Figurehead (20 page)
‘Come on, Mac, that happened a decade ago. And you know as well as I do that you wrote most of those complaints yourself. I could tell, see, the spelling was awful. But jeez, mate, you’re looking fit. Just look at those shoulders.’
‘You look old. Sick. Fat. Broken-down.’
‘And you should donate that moustache of yours to the Museum of Antiquities. But, hey, you know what they say about the size of a man’s moustache. Still got the wife and the mistress, have you? Still keeping ’em both satisfied? How is that secret apartment in Wan-sea, by the way?’
‘You shut your mouth. And piss off quick or I’ll call security. Your type isn’t welcome here.’
‘Sorry, mate, seems like everybody’s legal these days.’ Ted held open his jacket to reveal an accreditation card pinned to his shirt. ‘Anyway, what’s your problem? Haven’t you read your press release? Today is a great day. Today we are collectively ushering in Cambodia’s new era of peace. Today we’re offering hope for war-ravaged people everywhere. Today we’re flying over Cambodia in a fleet of B-52s and pissing down on the peasants. I thought you’d be happy.’
‘You’ve got an ocean of blood on your hands and I for one will never forget it.’
‘You mean you hold me personally responsible for all your South Vietnamese cronies getting it in ’75?’ Ted said.
‘Feeling guilty?’
‘Don’t make me laugh: corrupt, murderous thugs, the lot of them. They deserved everything they got. Don’t look at me like that – deep down you know I’m right. Anyway, I had nothing to do with any of it. I just told it how I saw it:
South Vietnamese Criminals
Pay for Their Crimes
.’
Mac’s eyes narrowed. His hands became fists. He adopted a boxer’s pose, slightly crouched, perfectly still, ready to pounce. ‘
Whit-tlemore
Endorses Khmer Rouge
,’ he hissed.
Mac’s hand shot out and shoved Ted’s shoulder. Then, tears in his eyes, his hands still clenched, he backed away.
‘
Massacre at My Lai
,’ Ted called out. He felt a tinge of regret as he watched Mac disappear. He was possessed by an urge to grab him by the arm and lead him through the kitchen to a dark alley, where they would rip their shirts off and square up. Ted wasn’t under any illusions: he knew that Mac would have finished him off in seconds. But he was attracted to the idea of nursing a bloodied nose and a couple of bruised ribs.
Ted moved towards the centre of the room until he came to a roped-off area. A Frenchman in a grey suit and with a radio jammed in one ear barred his way: ‘No further please, Mr Whittle-more.’ Ted leaned against the rope and watched Nhem Kiry and Son Sann and Hun Sen and Prince Sihanouk’s son, Prince Ranariddh, as they posed for photographs and groped each other. Sihanouk stood close by, applauding, staring longingly at the leaders. Finally he could not bear it any longer: he barged in, stomach-first, broke them up and dispensed royal cuddles one at a time.
Ted had waded through the Comprehensive Settlement on the plane to Paris. It was plain to him that poor Sihanouk had been used up and spat out. Ted couldn’t believe that he’d voluntarily handed leadership of Funcinpec to Ranariddh and agreed to become king again.
Sihanouk caught Ted’s eye, raised his glass of champagne and mouthed, ‘Neutral at last!’ Ted bowed low. By the time he raised his head Sihanouk had disappeared.
Surrounding the Cambodian peacemakers stood foreign-affairs specialists and UN functionaries of all nationalities. They clutched champagne and horded finger food. They congregated in groups of three or four to congratulate themselves and to break off and stare in wonder at the Cambodians, who continued to stand in the very middle of the room embracing.
‘Lots of baby steps are better than one giant stride,’ Ted heard an English diplomat remark.
‘This is a victory for saying “Yes,”’ his Chinese counterpart replied. ‘When a person says “No” and really means it, he is doing a great deal more than uttering a tiny word. His entire being, his entire organism – glandular, nervous, muscular – merges into rejection. Then follows a physical withdrawal, or at least a readiness for withdrawal.’
The Englishman, a convivial diplomat who occasionally leaked documents about Vietnam to Ted, came across to the rope.
‘Did you hear what that Chinese chap just said to me? Who was he quoting? Was it Mao?’
‘Possibly Chou En-lai,’ Ted said, ‘but more likely Deng Xiaoping.’
‘But don’t you know? You of all people?’
‘I must be overcome – I should say, I must be influenced – by the moment. Hey, you couldn’t get me some of that skewered squid, could you? There’s nothing decent to eat back here. Grab the whole plate.’
