Good thing, too
.
Three hours from Phnom Penh, returning from the ancient capital of Udong in an old, cramped Mercedes van, Ted Whittlemore was in high spirits. He sat in the back seat behind his old Vietnamese friend, Freddie, the most artistic driver on bad roads Ted had ever met.
Beside Ted sat Rachel Walker, a thirtyish Australian filmmaker who was directing a documentary about post-Pol Pot Cambodia. She had employed Ted to provide an alternative viewpoint – or, as Rachel had put it, ‘Give me some controversy or you’re no good to me.’ Ted suspected Rachel had only hired him to make sure that the Vietnamese let her into Cambodia. He suspected she would later edit out everything he said and did but he didn’t mind: she was fun and young and her money was real.
To Rachel’s left sat Adam, the sound recordist. He slept slumped against Rachel, rubbing his perspiration all over her white cotton shirt. Ted thought that Adam’s snores sounded suspiciously uniform. He leaned across Rachel and whispered in Adam’s ear, ‘In my opinion, if you’re going to grope a girl you should have the decency to look her in the eyes while you do it.’ Adam snored on.
In the front passenger seat sat Tom the cameraman. Overnight, his lower intestine had twisted into an engorged knot. Worried about landmines, he had squatted on the road to shit five times in the previous hour. The first time he did it the rest of them burst into applause and Rachel took a series of action shots with her brand new Leica camera.
Earlier that day they had filmed amongst the stupas and the ruins of Udong. ‘We all know the history of America’s crimes in Cambodia. They engineered the coup against Prince Sihanouk. They dropped more bombs than fell on all of Europe in World War Two,’ Ted had told the camera, his hair slicked over his bald spot, a brand new
krama
draped over one shoulder. ‘But in many ways their current behaviour is even more reprehensible. Nobody doubts the crimes of the Khmer Rouge, yet the Americans and their allies, dressed in UN camouflage, refuse to accept the legitimacy of the new and honourable Cambodian government, just because the Vietnamese helped set it up. The Khmer Rouge, meanwhile, regroup, re-arm and wash themselves clean, while the US averts its gaze. And, as we have come to expect, Australia falls into line behind America.’
‘But the Australian foreign minister has recently taken diplomatic steps against the Khmer Rouge. That’s a good start, isn’t it?’ Rachel asked.
‘Hardly. He flirts with doing the honourable thing, he rubs himself up against it, but at the end of the day he’s a virgin through and through. He makes bloody sure he does nothing concrete to upset the Americans.’
In the van, as they drove back to Phnom Penh, Ted said to Rachel, ‘You really should go to Vietnam. I guarantee you’d be very welcome. I’d be willing to accompany you. For an additional fee, of course.’
‘We haven’t got the budget for Vietnam. Besides, you’re the one who keeps insisting that the Cambodians are running Cambodia. So what’s the point?’
‘You could talk to Nguyen Co Thach. He’s a wonderful man. I could arrange it. He will tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You could ask him anything at all. No restrictions. No censorship. No games.’
Rachel gazed at Ted, amused. ‘
You
talk to him if
you
want to.’
Freddie tapped the steering wheel and started singing: ‘
It takes
three years of graft and fret. It takes ... I ain’t got no ciguhrettes
…’
Tom lifted his head out of his hands. ‘If you don’t shut up I swear I’ll open your door and kick you out.’
‘I’m a ma-hann of wunder, I’m the, ugh, ugh, king of the road
…’
The first shots were high and wide. Ted heard dull thuds as the bullets struck dirt. He gripped Rachel’s thigh. She swatted his hand away and said, ‘You won’t find much of a story down there.’
‘Step on it, Freddie,’ Ted said.
Freddie turned his head and as he met Ted’s eyes he realised they were under attack. The air whistled and a C-40 rocket hit the road twenty yards ahead of them. Freddie accelerated and nearly drove off the road and down an embankment, where they would have sat like a tree waiting to be lopped.
Tom’s bowels erupted. ‘Shit! Shit shit shit.’ He swivelled in his seat. ‘Camera: come on, I need my camera. Now, NOW.’
Ted grabbed Adam’s shirt and yanked him upright so he could retrieve Tom’s camera from between his legs. Tom twisted in his seat, held his camera in front of his heart like a shield and commenced filming a clump of trees on the far side of a dry paddy field.
‘Let’s get out of here. Quick as you can, mate,’ Ted told Freddie. He patted Adam on the back with one hand and squeezed Rachel’s thigh with the other.
