‘Of course I went down the tunnels. I often moved around with the Viet Cong. That’s where we went when the Americans bombed us.’
‘Amazing,’ Cornell said, looking Ted up and down. ‘How the hell did they ever squeeze you in?’
‘They’re an ingenious race, the Vietnamese. Besides, I was pretty fit back then. And pretty slippery.’
‘Ever get stuck down there?’
‘I’ve been stuck many times in my life but, no, I never got stuck in the Cu Chi tunnels.’
‘Hey, I know exactly what you mean.’
A smattering of half-hearted applause broke out as Nhem Kiry, dressed in a dark suit, walked up to the podium.
‘Hey, this should be fun,’ Cornell said. ‘This dude’s one crazy cat.’
Ted peered at Cornell, perplexed. ‘Is that good or bad?’ he asked.
Nhem Kiry lifted his eyes from his notes and slowly gazed from one side of the room to the other. Presumably, he intended it to be an inclusive act, a sweeping gesture that connected him to every person in the room. But somehow it came across like a gloat. I’m here, Kiry’s look suggested, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
From his vantage point Kiry saw friends and enemies. Halfway back he spied Ted Whittlemore’s shiny head. Kiry nodded and smiled, hoping to embarrass him. But Ted was pre-occupied and didn’t notice. He had a look of stupefaction on his face as a tall young man – a new disciple? Kiry wondered – whispered urgently in his ear.
The house lights dimmed; the spotlight above Kiry’s head grew bright. He shuffled his notes.
‘We all agree,’ he began, settling into a drone that he could not avoid, no matter how hard he tried, when reading from the page, ‘that at the root of the imbroglio in South Africa is racism. The minority white government in that troubled country have rigged the political system to ensure their dominance. They maintain this dominance with politics and with fear. The world rightly condemns these actions and these abhorrent philosophies.
‘In 1953 the illustrious revolutionary Nelson Mandela said this: “The racial policies of the government have pricked the conscience of all men of goodwill and have aroused their deepest indignation. The feelings of the oppressed people have never been bitterer. If the ruling circles seek to maintain their position by such inhuman methods then a clash between the forces of freedom and those of reaction is certain. The grave plight of the people compels them to resist to the death the stinking policies of the gangsters that rule our country.” Let us make the crucial link: apartheid and racism. This is the heart of the situation in South Africa, and we feel for our suffering brothers and sisters.
‘It is my sad duty to inform you that such a situation exists in places beyond South Africa. In Kampuchea, the imperialist Vietnamese are constructing their own version of apartheid. They continue to engage in a war of genocide and racial extermination against ordinary Kampucheans, whose resistance is reduced to attempting to survive. It is the intention of the Vietnamese not only to continue their illegal occupation – as if that were not bad enough – but also to systematically bring in Vietnamese settlers who will form a privileged permanent minority.’
In the gloom the Vietnamese envoys rose, collected their papers and strode in protest from the auditorium. Soon after, the entire Soviet bloc followed, emptying five rows. Olag Katkov held his head with one hand, his belly with the other, as he heaved himself down the steps. Then the Syrians left. Then the Ethiopians.
‘The Vietnamese, of course, are hegemonic and imperialist, but only towards tiny Kampuchea,’ Kiry said. ‘In the global picture they themselves are puny. That is why they rely so heavily on the Soviet Union. So there it is: Mr Gorbachev’s people arm the Vietnamese army and the Vietnamese army comes looking for ordinary Kampucheans, whose only crime is to want freedom in their own country.’
Ted fidgeted. He was tempted to walk out, as much out of boredom as in protest. Kiry’s tone and the banality of the speech itself were making him sleepy. He closed his eyes but an instant later opened them wide and let out a little cry of dismay. He was appalled to realise that Kiry’s performance wasn’t enraging him. He looked up, to a spot well above Kiry’s head where a giant UN symbol clasped a pair of velvet curtains together. How he hated that logo: it was like the world was wrapped up in the smug smile of forgetfulness.
Then a young Cambodian woman seated a few rows from the front stood up.
