He turned away from Cornell just as his shoulders began heaving. He might have gotten away with it if he hadn’t lost his balance. Cornell caught him as he toppled off the bed. Ted bawled until the concierge rang and said the other guests were complaining. That roused him. He staggered to the shower, stripped and stood under the cold water until it hurt. He emerged happy, starving and, it appeared to Cornell, on the verge of sober.
‘Let’s order sandwiches. I suppose you’d rather have a hotdog, but I don’t know if they stoop that low here.’
‘Are you all right, buddy?’
‘Yeah, no worries.’
‘But what was that?’
‘That? That was the effect Americans have on the rest of the world. If you’re planning on doing much travelling, you’re going to have to get used to it. Come on, let’s order.’
* * *
I went to New York in September ’83 to cover the sitting of the UN General Assembly. United? United in what? Hatred? Self-interest? Greed? That year – like the year before and the year after – they voted to keep the Khmer Rouge as the legitimate government of Cambodia, now shielded by the coalition with Sihanouk and Son Sann. Pure unadulterated immorality.
It was Sihanouk’s birthday, his sixtieth I think, and ASEAN hosted a giant dinner for him at the Wiltshire Manor Hotel. In the days before the celebration I did everything I could to get myself invited. I booked a room in the hotel, a tiny square of a box that I’m fairly sure was once a service elevator: they’d added a camp bed and a bucket of water and a minibar and named it Executive Suite 2012. But no sooner was I examining the room-service menu than the manager and a goon with a gun arrived and escorted me back out into the street.
Next I phoned Sihanouk’s room on the hour from 7 a.m. till 9 p.m. two days running. His aides, once loyal friends of mine, kept promising that he’d return my very important call. But he never did.
Next I sent him a long note apologising profusely. You know the sort of thing: Your Royal Highness, it has always been my honour to serve you. If I have ever inadvertently insulted you or if you imagined that I called you an apologist for any unpleasant political organisation or if I performed some perceived action that has mistakenly been taken as anything other than signifying my love and devotion blah blah blah ... It’s a great word, ‘perceived’: it lets you apologise without admitting a scrap of wrongdoing. It didn’t stop me from feeling dirty, mind you: Sihanouk should have been grovelling for my forgiveness, not the other way around.
On the night of the dinner I bought him a present – a silk tie and handkerchief set, pretty bloody tasteful I thought – and dressed up like a waiter. I’d got it into my head that I could serve Sihanouk a glass of champagne. I could see him clapping his hands and crying out joyfully at the success of my plan.
I slipped in through the kitchen but an over-excited assistant chef wielding a cleaver locked me in the coolroom. By the time security marched me out I was shivering, damp and dying for a pee.
I deserved to be at that dinner. I should have been standing on a table in between main course and dessert giving a speech detailing the highs and lows of Sihanouk’s life. Sihanouk loved me and he needed my help to find a way out of that dirty coalition of his. He knew it, too, which I suppose is why he refused to see me.
‘I have a theory that may interest you.’ Nhem Kiry spoke in French to the foreign minister of Malaysia, Rajeswary Ampalavanar, on his left, and Prince Sihanouk, on his right. They sat at a table of twelve but the other people present did not interest Kiry. The light in the room was dim, despite the hovering presence, directly above Sihanouk’s head, of a giant chandelier. Their table stood in the very centre of the room and was surrounded by another thirty-four tables. Although there were people everywhere, Kiry found that the continual waves of noise – the medley of voices and chewing and shuffling feet and clinking glasses – provided a quite agreeable sense of privacy.
‘In America even the finest hotels with the best kitchens offer special room-service menus positively awash with fat and sugar,’ Kiry said, expanding on his theory. ‘I believe that this is because all Americans watch sport on television – they have a station just for sport, can you imagine it? And it is a national pastime to eat this bad food while watching their games.’
‘How fascinating,’ Ampalavanar said.
‘I’ve never thought about it in those terms,’ Sihanouk said. ‘With insights like that, you could have been an anthropologist.’
‘They are now making a concession to us Asians, or so they think,’ Kiry said. ‘For instance, the room-service menu in my hotel now includes spring rolls.’
