One of the serving girls gives him a sarong and a small, damp, cool terry towel. He changes, wipes his face and neck with the towel while the girl prepares his first pipe. She seems new to the work. He asks in a friendly way what she is called and she answers (without meeting his eyes).
He looks at her small soft hands, the shape of her breasts beneath the material of her dress. Perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps not, he thinks.
Turns to Non instead: Well, Non? How are things going for us?
Non gives a report. Low-voiced, efficient. (Perhaps it comes from being little brother six times over?) He tells him about posters torn down, local opposition politicians who have been visited, and one or two threats that have been turned into action.
Sary takes his first puff of the first pipe.
The French have not exactly left behind an experienced electorate. (God knows.) (According to Sary, who agrees with his father on this point) A degree of bluntness is necessary to make them understand what is good for them. In front of them lies an historic possibility and history teaches that such an extraordinary process (he shares his father’s analysis on this point too) sometimes calls for extraordinary powers of action. But what does that mean in practice? (Possibilities worth considering: disruption of election meetings, rigged ballot boxes, rigged counting, assault, imprisonment, torture, permanent neutralization and so on.) We were perhaps naïve, he thinks, when the demand for free democratic elections was acceded to in the Geneva agreements. At that stage (not much more than a year ago) he had visualized a calm and civilized election of the kind he had witnessed during his years in France, minus the ridiculous parliamentary instability that occurred there, where ministers were scarcely given time to smoke in their offices before they were kicked out. We have quite sufficient here, thank you, with a prince who rearranges his governmental furniture so often that no outsider stands a chance of keeping up with it. Opinion formation is a hopelessly slow method, he notes, and what’s more it does not offer any guarantees as to its results. (He assumes that more time would have been needed to do anything of that sort. And, without doubt, party functionaries who know what they are doing.) Consequently, he has (driven by circumstances, or so he says) turned the screw (that is to say, embarked on a number of the possibilities suggested). It’s not me, he thinks, it’s this bloody country. But, and now he turns to Non, for the most part things must be done by the book. I don’t want the people you win over turning up in the mortuary. I’ve had quite enough of it with that monk Chung.
Non (with an obliging smile):
No, of course not, but…
Sary (irritably):
What do you mean but? No bloody buts!
Non:
… the body count keeps on rising. The chief of police’s stunts…
Sary (cuts him off):
There’s to be an end of that.
He makes himself comfortable, says, we’ll talk more about that presently. And he inhales deeply and slowly. Brown bubbles in the bowl of the pipe. And pictures begin to unfold. Skies. Horses.
MONDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER 1955
A young face, beautiful, almost aristocratic. Spectacles with French frames, the elegant cut of the grey suit.
He studies Ly Chinly (who is concentrating on leafing his way through a blue folder). Watches his long slim fingers running down columns and figures. Not even thirty yet.
The jangle of the telephone in the adjoining room is replaced by the mumble of the secretary. The door stays shut. He lights another cigarette.
Ly Chinly locates the information requested, lists the villages in which the party’s mobile electioneering film has been shown. (A precise typed sheaf of papers gives the number of viewers. Then an appendix of the number of gifts distributed. And then another sheet with the number of registered voters in each electoral district. Put them all alongside one another and pleasingly high percentages can be extracted.)
New diagrams, new rows of figures. They are making gains in important areas. Making fewer gains in less important areas. In the former the fight is against the Democrats. In the latter they risk losing to the People’s Party.
Ly Chinly only completed his studies in France last year. Since when the prince (with his usual feeling for usable ambition and talent) brought the young lawyer into the circles just outside the government. In the urgent work with the party programme of the Popular Socialist Community (which the prince with his habitual engaging nonchalance has entrusted to Sary), he has found Ly Chinly’s meticulousness useful. He had telephoned him late at night and the young man had immediately come to his house to discuss any details that were difficult to grasp.
Consequently, Ly Chinly with his fine features was an obvious choice when he was setting up the working party for the election campaign.
But does he like him? He cannot decide. Usefulness versus self-sufficiency—which weighs heavier in the scales?
