Michael smiled. ‘I’ll get us a drink.’
‘Do you think that will help?’
‘Keep your wits about you, Dad. It’s a minefield in here.’
Lea floated into view, wearing an ankle-length dress that Ted thought had to be a nightgown. She took Ted’s arm. ‘You made it, then.’
‘What a tail you’ve grown,’ Ted said, indicating the men Lea dragged behind her and who, as she settled in beside Ted, fanned out, each choosing an image to ponder.
‘What do you think, Grandpa? Be honest, now.’
‘I think they’re all too scruffy and too vacant. Especially him,’ Ted pointed at one of her admirers, a short bloke with a bad haircut and three days of stubble who was dressed in jeans that didn’t quite fit him and a red T-shirt that had lost its shape. ‘And that one over there: Jesus, love, he’s almost as old as I am.’
‘What do you think about the photographs?’
‘Well, I ... They’re certainly original, I’ll give you that.’
‘You hate them.’
‘I don’t hate them, love, not at all. I think they’re wonderful. All congratulations to you. Really. It’s just that—’
‘It’s just that what?’
‘If you’ll let me finish – it’s rude to badger your elders, didn’t anybody ever teach you that? It’s just that, I mean, for instance, if … Well, take this one: is it supposed to be called “life,” or “ell-one-eff-ee,” or ... ?’
‘It’s up to you. Whatever you prefer. Whatever you see in it.’
‘No, that doesn’t help me, love. That’s exactly the problem. I need to know what to call my art. Otherwise I can’t tell you whether I like it or not because I don’t know what it is I’m looking at.’
Lea laughed. ‘You haven’t got a drink. Are you ill?’
‘Your dad’s getting me one now. Now listen, why di—’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Stop interrupting while you’re listening. Why didn’t you tell me about your mum and dad?’
‘He’s told you, then. About time, too.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s his news, his private life, not mine.’
‘But aren’t you upset?’
‘I suppose. A little, maybe. But honestly, Grandpa, it’s been a long time coming. It’s better this way. Better for everybody.’
‘Better for your dad?
‘Maybe especially him.’
‘I don’t think he sees it like that.’
‘He will. Eventually. Come on, I want to show you something.’
Lea took Ted’s arm – as she did so half a dozen male heads jerked in their direction – and led him across the room.
‘Close your eyes,’ she said.
‘Do I have to? One of these days they won’t ever open again.’
‘Close them.’
‘You’ll have to hypnotise me.’
‘Close them or I’ll start spreading rumours that you’re senile.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Ted said, but he put his hands in front of his face. Lea led him through the crowd, collecting congratulations and pecks to both cheeks as she went.
‘Okay, Grandpa, you can open your eyes now.’
Ted blinked. After the fuzzy lines turned sharp, after the green and black splotches faded, an enormous black and white photograph of an old man confronted him. All of a sudden he wished he’d brought the wheelchair.
‘But ... is that me?’
‘Of course it’s you, Grandpa.’
In the photograph Ted stood in the ocean, his head and shoulders out of the water. Lea had taken it the one time she had cajoled him into going swimming with her at Henley Beach. He had endured it for ten minutes because she promised him that the cold salt water would be therapeutic. His white hair was stuck askew across his head, which seemed to have expanded to twice its normal size. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his skin beaded. A triangular crease ran across the bridge of his nose, joining the corners of his eyes. It made him look, he thought, as if he was regressing into some lower lifeform.
‘Well? Do you like it?’
‘I’m not sure any man should have to see the shape of his skull. It’s like peering at your own corpse pinned to a wall.’
‘I think you look beautiful.’
‘Why’s it called “spiRit”? You should have called it “MoNsteR.”’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Lea asked.
Ted did mind. He minded very much. He wanted to rip the image off the wall and skewer it with his walking stick.
‘Of course I don’t mind, love. Anyway, you’re an artist: you don’t need my permission.’
Ted only lasted another ten minutes before he began to tilt and sway. When he began to dribble, Michael and Lea each grabbed an arm and shepherded him to the car.
