Figurehead

by Patrick Allington

  ‘Do you know what I want? Do you know what I hoped for when I asked you here?’

  ‘Illumination?’

  ‘Yes, of course, ha ha. But the other thing I wanted – I’m still hoping for it, call me a dreamer – is that you might listen to my viewpoint rather than dismiss me according to your preconceptions. Do you know your problem? Please, it’s nothing personal, but you have the same disease as all the journalists who are so sympathetic to the anti-war movement. You’re all so caught up in the big picture – forcing the geopolitics to line up with the way you imagine the world works – that it never occurs to you that I mean what I say. And that President Nixon might mean what he says.’

  ‘How can he mean it if he doesn’t understand it?’

  ‘Now, now, Ted. Don’t go falling for your own propaganda. All I’m suggesting is that you consider the possibility that we are pursuing a morally upright and honourable solution in Vietnam. And that what we say in public is exactly what we mean. President Nixon and I are the strongest two anti-war Americans you will ever find. More coffee?’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? My tongue is already damaged irreparably.’

  ‘Taste buds have remarkable powers of recuperation. Trust me, I know from experience. But would you prefer a glass of beer?’

  ‘What, now? It’s 11.30. Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘I think we both know there’s barely any alcohol in a Budweiser.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll have one.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And you’ll join me?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. I couldn’t possibly.’

  One of the phones on Kissinger’s desk rang.

  ‘Yes? . . . What about? . . . All right, put him on.’ He put his hand over the receiver, whispered ‘New York Times’ to Ted and rolled his eyes. ‘Henry Kissinger speaking … Hello, Brad . . . No problem, I can only spare you a moment but it’s great to speak to you again … Yes, I’m aware of the turn that particular demonstration has taken … Well, I can’t condone their methods. Lying down in the street seems a singularly ludicrous exercise. People need to be able to get to work. They need to be able to get their children to school. On the – please, Brad, let me finish. On the other hand, I am sympathetic to the demonstrators’ frustrations. I share those frustrations. That’s why we’re redoubling our efforts to find a peaceful solution in Vietnam that is acceptable to all parties. But we can’t just walk away. We have responsibilities to the American public. And to the Vietnamese people … You’re welcome, Brad, see you around. Am I right in thinking you wrote yesterday’s editorial? . . . A most intriguing perspective. Utterly wrong, of course, but fascinating.’

  He hung up and turned back to Ted. ‘Poor fellow doesn’t know his history. Now, where were we?’

  ‘Disagreeing.’

  ‘Oh yes. My point is quite simple. What are the North Vietnamese doing most successfully at present?’

  ‘Destroying you on the battlefield.’

  ‘No, Ted, no. Certainly they have their little victories and I’m sure they seem marvellous if you happen to be there to witness them. But no. Their greatest success is in influencing American domestic opinion. I know you won’t tell me who’s masterminding it, but—’

  ‘It’s not me, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’m proud to say I’ve never been in charge of anything in my life. I’m not even in charge of myself.’

  ‘Well, whoever is in control of Vietnam’s public relations is brilliant but desperately misguided. They are the very people who need to understand that we really are genuinely trying to negotiate. Don’t you see?’

  ‘You want the Vietnamese to like you?’

  ‘No, no, don’t be a simpleton. They tie me up and then complain when all I can do is wiggle. They demand that I think in the absolutes of right and wrong, like a member of the public. But I cannot work like that unless I am willing to fail the American people, politically and morally. I do not have the luxury of idealism or of conforming to some theoretical notion of pure rectitude.’

  ‘You’d bend in the wind so long as the New York Times didn’t report it?’

  ‘Bend? I’d snap myself in two if I thought it would help. But never in public.’

  ‘And in the meantime Vietnamese and Cambodians die.’

  ‘Americans, too… If only there was some way to negotiate the peace without having the actual war.’

  1973

  On a sunny afternoon in Siem Reap province, in the Khmer Rouge’s Liberated Zone, Nhem Kiry, Bun Sody and Prince Norodom Sihanouk stood on the causeway that led to Angkor Wat. Facing them, Akor Sok crouched beside a stone lion and with dusty hands changed the roll of film in his camera.

