SATURDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 1955
Her face emerges pencil stroke by pencil stroke on the white of the margin. He leans closer, moves the pencil with more precision. The precise but intuitive movements of his hand emanate from a different part of him. A part which he realizes (now) has lain unused over recent hectic months.
(The feeling is reminiscent of those occasions when, for no reason at all, a barefoot walk along the shore turns into a short sprint. The way the muscles do what is required without resisting, the naturalness of the movements. A kind of sophisticated capacity just waiting for its time to come.)
He hesitates about the distance between the curve of her jaw and the contours of her lips. He tries to compare it with the nebulous pictures in his memory.
Is it like her? In a certain sense it is, anyway.
He exchanges the pencil for the cigarette that has half burnt away in the ashtray. Studies Somaly’s features on the paper. And recalls that it has been a long time since he spontaneously drew a specific person. (These days it’s nothing but vague and abstract doodles on the telephone pad.) To be more accurate, a specific woman. And sudden inspiration like this usually means that his feelings for the woman run deeper than he has realized (or wants to acknowledge). Take yesterday’s sudden notion to ring her: when was the last time anything like that happened?
In his mind he runs through their dinner at Le Royal the previous Thursday evening and he becomes aware that his thoughts do not run quite as casually as they usually do. (Another indication that there is more than just lust involved in this case.) And his thoughts become entwined with her account of her solitary morning in Kep-sur-Mer, and his mind stumbles and trips over the smile that accompanied the account.
(The recurring question:) What is it that she has that the others don’t? Apart from her indisputable beauty, youth and straightforward manner? He doesn’t understand it. The feeling is as elusive as his inner image of her. (As if his thoughts can only observe her out of the corner of his eye.)
The pencil draws a straight vertical line, dividing her face in two. Then a horizontal one. Then a diagonal from top left to bottom right, crossing the other two. And then another diagonal from right to left. He continues doing this until all that is left is a star of criss-cross lines.
He exchanges the pencil for another cigarette. Flips open the top of his lighter and tries once more to concentrate on the words in the report.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment. Opens them. Closes them again. Opens them. Stands up. Walks across the creaking boards of the platform, taps the microphone lightly. Hears his tap echo out over all the faces that are turned his way.
The sky is blue, the sun scorching. It is the last day. He looks at those who are standing right at the front, then those in the row behind them, and he notes how row by row the individuals gradually become a crowd.
In a loud clear voice he says: My dear fellow-countrymen!
He says: Kinsmen of our revered forefathers who built Angkor!
He says, with a smile: Dear people of Prey Veng.
Then, with an earnest, almost troubled, expression, he continues.
For once the loudspeakers are absolutely excellent.
Hello?
Is that Non?
Yes.
It’s me.
I can hear that.
Are you alone?
Give me a moment.
OK.
(a pause)
Now then.
Good. It’s time for us to strike a match! You know what I mean?
There you are. So it’s got to that stage.
Yes. Get your brother to see to it that we don’t have an audience.
Understood. When?
After dark, but before midnight. Do it properly.
As always.
As always.
Is that everything?
Yes. Thank you. (Rings off)
Her hand slides over the sleeve of his jacket. Fingertips on the cool smooth fabric. The darkness inside the car lightens and darkens in phase with the street lamps.
Figures are glimpsed in the dark of the streets.
On the pavement: fruits stalls, cigarette stalls, restaurant stalls (lit by the white light of strip lights).
The bright red of the occasional neon sign.
No sounds reach them from outside. In here there is nothing but the hum of the engine and the broad silent back of the driver. In her other hand she is still holding a slim glass of lukewarm champagne.
They are in the middle of a low-voiced conversation. (Flushed red faces, Sary’s hand on her thigh.)
Behind them lies a reception on the lawn of the Bulgarian Embassy. (The anniversary of the country changing sides in the war.) She joined them when he had finished his most urgent duties (primarily castigating the bloody diplomats who had expressed their concern about the arrest of Keng Vannsak). She had stood by the illuminated pool, watching the turquoise reflections flickering on the guests closest to the edge. On their light suits, on their shimmering silk dresses.
And then he was at her side, taking her gently by her bare elbow. Leading her to a set of chairs, away from the crowd, under a flowering flame tree. (Out of most people’s field of view, isolated, but not improperly so.) There were small coloured paper lanterns in the branches, hanging motionless in the windless night.
And now. The Hôtel de la Gare is their destination. (The car is following the filled-in canal towards the railway station at its far end.) They will soon be in the foyer, their heels tapping out different rhythms on the mosaic floor. The desk clerk will give them room number 17 without asking them to sign the register, and he won’t show them to their room. Instead they will climb the creaking wooden staircase unaccompanied. First her, then him.
He won’t give a thought to Em, not one. (Nor to Somaly.)
Nana:
Isn’t it strange about insects at night?