They were passing through the intersection of Osmond Terrace and the Parade when a blood vessel ruptured in Ted’s head. His closed eyes flickered. Michael thought Ted was asleep, and took the last corners to the Concertina Rest Home gently. Only when Michael parked did he realise that something had gone terribly wrong inside Ted’s shell of a body.
Ted lay in a bed in the high-dependency ward for nearly a month. The doctors punctured him with tubes to feed him and to remove his wastes. He wore an oxygen mask. Nurses came from time to time to turn his body. Lea hated that most of all. While one nurse cooed in Ted’s ear – ‘It’s a beautiful sunny day outside, Mr Whittlemore. Not a cloud in the sky. Can you be a brave boy for me now? We’re just going to give you a teensy-weensy jolt and maybe after, when you’re feeling a little better, I’ll have a little treat especially for you. Do you like chocolate, Mr Whittlemore? Everybody likes chocolate, don’t they?’ One nurse grabbed his shoulders and the other his feet and they yanked him like they were pulling a tooth.
Ted murmured now and again, indistinguishable sounds insinuating speech. His eyelids flickered and occasionally threatened to open. Once or twice one eyebrow raised when somebody spoke to him. It gave Lea hope, but he was toying with her. He never regained consciousness. He got pneumonia and his lungs slowly filled up until he drowned in his bed.
Ted Whittlemore died on a Tuesday. At the moment he stopped breathing, Michael was staring out the window. There were a few spots of rain colouring the red paving, and Pamela, that attractive administrator Michael had been thinking of asking to the Barossa Jazz and Wine Festival, was walking towards the car park. Michael watched her buttocks retreating and wondered whether it would be appropriate to knock on the door of her office, or if he should contrive to bump into her.
Lea was down the hall, buying burnt coffee from the vending machine adjacent to the fire stairs.
1998
Pol Pot spoke his last words to Nhem Kiry – Kiry forever believed they were his last words to any person – a week before he died. Sitting up in his camp bed, he half-listened as Kiry read aloud pieces from a week-old Bangkok Post. Occasionally, he made a comment – ‘That Mr Clinton takes us all for fools,’ or, ‘Who scored the goals for Manchester United?’ – but mostly he concentrated on keeping his head upright. After a while he slept so noiselessly that Kiry once or twice leant across to check that he was breathing.
Suddenly Pol Pot jerked awake.
‘There is no simple answer,’ he said. ‘It depends entirely on the context.’
‘What does, Big Brother?’
Pol Pot squinted at Kiry, confused. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself.’
‘Can you see me, Big Brother?’
‘Go away, whoever you are.’
‘Calm yourself, Big Brother. Are you thirsty?’
Kiry put a bottle of water to Pol Pot’s lips. He tried to swat it away but he didn’t have the strength.
‘Where are we?’
‘Anlong Veng.’
‘Still? We need to get away from here. There’s not a moment to lose. The Chinese will welcome us, won’t they?’
‘I’m not sure, Big Brother. Perh
aps not.’
‘Thailand then.’
‘They might allow you to visit the hospital, if you promise to be a quiet patient. But they will not let you stay.’
‘Phnom Penh? Is there no chance, for you at least? You should climb up on Ranariddh’s shoulders, like we always discussed.’
‘Big Brother, I hoped to negotiate with Ranariddh. But Hun Sen has crushed Ranariddh. Ranariddh is in exile in France. You know all this.’
‘Then we will go to Yugoslavia?’
‘Big Brother, Yugoslavia no longer exists. It has broken into pieces.’
‘President Tito will embrace us, surely?’
‘President Tito is dead. Don’t you remember?’
‘Dead? Are you sure?’ Pol Pot’s eyes clouded over. He sagged in his bed.
‘Are you all right, Big Brother? Can I get anything for you?’
‘Go away. I’m sick of you spying on me.’
An hour or so later, Pol Pot’s daughter found him slumped on the floor of the hut. They lay him on the mattress. Ta Mok’s doctor came to look, but he could think of nothing much to do other than force water and a little sticky rice down his throat. Every few hours soldiers shifted and shook his limbs so that he didn’t bruise too much.
