I arrived in Cuba feeling ill. The advance gusts of Hurricane John (or Robert) (or Edward) rocked the plane as we came in to land. I stayed nauseo us the whole trip. None of these people, I realised, truly cared about the Cambodians (or the Afghans or the Palestinians or the Namibians). Half the delegates loved Russia and hated China, which made them anti-Khmer Rouge. The other half loved China and hated Russia, which made them pro-Khmer Rouge.
So that they could get on with their meetings and their parties, the delegates declared the Cambodian seat vacant. This they called ‘even-handed’ but it made me want to rage up and down waving a placard that read ‘COWARDS, THE LOT OF YOU.’
I knew that the conference would upset me. I don’t know why I bothered to go. Habit, I suppose. And because I wanted to see Nhem Kiry.
Several hours after he landed in Cuba, Ted Whittlemore pegged a tie to his shirt and wandered into a reception hosted by President Fidel Castro. He pushed his way through the throng with resigned determination. He could not see Castro, nor hear him over the tin kle of glasses and the hubbub of politicking, but he knew where he was by observing how the individuals who made up the throng positioned their bodies.
When Castro saw Ted approaching, he broke through a wall of minders and well-wishers.
‘Ted. You made it then,’ Castro said in Spanish. ‘Sorry about the weather.’ He lifted his arms in momentary excitement. Ted steeled himself for a brutal hug, but Castro merely clapped his hands and said, ‘Good to see you, my friend.’ Castro’s translator, a tall woman with an Oxford accent, repeated the welcome.
‘A present for you, Mr President,’ Ted said, handing Castro a purple and orange Hawaiian shirt which he pulled from under his damp armpit.
Castro let off a low burst of words. ‘Thank you, Ted, how delightful,’ the translator said, her pursed lips indicating that she was not relaying Castro’s first and spontaneous reaction. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of … some use for it.’
‘You’re looking fit, Mr President,’ Ted said.
‘But of course. Why not?’
‘I heard a rumour about you when I was in London,’ Ted whispered, leaning close.
‘Oh yes? Was it the one about Castro arriving at the gates of heaven with three women: a blonde, a brunette and a redhead?’
‘Better. Apparently, so the story goes, you’ve been dead for a decade or more. Your aides have stuffed you – “He’s shinier than Lenin,” my source says – and lodged a tape recorder in your chest cavity. They prop you up – “When’s the last time you saw him when he wasn’t leaning on a podium?” my source says – and move your mouth with fishing line attached to your jaw.’
‘So I’m immortal? So nice of you to say so.’ Castro clasped his hands together atop his stomach. ‘I have a confession to make. I hope it will make you very happy.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s a Cambodian confession: right up your alley, I think. I’m afraid I have accidentally dropped Mr Nhem Kiry’s conference accreditation papers in a bowl of punch. They are all wet and sticky.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I know. I feel terrible. But I will certainly deliver them to him just as soon as they dry out.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘His accreditation papers? They are hanging from pegs on a rope in my garden.’
‘It’s quite windy outside. The newspaper mentioned something about a hurricane.’
‘How unfortunate. But I have another confession to make.’
‘Do you need a priest?’
‘Probably but not now, Ted, I’m trying to confess: I’m afraid that this hotel is overbooked. I have, with great reluctance, been forced to house Mr Nhem Kiry and his entourage in another hotel. It is only a half hour or so away ... depending, of course, on the state of the road.’
‘Cuban roads are terrible.’
‘I read something about that in the New York Post. But it’s the best I could do. I feel dreadful, but as the leader of my country sometimes I am forced to make unpleasant decisions. Such is the lot of a president. Please believe me, the burden is heavy … What’s the matter, Ted? You look like you’ve eaten a lemon.’
‘If I may say so, Mr President, I believe it would be better to let Nhem Kiry speak, to let him be seen for what he is. To hide him away is to protect him and to make him a cause célèbre.’
‘If you may say so? If? If? You’ve already said it.’
‘Mr President, all I meant—’
‘This is my home. I will not just go inviting any old riffraff into my home. If that bothers you, I don’t care.’
‘I want to interview him. Nhem Kiry. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘And what if I do? You are Edward Whittlemore, fearless and independent. What could I do to stop you? And why would I bother? If you want to waste your time, feel free, just don’t ask for my endorsement. Mind you, you might need a good map to find him.’
Castro turned his back on Ted and handed the Hawaiian shirt to his translator. ‘Get this thing out of my sight. I wouldn’t blow my nose on it.’
For the next three days and nights Ted wandered around buffets and cocktail parties, engaging in small talk while eavesdropping on as many conversations as he could manage. He sat through a hundred or so interminable speeches, not one of which was interesting or controversial enough to report to the world.
He witnessed the signing of several memoranda of understanding – pieces of paper that resolved some minor issue or other using words that, so far as Ted could tell, the signatories had only agreed to after years of painful negotiation to remove all possible meaning. If the parties deemed the resolution especially important, they signed their documents on a table adorned with a linen cloth and a bowl of flowers, after which they swapped pens. If their relationship had been truly poisonous, they hugged and kissed for the cameras.
