‘They can’t be KPNLF,’ someone else said. ‘My information is that they barely have enough soldiers to field a football team.’
Sihanouk emerged from the throng, his cheeks glistening. He gathered himself into a formal pose and commenced a slow review of the soldiers. Nhem Kiry followed a few steps behind, pausing whenever Sihanouk paused. When it was done, Kiry walked to a building, opened a door and ushered forward the Yugoslavian and the Egyptian ambassadors to Thailand. Each man presented his credentials to Sihanouk and then bowed so low that Cornell stood on tippy-toes to see if their noses kissed the dirt. When the Yugoslav ambassador finally straightened, he was blinking uncontrollably. Cornell could not decide if he had sweat or dust in his eyes, or if he was overcome with emotion.
Champagne appeared on a silver tray. Cornell looked on longingly. He wondered if he could get himself a glass if he offered to make a donation to the cause.
Sihanouk raised his glass and spoke. ‘My heart breaks – Sihanouk’s heart breaks, I tell you all – when I see Cambodia turning into Vietnam’s newest province. But we fight on. I want to take this opportunity to thank Sihanouk’s special friends for the delivery of a thousand new rifles for my soldiers, although I cannot give you the specifics because these friends like their privacy. Sihanouk is obliged not to reveal the names of our donors because Singapore is so shy, tee hee. And others, too, including ... no, I cannot, I must not ... I apologise to our eminent and honoured guests, Mr Ambassador and Mr Ambassador, that I cannot currently receive you in my palace in Phnom Penh but it is, so my spies tell me, filled night and day with Vietnamese generals living the high life.’ He paused and peered over his shoulder into the jungle and leaned close to the Egyptian ambassador.
‘I will tell you a secret,’ he whispered. ‘Our enemy is not so far from this place.’
‘I find this a most intriguing fact, Your Majesty. I am a former soldier, you see.’
‘A military man? Oh good: if things should happen to get desperate before we depart you can defend us, tee hee.’
And then Nhem Kiry closed the meeting. The crowd turned and headed back through the village. Cornell sat on the bus, ate an orange, wiped his hands on the military-issued moist towelette and wondered what the point of all this was.
At Aranyaprathet, just inside Thailand, the buses slowed down and pulled off to the side of the road. Four black Mercedes sedans with darkened windows passed: one for Kiry, one for Sihanouk and Monique, one for the Egyptian ambassador and one for the Yugoslav ambassador. As they went by Cornell’s bus erupted with claps and cheers. The bus driver, eager to please, honked his horn long and loud. He’ll pay for that later, Cornell thought, which got him thinking about what he’d say to Ted.
1985
Ted Whittlemore had almost given up on ever seeing Sihanouk again when Sihanouk unexpectedly contacted him and suggested they meet in Singapore. They came together in the enormous lobby of the prince’s hotel suite. Ted stood with his arm extended, offering a Western handshake. But Sihanouk rushed towards him and Ted inclined his head, bent his knees slightly and opened his arms. Sihanouk launched into the embrace but mistimed his leap. As he tumbled, Ted caught him by the collar and stopped him from careering into the door. Finally they hugged and both men noticed that their stomachs nestled together like old friends but the rest of their torsos were further apart than ever before.
‘Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why didn’t you ever try to contact me? Never mind, I forgive you,’ Sihanouk said. ‘It has been too long, my dear friend, to worry about your trivial offences.’
‘It must be nearly ten years, Your Majesty.’
‘Many things have changed.’
‘And sadly, some things remain exactly the same.’
Sihanouk fell silent. Ted wondered if he was about to throw him out before they had even begun. Or if Sihanouk was going to tell him what he really thought of him. You’ve let yourself go, Ted imagined Sihanouk saying. Where is your hair? I had no idea, no idea I tell you, that your head was such an odd shape. Is that bump from birth or is it from an accident or a war wound? Why don’t you try a wig? And your skin is too thin: it’s not pleasant for Sihanouk to have to look at another man’s veins.
Instead Sihanouk said, ‘It’s so good to see you. Please, let’s sit. Champagne?’
‘Perhaps not—’
‘I see. A formal interview, is it? I was hoping that we might be two old friends renewing acquaintances.’