  Kiry was dressed in simple black cotton: loose trousers and short-sleeved shirt. A single ballpoint pen poked from his breast pocket. His hair was freshly cut, perfectly straight and combed back. That morning he had shaved meticulously with a razor and a tin cup half-full of cold water. After six years of living in the Liberated Zone, in rough camps and tiny hamlets, he looked clean and healthy, although a little thinner than the day he had escaped from Phnom Penh. He had the calm assurance of a leader who commanded the respect and support of all of those around him. And all week, preparing for the photo shoot, he had been practising a special smile: open, honest, relaxed, reassuring, authoritative.

  Inwardly, Kiry was seething at Sihanouk’s presence. He hated all this feigned affection. It made him feel dirty, as if he’d given in to lustful thoughts and dragged a prostitute into an alley. But, still, he knew that he had to keep Sihanouk happy – and Monique, too, although that was probably asking for a miracle.

  Sody sensed that Kiry’s focus was melting in the heat. He dug him in the ribs and whispered, ‘I’m sure that I could be a movie star if I could get out of this place.’ Despite himself, Kiry grinned. It was unpleasant but essential work, he reminded himself, and he was honoured to be playing a part.

  A small crowd stood nearby. Princess Monique scowled and drank water from a glass bottle. Her personal attendant stood at her left elbow, holding an umbrella to create shade. Several smooth-faced soldiers stood around caressing their rifles and fighting the urge to fall asleep in the late-afternoon heat. Several Khmer Rouge luminaries – Hu Nim and the famous sisters, Khieu Ponnary and Khieu Thirith – stood waiting for their turn to have Akor Sok photograph them. A little further away several other Khmer Rouge leaders stood: Son Sen, Ieng Sary, Nuon Chea.

  A cheerful, vacant figure called Saloth Sar hung from the crowd like a loose thread. His hands rested on his belly. His slightly chubby face was a carefully constructed mask of amused indifference. Sihanouk recognised Sar. He was the little brother of a woman who had lived and worked in the royal palace. She and Sihanouk had fornicated from time to time.

  As they all stood marvelling at the architectural miracle of Angkor Wat, Sihanouk took the opportunity to launch into a speech. His rotund tummy pushed against his khaki shirt as he pontificated and waved his arms about: ‘It is three years since the ultratraitor Lon Nol stole my country from me. Three years, oh my, three long years. I love my friends in Beijing, but Sihanouk can only eat so many egg rolls in one lifetime before he himself turns into an egg roll. Meanwhile, Lon Nol eats suckling pig in the Royal Palace. Lon Nol and my evil cousin Sirik Matak claim that they run Cambodia when everybody knows that they follow Dr Henry Kissinger’s instructions. Anyway, how can Lon Nol take himself seriously when Sihanouk stands at Angkor Wat unmolested? Lon Nol can do nothing. Lon Nol is nothing. Lon Nol does not even know that Sihanouk is in Cambodia. What a shock he will get when he sees these photographs.

  ‘There is nowhere in the whole wide world as wonderful as Angkor Wat. Where else can Sihanouk remind himself of the virtues of his little children, the Cambodian people? Where else can we all remember what can be achieved when a great leader and a kingdom full of labourers come together? Angkor Wat is the emblem of our country and our struggle and our potential and our greatness, and what
better person than Sihanouk to stand here? Thank you, thank you, thank you my dearest friends, thank you especially Brother Nhem Kiry, for inviting me to visit the Liberated Zone. You have granted Sihanouk his most ardent wish: to again be amongst his darling children. He is so emotional he can barely speak.’

  ‘If only that was true,’ Nuon Chea muttered.

  ‘Everybody is so delighted,’ Ieng Sary whispered, ‘that His Majesty Prince Norodom Sihanouk is finally pregnant. He has wanted to be a mother for so long. He’s so large that the doctors suspect twins.’

  Son Sen and Nuon Chea sniggered.

  ‘Please, friends,’ Saloth Sar said quietly. ‘Have some self-discipline.’

  ‘Sirik Matak: him I can understand,’ Sihanouk continued. ‘My little cousin with the great big forearms, always so angry that he was born to the wrong parents, so jealous of Sihanouk’s abilities, Sihanouk’s manliness, Sihanouk’s shapely wife, tee hee. Oh the way he used to look at my sweet Monique, ooh la la: I could never tell if Sirik Matak wanted to kiss her or kill her.

