Song for an Approaching Storm

by Peter Froeberg Idling

  It’s a possibility that fills him with emptiness. One that would imply the final betrayal of his agreement with his friends in France. Implying a return to a state he believes he has transcended. But (it has to be admitted) it also brings with it a sense of relief: the soothing relief that comes from familiarity.

  There is no doubt that he fights best when his opponents appear to have the upper hand (as at Geneva), but it is not always possible to fight all of them. Then it is a case of quietly joining forces with one’s friends and allies.

  So the answer to the two questions, (1) and (2), is: that he should (for once) give way.

  (Primo/By telephone) Meet me in an hour. I have some new instructions for you. Which I know you will approve of, little friend.

  (Segundo/At his desk) A pristine sheet of white paper, a fountain pen with royal blue ink. He writes quickly, but is at pains to ensure it is legible. One name after another.

  Place de la Poste. The heart of the city and, he thinks, the colonial ideology cast in stone. The massive post office, flanked by the police station (with its internal labyrinth of corridors, offices and interrogation rooms) and the bright yellow Banque de l’Indochine. Behind the back of his chair is the Hôtel Manolis. They together provide the framework of buildings that surround the dream square of a (medium-sized) French town. But built without any effort to adapt to the climate. Laid down from above according to some (false) perception of civilizing superiority. Dysfunctionally. (All the windows are wide open since the lack of natural ventilation in the building makes the rooms unbearably hot.)

  Is that how democracy as a form of government is to be understood here? As something dysfunctional, alien, imposed?

  (More importantly in a private sense: is he now well on the way to adopting his father’s narrow world outlook? No, no, he defends himself. After all, he is not striving for that sort of traditional authoritarian state, is he? What he is contemplating at present is an exception.)

  The capital city is not so big that you don’t see familiar faces in a place like this: the wife (on the thin side, in a drab striped dress) of the restaurateur Mignon goes past in a cyclo laden with parcels. Right opposite, Van, the obese postmaster, is struggling up the steps, his uniform well pressed, his face shaded by the peak of his cap as he momentarily looks out over the square. And over there the chief of police’s secretary is shaking his lighter in a failed attempt to get it to work.

  He sees a wine-red Peugeot park alongside his own car.

  He sees his driver salute the driver of the red car.

  Who gets out and waves aside a pushy newspaper boy before crossing the square diagonally in the direction pointed out by Phirun. Horn-rimmed sunglasses, a silver-grey double-breasted suit, a dark blue silk tie, a hat that does not really match. He sees Lon Non’s eyes scan the café and he catches his attention by raising his hand.

  Then his sunglasses are on the café table. The hat has made a sweaty red line on his forehead. Lon Non holds out a packet of Grand Prix. He takes one, lights it with a match from the box lying in the ashtray. (The waiter puts out another glass.)

  Sary:

  Well, how are things looking?

  Non:

  We’re proceeding according to the plan. But we had one hacked to death in Svay Rieng yesterday and another severely injured in Kompong Thom. (With a smile) Hit by an arrow.

  Sary:

  An arrow? From a bow?

  Non:

  I assume so.

  Sary:

  The foreign press are going to love that.

  Non:

  There’s been shooting as well. In Takeo. With ordinary weapons. But no reports whether anyone was hit.

  Sary:

  See that the papers get the information.

  Non:

  Already have done.

  Sary:

  The international agencies as well. Especially AFP.

  Non:

  Will do.

  Sary:

  Who is that fellow?

  Non:

  Which one?

  Sary:

  The white fellow over there, talking to the oddball in brown.

  Non:

  With the briefcase? I don’t know.

  Sary:

  He looks familiar. Doesn’t matter. How are things looking for Thursday?

  Non:

  No problems. It’s going according to plan.

  Sary:

  That, among other things, is what I wanted to talk about. We’re going to change strategy.

  Non:

  Really?

  Sary:

  Up to now we’ve been at pains to be restrained. But developments suggest it is not working. The people are not mature enough, so to speak, to take responsibility. It’s time to take off the kid gloves.

  Non:

  With all due respect, it’s not a day too bloody soon.

  Sary:

  Indeed, I said you would approve. You are to make any necessary preparations. And everyone must get it into their heads that this does not, absolutely does not, imply that everyone is free to do what they like. I am the one who will decide who does what, where and when. Understood?

  Non:

  Of course.

  Sary:

  And as to Thursday, I’m thinking of being present myself. If there is nothing to prevent it?

  Non:

  Of course there isn’t. But it’s up to you to make the political judgement.

  Sary:

  That goes without saying. We’ll see. I also want regular police to be stationed close to the homes of leading figures. Not right at the door, but certainly on the block. And none at the party headquarters. Nor at the campaign offices. It’s important to keep individuals and politics separate.

  Non:

  I’ll arrange it.

  Sary:

  Have you got another ciggy? Mine’s finished.

  Non:

  No bother. Here you go.

  Sary:

  Thanks. (Taps the end of the cigarette on the table.) They’re not up to much, these. (Lights it.) Aren’t you going to drink your wine?

  Non:

  Yes, I am. Of course.