Sary interrupts the slightly monotonous murmuring. Asks: Is there anything in the new material that provides us with unambiguous information as to where the voters’ sympathies lie? For the current week, that is? Or at least for the current month?
The answer is in the negative. Ly Chinly says in the same tone of voice as before (monotonous) that they would need to carry out a survey of the kind invented by the American George Gallup. And it might be possible to do that in the capital perhaps, but (he shakes his head sorrowfully) not elsewhere.
Sary looks out through the window. Out there is the same view as always (and all of a sudden it sort of represents his question. But not even there, among the massive trees in the garden, in the vault of a sky heavy with the threat of rain or in the angles of the buildings, is there an answer). And half-aloud, as if to himself, he remarks, so we just don’t know.
Ly Chinly says, no, we don’t.
Sary continues, admits that he has a feeling that public opinion is unstable. A feeling that enigmatic forces are at work. But he cannot determine either their direction or their goal for sure.
He asks: What do you think?
Ly Chinly does not seem to find his sudden frankness troubling. He thinks that there are two sorts of young men—those who are worried by honesty on the part of their superiors, and those who know their own value and consequently are not worried.
The young man answers that he can’t claim to be very familiar with the mood out in the rural areas, but most things suggest that the prince’s popularity has deep roots. They can let the free democratic process takes its course without concern.
(He considers what has been said—noting that it does not serve to allay any doubts.)
What separates a successful politician from one who fails, he says, is not the sharpness of his thinking. Nor is it his capacity for work or even necessarily the ability to convince others. (Ly Chinly raises his head and suddenly looks at him with interest.) The decisive thing, when all the other characteristics are equal, is intuition. So, he continues, I shall modify the question: What do you think? What does your intuition tell you?
Ly Chinly hesitates but then repeats (tone of voice the same—calm, low) that he’s sure they can feel confident about the result of the election.
He fixes the young man with his gaze, asks: That’s what your intuition tells you?
The answer is a yes.
He says, there you are, there, you see. Funny, isn’t it? My intuition tells me the exact opposite.
He lights another cigarette (even though the one before is still burning in the ashtray). Blows out the smoke in a silence that lasts longer than a pause for effect and is filled with expectation of what will come when the silence is broken.
He breaks the silence.
And says that when we are finished here, I want you to take the initiative in setting up new surveys. Take Mau Say as your assistant. I want to know what the situation is. Understood? We can’t allow the election to be reduced to a game of chance. The alternative, which I know you dislike even more than I do, is that we hold up two fingers to the law and
win this election by any means available to us.
Ly Chinly nods slowly, says that he understands. And adds: Talking of games of chance. You know there is organized betting going on about the result of the election?
Sary: Put a stop to it. Tell the chief of police and say hello to him from me.
The young man gets up, puts his folders into his briefcase.
Then he is alone again. He glares at the closed door for a moment. And then up. And on.
(Later the same morning) His car drives on past the stables on rue Paul Bert at the back of the palace. The windscreen wipers in front beat out momentary bursts of visibility through the curtains of rain. Through the side window he glimpses (equally momentarily) the silhouettes of the royal elephants. Brown water is cascading along the gutters. Puddles link to form pools, their surface boiling beneath the thrashing rain.
He tries to make out the hands of his wristwatch beneath the cuff of his shirt. The storm has turned morning into dusk.
The shadows of people are standing under the shelter of the metal canopies over shopfronts, hurrying along the pavements with their wet clothes clinging to them. His driver (Phirun, who else?) turns into the palace zone. They glimpse a face in the window of the sentry box.
One guard (the slightly older one) hurries out, huddled under a black umbrella. Opens the door, says something (in French, as if everything was just as it used to be). The words are swallowed up by the noise of the rain. He gets out, briefcase in one hand, cigarette in the other.
The gusts of wind make the rain wash in waves across the concrete slabs of the approach.