‘Jeez, I wish I’d thought of that,’ Freddie said. He veered around a ditch; the van bounced and Freddie’s window shattered.
‘Faster, you little fuckwit, faster!’ Adam screamed.
Another rocket landed behind them, closer, on the fringe between the road and the field. Ted instinctively ducked, although he knew it was pointless: if a rocket hit the car they were all dead. When he looked up Tom was filming Freddie, who was bleeding profusely.
‘I’m all right,’ Freddie said. ‘It’s nothing. I hit my chin on the steering wheel.’
More gunfire followed. A third rocket landed further away; this time the car did not shake. When Ted looked out the back window he saw a truck rumbling across the paddy field towards the dust cloud that Freddie had whipped up, figures standing on its open tray.
‘Faster, Freddie,’ he said. ‘They’re coming.’
‘What’s the matter with you, are you fucking mental or something? FASTER!’ Adam screamed.
‘For Chrissakes, Adam, will you shut up?’ Rachel said.
Freddie’s whole torso was red now.
‘Jesus, they’ve shot you, haven’t they?’ Tom said.
‘I’m all right. It’s just my shoulder. No problem, no problem.’
They reached a decent patch of road. Freddie accelerated. The Khmer Rouge quickly fell back and then disappeared.
‘Tom, give me a shot of Ted. Can you get him? Good. Adam, are you right to go?’ Rachel said. ‘Ready?’ she asked Ted.
‘Ready for what?’
‘Describe it.’
‘I, well, describe what?’
‘Tell me what’s gone on out there. Tell me what’s happening inside your head. Tell me how you formulate your thoughts, how your decision-making works. Come on, Ted, paint me a word picture.’
‘
A word picture?
’ Adam yelled. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, woman, are you nuts? They’re trying to kill us.’
‘Come on, Ted.’
‘I ... I mean, I’m thinking is Freddie all right to drive, how bad is the injury, I’m worried that he’s—’
‘I’m all right. It looks worse than it is. There’s a checkpoint soon.’
‘He’s slowing down,’ Adam yelled. ‘Why’s he slowing down? Why the fuck are you slowing down?’
Freddie twisted his head. ‘I’m driving. And they’re gone,’ he snarled.
‘We’re still rolling, Ted,’ Rachel said.
‘All right.’ Ted wiped the pouring sweat from his face, dried his hair, restored calm to his face, then sat up straight and said, ‘Being in the heat of a battle is miraculous. Nothing else in life comes close. It’s bedlam: imagine a swarm of ants and flies and maggots and foxes and coyotes and lions all ripping into a corpse.
‘Yet time slows in a battle. For me – remember that I’m no soldier – the usual survival techniques don’t apply because the whole point is to witness the action. As the bullets fly, as the air turns black, as the river of blood begins to flow, a voice inside – in my brain or in my soul, I don’t know which – tells me to run forward or to drop onto my stomach or to shelter beside a tree. It tells me which soldier to crouch beside. It keeps me safe – indestructible, I’ve come to believe – amongst the carnage.’ Ted paused. ‘How was that? Pretty bloody evocative, I’d say.’
‘It’ll do for now,’ Rachel said.
Ten minutes later they reached a Vietnamese checkpoint. A medic dressed Freddie’s wound and declared it bloody but not serious while Tom peeled off his trousers and endured a couple of Marlboro-toting teenagers throwing buckets of muddy water over his shit-stained buttocks and thighs.
The Vietnamese captain waved his soldiers into a truck. They trundled off, the truck listing to one side like a boat going down, to see if they could find any Khmer Rouge to shoot at. Rachel stared wistfully after them. ‘Is there any chance they’d let us tag along?’ she said.
Later, after they’d dropped Freddie at the military hospital, after they’d showered in cold water, after Adam had shaved and doused himself in deodorant and done twenty push-ups because he’d read in a men’s magazine that the blood would rush to his arms and make his muscles look bigger, after Ted had downed eight bottles of beer in quick succession, they filmed one last shot. Ted rocked gently back and forth as he spoke to the camera.
‘Inferior war correspondents often say, “Whittlemore’s a maniac” or “Whittlemore’s got a death wish.” But, actually, the opposite is true: I plan to work forever. If I ever get shot between the eyes I expect that the bullet will bounce off my skull or obliterate nothing more than that part of my brain that directs restraint, which I don’t need anyway. If I ever step on a landmine, I’m sure that the explosion will catapult me unscathed into a trench from where I will witness, on behalf of the world, another moment of American military excess.’