‘Ah, yes indeed,’ Ampalavanar said. ‘The ubiquitous spring roll. The all-conquering dim sim. The finger-licking-good sweet and sour pork.’
‘Last night my assistant, Akor Sok—’
‘What a fine fellow that Sok is,’ Sihanouk said. ‘A truly great Cambodian.’
‘Last night Sok ordered a dozen spring rolls, as an experiment, just to see what they were like.’
‘And what conclusion did he reach?’
‘They were drowned in grease, he said. The insides were mashed: there was no way of telling what the filling actually consisted of. Sok rang the kitchen to find out. They claimed it was chicken but I tasted a tiny morsel myself and I’ve got my doubts. It came with something they called plum sauce but I dipped my finger in: it tasted like tomato ketchup with extra sugar stirred through.’
‘What a finely honed palate you have,’ Ampalavanar said.
‘They’re all going to die of heart attacks anyway ... It makes you wonder why they’re so worried about Libya,’ Sihanouk said.
An Indonesian general came past to wish Sihanouk happy birthday and to fawn over Kiry. When he left, Sihanouk rolled his eyes.
‘That awful man reminds me of Sukarno,’ Sihanouk said. ‘Sukarno visited me in ... what year was it, Mr Vice President?’
‘1960,’ Kiry said.
‘1960. Yes. He had the most oafish bodyguards I have ever encountered. They all had birth defects. They roamed around Phnom Penh as if they owned the place. All the pretty girls fled.
‘As for Sukarno himself: what a crazy old man. He was absolutely obsessed with virgins … Am I revealing too much? Should Sihanouk shhh himself? Should he clamp his mouth shut yet again? Too late now.
‘And then the Cambodian Royal Ballet performed for Sukarno, led by my beautiful daughter Bopha Devi. Afterwards Sukarno held my daughter so tightly I thought she would surely break in half. He wanted to marry her ... for one night only, he didn’t want to keep her. And Monique – Sihanouk’s very own Monique, no less – he wanted to ravish her too. Am I being indiscreet? It’s my birthday and I can tell any story I want. Anyway, he’s dead, so what does it matter?’
A plate of crispy-skinned quail stuffed with figs appeared in front of Sihanouk and caused him to abandon his story. He placed a fingertip on the quail and its breast burst open. He lifted the figs one at a time towards his lips; his tongue rushed out to meet them. Only when he had eaten all the figs, leaving a purple stain around his mouth, did he begin to tear at the wet quail flesh.
‘If I may change the subject, I was hoping that we might speak in a frank way, as only friends can,’ Ampalavanar said to Kiry.
‘It is a delicate matter,’ Sihanouk added, picking at a piece of meat that was caught in his teeth.
‘I wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to have an unofficial word – nothing more than friendly chit-chat, you understand – about several of your colleagues,’ Ampalavanar said.
Kiry wiped his hands, took up his knife and fork and began to eat his quail from wing to wing. After a minute he set down his cutlery and indicated with open palms that Ampalavanar should proceed.
‘With the greatest respect, I am hoping – my government is hoping – that you might take a moment to consider whether it might be an ideal time for Pol Pot, Ieng Sary, Nuon Chea and Ta Mok to retire. Especially Pol Pot.’
‘Retire?’
‘Oh what a wonderful birthday present that would be,’ Sihanouk said.
‘I believe it could prove to be a turning point for your country,’ Ampalavanar said. ‘Not to mention a very clever manoeuvre for your coalition. Many of my friends and colleagues in the ASEAN community share my views. Needless to say—’
‘Needless,’ Sihanouk agreed.
‘Needless to say, all of us continue to support the Democratic Kampuchea movement and you personally in your honourable struggle against the imperialist Vietnamese.’
‘Those ruthless bloodsuckers,’ Sihanouk said.
‘I’m sure you know that no one is pushing harder than ASEAN for the restoration of Cambodian self-determination. But I believe – we all believe – that collectively we could exert so much more pressure on the Vietnamese to withdraw if you considered our suggestion. It is a matter of perception. I’m sure you understand what I mean.’
‘Would you like more champagne, Your Excellency?’ a waiter asked Kiry. ‘Or would you prefer riesling?’
‘I want a glass of sauvignon blanc.’