Sary:
(his face in light or darkness depending on the street lamps)
Nana:
Swarming around the lights until they burn their wings.
Sary:
It’s not strange. All animals are attracted by light.
Nana:
How do you mean?
Sary:
If you were shut in a dark cave or left out in the forest in the middle of the night and saw a light, you would go towards it, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?
Nana:
Yes, I would, but I wouldn’t burn myself on it.
Sary:
Same with fish in the sea. Which is why modern fishing boats use lamps at night. I was shown them when I was in Kampot, whenever it was. The lights attract all the creatures up from the depths.
Nana:
But when I’m in the forest, I walk towards the light in order to get out of the forest. Surely the fish don’t want to leave the sea, do they?
Sary:
There are actually fish in the very deepest parts of the sea, down where it is pitch-black; they hunt with a little light they carry on an antenna.
Nana (giggles):
You’re just making that up, darling.
Sary:
Near-death experiences are supposed to be like that. Like a light that attracts you. You walk into it et puis—c’est fini.
Nana (giggles):
Your antenna acts as an attraction, too, even though it doesn’t have a light on it.
Sary:
That’s something different. What you’re talking about now is what’s called a near little-death experience. And you can count on that once we get there.
(Intermezzo I) The brakes go on gently, someone opens the door for him, he steps out into the bright starry insect-filled night, walks across the concrete drive and the front door swings open.
He still has that slight feeling of nausea that comes from being dragged from sleep, his muscles responding with a noticeable delay. But the inebriation has gone, his thoughts have a metallic clarity. He feels himself reconnecting wit
h the day that preceded the night, reclaiming himself. (The urgent knocks and the confused conversation through the door at the Hôtel de la Gare fades back into the dreams they interrupted.)
He is taken to the lower reception room. The prince is standing at the telephone table, receiver to his ear. Swathes of heavy curtains hang in front of the windows. The prince’s shrill laugh.
Dara, the court astrologer, is standing by the sofa, folding up the big leather volume with its yellowed and well-thumbed pages filled with tables. As always, the old man is wearing court dress (Sary finds it impossible to imagine him in everyday clothes), has three medals on the breast of his uniform and the Grand Cross around his neck. The lower part of his face is marked by a black burn, partially concealed by a small neat white beard.
They give one another a quick bow and it occurs to him that Dara’s broad and bowed posture reminds him more and more of an orangutan. (The astrologer backs out of the room with lowered eyes while the prince continues his conversation.)
The receiver is slammed down on its cradle, the prince spins on his heel. His face all smiles.
The prince is not wearing a jacket and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. He follows his example and takes a seat on the sofa. An adjutant emerges from the darkness and pours him a glass of wine.
Sihanouk:
Another nocturnal consultation. Your wife must be getting really sick of me.
Sary:
Of course she isn’t, Monseigneur. In any case, I haven’t managed to get home a single night this week. When we are finished here perhaps.
Sihanouk:
I imagine you must be wondering why I sent for you, aren’t you? Would you like something to eat, by the way?
Sary:
No thanks, I’m not hungry.
Sihanouk:
Those tablets don’t just keep you awake, they do wonders for your waistline, don’t they.
Sary:
That’s what they are marketed for in France, as you know.
Sihanouk:
How did it go with the Bulgarians?
Sary:
A bit of huffing about Vannsak, but nothing serious. How did the speech go?
Sihanouk:
Excellent, excellent. Crowds of people. A good day. Now then, I’ll get straight to the point. I’m intending to present the new government on Tuesday, the fourth of next month. You will be named as minister of education, national planning and overseas economic relations. You will remain vice chairman of the Council of Ministers. I also think that before the end of the year you should take over as general secretary of our dear Popular Socialist Community. How do you feel about that?
Sary:
It’s a great honour. A very great honour. A spur! And I can assure you that I shan’t disappoint you.
Sihanouk:
No—if you did I’d have you shot.
(they both laugh)
Sary:
One thing though.
Sihanouk:
What’s that?
Sary:
Give me finance as well. If national planning is to get anywhere, I need to have finance.
Sihanouk:
Not possible. It would be too much—even for you, dear friend.
Sary:
Who do you have in mind?
Sihanouk:
Not sure yet. Sim Var perhaps?
Sary:
No, that would never work. Make him the speaker instead. Which would also have the advantage of looking generous—more démocratique with an ex-Democrat.
Sihanouk:
(says nothing)
Sary:
Mau Say can be my deputy. We work well together. Unless we have overall control, we shan’t be able to get things done with the necessary speed.
Sihanouk:
I’ll think about it.
Sary:
Our aims are the same. Give me the means I need to achieve them.
Sihanouk:
I’ll think about it.
Sary:
I shall look forward to your decision. Your new decision. What omens did Dara come up with, by the way?
Sihanouk:
Dara? He’s no more reliable than a weather forecaster. And another thing—I’ve been told that fire has broken out.