Some time after Pol Pot died, three of Ta Mok’s bodyguards entered the hut. They greeted Kiry with polite, sympathetic murmurs. One bodyguard took hold of Pol Pot’s feet. A second man brought his wrists together above his head. They lifted Pol Pot – ‘He’s so light,’ one of them whispered – so that the third bodyguard could place a length of tarpaulin between the body and the mattress. They dragged several blocks of ice into the hut and wedged them under Pol Pot’s arms and between his legs. They lit cigarettes, admired their handiwork and wandered off.
Kiry knew he should leave Pol Pot’s body and offer his support to Mea, who was inconsolable. Or ask Ta Mok if he could spare a can of Coca-Cola to give to poor little Sisopha, who was outside drawing pictures in the dirt with a blank look on her face. Or just retreat to his hut and allow Kolab to comfort him, maybe massage his shoulders. But he stayed where he was, counting the drops of melted water dripping onto the dirt.
Nuon Chea entered the hut, limping badly. Kiry stood up to let him have the upturned wooden crate he’d been sitting on. Usually, Chea sought out Kiry to rant at him, to accuse him of some weakness or failing, to insult him for (it seemed to Kiry) no good reason at all. Today Chea was silent. Kiry wanted to leave but he sensed that Chea needed his company.
A group of Thai military officers arrived, chattering like children. They crammed into the hut, forcing Chea and Kiry against the wall. They filed past and peered at Pol Pot. The last officer in the queue took a camera from his bag and began taking snapshots of Pol Pot’s corpse. He paused, stood in the middle of the hut and put a fresh roll of film into the camera. He crouched down and took a rapid series of photographs of Pol Pot’s face. The camera’s flash lit up the dim space and cast silhouettes across the concrete walls.
Kiry saw that Nuon Chea was about to erupt. He took his elbow and led him into the sun. They walked to the river, sat on a rock and watched the brown water flowing slowly past and around the bend, where they could hear women thrashing clothes.
‘What now? What now but fishing?’ Chea said.
They stayed sitting on the rock by the river, silent. Soon after midday, Kiry’s granddaughter Kunthea came looking for him. But before she got close Kiry called out, ‘Not now. Go back.’ She ran away, crying.
‘You spoke harshly to the child,’ Chea said.
‘Yes,’ Kiry said.
Soon after, Chea’s wife brought them food and water but Chea refused to take his medicine. When his wife insisted, Chea took the packets of pills and launched them into the river. Then he grabbed at his shoulder and let out a low moan.
In the middle of the afternoon, four soldiers carried Pol Pot to a clearing. They dumped him on a pyre made of wood and old rubber tyres and the sodden mattress he had died on. They set him alight.
Kiry and Chea stayed by the river until the last of the black smoke had cleared. By then, Chea’s bad leg had seized up. Two of Ta Mok’s soldiers came and carried him along the winding path that led back to the village. Kiry followed on behind.
* * *
On the morning of the press conference Nhem Kiry was nervous, then lethargic, then nauseous and then finally so deeply irritated that he could not sit still or think clearly. He sent his daughter, Yat, and his granddaughters, Kunthea and Minea, downstairs to the breakfast buffet. He supposed they would inflict permanent damage on his reputation for frugality by devouring more croissants and fruit than a peasant family could possibly consume in a month. But he desperately needed peace and quiet to prepare for the traumatic day that lay ahead.
The day before had been bad enough. It began before dawn, when Kiry had snuck out of the village – stealth was best, he’d decided, even though he doubted that anybody, least of all Ta Mok, now cared whether he came or went. A couple of soldiers waited for him along the track. Kiry had bribed them to make sure they turned up, but he suspected that they wanted out just as badly as he did. They drove a few kilometres to a rendezvous point, where a government helicopter swooped out of the sky and pulled them in. Kiry arrived in Phnom Penh in time to shower and take lunch with Hun Sen. The food was bland and, worse, he had to spend an hour genuflecting before him. Then Hun Sen told him he had to front the media to explain himself, and Kiry almost felt like fleeing back to Ta Mok in Anlong Veng.
