Figurehead (3 page)
So I lied, but like any good forger I made sure I slipped in a kernel of
truth: ‘I felt I might pass out,’ I wrote. Ha. That – passing out – was about
all I was bloody well good for.
I’m not a violent man. I’m pretty sure I’ve never killed a human being.
I’ve never fired a gun, except to find out how it feels and except for a few
times when I found myself in a spot of bother on the frontline – but, honestly,
whenever I tried to aim it was like I was drowning, limbs flailing about and
bullets flying everywhere except where they needed to go.
I’m not a violent man, but I would give anything to have had the
chance to land a blow or two on Kiry’s scrawny little body that day in ’91.
Just to sink my fist into his stomach a couple of times and to elbow him in
the ribs. Break his nose, maybe. Kick him while he’s down. I wouldn’t have
enjoyed it, but it would have been cathartic. Cleansing. Like that pink stuff
they make me drink when I haven’t shitted for too many days in a row.
It would have been a good way to end. I would have gone full circle. The
first time I ever saw Nhem Kiry, in ’61, I watched Lon Nol’s police beat him
up. I’d heard about this boyish left-winger who wrote brave and blunt newspaper
columns and who talked openly about the evils of corruption. One of
my spies tipped me off so, as if by chance, I was across the road when five
men (one of whom looked a lot like my spy) dragged Kiry into the street,
stripped him naked and pummelled him. As Kiry lay counting his ribs, his
left eyelids fused, the men taunted him and laughed at his penis. They
photographed him and distributed copies around Phnom Penh. I bought
one for a few packets of cigarettes and a bottle of plonk, but when I sent it in
with the story my editor said, ‘I don’t publish pornography, no matter how
tasteless.’
Back then – in ’61 – I felt pity for Kiry. But more: in the photograph of a
naked, bleeding man I thought I caught a glimpse of hope and maybe even
of greatness. I thought I saw a man who was a radical but who could still
make friends with the entire world. And now?
Late one afternoon Nhem Kiry, Member of Parliament, left his tiny office. He retrieved his pushbike and rode out into the heavy Phnom Penh heat, but not before he tucked his white cotton shirt into his trousers so it wouldn’t flap in the wind. There would be creases in the shirt later but no matter; he was finished at the office for the day.
Kiry rode slowly along Monivong Boulevard, upright in the saddle, his face so impassive that if his legs hadn’t been pumping he might have been mistaken for a statue. He veered around a cyclo and said to himself, ‘I am a happy person. I
am
a happy person.’ He cracked a smile but his mouth locked into place as if he was letting out a silent scream.
Kiry was on his way to see his friend Bun Sody, who was forever telling him that he was too stern. Kiry did not agree: if he was more often sombre than full of joy and light then that was because life was a serious business.
Besides, Kiry thought that Sody took things too far. Kiry had seen him tell some caustic joke and then collapse on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, his limbs crashing into furniture; he once saw him giggle with such gusto that he vomited all over himself. Kiry did not think there was anything
that
funny about life in Cambodia.
While Sody played the clown, Kiry ventured into the countryside to listen to the poorest of the peasants tell how the authorities systematically and legally stole their rice. He remembered all the details of these stories – not names but places and paddy yields – and he built up in his mind a panoramic vision of miserable inequity.
Whenever he said goodbye to these peasants, Kiry flashed a smile so full of empathy and genuine warmth that they knew for certain that he really and truly was on their side. It would have shocked Sody, had he seen it; and then, Kiry suspected, reduced him to a hopeless mess of giggles.
Kiry rode on. Even as sweat began to run down his armpits, a sensation he disliked intensely, he showed no outward discomfort. He rode a bicycle to remind all of Cambodia that he had refused a free Citroën and a chauffeur. His parliamentary colleagues had finally come to understand that he was incorruptible, but not before they’d offered him everything from warehouses full of cognac to women of all shapes and sizes and nationalities to teenage boys to suitcases full of US dollars to a cottage in the south of France. He’d rejected it all, yawned politely in their faces, and from that day on they’d tiptoed around him as if he were a landmine half out of the dirt. Kiry carried on as best he could, drawing strength from what Gandhi once said: ‘First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they fight you. Then you win.’