‘Please excuse me, Your Majesty, but I haven’t made myself clear: I’d rather drink beer than champagne.’
‘Tee hee: the Aussie wants a beer.’ Sihanouk pushed the coffee table aside and pulled his chair forward. He indicated that Ted should sit. ‘I think that you are disappointed in Sihanouk.’
‘May I be frank, Your Majesty? I am more than disappointed: I am distraught.’
‘Hmm. The Aussie speaks his mind. You want me to become a Vietnamese king, is that it? Like you are a Vietnamese Aussie? You understand, surely, that I cannot allow foreigners to tramp around Cambodia as if they own it. Cambodia is Sihanouk’s – and nobody else’s – to plunder. Why are the Vietnamese still in my country? In my palace? What do you say, Ted? Do you know? Will they ever leave or will they stay forever? Well? What do you say?’
‘But you are allied with the Khmer Rouge again, Your Majesty. After everything that has happened, after they fooled us, you are letting them use your name again. The world thinks that you and Nhem Kiry are the best of friends.’
‘Really, Ted. Nobody believes that. Nobody who matters, anyway. Nhem Kiry does what Sihanouk tells him to do.’
‘That’s what I believed last time because you assured me it was so, Your Majesty. Look where that left us.’
‘No: that will not do. If you think you made an error don’t go blaming Sihanouk for your bad judgment. Have the Vietnamese poisoned your mind? Or the Americans? I order you to recant your dirty accusation.’
‘I apologise, Your Majesty, for any perceived insult. I forgot my place.’
‘Are you unwell? I hear your bills are being paid by a right-wing American think-tank.’
‘That’s a dirty lie. But, Your Majesty, as for Nhem Kiry—’
‘Nhem Kiry’s life is written on his wrist: do this, do that, stand up, lie down, eat, drink, blink, breathe. Nhem Kiry is a harlot: he’ll spread his legs for anybody. He is irrelevant.’
‘I believe that you underestimate him. I’m worried that you are helping Pol Pot prepare to take charge of Cambodia once more.’
‘No. No no no. Sihanouk is doing what is right. You disappoint me, Mr Aussie. There was a time when you would have understood. There was a time when I could have counted on your help.’
‘The price is too high, Your Majesty.’
‘The price of what? Whittlemore’s reputation? You used to 130 be fearless.’
‘But you can change all this. You have the power now to achieve great things, and to sway world opinion, without the Khmer Rouge.’
‘Me? Sihanouk is as irrelevant as Nhem Kiry. Sihanouk is nothing.’
‘Your Majesty, you have never been nothing.’
‘I have a new coat of paint but I am still a condemned house.’
‘Then why not accept the inevitable? Retire, go to France.’
‘I wish I could, of course I do. Monique would be ecstatic. She might even let poor parched Sihanouk drink more often from her well: ooh la la, she plays so hard to get these days. But it is not possible for me to retire. Yes, I am nothing, I am jaded, I am wretched, but I must still do what I can for Cambodia. After everything I have endured, I cannot allow Cambodia to become a province of Vietnam. And when the superpowers decide Cambodia’s fate, I will be ready to take charge once more ... But, anyway, Sihanouk does not want to retire. He would shrivel up. But I will do it – believe me, I am serious – if, but only if, a Cambodian leader arises who is better and more worthy than Sihanouk. If only my boy would grow up.’
‘Rana
riddh? With respect, Your Majesty, I hear that he and his brothers keep setting their private militias on each other.’
‘Ah well, boys will be boys.’
‘Your Majesty, if I may say so, I know you think you have your reasons, but surely you understand that people become confused when you ally yourself with the Khmer Rouge.’
‘Tee hee, I confuse them, I know it. And I confuse you, too, yes, don’t I? And do you know how I do it? Can you keep a secret? I tell the truth. Everybody says that Sihanouk changes his mind. Mr Flip-Flop, you called me that yourself, don’t deny it, you naughty rude Aussie. Monique was so angry with you when she read that awful article ... I tell the truth and nobody believes me. Sometimes I need to be the president of the Coalition Government of Democratic Kampuchea. Sometimes I have to give Mr Nhem Kiry a great big sloppy kiss. Sometimes I am Prince Norodom Sihanouk, private citizen. But every day I tell the truth as I know it on that day. Is it Sihanouk’s fault that the truth changes every time the sun rises? Ah, here are the drinks.’
