’

‘Why didn’t
you
tell me?’

‘It’s his news, his private life, not mine.’

‘But aren’t you upset?’

‘I suppose. A little, maybe. But honestly, Grandpa, it’s been a long time coming. It’s better this way. Better for everybody.’

‘Better for your dad?

‘Maybe especially him.’

‘I don’t think he sees it like that.’

‘He will. Eventually. Come on, I want to show you something.’

Lea took Ted’s arm – as she did so half a dozen male heads jerked in their direction – and led him across the room.

‘Close your eyes,’ she said.

‘Do I have to? One of these days they won’t ever open again.’

‘Close them.’

‘You’ll have to hypnotise me.’

‘Close them or I’ll start spreading rumours that you’re senile.’

‘Promises, promises,’ Ted said, but he put his hands in front of his face. Lea led him through the crowd, collecting congratulations and pecks to both cheeks as she went.

‘Okay, Grandpa, you can open your eyes now.’

Ted blinked. After the fuzzy lines turned sharp, after the green and black splotches faded, an enormous black and white photograph of an old man confronted him. All of a sudden he wished he’d brought the wheelchair.

‘But ... is that me?’

‘Of course it’s you, Grandpa.’

In the photograph Ted stood in the ocean, his head and shoulders out of the water. Lea had taken it the one time she had cajoled him into going swimming with her at Henley Beach. He had endured it for ten minutes because she promised him that the cold salt water would be therapeutic. His white hair was stuck askew across his head, which seemed to have expanded to twice its normal size. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his skin beaded. A triangular crease ran across the bridge of his nose, joining the corners of his eyes. It made him look, he thought, as if he was regressing into some lower lifeform.

‘Well? Do you like it?’

‘I’m not sure any man should have to see the shape of his skull. It’s like peering at your own corpse pinned to a wall.’

‘I think you look beautiful.’

‘Why’s it called “spiRit”? You should have called it “MoNsteR.”’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Lea asked.

Ted did mind. He minded very much. He wanted to rip the image off the wall and skewer it with his walking stick.

‘Of course I don’t mind, love. Anyway, you’re an artist: you don’t need my permission.’

Ted only lasted another ten minutes before he began to tilt and sway. When he began to dribble, Michael and Lea each grabbed an arm and shepherded him to the car.

They were passing through the intersection of Osmond Terrace and the Parade when a blood vessel ruptured in Ted’s head. His closed eyes flickered. Michael thought Ted was asleep, and took the last corners to the Concertina Rest Home gently. Only when Michael parked did he realise that something had gone terribly wrong inside Ted’s shell of a body.

Ted lay in a bed in the high-dependency ward for nearly a month. The doctors punctured him with tubes to feed him and to remove his wastes. He wore an oxygen mask. Nurses came from time to time to turn his body. Lea hated that most of all. While one nurse cooed in Ted’s ear – ‘It’s a beautiful sunny day outside, Mr Whittlemore. Not a cloud in the sky. Can you be a brave boy for me now? We’re just going to give you a teensy-weensy jolt and maybe after, when you’re feeling a little better, I’ll have a little treat especially for you. Do you like chocolate, Mr Whittlemore? Everybody likes chocolate, don’t they?’ One nurse grabbed his shoulders and the other his feet and they yanked him like they were pulling a tooth.

Ted murmured now and again, indistinguishable sounds insinuating speech. His eyelids flickered and occasionally threatened to open. Once or twice one eyebrow raised when somebody spoke to him. It gave Lea hope, but he was toying with her. He never regained consciousness. He got pneumonia and his lungs slowly filled up until he drowned in his bed.

Ted Whittlemore died on a Tuesday. At the moment he stopped breathing, Michael was staring out the window. There were a few spots of rain colouring the red paving, and Pamela, that attractive administrator Michael had been thinking of asking to the Barossa Jazz and Wine Festival, was walking towards the car park. Michael watched her buttocks retreating and wondered whether it would be appropriate to knock on the door of her office, or if he should contrive to bump into her.

Lea was down the hall, buying burnt coffee from the vending machine adjacent to the fire stairs.

1998

Pol Pot spoke his last words to Nhem Kiry – Kiry forever believed they were his last words to any person – a week before he died. Sitting up in his camp bed, he half-listened as Kiry read aloud pieces from a week-old
Bangkok Post
. Occasionally, he made a comment – ‘That Mr Clinton takes us all for fools,’ or, ‘Who scored the goals for Manchester United?’ – but mostly he concentrated on keeping his head upright. After a while he slept so noiselessly that Kiry once or twice leant across to check that he was breathing.

Suddenly Pol Pot jerked awake.

‘There is no simple answer,’ he said. ‘It depends entirely on the context.’

‘What does, Big Brother?’

Pol Pot squinted at Kiry, confused. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself.’

‘Can you see me, Big Brother?’

‘Go away, whoever you are.’

‘Calm yourself, Big Brother. Are you thirsty?’

Kiry put a bottle of water to Pol Pot’s lips. He tried to swat it away but he didn’t have the strength.

‘Where are we?’

‘Anlong Veng.’

‘Still? We need to get away from here. There’s not a moment to lose. The Chinese will welcome us, won’t they?’

‘I’m not sure, Big Brother. Perhaps not.’

‘Thailand then.’

‘They might allow you to visit the hospital, if you promise to be a quiet patient. But they will not let you stay.’

‘Phnom Penh? Is there no chance, for you at least? You should climb up on Ranariddh’s shoulders, like we always discussed.’

‘Big Brother, I hoped to negotiate with Ranariddh. But Hun Sen has crushed Ranariddh. Ranariddh is in exile in France. You know all this.’

‘Then we will go to Yugoslavia?’

‘Big Brother, Yugoslavia no longer exists. It has broken into pieces.’

‘President Tito will embrace us, surely?’

‘President Tito is dead. Don’t you remember?’

‘Dead? Are you sure?’ Pol Pot’s eyes clouded over. He sagged in his bed.

‘Are you all right, Big Brother? Can I get anything for you?’

‘Go away. I’m sick of you spying on me.’

An hour or so later, Pol Pot’s daughter found him slumped on the floor of the hut. They lay him on the mattress. Ta Mok’s doctor came to look, but he could think of nothing much to do other than force water and a little sticky rice down his throat. Every few hours soldiers shifted and shook his limbs so that he didn’t bruise too much.

Some time after Pol Pot died, three of Ta Mok’s bodyguards entered the hut. They greeted Kiry with polite, sympathetic murmurs. One bodyguard took hold of Pol Pot’s feet. A second man brought his wrists together above his head. They lifted Pol Pot – ‘He’s so light,’ one of them whispered – so that the third bodyguard could place a length of tarpaulin between the body and the mattress. They dragged several blocks of ice into the hut and wedged them under Pol Pot’s arms and between his legs. They lit cigarettes, admired their handiwork and wandered off.

Kiry knew he should leave Pol Pot’s body and offer his support to Mea, who was inconsolable. Or ask Ta Mok if he could spare a can of Coca-Cola to give to poor little Sisopha, who was outside drawing pictures in the dirt with a blank look on her face. Or just retreat to his hut and allow Kolab to comfort him, maybe massage his shoulders. But he stayed where he was, counting the drops of melted water dripping onto the dirt.

Nuon Chea entered the hut, limping badly. Kiry stood up to let him have the upturned wooden crate he’d been sitting on. Usually, Chea sought out Kiry to rant at him, to accuse him of some weakness or failing, to insult him for (it seemed to Kiry) no good reason at all. Today Chea was silent. Kiry wanted to leave but he sensed that Chea needed his company.