Kiry turned left, as did two motorcyclists following an indiscreet thirty metres behind. Everywhere Kiry went these days, the secret police followed. Kiry knew that they reported to General Lon Nol but he suspected that Prince Sihanouk was in on it: for a man who went about with his eyes squeezed shut, Sihanouk seemed capable of seeing vast distances.
Lon Nol had started rumours that Kiry was in communication with the communists in the jungle – which was true enough, for there was a certain man who delivered news and instructions in the dead of night. But now Lon Nol was publicly accusing him of orchestrating the peasant unrest out west. The very idea was ludicrous, Kiry thought. His constituents were in the south. Nobody in Kandal province was rioting or killing police, although Kiry would not have blamed them if they had been. All over the country, he believed, the peasants were waking from a deep sleep, rubbing their eyes, looking at the rich and powerful in Phnom Penh and thinking, Why do I work myself to death so they can live in palaces and sleep on mattresses stuffed full of money? Kiry had not incited any peasants to violence, although it is true that his man in the night had warned him what was going to happen out west. Still, he understood the rioters; he honoured them; and now his mouth turned dry whenever he thought of Lon Nol’s men beating or shooting them.
Kiry pretended not to notice that the secret police were following him. Nothing could make them leave him alone and, anyway, feigning ignorance gave him a certain freedom. They claimed he was responsible for orchestrating the riots and yet they tagged him as simple and naïve and cowardly.
Kiry turned left and then immediately left again down a narrow lane. He stopped by a pile of rubbish. Another man, dressed in exactly the same clothes as Kiry, mounted a replica of Kiry’s bicycle and pushed to a start. The two men did not make eye contact or speak. Then, as the other man began to peddle, Kiry hissed, ‘Tuck in your shirt.’
Kiry crouched down behind the rubbish, sending a black rat scuttling away. Once the motorcyclists had trundled past, he remounted and sped in the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later he entered a house. He removed his shoes and wiped his underarms and chest with his
krama
. He entered a windowless room just as Ted Whittlemore yanked the tops off two bottles of beer.
‘Here you go, mate,’ Ted said, handing a beer to Bun Sody, who grinned and lifted his shirt to mop his face.
Kiry wondered if Sody was ill. He seemed as delighted as ever with life but his eyes, two huge expanses of white, were abnormally bright against his reddish face. And Kiry noticed that his belly jutted out and his neck listed to one side, although his shoulders and his thighs looked as powerful as ever. Maybe he was stressed. Maybe he’d had too many late nights, fraternising and spreading the word that change was coming.
‘Well, well,’ Ted said. ‘Mr Nhem Kiry. What an honour. A drink?’
‘Whittlemore: I thought I made it quite clear that I wanted nothing more to do with you,’ Kiry said.
‘Aw, come on mate, don’t be grumpy. I’m on your side, you know.’
‘He shouldn’t be here,’ Kiry said to Sody. ‘Have you read that rubbish he’s been publishing in the US? He’s Sihanouk’s poodle, nothing more.’
‘I invited him,’ Sody said. ‘He says he has news.’
‘That’s right,’ Ted said. ‘Big news. Important news. But first have a drink with us. I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong exactly, but let me make it up to you. Pretty please?’
‘Either he leaves or I do.’
‘Look, I’m sorry I wrote that your mates in the jungle are amateurs, but I have to call it how I see it. You people have got to be nicer to your friends. Like the North Vietnamese. And Sihanouk. And me. So: a beer?’
‘No.’ Kiry was scanning the room, as if he was trying to decide which of the two doors the secret police would shortly burst through.
‘Just one? Come on, all good commies drink beer. Just look at me.’
‘You can’t support us
and
support Sihanouk.’
‘Why ever not? Come on, have a beer, they’re perfectly cold, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
‘I’m not concerned about anything.’
‘Well, from what I hear, that’s not wise, not wise at all, mate. But surely you’ll have
something
? Whisky? Tea? Is there any Chinese tea here?’ Ted yelled to no one in particular. ‘I know: armagnac. Your favourite, right?’
Kiry sat down at the table, hands clasped, and stared at a spot on the ceiling where the paint was beginning to fray. ‘Tea, then, if I must,’ he said.
‘That’s the way. Tell you what, I’ll put the armagnac in the teapot. That way, you can have what you really want but me and Sody will be none the wiser. Sounds like your sort of game, doesn’t it?’