  ‘But Lon Nol? Lon Nol owes everything to Sihanouk. Lon Nol belongs to Sihanouk. How could he betray me? How could he go and—’

  ‘Excuse me, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said. ‘Comrade Sok needs us to move over here to where the light is better.’

  ‘Yes, yes … I admire your dedication so much, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘To live exposed to the elements for so long. And amongst such … how can I say it? ... mixed company.’

  ‘I confess it is difficult sometimes, Your Majesty. Occasionally I must endure a minor digestive complaint. Sometimes I contract a mild fever.’

  ‘I eat if I am feeling unwell,’ Bun Sody said. ‘It’s a sure-fire cure.’

  ‘But never fear, Your Majesty, Comrade Sody and I are feeling particularly sprightly,’ Kiry said. ‘Especially as it is widely supposed that we have been dead these last six years.’

  ‘In any case, dead or alive, it is an honour to serve you, Your Majesty,’ Sody said.

  ‘Six years, ha ha ha, dead for six years, tee hee. And what’s more, it was I who supposedly killed you. What a terrible job I did of disposing of the bodies, tee hee,’ Sihanouk said.

  ‘Your Majesty, do you recall that I began to tell you earlier about the many serious offences committed in the Liberated Zone by our Vietnamese brothers?’ Kiry said.

  ‘Yes, these stories upset me. I am eager to hear more but perhaps some other time. Why not write me a memo? I know Ieng Sary loves to carry pieces of paper to Beijing for me to read. It is so kind of you to find all those little jobs to keep him occupied.’

  ‘The Vietnamese soldiers go into our villages,’ Kiry said, ‘and they steal whatever they want – even though the peasants are happy to share any surplus, as we have humbly and politely asked them to do. The Vietnamese take the peasants’ rice and chickens, buffalo, fruit. They take so much that there is nothing left for our own soldiers. And they take carts, clothes, bicycles, anything they can find.’

  ‘Brother Son Sen, Sister Khieu Thirith, have also told me about this. But—’

  ‘But if the villagers complain, they rape the women and the girls. Sometimes they beat and kill the men whose only crime is to want to survive and play their part in liberation, for Vietnam as well as Cambodia. It’s true, I tell you. And that’s not all, they also—’

  ‘But we must continue to work with our Vietnamese brothers if we can, mustn’t we?’ Sihanouk said. ‘Are not the Americans our greatest enemy, and also the greatest enemy of our Vietnamese brothers?’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty, you are correct. That is why we endure the situation, complaining with tact and humility. But America will leave here one day soon – they no longer have the stomach for the war in Vietnam – whereas the contemptible Vietnamese will always cast a shadow over Kampuchea. They are imperialists first and good communists second.’

  Sihanouk shuffled in the dirt. He had no interest in Kiry’s complaints, whether or not they were true. Such petty squabbles were not his problem. Besides, he recalled the advice of the Vietnamese general who had delivered him into the Liberated Zone: ‘Please, Your Majesty, do not speak too openly about all of the help we have been giving you recently. Our Khmer Rouge brothers would not approve.’

  ‘Will we be finished here soon, do you think?’ Sihanouk said. ‘My darling wife looks very tired.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. We need several more photographs but, yes, we can leave soon. I am sure that you are eager to spend some time alone with Princess Monique. And to eat. Comrade Sok, please hurry up. His Majesty cannot wait all day.’

  ‘Yes, comrade, I am ready,’ Sok said, fiddling with a light meter. ‘Please forgive me, Your Majesty, the conditions are not ideal. Now: please stand close together.’

  Sok looked through the viewfinder of his camera. He imagined that the small circle, designed to centre the image, now enclosing the tip of Sihanouk’s nose, was a rifle sight.

  ‘Please stand closer to Comrade Kiry, Your Majesty.’

  Sihanouk took a short step to his left. The two men’s shoulders kissed.

  ‘Please smile, Your Majesty.’

  Sihanouk beamed and stood to attention, his shoulders pulled back hard, as if someone was poking the small of his back with a stick. The sun illuminated his face. As he smiled his moist lips glued together. His cheeks turned into crescent moons and shone.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Sok said. ‘Excellent, excellent. Brother Kiry, please smile. A little more. Good. Brother Sody, could you perhaps smile a little less. Good. Perfect.’