As he ate, Ted leant against a pillar and watched the Khmer Rouge delegation. Son Sen retreated to a corner with his aides, where they sculled their beers and giggled. Nhem Kiry stood with his back to Son Sen and listened intently to the French deputy prime minister, who waved his arms about a lot as he spoke. Kiry nodded occasionally, smiled and made a point of inclining his head to demonstrate his intense satisfaction. Ted grabbed the elbow of a waiter who held a tray of drinks and stole two glasses of beer. He sipped from one and sat the other one between his feet. He scanned the room for security; the place, he saw, was crawling with goons of all nationalities. Still, he calculated the distance that separated him from Nhem Kiry and decided that it might just be possible to slip under the rope and pour his spare beer all over Kiry’s head. Was stealth the way to go, he wondered? Should he use the Japanese foreign minister then the Soviet ambassador then that drinks waiter for cover? Or should he sprint straight at Kiry and hope for the best?
Ted’s scheming was interrupted by the Australian foreign minister, a short man with a red face and a stomach that had dropped as if he were eight months pregnant. He vaulted the rope and thrust a piece of paper and a green texta at Ted. It was a press release –
Foreign Minister Slattery Hails Signing of Cambodian Peace Deal
– on which there was a mass of signatures.
‘Mr Ted Whittlemore: hello. Nice to see you still alive. What a glorious day. Even you must think so. Sign here, please,’ Slattery said, thrusting the press release at Ted.
‘Only if you give me a quick interview,’ Ted said.
‘No problem. Fire away,’ Slattery wheezed. He was having trouble catching his breath and he was perspiring heavily.
‘How does it feel to be part of one of the great whitewashes in modern history?’
‘Ha ha ha. Next question.’
Ted inclined his head towards Kiry, who was posing for a photograph with Sihanouk. ‘Seriously, you’ve legitimised – you’ve rewarded – one of the most horrid regimes in history: how can you bear it?’
‘Mate: off the record, it’s called getting the job done. It’s called baking bread using whatever ingredients you’re lumbered with. It’s called living in the real world.’
On the press release, Ted scribbled, ‘To withdraw in disgust is to win’ and signed it ‘Ho Chi Minh.’ Slattery skipped back into the VIP area, surprisingly light on his feet. ‘You bloody ripper!’ he yelled, embracing someone with one arm while waving the piece of paper above his head with the other. When he disengaged and pushed through the throng – ‘Gotta get the Russians to sign’ – he left Cornell Jackson standing in the afterglow of his affection. Ted waved and called out, ‘Over here, comrade.’
Cornell vaulted the rope and lifted Ted off the ground. ‘Hi there, buddy. Come on, givvus a squeeze. Everybody else is. Hey, who’s the fat guy with the sunburn? He sounds like one of your tribe.’
‘No idea. Look at you, all grown up and dressed in a suit. How’d you get into the VIP area?’
‘We did it. We’ve finally broken through.’
‘We?’
‘I can hardly believe it, buddy. You can’t doubt our
bona fides
now.’
‘Can’t I?’
‘You can’t tell me that America doesn’t keep its promises. The Vietnam War is finally over and guess what? After all these years, we won! Peace in our time: who was it who said that?’
‘Jack the Ripper?’
‘Who’s he, buddy?’
‘Just another English diplomat. Before your time.’
‘Do you know what I just heard?’
‘That some people don’t like America?’
‘I know that already, buddy. I don’t get it but believe me, I know it. No, listen: apparently Pol Pot was at that Supreme National Council gathering in Pattaya a couple of months back. Actually there. Can you believe it?’
‘That’s hardly news. My information is that he’s been going back and forth to Thailand for years.’
‘The word is he stayed in his hotel room and the Khmer Rouge delegation had to keep breaking off negotiations to go and get his approval. Isn’t that a riot?’
‘I think it’s despicable.’
‘Oh, come on, buddy, lighten up. Enjoy the moment. But get this: apparently Pol Pot got bored sitting around in his room. He wanted to go for a swim. So they cleared the pool, he put a towel over his head and staff lined up all along the route – with their backs turned, can you believe it? – so nobody – you know, like Sihanouk or Hun Sen or the Vietnamese – would accidentally bump into him. Do you wanna know the best thing?’
‘I’m dying to.’
‘He got an ear infection. From the crappy water.’
‘Oh joy.’
‘Cheer up, buddy. Why do you have to be such a sore loser? This is what we at the Edgar Institute call a classic CPL situation.’
‘Cesspool, eh?
The Cambodian Comprehensive Settlement and Other
Cesspools of Our Time
.’