‘My mother is dead, my father is dead, my brothers are dead, three of my aunts are dead, two uncles are dead, many of my friends are dead. That man standing right there – Nhem Kiry – is responsible. Do not listen to a word he says. That man is nothing but a ... but a ...’ The woman dropped to one knee and began to weep.
‘Finally, some action,’ Cornell said.
Security guards approached the woman.
‘Excuse me a moment, ladies and gentlemen,’ Kiry murmured. He stepped back from the lectern while the guards removed the woman. Then he repositioned himself under the spotlight. He emitted the briefest sigh, suggesting not anger but a rueful regret that one of his compatriots could be so misguided. Then he carried on as if nothing had happened.
‘If he was free to speak with candour, Nelson Mandela would no doubt shake his head in sadness at the terrible waste the Vietnamese have made of their great good fortune. He would, I am certain, reflect on the irony that he is a hero to the civilised world for his acts of resistance, whereas men and women in other places who similarly resist are branded war criminals. He would—’
‘That’s it. I’m off,’ Ted said. ‘I can’t take another word of this.’
‘Yeah, he’s dullsville. Hey, buddy, can I come with you?’
‘I’d stay put if I were you. You’re meant to be on his side.’
‘See you later, though? How about dinner?’
As Kiry droned on, Ted tumbled down the stairs crying out ‘Remember Bun Sody, remember Bun Sody, remember Bun Sody, remember Bun Sody.’ He did it for appearance’s sake, so that everybody in the room would see that he was still capable of making a scene. If there’d been a back door he could have slipped through unnoticed, he would gladly have taken it.
For a moment, after Ted was gone, Kiry remained silent. Then he leant into the microphone and said, ‘Bun Sody was my friend. Bun Sody was a fine man.’
Then he continued his speech. When he finished he drove straight to the airport. Within an hour, he was in the air on his way to Bangkok.
That night Ted took Cornell to an Italian restaurant on the first floor of a building near their hotel, directly above a curry house. Delicious burnt fumes – turmeric and garlic and fresh ginger – rose out of the floor.
‘Can’t we eat down there?’ Cornell said, the curry smells having finally distracted him from extolling the virtues and the growing reputation of his think-tank, the Edgar Institute for International Democracy.
‘No we can’t,’ Ted said, raising his glass of beer to him. ‘It’s dry.’
‘My God. In this day and age? How very peculiar. Now, what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me about yourself. All about yourself.’
‘Hey, that’s right. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Know thine enemy, I reckon.’
‘Right. So: as think-tanks go, we’re tiny. But I’m aiming big.’
‘Big for what?’
‘I want to stay hands-on, I want to write the reports and direct the research, the whole thing. I have a personal vision I want to explore so I’ve employed an office manager and a fundraiser – that’s my sister, Candy, she brings in the cash, she’s a marvel. Mind you, it’s not that hard: all she has to do is flash our name about and, besides, she’s a bit of a looker and boy doesn’t she know it ... Hey, we could use a man of your experience and knowledge. I sure would value your advice from time to time.’
‘But I despise everything you believe in.’
‘Could be a good thing. I’ve read your books, buddy. I’m telling you, we see the wo
rld exactly the same way: we just reach opposite conclusions. Whaddaya say? I pay well. Very well.’
‘But why does the Edgar Institute exist? What is it that you actually want to say?’
‘Oh, you mean the mission statement. I was just getting to that.’
Cornell took a card from his briefcase. He stood, cleared his throat and read: ‘“The Edgar Institute of International Democracy, founded in 1979, is a research body whose mission is to formulate and promote US bilateral and multilateral foreign policies based on the principles of upholding America’s national interest, notably a robust national defence, individual freedom, trade liberalisation, and the upholding and spreading of American traditional values with the ultimate goal of furthering global democracy. Our particular focus is in the Asia-Pacific Region (APR) although we recognise the interconnectedness of other regions of import and influence.” Here, you can have this one. Shall I sign it for you?’
‘Isn’t “global democracy” simply a euphemism for American domination?’
‘Well, you can put it like that if it makes your dinner go down easier. I don’t disagree. Why should I? I want to offer America to the world, honestly and without adornment. Let the people reject us if they choose, but I say nobody will dare.’