‘But it was the Khmer Rouge, not the Americans, who shot at us today,’ Rachel said.
‘Exactly. Exactamondo. Such a smart little girl. At Udong you filmed me complaining about America and, next thing you know, the Khmer Rouge come after me. It really does make you wonder if there’s a hotline between Pol Pot and the US State Department. I’ve already spoken to one of my contacts about the attack on us, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, obviously I can’t disclose names – hush hush, secret service, cloak and dagger don’t you know – but it was a Vietnamese military attaché with close ties to a Cambodian public servant with close ties to a Khmer Rouge military officer. There’s no doubt that their mission was to kill me. “Bring me the head of our Number One Enemy: Mr Edward Whittlemore,” Pol Pot told them. And that makes me proud to be an Australian.’
Tom’s head came from behind the camera. ‘Stop speaking,’ he mouthed.
‘What? I can’t hear you.’
Tom put his finger to his lips.
‘Oh ... Really?’
‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but there seems to be something wrong with my battery,’ Tom said. ‘I missed the whole thing.’
‘Do you know, I don’t think I can remember a word I said,’ Ted said.
‘Thank God,’ Rachel said.
* * *
Prince Norodom Sihanouk, former head of state of Cambodia and now
head of the Funcinpec resistance group, will this week receive the so-called
leader of the Khmer Rouge, Mr Nhem Kiry, in the palace permanently
loaned to Sihanouk by the prince’s friend, the seriously wacky
North Korean leader Kim Il-sung. The apparent purpose of the meeting
is to discuss ways to form a common front against Vietnam’s occupation
of Cambodia – an occupation, never forget, that rid the Cambodian people
of the Khmer Rouge. A third resistance leader, the KPNLF’s Son
Sann, will not be joining Sihanouk and Kiry for this round of talks. Perhaps
he is too embarrassed to go: after all, he is supposed to be a democrat.
More likely, his potential allies forgot to ask him.
Typically, Sihanouk has already downplayed this week’s meeting.
‘These negotiations will not achieve much. After we arrive at a stalemate
I will suggest that we resume talks another time, if my busy schedule
allows it.’ But this is all some ghastly game: nobody should make friends
with the Khmer Rouge. Nobody should even speak to them, especially
Sihanouk, who has travelled that path before with horrendous consequences.
—
Edward Whittlemore, ‘As I See It,’ syndicated column
The stench of furniture polish made Nhem Kiry’s nose run. He dropped his propelling pencil. As he bent down to retrieve it he sniffed deeply and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his suit jacket. Upright again, he was drawn to the ref lection in the redwood table, where his forehead merged with Sihanouk’s ear. Sihanouk patted the table proudly – it ran almost the length of the rectangular room – and said, ‘This was cut from a single tree. Can you believe that?’ Hot air blew from vents in the floor. A portrait of Sihanouk and Monique – young, seductive and heavily varnished – hung in a gold frame above the fireplace.
‘What a gorgeous room this is, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said, refusing to allow the opulence to unnerve him. He stood and could not help but admire the view from the panoramic window: a frozen lake in front of low, well-rounded, snow-covered hills; a single sentry, still as a statue, his weapon glinting in the sunlight. Kiry stared closer at the sentry and decided it
was
a statue.
Sihanouk’s butler deposited coffee and a plate of croissants and fruit. They were alone now, free to recite their lines, but Sihanouk procrastinated. He overfilled his coffee cup, then used a teaspoon to return the excess to the silver pot. He stirred through one and a half teaspoons of sugar – ‘Sweets for the sweet, tee hee’ – and added a dollop of thick yellow cream.
‘We’ve got five cows. They’ve got their own shed – water, hay, straw, warm water. I wish I had their life, ha ha.’
Sihanouk peeled an orange. He giggled with mock apology when he squeezed too hard and sprayed juice all over Kiry’s clasped hands. Kiry wiped himself with a napkin and suppressed his impatience.
‘I have concerns,’ Sihanouk finally said. ‘Sihanouk has grave concerns.’
‘I know. I read about them in the newspaper.’
‘Sihanouk has concerns about a union between the resistance groups. I am not optimistic that our negotiations will succeed, and—’
‘With the greatest respect, Your Majesty, then why initiate this meeting? Why bother to invite me here?’
‘And, as you see, we could not even convince Son Sann to join us to talk – merely to talk and eat breakfast – so what hope is there?’