‘This whole thing is a game to you,’ Kiry said. ‘You’re forever bouncing back and forth between us—’
‘Remind me, who is “us”?’
‘Between us and Sihanouk. Who’ll be your favourite next? Lon Nol? Lyndon B. Johnson? You’ll break bread with anyone for a good quote.’
‘We need an empty teapot and a cup and saucer in here. Bone china if you’ve got it,’ Ted called out, apparently to the wall. ‘Cheers, then. Here’s looking at you. Here’s looking
up
to you,’ he corrected himself. ‘Here’s to the man who can save Cambodia from itself. With a little bit of help, if he’s smart enough to accept it.’
‘Why is he here?’ Kiry asked Sody again.
‘To take you to dinner,’ Ted said. ‘To bury the hatchet. Surely you can eat in a restaurant occasionally without doing damage to your precious reputation.’
‘I don’t like restaurants. Anyway, I eat with my mother.’
‘Every night? No wonder people talk.’
An elderly man entered the room, shuffled up to Ted and handed him a teapot and a cup and saucer. ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Ted murmured. He poured armagnac from a bottle into the teapot and then from the teapot into the cup. He handed it to Kiry, who grimaced but took a sip.
‘Milk and sugar?’ Sody inquired.
‘Come on, everybody likes restaurants. Bring your poor old mum along. When’s the last time she had a night out on the town? I bet she’d just love that new French place across the river.’
‘Oh yes. La Guillotine,’ Sody said.
‘That’s the place,’ Ted said. ‘The frogs’ legs are out of this world. And the wine. Afterwards we could all go to the cinema. That’ll show the upper class that you’re well-rounded, not such a sourpuss, not such a peasant stick-in-the-mud.’
‘No.’
‘Sihanouk’s new masterpiece is playing, the one about the doomed love affair between the air hostess and the fat old politician. It’s beautiful. And so realistic. Your mum will cry and cry.’
‘And that hostess, oh my,’ Sody said. ‘I’d go flying with her any day, ha ha ha. Oh happy landings, if you take my meaning.’
‘But if my information is accurate – and I’m certain that it is – then tonight might be our last chance.’
‘What’s going on?’ Kiry said. ‘What is it that you think you know?’
‘I’m told that Lon Nol is blaming you for the peasant riots.’
‘Of course he is,’ Kiry said, irritated. ‘His goons have been harassing me since it happened.’
‘I’m told that Sihanouk believes him. My information is that they’re going to arrest you, probably this week. Sody too.’
‘Guilty by association?’ Sody moaned. ‘The story of my life.’
‘Who’s your source?’ Kiry said.
‘No. No names.’
‘Then why should I believe you? Your informants are figments of your imagination. And your loyalties shift like the wind.’
‘Not at all. My loyalties lie with you
and
with Sihanouk.’
Kiry snorted.
‘Come on. Imagine you and Sihanouk together: what a team,’ Ted said. ‘You’ll be like Simpson and Lawry. Lennon and McCartney. You’ll—’
‘I thought I was going to be Lennon,’ Sody said. ‘I want to be Lennon.’
‘You’ll be like Jack and Bobby Kennedy,’ Ted said.
‘Only alive,’ Kiry said. ‘And competent.’
‘You and Sihanouk in partnership, believe me, it’s the best way, it’s the—’
‘The best for you maybe. The Royal Radical, that’s what they call you.’
‘But listen—’
‘I’ve done nothing but listen since I got here.’
‘
Listen
. I saw a truckload of heads today. Lon Nol’s got his goons out Battambang way slaughtering anybody who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. In response to the rioting. He doesn’t care who dies just so long as it’s loud and bloody and there’s lots of witnesses. And he wants proof that his boys are doing a good job. So they’re bringing him home heads to count.’
‘I heard that rumour but I didn’t believe it,’ Sody said. ‘I still don’t believe it. You must be mistaken, Ted. Perhaps your scouts are making up stories to scare us?’
‘I saw the truck myself. There were a hundred heads. Maybe more. Lon Nol’s coming for you. Tomorrow, the day after, the day after that, a week, a month, I don’t know. But he’s coming.’
Kiry sighed. Although he found Ted’s pretence of omnipotence tiresome, he could not ignore this warning. He knew that Ted walked the corridors of Sihanouk’s palace like he owned the place and that he had contacts in every bar and down every blind alley in town.