‘Nobody?’
‘No majority. No majority of sound mind, at least. Take Vietnam. When the shit started hitting the fan—’
‘Vietnam? The Vietnam War, you mean?’
‘Yeah, the war, the politics, that whole goddamned domino thing. The problem is that nobody wants to say what it was really all about. My father, for instance, knows the Vietnam War had nothing to do with Vietnam. It had everything to do with the Russkies. He’ll say so at dinner, but he won’t say so when it really matters: in public, on the podium, into a microphone. Don’t you think that’s sad?’
‘But telling the truth? Really telling the naked truth? Nothing would ever be the same again.’
‘I know. I know. That’s why we’d make such a team.’
Cornell waved a waiter over. ‘Do you want another beer? Of course you do ... Do you speak French, my friend?’ he asked the waiter in French.
The waiter nodded, mute.
‘Good. Good on you. Great language. Got me laid more than once in my life, do you hear what I’m saying? We’ll have two more of these beers – what are they, Ted, German? Belgian? Two more, whatever they are, but make sure they’re ice-cold this time. And I want a bottle of red wine: shiraz, the best you’ve got. And there’s no water on the table. And Ted here dropped his fork. He needs another one.’
They started on a second bottle of wine before the food came: a pizza for Cornell – he poked it with his knife and roared, ‘Where’s the cheese? What a rip-off!’ – and veal cannelloni for Ted.
‘I have to make a confession,’ Cornell said. Only the reddish tip of his nose gave away the amount of alcohol he had drunk.
‘You hate and despise every ideal I’ve ever stood for?’ Ted said. He was beginning to have trouble enunciating his words.
‘Yes, of course I do, buddy, that’s a given. But, no, that’s not it. I’ll just come out and say it, shall I?’
‘Shamelessness: that’s the American way. Well, let’s hear it.’
‘You’ve had some dealings with my father. You two aren’t the best of friends.’
‘Well, I argue with a lot of people. I won’t hold it against him. Who is he?’
‘My father is Senator Alexander Bernard Jackson.’
Ted roared with laughter. ‘Wacko Jacko is your father? Really and truly? Of course, really and truly, you deal only with the truth, don’t you, and, anyway, who would own up to such a thing unless they had to?’ He peered closely at Cornell. ‘Oh no: you’ve got Daddy’s dimple on your chin, shaped like an arsehole.’
It happened one day in, I don’t know, ’68 maybe, whatever year it was that all of those rich kids were wandering about stoned out of their brains, trying to buy their groceries with the rows of beads they wore around their necks. Pretty brainless stuff but it scared the ordinary folk witless, which can’t be a bad thing. Anyway, I went on a tour of east-coast college campuses, speaking at anti-war rallies. I had to share a campervan for a few days with a folk singer called Walt Treetrunk.
Anyway, one day I addressed a rally in Washington DC in some indoor basketball stadium. I don’t remember the university, I went to so many of them back then, but I remember it was very green: rolling slopes, trees, maybe a fake pond with fish, lots of granite. Kind of reminded me of North Korea.
I did my standard spiel: Vietnam belongs to the Vietnamese, theft is theft is theft, Kissinger needs psychiatric help, Jane Fonda’s a good sort and good sorts are never wrong.
When I left (the crowd stayed to listen to Walt Treetrunk do evil things to Bob Dylan’s greatest hits), Senator Jackson – Cornell’s daddy – was waiting with his rent-a-crowd protesters. They set out towards me chanting ‘Red, red, red.’ The senator took the lead. He’d been some sort of star footballer in his youth (American catch and put your feet up, not the real stuff), plus he’d seen action in a couple of wars: he was a fearsome sight as he hurtled towards me, that awful fat vein on his neck pulsating.
I didn’t bother to run. If they wanted television cameras to film them making idiots of themselves, who was I to stand in their way? The senator arrived first and stood before me, silent. I stuck out my hand in greeting. ‘G’day. My name’s Ted.’ He folded his arms. The protesters formed a circle around me. ‘Mr Edward Whittlemore is drowning in the blood of American boys,’ Senator Jackson told the television cameras. On cue, the protesters produced bottles of tomato ketchup and doused me in it head to toe.