A waiter, dressed in a red dinner suit, set down a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Moët and half a dozen bottles of Stella Artois. While the waiter wrestled with the champagne cork, Ted flicked the top off a beer with his pocketknife and swigged straight from the bottle. The waiter looked at him disdainfully then withdrew, taking an ice-frosted glass with him.
‘You’re not going to assassinate me, are you?’ Sihanouk asked, eyeing Ted’s pocketknife.
‘Kill my gracious host? Of course not.’
‘We still have one thing in common, I think: we avoid violence ourselves, we would not even know how to hit a man, as opposed to how to caress a woman. But as for our friends, there is nothing that they are not capable of.’
‘Yes, well ...’ Ted said, momentarily lost for words. ‘But in military terms, Your Majesty, the situation for your coalition is grave.’
‘Not at all. Your friends the Vietnamese are expert at propaganda. And they have a knack of appearing to win insignificant battles close to the Thai border. When journalists see battles with their own ears, when they see men lying in pieces, they take photographs, they collect newsreels and, alas, they think that what they witness is the key to understanding the world. You do it too, my friend, you are one of the worst. But I tell you that when it really matters – when there is nobody around to see – Sihanouk’s soldiers hold their positions. And our allies in the coalition are also doing very well.’
‘Even if that was true, how can it make you happy? Your allies are mass murderers.’
‘Do not speak to me as if I am a child. I do not need someone who watches and never acts to tell me things I have always known. You explain that Mr Pol Pot is a criminal, you say he is demented, you tell me he is a devil, and you expect me to look at you in wonder as if these things have never occurred to me before. Sihanouk is no dunce, Ted.’
‘Please excuse me, Your Majesty, I mean you no offence, of course. But if you know—’
‘If I know? If? They killed my family. How about yours? I sat in my prison-palace for three years while they massacred my people, hundreds and thousands of my little children. Sihanouk and Monique sat there like leaves on a tree, praying for cool weather and a wind to blow us off the branch.’
‘But with the greatest respect, Your Majesty, if you know all this—’
‘If, if, if.’
‘If you know this then how can you live with yourself for helping them? Why not abandon them? You can do it, the politics allow it now, surely you know that.’
‘Sihanouk’s world does not revolve around making friends with the Vietnamese.’
‘More’s the pity. But even the Americans, even ASEAN, are beginning to notice how badly the Khmer Rouge smell.’
An aide entered and reminded Sihanouk he had an appointment in half an hour.
‘Who is it? No, don’t tell me, I don’t care. Cancel it.’
‘But Your Majesty, it’s the American ambassador.’
‘Too bad. Tell him I have heard bad news from the war zone. Tell him I am awash with pain and guilt like at no other time in my long and distinguished life and that I cannot possibly see him until lunchtime tomorrow. Come on, old friend, drink up: so much earnest talking. You worry too much these days. You used to know how to enjoy yourself.’
‘I am sorry, Your Majesty, but—’
‘I know, you are frustrated. Well too bad: Sihanouk wants to have fun. I want to play music. You will accompany me, yes? See, I had them bring a piano especially.’
‘But Your Majesty, it has been years since I last played.’
‘And I blame the Vietnamese for that too. Is there a properly tuned Steinway anywhere in Indochina? Come, fix yourself another beer. I will prepare myself.’
Sihanouk sucked a reed, assembled his clarinet and wiped it reverently with a soft cloth.
‘What shall we play, Your Majesty?’
‘Oh, Ted, surely you don’t need to ask.’
Ted’s fingers hovered above the keys for a moment, then eased down and held a muted chord. Sihanouk closed his eyes, rested the clarinet on his trembling lower lip, and launched into his very own version of Acker Bilk’s ‘Stranger on the Shore.’ Ted watched Sihanouk’s face as he turned the old standard into a whole new composition. His enthusiasm infected Ted. As Sihanouk’s clarinet swept high and low, Ted’s chords echoed the warble and occasionally led the way.