‘Don’t you read the stuff I send you? CPL: Can’t Possibly Lose. Listen, if the Khmer Rouge stick with the Comprehensive Settlement, we’ve delivered peace.’
‘We?’
‘Grow up, buddy: no America means no peace. And the beautiful thing is, there’s no risk. If the Khmer Rouge do the wrong thing, if they keep fighting, we can now take all necessary measures. And it’s the US of A talking: when we say “all necessary measures” you know we’re not messing about. Even the Chinese are happy. Come on, drink up, I’ll get you another one.’
‘This whole thing disgusts me. You disgust me.’
‘Come on, givvus a smile. Let me see your happy face. Don’t make me tickle you ... Goddammit, buddy, you’ve got to shape up: peace is peace, no matter how bad it smells.’
But Ted was staring beyond Cornell. He watched, aghast, as Sihanouk led the Vietnamese foreign minister by the hand towards Nhem Kiry. ‘Oh no,’ Ted said, grasping Cornell’s shoulder. ‘No, not that ... Please, don’t do it. Don’t ...’ Ted flung his hands over his eyes but it was too late: the image of the three men clinking glasses and toasting each other’s health embedded itself in his mind.
Ted Whittlemore loved the Núi Café in Ho Chi Minh City so much that he had moved into the apartment upstairs. One Wednesday morning, Ted descended the outside stairs. He felt unsettled and heavy-headed, as if he’d slept all night hanging by his ankles. But he gripped the handrail and inched towards the bowl of coffee that would restore his equilibrium.
Ted entered the café and slumped into a chair at his regular table near the window and beside a wall of tatty-spined French and English paperbacks, most of which were his. Deep breaths, he told himself. From the bottom shelf of the bookcase he pulled a fat manuscript of unbound pages,
Ho Chi Minh: A New and True Biography
of a Great Man by Edward Whittlemore
, single-space typed and annotated in his ugly hand. From his top pocket he took a blue ballpoint pen, the end of which he chewed as he scanned the pages looking for sentences to rewrite.
Hieu arrived with coffee. Without looking up, Ted murmured his thanks.
‘You all right, Ted?’ Hieu asked.
‘Fine. Why?’
‘Your skin is yellow.’
‘Hmm, really?’ Ted held his arm out in front of him. His fat fingers pushed together; his hand trembled slightly; his wrist seemed smaller than he remembered. ‘That’s not yellow. I call that a healthy glow.’
‘You want food. Beef noodle soup?’
‘Maybe later.’
Ted sipped his coffee and pored over his Ho Chi Minh manuscript. It was nearly ready to be retyped and sent away. He just wanted to add a few concluding thoughts, although at 874 pages he supposed it was probably already too long. Although Ted had access to a virgin cache of papers in the Hanoi archives, his book was mostly a series of personal reminiscences. For instance, he’d taken forty-two pages to recall lovingly the time he and Ho had been stuck in a cave while US bombs landed all around them. To pass the time, Ho had explained to Ted just where Stalin had gone wrong. ‘He lost sight of the people,’ Ted quoted Ho saying, ‘and then quickly, no surprise, he cared nothing about life.’ Ho was no Pol Pot, no Stalin, no Mao, Ted wanted to tell the world. Ho epitomised everything communism could and should have been.
Hieu brought Ted a pot of jasmine tea. ‘Later you want beer, Ted?’ he asked in English.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good, good. I have very excellent news for you. I have cleaned the basement.’
‘Drained it, you mean. Last time I went down there I ruined a perfectly good pair of boots.’
‘I have found beer especially for you. Two bottles of Victoria Bitter.’
‘VB? You’ve got VB?’
‘This is your national beer?’
‘Close enough. Bring them over, I want them.’
‘No no no. You are very busy. You want to finish your working first?’
‘Bring them now.’
‘But don’t forget your writing. Uncle Ho needs your help. You need Uncle Ho’s help. You and Uncle Ho can save each other. But only if you concentrate.’
‘I want that beer. Now.’
‘But Ted, they are not cold. I put ice with them, yes?’
‘No!’
‘My ice is clean, very clean, from a good factory. We collect it ourselves, no worries, ha ha ha, no worries mate. You have my ice many times. You don’t get sick, not once even.’
‘Never –
never
– serve beer with ice. My father taught me that when I was fourteen years old.’
‘Surely that is a personal opinion. Surely it is a matter of taste.’
‘Don’t get all high and mighty and freedom of expression on me, mate, I’ve heard it all before. No ice with beer: it’s a fundamental truth.’