At one point, desperate for signs of life, Ted sat in a toilet cubicle for two hours and collected three stories that he began with, ‘Sources close to the delegation confirmed today that ...’ He was a close source, too: Ted felt intimately connected to these powerful men after listening to the animal noises they made as they relieved themselves. But when he finally emerged from his cubicle and headed to the basin to make a show of washing his hands, all heads turned towards him and all conversation ceased.
On the afternoon of Ted’s last day in Cuba, after Hurricane John had blown itself out, Ted convinced a reluctant local to drive him to Nhem Kiry’s hotel. Sitting in the lobby, sipping a beer, waiting to find out if Kiry would see him, Ted read a copy of the speech that Kiry had planned to read before the delegates had banned him from addressing the conference: ‘The current tragedy in Kampuchea fills us with sorrow but also with exasperation. We cannot comprehend that a certain country, posing as a non-aligned friend, has used brutal force to occupy Kampuchea. If the non-aligned movement rewards behaviour that is so at odds with the principles of non-alignment, then the naked aggression currently being waged against innocent Kampucheans will surely spread throughout South-East Asia and perhaps even the world.’
‘Good afternoon, Edward. What a pleasant surprise after all these years.’
Ted half rose, compelled to take Nhem Kiry’s extended hand and shake it. Although Kiry did not squeeze hard, Ted fought to contain a shudder.
‘Very nice to see you, Mr, uh, Mr Prime Minister. Would you care to join me?’
‘For a moment. Thank you for coming. I’ve been rather bereft of visitors here.’ Kiry paused, then smiled. ‘Apart, of course, from my many friends and allies from fraternal governments and from the world’s media, who have called on me to express their solidarity and to reinforce our mutual commitment to the dear principles of non-alignment.’
‘Yes, I was just reading your speech.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘Well, I haven’t finished it yet. And it is such a detailed document that I confess I might need to ponder its complexities before I offer comment.’
‘Really, Edward, you surprise me. Will you not speak your mind?’
‘Very well. I was surprised to read that you are predicting World War Three.’
‘You’re right. You do need to ponder the speech’s complexities.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, I have sent you several requests for an interview in the last week. Have you considered them?’
‘I think that will be impossible today. I’m waiting for a car. I’m going to take in the sights, now that this wild weather has eased. I am keen to visit the former residence of the famous writer, Mr Ernest Hemingway. If it has not blown away.’
‘Might I ask you, Mr Prime Minister, your opinion of Hemingway? Are you a fan?’
‘As a writer or as a man?’
‘Well ... Let’s say as a writer.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘I think that Hemingway believed that war existed so that he could write about himself.’
‘Can I clarify, Mr Prime Minister, are you referring to his reportage or his fiction?’
‘It was all fiction, Edward. You of all people should know that.’
‘You must be disappointed at not being allowed to address the Non-Aligned Summit.’
‘Off the record? No, I’m not at all disappointed. I have found the last few days to be most revealing. And I have been gratified by the majority show of support for me and my country’s sad predicament.’
‘I have heard that Castro invited Mr Hun Sen, the new foreign minister of the People’s Republic of Kampuchea, to a private dinner at his home. I believe that they ate steak. What do you think of that?’
‘I have nothing against carnivores. I myself have been known to eat steak myself. Although only very occasionally, of course.’
‘What about Castro?’
‘No, I have no desire to eat President Castro. You’ve been listening to too many nasty refugee rumours.’
‘But what’s your opinion of Castro?’
‘Off the record, I think Castro was once a fascinating man. But his time has long passed. I never thought I would see a revolutionary hero use base political tactics to prevent a legitimate and honourable government from taking its place amongst the family of nonaligned nations. Still, I would not dream of telling him with whom he should eat. I would have thought you’d be more worried about this than me: from what I hear, Castro’s not so fond of you these days.’
‘And what do you think of Hun Sen?’
‘The poor boy. I feel sorry for him. Young minds are so pliable. I think Master Hun Sen is an ideal foreign minister in a Kampuchea so overrun by Vietnamese imperialists.’
‘Are you in contact with Prince Sihanouk?’
‘Ah, the prince. What wonderful talks we had during the years of the Democratic Kampuchea regime. Now, alas, he pretends not to know me. But what about you, Edward? Are you in contact with your old ally?’
‘He won’t take my calls.’
‘You seem to be struggling to hold on to your friends at the moment.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, how do you respond to the widespread claims – to the mounting evidence, to the inescapable truth – that the Khmer Rouge committed horrible atrocities between 1975 and 1979?’
‘I do not respond to misinformed rumours.’ Kiry smiled. ‘Not even off the record.’
‘But I’ve been to Phnom Penh since the Vietnamese liberated Cambodia and—’
‘Liberated? Truly, Edward, that’s a curious way to describe a foreign invasion.’
‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘You’ve seen misinformed rumours with your own eyes? Yes, I’ve heard that you have been spending too much time in Hanoi. Well, you should not believe everything you read about the government of Democratic Kampuchea nor about me personally.’ Kiry pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, glanced at Ted, winked, and read a quote from a recent best- selling book: ‘“In trying to understand the worst excesses of the Khmer Rouge let us look first to the psychology of Nhem Kiry, their leading intellectual. Nhem Kiry has been diagnosed with chronic impotence, which can result from profound hostility to an individual’s environment. Nhem Kiry was a sickly child, a friendless, bewildered youth, and a meek, persecuted man. When power came his way in 1975 he was overcome with vengeance.”’
‘Would you care to respond?’ Ted said.
‘Fervour is the weapon of choice for the impotent,’ Kiry murmured, apparently for his own benefit. ‘Needless to say, my wife was shocked to learn of my condition. She cannot now understand how our two beautiful daughters came to exist. It must be Immaculate Conception, I tell her, because books published in America never lie.’ Kiry stood up. ‘But please excuse me, Edward, I am late for my appointment with Mr Hemingway.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, what can you tell me about the whereabouts of Mr Bun Sody?’
‘Bun Sody is missing. That is all I know.’
‘Missing? What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. As I understand it he has been missing for quite some time. Several years, in fact.’
‘You don’t seem too worried about it.’
Kiry bent down so close to Ted that their noses nearly touched.
‘Bun Sody was my very good friend. My colleague, my confidant. He disappeared a few weeks before our great victory. It was a time of great confusion and activity. When I think of it, I am sad. Of course I grieve for him. How dare you – you, of all people – suggest otherwise? But do you want to know the truth about him? He could not bear the idea that people might suffer. He was always going on about suffering because he wanted everybody to know how much he cared. But he wanted a perfect revolution without hard work. Without sacrifice. He claimed that the revolution meant everything to him, yet he did not have the willpower to commit to the revolution.
‘Maybe he realised the truth about himself – that he was weak – and the shame of it destroyed his will to live. Or maybe he got caught up in a dispute of the heart. He liked women, after all, all sorts of women. Maybe an enraged husband assaulted him. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Or maybe he stepped on a landmine. Or maybe he walked across the path of a stray bullet. If you want my opinion – but I’m only guessing – I suspect an accident befell him. Perhaps he went to wash in a river and floated out to the middle – don’t you remember how he loved to pretend he was Mao swimming the Yangtze? – dived and got tangled up in a sunken tree branch. Or hit his head on a rock. Or maybe he stole away to Vietnam. He was always fond of the Hanoi boulevards. And the food. And the women. And the Politburo. Scan the streets the next time you are there, why don’t you?’
Kiry stood, buttoned his suit jacket and stalked away. After a moment he turned.
‘The world is full of misery. Millions of people are hungry and oppressed. Why are you so worried, I wonder, about the fate of one man?’
Ted recoiled. His mouth twitched and formed into a silent snarl. He tried to speak but he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
‘I can ask you that – I have the right – because Bun Sody was my friend. A true friend, not some informant I leeched off,’ Kiry continued, but then his expression softened. ‘By the way, I never thanked you for what you did for Sody and me that time. If we hadn’t left Phnom Penh when you warned us to, we would have been dead within the week.’
Kiry smiled, turned and left. Ted peered at the people scattered about the foyer, desperately hoping that nobody had overheard Kiry thanking him. He sunk back in his chair and tried to silence the rattling laughter that filled his head.
On my way home from Cuba in ’79, stuck in Changi airport waiting for a connecting flight, I invented an interview with Nhem Kiry. I was beside myself that he’d thanked me for saving his life. Not with rage exactly. Not guilt. I don’t know what it was: grief maybe. It was as if I’d donated bone marrow to him and now I wanted it back.
EDWARD WHITTLEMORE: How do you respond to the mounting evidence, indeed to the inescapable truth, that
the Khmer Rouge committed massacres and other acts of atrocity in Cambodia between 1975 and 1979?
NHEM KIRY: The claims are ridiculous and unfounded. I will admit that we made some mistakes. We are not perfect. Many Kampucheans, maybe as many as one million, lost their lives during the war. But talk of massacres is propaganda spread by the Vietnamese to hide their own crimes. And by traitors who fled Democratic Kampuchea out of self-interest.
EW: Mr Prime Minister, would you comment on the claim that Democratic Kampuchea was excessive in its execution of so-called war criminals from the previous Lon Nol regime?
NK: Why must I answer this question again and again? Those criminals committed heinous crimes against our former head of state, Prince Sihanouk, and against the Kampuchean people. When we were victorious it was of course regrettably necessary to execute a few war criminals from the previous regime. The people expected no less of us. But any other killings were the work of Vietnamese agents and infiltrators and their supporters. I became a revolutionary because I love the people of Kampuchea. Why would I want to kill them?
EW: My suggestion is that the purges, once begun, found their own momentum.
NK: How many times do I need to say it? People die in wars. Boo hoo.
EW: What about your policy of emptying Phnom Penh and the other cities and sending all the people into the countryside?
NK: Please remember that when we arrived, Phnom Penh was full of refugees. The war had driven more than two million people into the city. Many of those who left the city were simply peasants returning to their homes. They were ecstatic to go. And never forget that Phnom Penh was riddled with vice and corruption. We gave the place a spring clean.
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