‘I’ll have to check if we—’
‘This is a five-star hotel, isn’t it? How hard can it be to find me a glass of sauvignon blanc?’
‘If, for instance, Mr Pol Pot, deploying his well-known wisdom, chose to give up his day-to-day control of the army I would be very happy to lend a hand,’ Sihanouk said, a pyramid of clean bird bones drying in the centre of his plate. ‘My little villa in Mougins would be his for the asking. It’s very quaint.’
‘I wonder if the French would embrace their new resident,’ Kiry said.
‘The French eat out of my hand like tame birds,’ Sihanouk said. ‘But if you do not think Mougins a suitable destination then Pol Pot – and Ieng Sary and Ta Mok and Nuon Chea too – could move into my palace at Pyongyang. You have seen it, what a size, almost a wonder of the world, no doubt visible from outer space. Your colleagues and their families could each take a wing and, should they desire, not see each other for weeks at a time. The amenities are first-class: an indoor swimming pool, a cinema that I had built to the exact specifications of the one in the White House, three chefs, a sanatorium, a squash court which is also suitable for badminton and volleyball, a ping-pong table. Or if that is unsatisfactory, I’m sure our Chinese friends would be only too delighted to find Mr Pol Pot a palatial home in Beijing. Or perhaps even in Hong Kong.’
‘After the handover, of course,’ Ampalavanar said.
‘Really?’ Sihanouk said. ‘I think the British would look the other way, wouldn’t they, if we asked nicely?’
Kiry pushed his plate away. He made eye contact with a young Thai diplomat on another table, leaving the young man too discomforted to eat. Kiry opened his mouth but then pursed his lips. Still silent, he unfolded his arms, took up his cutlery and continued to methodically de-flesh the quail.
‘For us, unity is everything,’ he said eventually. ‘You cannot break us into pieces with promises of squash courts or ice boxes full of Moët. None of us concerns ourselves with insignificant material possessions or comforts. Brother Pol Pot will never abandon Kampuchea and nor will I. We care only about retrieving the sovereignty of our nation. That is all we have ever fought for and we will not abandon the struggle now.’
Ampalavanar stared at his plate. Sihanouk picked at his teeth and held his champagne flute aloft, waiting for someone to fill it.
‘So much for Sukarno,’ Sihanouk said. ‘But have I ever told you about the time in 1966 when I entertained Charles de Gaulle?’
1984
As he boarded the bus Cornell Jackson accepted a complimentary lunchbox from a representative of the Thai military. Having skipped breakfast, he quickly ate the shredded chicken, a hard-boiled egg and a soft, slightly stale bread roll. Cornell closed his eyes. It was hours before they would reach the Cambodian border. He figured he might as well catch up on his sleep.
When the air-conditioning forced him awake, shivering, the musty curtain was branding a diamond-shaped pattern onto his cheek. He sneezed and sneezed again. A minder materialised with a box of tissues, a bottle of water, an offer of aspirin, and a promise: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Jackson, we will arrive at the border very soon.’ He drank two cans of warm Coke for the caffeine. He had to be on top of his game. He’d promised Ted – whose name was on a list of banned persons published by the Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea – that he would take in every little detail.
Soon the buses passed into Cambodia. After travelling less than a kilometre along a hard-packed dirt road they arrived at Phum Thmei. Cornell exited the bus and moved with the other visitors to a clearing. A narrow path led from a group of neat pine huts into the thick jungle. As Cornell stretched and yawned, a pair of teenagers, a svelte girl and a handsome boy, dressed in Levis and T-shirts and sandals, wandered from the huts towards the jungle. They tossed their hair in unison. As the foliage swallowed them, the girl glanced over her shoulder and smiled a smile that Cornell thought was meant especially for him.
On the far side of the clearing stood the welcoming committee, an entourage of Khmer Rouge identities. Cornell scanned their faces. He remembered a couple of political strategists from a conference he’d attended in Singapore and recognised a high-ranking military commander from a photograph Ted had shown him. But he had no idea who the others were. He wondered if that was a deliberate strategy to confuse the journalists or if he really was as plain ignorant as Ted was forever telling him.
He raised his camera but a minder appeared by his side.