Sary:
That’s correct.
FORMER KING ASSAILS FOES ON CHARGE
HE SOLD OUT TO U.S. IN MILITARY PACT
PHNOMPENH, Cambodia, Sept 10 (Reuters)
Former King Norodom Sihanouk charged tonight that his opponents were using “dirty, slanderous methods” in accusing him of having sold Cambodia to the United States in a military pact.
Norodom heatedly told a crowd of 6,000 persons, gathered outside the gilt-roofed royal palace here: “The great Western powers, including Britain, have accepted American aid and have granted military bases in their territories in exchange. Only Cambodia and Yugoslavia have accepted American aid without granting any bases to the United States.”
Norodom, who abdicated last March in favor of his father and then founded the Popular Socialist Community party, accused the Democratic Party of having lied to the peasants.
Polling takes place tomorrow to elect a ninety-one-member National Assembly. Some observers predict a victory for Norodom’s party, but others favor the Democrats who have pledged to abolish the monarchy and set up a republic.
The Communist-led People’s Party is appearing openly for the first time with thirty-five candidates. They have been backed by broadcasts from the Communist North Vietnam radio in Hanoi.
Norodom wants to reform the country’s constitution because he fears it might eventually give power to corrupt politicians.
Meanwhile, French officers serving as instructors to the Khmer Royal Army will be kept indoors during tomorrow’s polling. Many political observers feared armed clashes between supporters of the rival parties.
Some clashes, resulting in three deaths and six persons injured, have been reported this week in the provinces.
SUNDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 1955
(Intermezzo II) During the few short hours of cool before the heat of the day, Sary is standing on the balcony. (Barefoot, suit trousers, shirt unbuttoned.)
He is listening to the barely audible pattering made by the big leaves of the umbrella tree dropping onto the concrete drive. Watching the fluttering flight of the white butterflies mirrored and doubled in the dark puddles.
A glass of lukewarm tea in one hand, the first cigarette of the day in the other. The unusual feeling he gets from being at home (it happens after spending too many nights in a row in unfamiliar beds with more or less unfamiliar bedfellows. As if returning from a journey with a sense of having changed a little, whereas time has stood still in these rooms).
Em is asleep in the house behind him. Beyond her the children are sleeping too.
The patter of a moped coming and going outside the gates.
And Sarun emerging from his gatekeeper’s lodge with a short brush. Bending forward but with his legs straight under his sarong, he starts slowly sweeping up the dead leaves.
(His sons’ pedal car in a corner by the wall, abandoned in the middle of a lap.)
The last day. Yesterday evening remains in his body as a moment of calm. But it hasn’t eased the mental tension. Once again his thoughts seem to him metallic, but this time they are like the overheating components of a piece of thundering machinery that could be approaching breaking point.
He looks up at the sky, stretched taut like a sheet and far, endlessly far, above the crowns of the palm trees. He looks down at the little pond with its carp and its guppies. (Because of the rains it has been overflowing onto the lawn for weeks.) He looks over towards the frangipani tree with its big white and yellow flowers on branches that are otherwise bare.
He empties the glass, flicks the glowing cigarette end over the rail. And carries on.
Sary and Em walk towards one of the wings of the school. (Single storey, ochre rendering.) People seem to be hanging ar
ound (scattered in the shade of the trees). Those standing along the wall of the building take it in turns to peep in between the slats of the shutters. Alone, in couples, in groups. United by low-key curiosity; the event itself exerts an attraction. A provisional sense of expectancy (since the election results are not going to be published for several days).
Sary and Em walk towards the building. They pass beneath a bright blue banner with freshly printed white letters (ELECTORAL DISTRICT SVAY POPEY IV). A balloon seller on a bicycle is hawking his wares beneath a cloud of balloons.
The sun is already high in the sky, scorching and dazzling.
Faces turn towards them as they approach. Like the prince, he tries to exude friendly authority. The people nearest drop their eyes humbly and lower their heads.
There is a short queue at the entrance. Quiet, serious, identity papers at the ready. The queue is being supervised by an election officer (an official armband tied tightly around his right sleeve). The official sees them coming and loudly orders the queuing people to make way there. (The order makes a young man wearing a hat (but no tie) get to his feet. He has a camera hanging around his neck (Rolleicord), in his hatband there is a home-made press card, presumably inspired by hacks he has seen on the silver screen.)
The official disappears quickly through the dark doorway and returns with his double, who introduces himself as the local chairman of the electoral commission.
(Sary asks if the two of them are brothers, which they are happy to confirm.)
The chairman anticipates his next question and reports the number of votes that have been cast. Then hastens to assure him that everything is proceeding excellently. (The chairman’s tone of voice is overfamiliar, as if they had something in common. He detests that.)
At the photographer’s request he stands beside the entrance. Em on one side, her arm through his, the chairman on the other. The young man makes a long-winded and nervous job of taking three shots.
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