Figurehead (4 page)

‘What do you think?’ Sody said to Kiry.

‘It’s time. We go, like we always knew we would.’

That night, Nhem Kiry lay down on his mattress fully dressed. He closed his eyes but did not sleep. In the corner of the room his mother snored and occasionally whimpered. Kiry sat up and watched her skeletal outline. She’d grown old so quickly she could barely move about the house. She claimed that when she walked she could hear her hip slowly grinding to dust. Kiry suspected she was imagining the noise but he did not doubt that her pain was real.

Kiry wanted to say goodbye, but he knew that if he revealed his plans she would start wailing and the whole neighbourhood – and the secret police – would come running. So he turned, faced the wall and tried to pretend she wasn’t there.

Before dawn, Kiry slipped outside. He lay on his stomach in the dirt and crawled slowly past houses, through a rancid, muddy ditch, across a couple of roads, until he came to a man who stood waiting with a pushbike. Kiry mounted the bike and the man whispered directions in his ear. Kiry nodded and set off. He took a circuitous route, avoiding main roads and staying close to buildings. He saw no one, although a dog chased him for a couple of blocks, barking and snapping at the back wheel.

He rode for five minutes until he came to a man sitting on a motorbike. The man revved the engine as soon as Kiry climbed on behind. They rode through streets and alleys Kiry did not know. When they passed a man scratching his bare chest and considering the pre-dawn darkness, Kiry buried his face in the driver’s back.

Soon they stopped at an abandoned warehouse near the river. Bun Sody stepped forward and whispered a greeting. Before them stood their transport out of the city: a mound of rubbish on a cart. Kiry and Sody wrapped
kramas
over their mouths and noses, then crawled along a tunnel dug into rotting fruit and vegetable peelings to a hollowed-out cave. A trusted man flicked at a buffalo’s ear
25
and they trundled forward.

Kiry lay perfectly still, although every time the cart’s wooden wheels went over a bump a pineapple head scraped back and forth across the bridge of his nose. He could hear Sody’s breathing, more shallow than his own. It’s easier for him, Kiry thought. He has soft curves and flab to protect him.

How apt it is that we are taking this trip together, Kiry thought. As young men – boys, really – Kiry and Sody had taken a boat to Marseille, sharing a cabin barely bigger than the hollowed-out space they now endured and almost as rank. And they had shared an apartment for the first few months in Paris, until Kiry felt more confident about his foreign surroundings and moved elsewhere because he wanted to read and think in solitude.

Kiry could have reached out and touched Sody’s hand. Sody would have liked that. But Kiry did not want Sody to know that he was uneasy. So he contented himself with wiggling his fingers and toes and with moving his jaw up and down, even though it created a curious sensation in his inner ear, as if a worm was crawling out of his head.

Kiry had never forgotten how forlorn Sody looked when Kiry told him he was moving out of their Paris apartment. He had taken pleasure in the revelation that Sody needed him. And he had admired Sody for saying ‘Fair enough’ even as his eyes filled with tears.

I was pissed off that neither Nhem Kiry nor Bun Sody – not even Sody, who
was always waiting for the next party – joined me for dinner the night before
they fled Phnom Penh. What a fine last supper we could have had, the saviour
and the saved. What a celebrity I would have been the next day: Ted
Whittlemore, journalist and free-thinker and the last person to see the two
martyrs alive.

By mid-morning the whole city was talking about it. Almost everybody I
spoke to was certain that Lon Nol’s thugs, with Prince Sihanouk’s ‘don’t
tell me and I won’t know’ approval, had executed Kiry and Sody. ‘They
were gagged and bound and burnt alive in an irrigation ditch,’ one of my
sources told me, a mid-range public servant who I had previously believed
supplied impeccable information. For appearance’s sake I slipped him a couple
of notes but I never used him again. Then I went to see Sihanouk.

‘How was your dinner at La Guillotine?’ Sihanouk wanted to know.

‘Ah, Your Majesty. I see you’re as well informed as ever. The food was
excellent. But unfortunately, because I was eating alone, the owner kept
sending me female companionship.’

‘Unfortunately? Edward, you surprise me. You should change your diet
if you are a little limp in that area. Are you getting enough red meat? Or
frogs’ legs? They always remind Sihanouk of a woman’s thighs. I lick the
salt off them and then one thing leads to another and—’

‘Your Majesty, what do you make of the disappearance of Nhem Kiry
and Bun Sody?’