‘No photo. No photo: security. We give you photo later. Official photographer only.’
Cornell shrugged. In his notebook he scribbled, ‘Fat man with enormous arms, thinning hair and scar under left cheek,’ and ‘Tallish man, very skinny, hollow eye-sockets, a couple of teeth missing when he smiles,’ hoping that Ted could identify them. He looked about to see who else was trying to use a camera and noticed, back towards the buses, that the teenage lovers were repeating their stylish stroll from the huts to the jungle.
Then Nhem Kiry appeared, immaculate in a grey suit despite the heat, the heavy atmosphere, the mass of bugs in the air. He began shaking hands and offering salutations. Cornell was surprised to see Kiry so relaxed, so natural. He’d been stiff as a scarecrow when he gave his speech in Geneva. As if connected to Kiry by a switch, the younger leaders instantly adopted welcoming postures.
Journalists continued to spill out of the buses. The area was soon full of visitors murmuring ‘Weird, hey’ to each other, shuffling about as if to mark the ground with their discomfort, requesting water or towels or insect repellent, trying to take photographs without getting rebuked, and admiring the flowers – for, inconceivably, the path was lined with pansies.
With a smile and a wave, Kiry singled out a man standing beside Cornell.
‘Do you know him?’ Cornell asked the man.
‘Oh no. No no no. I met him once, that’s all. That’s it.’
Kiry walked to them and held out his hand to Cornell, who gamely took it.
‘Good afternoon, sir. My name is Cornell E. Jackson.’
‘Yes, Mr Jackson,’ Kiry said. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I wanted to compliment you on the Edgar Institute. You’re doing fine and noble work. I for one share your desire for more honesty and openness in public life.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.’
‘Is your father well? Do pass on my best wishes to him. Tell him I very much look forward to meeting him again one day.’
‘You’ve met my father, sir?’
‘Ah, it’s probably supposed to be a secret. Ask him to tell you about me. Well, I must get on.’ He took a few steps away and then turned back. ‘And please give Edward Whittlemore my kindest regards.’
Cornell nodded, mute. Only now did he remember Ted’s instructions: ‘If you see that skinny runt, ask him where Bun Sody’s body is buried.’
‘Do you think you
might be a little obsessed, buddy?’ Cornell had replied.
The crowd followed Nhem Kiry along the path that ran through the model village to a clearing, where Prince Sihanouk and Princess Monique waited. Sihanouk clapped his hands and waved exuberantly. He attempted to include the whole crowd in a welcoming hug. Monique did her best to look interested, but Cornell could see how distasteful she found the whole event. Ted had told Cornell that Monique was nothing more than a common thief but he had not revealed how beautiful she was. She’s just starting to get a bit old and wrinkled, Cornell thought, but she’s still quite the looker.
Sihanouk burrowed into the crowd and fiercely embraced a friend, whose name he could not quite remember.
‘My ... good man, my good, good man, I think about you so often when I read your stories. Thank you for visiting Sihanouk.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Your Majesty. This little place is very impressive,’ the man replied.
‘Yes it is wonderful, isn’t it?’ Sihanouk drew closer as if to speak discreetly. Cornell, who was twenty metres away, could hear every word. ‘This is our special make-believe camp, our little fantasy. His Excellency, Nhem Kiry, doubts that it is safe for me to be at my own Funcinpec camp. And he is embarrassed by his own rough camp, just over that ridge: you’ll be able to smell it if the wind changes. So we have all gathered here today to play a little game.’
‘Why is your camp not safe, Your Majesty?’ another journalist called out. ‘Are the Vietnamese troops close by?’
For a moment Sihanouk looked annoyed, but then he saw a French journalist he knew and he rushed to embrace him.
A line of soldiers, soft-skinned boys dressed in brand-new khaki uniforms, marched out of the jungle. Their shoulders made perfect squares. Their faces were relaxed and sincere; they appeared neither to gloat nor to scowl. Their virginal weapons gleaned in the sun, which was slowly burning a hole in the back of Cornell’s head.
‘What do you think?’ a journalist behind Cornell said. ‘Whose soldiers are they? Sihanouk’s? Khmer Rouge? KPNLF?’
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