  Sary:

  Do you have what you need? Is there anything that’s not clear?

  Non:

  No, there are no problems. I’ll inform you once all the preparations are ready.

  Sary:

  That will be good, then.

  Non:

  (drinks his wine)

  Sary:

  One more thing. Here’s a list of some… specially selected… people I’d like you to deal with. In a permanent sense, shall we say. (passes over the folded sheet of paper)

  Non’s eyes skip through the list, then a quick nod.

  And something else. (A hesitation?)

  One of the names, Non says. An old school friend. Indeed, actually someone who was a very close friend in the past. They attended upper school together in Kompong Cham. A certain Saloth Sar. Admittedly he is now Keng Vannsak’s private secretary but also—so he has heard—a very popular schoolmaster. Wouldn’t it be silly to antagonize the students? Would it be in order to avoid drawing attention to Sar at this point?

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, unable to decide whether the flare of irritation he felt was the result of (I) Non’s objection or (II) his feeling of being caught out. Yes, he was Keng Vannsak’s secretary, yes, he was an appropriate target, yes, yes—but yes, he was also—according to what he had heard—Somaly’s (ex-?) fiancé. And that latter point is what led him to put this fellow Sar on the list. An absolutely legitimate measure, however, in spite of that. But allowing the private to become the political in this way does run counter to his principles. It was a momentary weakness. Which might be misleading. And which has now been pointed out by Non, without knowing.

  Ah well. For your sake, Non, he says. For your sake. But let’s bear it in mind for the future.

  Non thanks him, but already looks as if he regrets saying anything.
>
  Another entry in the credit column, Sary notes. One thing must be weighed against another.

  And after a moment’s thought. A hitherto unknown connection in this mishmash of relationships, friendships and hidden agendas. His sworn follower is obviously prepared to try to save Vannsak’s bag-carrier. Tiens, tiens, is there more to it? Is there some hint of a secret alliance here? How unknowing is this man who doesn’t know?

  No, it’s quite improbable. But suspicion intrudes deep into the territory of the improbable.

  Non stands up, back to his usual self. Or more accurately, a manifestly keen and expectant version of his usual self.

  Sary watches him back out and turn. Stops for a moment while trying to find the right gear. Then the car lurches, before slipping away (decorously, almost) and disappearing in the direction of the Quai Lagrandière.

  It is not only the red Peugeot that is slipping away. The election campaign, too, he thinks, is slipping away in a direction he would have liked to avoid.

  And, he continues (quite uncharacteristically), for ten minutes, for ten minutes, I can sit here, just sit.

  To try to get to grips with what is coming.

  And his wine is still cool.

  And after that his lecture. After that the government meeting. After that a private discussion with Mau Say (who also has to be given new instructions). And after that? Sleep? No, there is all the rest of the work—which he certainly has not been neglecting but which accumulates faster than even he can manage it.

  On the square in front of him: schoolboys in white shirts, neat haircuts and navy blue shorts. Rucksacks on their backs.

  Em is the one who makes sure that their children work hard in school (they have nothing but good marks to show for it). The boys, who will step in and carry on the ascent his own father began—the ascent towards the very top segment of society. He has already got there, of course, but that is thanks to his own strength and without the lasting network of debts of gratitude, marriages and sworn loyalties that guarantee the status of future generations. It’s his children’s job to weave such a net (with their lives).

  The Sam dynasty will be up there alongside those other families whose names run like red threads through the history of the kingdom.

  He has no doubt that they will fulfil his expectations. There is nothing wrong with the characters they have inherited. When people praise his capacity for work he always points to Em. (She is the one who is the real atomic power station.) She is the one with the prestigious full-time job, with responsibility for five children, and she still finds time to be a driving force in the women’s movement. (And so on and so on.) In addition to that: she possesses a will that matches his in terms of its hardness.

  (He often talks of how difficult the negotiations in Geneva were. But only Em knows that the hardest thing was being away from her and the children. Their short visits gave him renewed strength at the negotiating table at the same time as the opposition was beginning to wilt with weariness.)

  They are a modern couple. A dynamic working partnership.

  In the new house (which they have designed themselves with the help of an architect who was in France on the same scholarship scheme as he was) the desks will be placed so that they can work face to face. Supporting each other; an active exchange of ideas and thoughts.

  He lets his thoughts reach out to the future, to the office they will share. Air conditioned. Light. A pretty garden outside the windows. A telephone each. All-consuming work, good work.

  And up. And on. Hurrying through a gallery now. He passes beneath lighted chandeliers, between antique statuettes, across a hardwood floor. The echo of his footsteps fills the vaulted ceiling.

  Two years ago he could only have walked here by special invitation. At that stage it had been a building full of taller men with paler skins. Almost without exception men who despised him.

  Not so now. Everything belongs to him now (well, to him and his fellow-countrymen).

  But that’s not what he is thinking about. (He is already used to the echo of his steps, to the placing of the statues.)

  A doorman opens the double doors at the far end of the gallery. He walks on into the buzz of people, into the hall, without pausing.

  Then he stands at the lectern. (Waits for the room to fall silent.)