  Kiry grasped Sihanouk’s hand.

  ‘Liberation,’ Sihanouk said.

  ‘Solidarity,’ Kiry said.

  ‘Peace,’ Sody said.

  Above them, the mid-afternoon sky bled into the tree line.

  1975

  At dusk, Bun Sody crouched at a riverbank and splashed his face. Although victory was near, he was troubled. He thought it very possible that his old friend Saloth Sar – Pol Pot, as he was now calling himself – might be going a little crackers. Pol Pot had declared that as soon as the Khmer Rouge took control of Phnom Penh and the other cities and towns, the people should all be herded into the countryside. Every single one of them.

  ‘We must ask him to reconsider this madness,’ Bun Sody told Nhem Kiry, who paddled about in the river’s deeper water, clutching a cake of soap. ‘Surely there are other ways to wipe the slate clean.’

  Kiry waded out of the water. He patted Sody on the shoulder and murmured something so quietly that Sody suspected he had made gentle, soothing noises, like a mother cooing at a baby, enticing him to sleep.

  ‘What? What?’ Sody said. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, don’t worry so much. It doesn’t become you. I said, let’s eat.’

  That night Bun Sody slept badly. He passed in and out of consciousness, burdened by the thoughts of his countrymen tramping to all corners of the country for no sane reason. What was Pol Pot thinking? he wondered. Did he really believe the people were so tainted that they needed to be born again?

  The next morning, Sody decided he must relay his unhappiness to Pol Pot, who was camped a day’s walk north. The young man he chose to deliver his message was sensible and trustworthy. Years earlier, at a high school in Phnom Penh – when the prospect of a communist take-over had seemed like nothing more than a dream – Sody had taught him mathematics by day and Marxist theory by night.

  ‘Tell Brother Pol Pot that in my opinion his strategy to empty the cities is not completely rational. Tell him, with the greatest respect, that it will cause great pain and create widespread problems – problems we will then have to fix, at great cost to both our reputation and the national budget. Tell him it’s not too late to do things differently. Tell him I stand ready to come to him to explain an alternative strategy. Tell him I honour and respect him and cannot wait to embrace him in liberated Phnom Penh. Tell him I’ve had my fair share of
harebrained ideas, so I know what I’m talking about. Tell him that I stand ready to serve the movement in whatever capacity he sees fit ... but that if he chooses to appoint me as, say, foreign minister, then I would be joyful beyond words.’

  Three days later, in the heat of the early afternoon, Sody lay in a hammock composing a sonnet on the subject of the female form and drifting towards sleep. The messenger, Sody’s former student, found him lolling with his eyes closed and his dry, cracked lips silently moving.

  ‘Wake up, comrade, Brother Pol Pot sends you news. But we must talk in private,’ the messenger said.

  The messenger led Sody along a winding path that cut through thick foliage. Sody had come this way earlier in the day, just far enough to find a spot where he could squat in privacy to shit. He had groaned at the effort. Not for the first time, his intestines were rebelling against living rough. Sody couldn’t wait for all this to be over. Phnom Penh beckoned. Or somewhere even better: maybe Pol Pot really would appoint him foreign minister. Even minister for trade would do. If not, perhaps he could plead for an ambassadorship, get himself posted to Paris for a couple of years, recuperate with galleries and concerts and gourmet food and fine beaujolais and a city full of white women.

  The messenger took Sody’s elbow and led him off the path and into the jungle.

  ‘Is this necessary?’ Sody asked, but the other man did not reply.

  After a short time, less than a minute, they reached a small clearing. Three soldiers, barely more than boys, stood waiting. Two of the soldiers trained their rifles on Sody; the third held out a shovel.

  ‘What is this? I demand that you explain yourself,’ Sody said, although he knew instantly what was happening. ‘Do you have a message for me or not?’

  The boy soldier threw the shovel at Sody’s feet.

  ‘Dig. That’s your message. Dig your grave.’

  A little while later the messenger returned to the camp. He approached Nhem Kiry, who was sitting amongst a group of soldiers and aides, eating a bowl of rice flecked with greens.