While I stood there, allowing the cameras to film me from all angles, Jackson and his lackeys dropped to their knees and prayed for the salvation of my eternally damned soul.
Ah, all those Vietnam War protests – in the US, England, across Europe, back home in Australia – happy, happy days. Great memories.
‘We need more wine,’ Ted said.
‘How about cognac?’
‘How about who’s paying? The Edgar Committee for the Enforcement of American Global Domination Institute? But tell me – yes, my good man, two cognacs, the Yank’s paying – you’re Wacko Jacko’s son and you expect me to believe that you’re running an independent think-tank?’
‘I’m not telling you, buddy: I’m promising you. We accept not one dollar of government funds.’
‘Not even on the sly from Daddy?’
Cornell grinned. ‘That’s the great part. Father hates the whole idea but you know what? I got it started with investments he made for me.’
‘He funds it and he hates it?’
‘You’ve got it. You know what he tried to do?’
‘Get the feds to take you out?’
‘He tried to revoke my trust fund.’
‘He sued you?’ Ted was so delighted he fell off his chair. The waiter arrived, waving the bill and pointing towards the stairs. Cornell folded his napkin, pushed back his chair and sat on the ground beside Ted, holding his Diners Club card up for the waiter.
‘I expect a discount,’ he said. ‘We haven’t finished our meals.’
‘Hey, Cornie?’ Ted said.
‘Yes, buddy?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way but in my opinion – and I’m never wrong – your Hank Washington Institute for Robbing the World Blind with Honour sounds like one great big joke. Sorry.’
Cornell patted Ted on the shoulder. ‘That’s okay, buddy. I ought to tell you that so far as I’m concerned communism is the great plague of the twentieth century.’
‘Keep your distance! I’ve got a disease! I’ve got the plague!’ Ted yelled as Cornell helped him down the stairs. ‘The twentieth-century plague.’
Outside, Ted sat on the curb, giggling and saying, ‘Wacko Jacko, Jacko Wacko, Wacko Jacko, Wacko Wacko.’
Two men appeared, dressed in all white. Marines, Ted surmised, or maybe C
ornell’s personal valets.
‘Cute togs, boys,’ he said. ‘Going my way?’
They marched Ted down the road and into the lobby of his hotel. The feeling in Ted’s legs returned momentarily and he veered neatly around a Chinese dissident whom he was due to interview the next morning.
‘You lost, boys? Misplaced your boat? Looking for the sea? Head that way, I reckon, via France.’
They herded him into the service elevator. ‘Arr-ten-SHUN!’ Ted said. He saluted, poking himself in the eye. Cornell held his elbow. ‘I told him not to eat those goddamned prawns,’ he said. A cleaner, whom Ted mistook for a nurse, supported him on the other side.
‘If you’re going to vomit,’ the cleaner said, ‘please do it into this bucket.’
‘You’re Bulgarian, aren’t you?’ Ted said.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘You’re Vulg … Bulgarian, I can sense it. I can feel it. In my loins.’
‘Steady on there, buddy. The nice lady’s helping us out.’
‘My lips have gone to sleep. Givvus a kiss to wake them up?’
‘Hey, buddy, why don’t you hold the bucket? It’ll give you something to do with your hands.’
Finally they reached Ted’s room. Cornell sat him on the end of his bed and pulled his boots off.
‘Ted? Hey buddy, can you hear me? Should I call a doctor?’
‘Why? Are you sick?’
‘Do you want me to take your trousers off for you?’
‘Why, is it something you badly want to do?’
‘Not if I can help it, buddy.’
‘You could get me a beer. Have one yourself if you like.’
‘I don’t think that’s wise.’
‘Beer’s for rehydration. Don’t they teach you that in Boston?’
‘Um, Ted, fella? Your nose is running real bad.’ Cornell came close, brandishing a tissue.
Ted’s eyes welled up, his throat tightened, he blinked furiously.
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