When they finished the song, Sihanouk stood silent and immobile, transported to a higher consciousness. Ted watched him and, just for a moment, could not help but fall in love with him all over again.
As he stood to leave, Sihanouk embraced him and whispered in his ear, ‘Come back to me: all is forgiven.’
‘I’m honoured, Your Majesty. I’ll consider it,’ Ted said.
Ted left on a high, but by the time he found a bar and perched himself on a stool, he felt as if Sihanouk had jumped on his back and was crushing him with his weight. Ted jerked his shoulders and shook his head, drawing a sharp stare from the barman. Ted pondered Sihanouk’s offer and quickly dismissed it: his job was to carry on being the voice of reason, the voice against cant. It wasn’t his fault if nobody was listening.
1988
It is difficult to believe that the Jakarta Informal Meeting has furthered the cause of Cambodian peace, if indeed that was ever its true purpose. At Bogor, former Indonesian president Sukarno’s getaway palace, sworn enemies sipped cocktails and pretended that they could stand each other’s company. They may have engaged in so-called dialogue, but it is highly unlikely that they allowed themselves to do what normal people do at cocktail parties: have spontaneous conversations. In all likelihood, they stood about reciting carefully crafted scripts. All very predictable. All very pointless.
The content of the dialogue gives no cause for optimism. One example will suffice: the Vietnamese delegation, led by the redoubtable Nguyen Co Thach, reiterated that Hanoi is in the process of withdrawing all of its troops from Cambodia. Everybody knows that the soldiers really are leaving, but Vietnam’s opponents persist in pretending it isn’t true.
This observer sensed an even more worrying trend. Calls from various parties for some type of UN peacekeeping force are wrongheaded and even pernicious. This conflict has never been a civil war – or, at least, never solely a civil war. The Cambodian people are not to blame for prolonging this war or for the continued presence of the Khmer Rouge as a guerrilla force. The principal combatants in Cambodia have always been China, the Americans and – as a defensive measure and against their personal wishes – the Soviet Union. Ask yourself this: when the UN arrives to make peace, whose interests will they truly be serving?
—Edward Whittlemore, ‘As I See It,’ syndicated column
‘This suit is a disaster,’ Nhem Kiry said. ‘And I hold you responsible.’ He tried to smooth the wrinkled white linen. ‘Oh, I give up.’
‘You look suave,’ Akor Sok said, ‘and so statesmanlike.’
‘I look like a
tennis player sent out to save the world.’
Kiry took the paper orchid from his lapel – the purple dye was beginning to run – and threw it into the gutter. He acknowledged but waved away several reporters loitering in front of the hotel.
‘No, it’s too hot today. I will talk to you tomorrow.’
Two Cambodian monks, dressed in saffron robes and holding umbrellas to protect their shaved heads from the sun, stood waiting for traffic to pass so they could cross the road. Kiry’s bodyguards stepped forward and one of them yelled, ‘Stay away,’ but Kiry held up his hand.
‘It’s all right. I want to speak with them,’ he said.
‘But we’re late, Your Excellency,’ Sok said. ‘It will take at least an hour to reach the palace.’
‘Late? Late? I can’t imagine what we’re going to miss.’
‘You cannot trust monks. Talking only encourages them.’
‘When peace comes we must be a party for all Kampucheans. How do you propose I lay the groundwork for this if I cannot speak with the people who will spread the word on our behalf?’
‘It could be a dirty trick. They may want to yell at you. They may pressure you to make promises that they will then hold against you. Check their sleeves for recording devices. And for knives: they could be here to assassinate you.’
‘They are monks. I read about them in the newspaper: they have come to promote the cause of peace.’
‘They look like monks, but looks can be deceiving. I heard about a mass murderer in Japan. He shaved his head and wore robes and nobody suspected him. He killed twenty-eight women before they caught him. When the police asked him why he did it he said, “The Buddha made me do it.”’
‘Do you know your problem? You have no empathy for everyday people. It makes me sad.’
‘Wait for your guards, Your Excellency.’
‘If I do that then there’s no point in me going at all.’
‘Please, Your Excellency, be careful crossing the road. Remember the golden rule: look to the left, look to the right, look to the left again.’
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