‘Ah, them! Who knows? Who cares? Sihanouk is not responsible for the
whereabouts of every cowardly man in the country. But if you want my
opinion: if you travel to the north I think you will find them alive and well
and enjoying the rural air. Why, what do you think has happened?’

What an excruciating moment. I saved two men’s lives, that’s the plain
truth of the matter, but what good is a delicious secret you cannot share?
What is the point of making history if you cannot brag about your great
deed?

‘I haven’t a clue,’ I reluctantly told Sihanouk.

I knew the truth but in my column I repeated the whispers on the street:
‘Leading left-wing politicians, Mr Nhem Kiry and Mr Bun Sody, disappeared
overnight. While it is possible that they have fled to the communist
maquis in the far north of the country, it is more likely that the authorities
have arrested and summarily executed them.’

When Sihanouk read my column he summoned me and then refused to
speak. I stood before him, arms by my side, paying silent penance for my
sins, waiting and waiting for him to dismiss me.

But Sihanouk had too many real enemies to stay angry with his friends.
I went to Vietnam for a month and by the time I returned he had entirely
forgiven me. Soon we were once again eating and drinking and making
music together. Soon he was whispering in my ear again about every aide or
family member he suspected of treachery.

No one understood Sihanouk like I did. He felt schemed against every
moment of every day by every single person in Cambodia, alive and dead,
and by every foreign diplomat and politician who took his hand and
praised him. But he had an amazing ability to move on, to forgive and
forget. People thought this proved that he was stupid or weak. But I knew
better.

1970

A plane stood stone cold on the far edge of a Soviet military air-field, empty of fuel and food. While they waited, Prince Norodom Sihanouk and Ted Whittlemore played badminton on the tarmac. Seven of Sihanouk’s aides and a Russian pilot stood in a line and made a net. On Sihanouk’s insistence – ‘Everybody knows that a net has no holes’ – they held hands.

Monique, Sihanouk’s wife, was so stupendously bored she agreed to umpire. But she soon displeased Sihanouk.

‘You must concentrate, my gorgeous burst of sunlight. Really, your poor grasp of the rules does you no credit.’ In response Monique produced a copy of
Vogue
from within the folds of her vast mink coat. Sihanouk then took it upon himself to umpire as well as play.

‘Another point to me! Sihanouk takes control.’

‘What?
What?
’ Ted said.

‘Ha ha, too bad, Mr Aussie. Your commoner’s blood is no match for the Great Svelte Asian Neutralist. That’s 12-5 in favour of Sihanouk. Just three more points and the game is mine.’

‘But you caught the shuttle. That’s my point.’

‘You are ignorant. You are white trash. You know nothing. Nothing. 13-5.’

‘12-5. But I protest. It should be 11-6.’

‘13-5. Sihanouk’s serve.’

‘No, really, with the greatest respect, I insist on hearing the umpire’s ruling.’

‘Very well. What do you say, Monique, my beautiful wife? Isn’t she beautiful, Ted? She’s as sexy as a movie star, don’t you agree? She crouches down and moves like a tigress, she—’

‘Let Ted have the point,’ Monique said.

‘Oh my sweet mango, what a thing to say. Sihanouk cannot give away that which is not his to give. Surely you remember: if the rally goes more than six shots, both players must lift their left leg and play only on their right leg. If a rally goes more than twelve shots, they must switch legs. This rally went thirteen shots. Ted, plainly, is standing on the wrong leg. Nobody can change that. Nobody can give him his point. His point does not exist to be given.’

There were murmurings along the net. A Russian official had just handed one of the aides a note, which relayed the news that in Cambodia General Lon Nol and Sihanouk’s cousin, Sirik Matak, had engineered a coup d’état. Sihanouk was no longer prime minister. The parliament and the palace were no longer his.

A whispered argument broke out along the net. Some of the aides wanted to break the news to Sihanouk immediately. Some wanted to wait until the plane was airborne and flying across the tundra towards Beijing. Only the Russian pilot seemed happy. Smiling and nodding and holding hands, he was captivated by the idea of being friends with people to whom he could not say a word. When Ted called out to him in Russian – ‘Having fun, comrade?’ and then ‘Cat got your tongue?’ – he grunted, aggrieved.