He had brought little Kunthea and Minea to Phnom Penh because they were oblivious to tension. They treated nothing seriously, which was exactly the attitude Kiry wanted to imitate. The night before, he had urged them to drink all the Coke and Sprite in the hotel-room bar fridge. It was the best – the only – revenge he could think of, but the excess sugar had transformed his girls – Yat as well as the children – into a giggling mess of limbs spread-eagled across the king-sized bed. Kiry joined in by downing two cans of Heineken, the first of which he almost enjoyed. ‘Cold and bitter,’ he said. ‘Just like me.’ Then he opened a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, sniffed it and pronounced it fake. He tipped it down the bathroom sink, an act that deeply shocked Kunthea. Kiry took her hand. ‘When we leave, let’s steal the towels,’ he said.
Kiry was relieved that Kolab had chosen to stay away from Phnom Penh. Not that she would have said anything much. But she would have denounced Kiry – herself too – with constant sighing, or by gazing at the ground in silence or by picking at her food. She had stayed in Pailin in their new wooden home. After everything he had put her through, Kiry knew she had hoped for a more palatial abode in a more cosmopolitan city. ‘It’s not Shanghai, it’s not Paris,’ she said. ‘But anything is better than another year in Anlong Veng.’
Overnight, Kiry’s sinuses had reacted badly to the air-conditioner. He blew his nose, one nostril at a time, but the tissue was bone dry. So he ran the shower hot and placed a few drops of eucalyptus oil on a flannel, a neat trick that a diplomat friend had once taught him. He stood under the shower, closed his eyes and allowed the fumes that rose with the steam to clear his head.
He shaved with a Braun two-headed electric razor. Although he preferred a blade – he liked the feel of steel on his cheeks, the smooth finish, the reliability – he had taken to cutting himself. ‘Your skin gets thinner as you get old,’ Kolab had told him. ‘Thank you for yet another startling revelation,’ he had replied. But he supposed she was right. And today, of all days, parading himself before all those people and cameras, he did not want scabs on his throat or blood spots on his collar.
Outside, Kiry’s minders – government policemen with fake Ray-Bans and obsolete firearms – scrabbled about in the corridor like rats. He wished they would keep quiet, but he was grateful to have protection from the pushy journalists and the indignant locals.
He washed himself with a tiny bar of soap that came wrapped in waxy paper. Once wet, the soap smelt rather like ov
er-heated peanut oil. When it had washed away, Kiry checked his skin for stains. He used his own shampoo: a few days earlier at a Bangkok salon – on the eighth floor of the ‘Sixth Biggest Shopping Mall in Southeast Asia,’ a claim he found ludicrous – a European-trained stylist had dyed his hair chestnut brown. Kiry liked the result, the colour as well as the wave she had blown through it, but he knew from experience that he needed to treat his hair with great care now or it would shrivel up.
He dried and powdered himself and dressed in a new camel-coloured safari suit which contrasted nicely, he decided, with his new hair colour. He put a single blue ballpoint pen, relieved from the hotel lobby, and a blank piece of paper folded in quarters into his breast pocket.
A government official nudged Kiry in the back. He took an erratic path, as if he was negotiating a minefield of microphones, spotlights and fat electric cords. The government official took his elbow but Kiry shook him off. He didn’t want anybody writing that he needed help to stand up. But then the noise in the room hit him, the waves of people pushing towards him from every direction, and his legs turned heavy. The minder grabbed him again and this time Kiry let him lead him through the throng.
Kiry sat alone behind a table on a slightly elevated stage. He folded his hands on the white linen cloth and fastened a pleasant and patient look onto his face. The mob was already shouting its interrogation. Kiry was unable to locate a fully formed question in the tangle of accusations. It was as though everybody in the room was hurling burning words at him. Should he duck or douse the flames with his glass of water? Should he sit still and let himself catch alight?
He considered absconding. He could have snuck back to his room, legitimately too, for it seemed that no amount of sleep was enough for him at the moment. Or he could have retired to the hotel’s piano bar, out on the balcony, with the Phnom Penh Post and a gin and tonic (he’d heard that the piano player, a backpacker from Finland, had a wonderful repertoire). Or he could have donned a wig and sunglasses and taken a stroll around the Central Market.
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