  He looks out over the straight rows of chairs. Over familiar faces, over unfamiliar faces. Those unable to find a seat are standing leaning against the walls. With the tips of his fingers he adjusts the papers already on the lectern, so they form an exact pile in front of him. Taps the microphone gently, hears the sound carried through the loudspeakers.

  Cigarette and pipe smoke hangs over the hundred heads below the platform.

  He takes a sip of water, clears his throat.

  He says: “Your Highness, His Majesty the King’s representative.”

  He says: “Monsieur the High Commissioner of the French Republic.”

  He continues: “Your Highnesses,

  Your Excellencies,

  Ladies and

  (a quick glance towards a noise in the darkness at the far end of the hall)

  Gentlemen,

  (a quick look down at his papers to catch the first line, then up again)

  For some time now events in the countries that border on Cambodia have once again brought the Geneva Agreements to the fore. We hear it being stated everywhere that these accords have not been respected.”

  (This is not the exciting opening he had hoped to come up with when he was waiting for the prince the other day, but he gave up trying to find one. In spite of everything, he is not in the entertainment industry.)

  He talks about Laos and says: “Problems with the political framework there have degenerated into renewed armed conflict: Pathet Lao units, estimated as being several battalions in strength and supported by stormtroops from the Viet-minh, carried out massive attacks on 8 July and again two or three days ago in the mountainous region of Muong-Peun, some forty or so kilometres from the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.”

  Which naturally leads him on to the riots in Saigon and the uncertainty engendered by the announcement of an election next summer in both Vietnamese countries.

  He says (in a tone of mild resignation, which suggests that this is still part of his introduction): “Since the start of the election campaign in this country, the parties of the left, the progressives, have been using the Geneva Agreements as the starting point for their propaganda. When they speak of the independence of Cambodia, they say it was given as a gift by the Geneva Conference. When they say they have studied the agreement dealing with direct American military support for Cambodia, they claim that it conflicts with the Geneva Agreements. When they want to explain the background to the election, they state that it was prescribed by the Geneva Agreements. In short, the Geneva Conference and the Geneva Agreements explain everything, they are the start of everything. This is what you hear everywhere and this is what appears in the local papers time and time again. As far as the Cambodian people are concerned—and they are for the most part baffled by these explanations—the agreements have taken on an almost magical dimension.”

  And (to round off the introduction): “Having been a member of the Cambodian delegation to the Geneva Conference, I should now like to clarify a number of the agreements that resulted from the conference and to correct some mistakes that are leading public opinion astray.”

  He moistens his lips with the water. (The fans flicker between the chandeliers.) By the doors at the far end of the room, among the people who have been unable to get a seat, he catches sight of two young women. A swanlike neck, a pretty profile.

  What is she doing here?

  He forces his eyes back to the sheet of paper in front of him and the words on it no longer seem to have anything to do with one another.

  He reads the first three points word for word from the sheet, the tip of his index finger moving along the lines: “I shall first try to give an account of the circumsta
nces that lie behind the most important paragraphs that concern Cambodia, then move on to the implementation of the agreements, and finally go on to the consequences of the implementation for the general election in Cambodia.”

  He looks up again. The two women have gone.

  He takes a long drink of water, opens the polished lid of his cigarette case. Clears away his confusion, collects his thoughts sufficiently. Asks their forgiveness (with a smile as light as a feather). Brings the flame of the match to the cigarette (his hand shaking), while his eyes methodically scan every corner of the auditorium. Were the two figures an illusion? His introduction surely can’t have bored her so thoroughly that she has left already? Perhaps she just wanted to show him off to her friend? Show that she has such a grand lover? But why is she out and about at this time of day?

  He looks at the prominent guests. Tries again to focus his thoughts on his speech.

  “What I should like to do is to make it easier for you to understand the spirit in which the Geneva Accords should be implemented, which is why I am now going to turn to the circumstances in which they arose.”

  He gives a detailed account of that chilly July evening in Geneva the year before. How he and his delegation insisted on further negotiations, which meant that the closing statement, which should have been delivered at nine in the evening, had to be postponed to the following day. How his driver got lost in the dark on the way to the supplementary discussions at the Villa des Ormeaux where Prime Minister Mendès-France and Foreign Ministers Molotov, Eden and Pham Van Dong were waiting. He describes the feeling of pressure in the room when he went in, how the clock passed the midnight hour and how Molotov leant forward, fixed him with his dark eyes and asked: What exactly is it you want?

  He tells them how one o’clock came, and two o’clock. How, to everyone’s surprise, Molotov changed his categorical “no” to Cambodia’s demand to be permitted to enter military alliances to a shrug of the shoulders. How he (not anyone else) got Pham Van Dong to permit the import of military materiel via any border crossing the government might choose. He teases smiles from his listeners (he has them in the palm of his hand now) as he quotes the exchange of words that took place when Molotov dismissed Pham Van Dong’s objections to the third demand (that the Cambodian communists should be disarmed). That left the fourth demand. And he tells them how the Soviets were prepared to reach an accommodation with him on that point too, by accepting an international control commission for every single country in what had been French Indochina.