Just as Sihanouk was about to serve a car sped towards them and screeched to a halt. Sihanouk served a fault.

‘That doesn’t count,’ he cried. ‘The awful noise, that black, pungent exhaust, the ugliness of the car’s lines have put Sihanouk completely off his game.’

‘Fault,’ Ted said. ‘My serve. 5-12.’

‘13-5. Cheating does not become you, Ted. Give me the shuttlecock. That car put Sihanouk off his game. Play two, play two, by royal decree play two.’

‘Excuse me, Your Royal Highness.’ Behind Sihanouk, black-suited, grey-skinned and grave, stood the Soviet premier, Petr Mironov.

‘Premier, what a delightful surprise. Where did you spring from?’

‘From my car.’

‘You honour me with your presence. Might I dispatch my unworthy adversary before we confer? I’m just two points from a quite famous against-the-odds victory.’

‘Please forgive me, Your Royal Highness, but this cannot wait.’

‘Oh very well.’ Sihanouk placed his racquet on the tarmac and wiped his face with a towel handed to him by an aide. He waggled a finger at Ted. ‘Sihanouk strongly suggests you review your tactics. They are predictable. And reform your morals. Sihanouk is saddened by your win-at-all-costs approach.’

Mironov led Sihanouk away from the group before he spoke.

‘Your Royal Highness, you have my deepest commiserations. Might I inquire, what have you decided to do?’

‘I can do nothing. I am informed that the plane is delayed so I will wait. Sihanouk thanks you from the bottom of his heart for the hospitality you have shown him by loaning him your personal plane and he is happy to wait.’

‘But … Nobody has told you? Oh dear, oh dear: Mr Prime Minister, Your Royal Highness, it is my melancholy duty to report to you that I have news from Phnom Penh: the National Assembly has voted to strip you of all your powers.’

Sihanouk took one step back. He blinked once, nodded, and blinked twice more. His ears turned red. He slumped, shielded his eyes with his hands and then slowly, with a supreme effort, lifted his head and snapped his shoulders back into place.

‘Ooh la la,’ Sihanouk said eventually. ‘It has happened? They really have done it?’

‘They have,’ Mironov said.

‘But … Done it, really and truly, not just talked and threatened and then cowered in the corner when the time for action has come?’

‘They have completed the task.’

‘But . . . I cannot believe it. Cambodia belongs to Sihanouk! The people are my sons and daughters, my little children . . . What of General Lon Nol? Imprisoned? Dead?’

‘My information is that General Lon Nol led the coup.’

‘I . . .I smell an American plot. Sihanouk smells cheeseburgers. Sihanouk smells hot apple pie. Excuse me, Mr Premier, but I must consult my wife.’

Sihanouk trembled in the strengthening wind as he told Monique the news. They held each other and wept. Ted watched as Sihanouk’s hands moved slowly down until they cupped Monique’s buttocks. He squeezed and squeezed as his shoulders heaved.

‘Perhaps it is time we went to France,’ Monique said eventually.

‘What? I will not run. Sihanouk is no quitter.’

‘But we could retire to Mougins. After all you have done for your people, they show their appreciation by knifing you in the back. So let them flounder. Let them fail. And then watch them come pleading to you to return and take charge.’

‘No. No. Sihanouk will fight … Ted, Sihanouk will fight. 13-5, Sihanouk’s serve, come on, Ted, pick up your racquet.’

‘Your Majesty, my deepest commiserations at this shattering though not unexpected turn of events,’ Ted called across the net.

‘Not unexpected?
Not unexpected?
Dear oh dear, Ted, do you have to be right about everything?’

‘I apologise, Your Majesty.’

‘No matter. Let’s not think about it. Sihanouk’s serve: are you ready?’

‘Are
you
ready?’ Monique muttered, retrieving her
Vogue
from the ground. ‘Does anybody know when we are leaving? Or
where
we are going?’

‘Beijing, as planned. Where else?’ Sihanouk said. ‘Chou En-lai will know what to do. He will snap his fingers and fix everything. Beijing, I say, but not until we finish our game. And not until that plane is full of food: Sihanouk wants a feast. Come on, Ted, concentrate so Sihanouk can beat you fair and square. The winner plays Premier Mironov.’