A plumpish adjutant he hasn’t seen before bows and takes over at the entrance. Leads the way through the rooms. He is asked to wait in the usual side room. (Soft, pale-grey, wall-to-wall carpet, modern furniture of dark wood and black leather. Everything in accordance with the prince’s own ideas and design.)
He takes a cigarette from the silver box on the table. Smokes it slowly by the window and studies the garden inside the palace wall. The downpour shows no sign of easing. What a time for an election, he thinks, in the middle of the rainy season. What an idea! How is the rural electorate that is so loyal to the prince supposed to get to the polling stations when the roads are impassable? His thoughts move on to the public address he is due to give Wednesday evening (OWING TO CIRCUMSTANCES: CLARIFICATION OF THE GENEVA AGREEMENT). He chews on a flake of tobacco and the need for a better opening.
The adjutant opens the door behind him, and he has just time to turn round and bow his head as the prince makes his entry with a strained smile on his round face. A secretary at his heels. Dear friend, dear friend, the prince says and sits down in one of the armchairs. (Black pomaded hair, a black suit on the black leather furniture. A handkerchief white as chalk in his breast pocket.)
He sits down (following an impatient instruction from the prince) in the other armchair. The prince spears a cube of pineapple on a toothpick and says, well then. Chews it quickly and spears a cube of papaya.
He summarizes the reports that have come in from informants. (Successes and failures.) The prince listens, now and again echoing a headword for the secretary to note down. And, the prince interrupts, how are things going? With La Miss, Miss Cambodia?
He answers yes and continues.
The prince pouts his lips, strokes his nose with his finger, interrupts him again and says, bring her with you tomorrow evening, why don’t you?
He gives a reluctant nod and passes on to his (short) list of suggestions for (civilized/legal) measures that can be taken.
And is interrupted by a knock at the door. The adjutant lets in another secretary (dressed in identical clothes to the one standing behind the armchairs). More documents are handed to the prince, who makes a gesture for him to continue with his report while he examines them.
Before Sary can remember the point at which he had stopped, the prince suddenly puts down his pen and says: As a starting point for this little discussion, let’s recapitulate the larger context. (The prince continues:) We can expect China to regain its historical dominance in our part of the world, can’t we? Not necessarily by military means but by size alone. As you know, I anticipate that our dear neighbours, the Annamites, will reunite within the foreseeable future. Very possibly, even probably in fact, under the red star. In which case our poorly armed little kingdom, with me—le pauvre Monseigneur—a feudal relic as the Reds call me, will have two overwhelmingly powerful communist states to deal with. At the same time we can be confident that old habits die hard. Peking is hardly going to tolerate regional competition. And is even less likely to diverge from the old imperial ambitions to act as policeman and ensure that peace reigns outside its borders. After that the Red River can run as red as it wants, can’t it? And then there are these stubborn Americans who have got the domino theory on the brain and are concerned that the whole of the East is going to be transformed into a castle haunted by the spectre of communism. SEATO is consequently going to remain a headache for us and will undoubtedly continue demanding that we join. Now then, how should a little country like our dear kingdom behave when the elephants start dancing?
The prince fixes him with his gaze. (Eyebrows raised histrionically.)
He gives the reply expected of him and notes parenthetically (to himself) that that facial expression turns up in all the films His Royal Highness has acted in.
Correct! The prince exclaims. By playing off any interests superior to our own against each other. That is our only possibility. And as you know, the prince says (lowering his voice), it is a valid view even in domestic politics. But what is happening at the moment is not—how shall I put it—balanced? We may be able to rule the country the day after the election, and perhaps even the day after that. But taking the longer view, the current excesses endanger the necessary stability. We need discipline in the ranks. Vous voyez bien, Monsieur le Ministre.
Sary breaks off the glowing tip of his cigarette in the ashtray and says that of course he shares the prince’s analysis. But, he goes on, we also need to be aware of the people we are dealing with. They are people who are out on the extreme fringes on both sides. The conservatives, among whom I count my father, are afraid of losing what they have. When we push them they retreat reluctantly, one step at a time. Keeping an eye on their own house, so to speak. The opposite end of the spectrum, on the other hand, is peopled by idealists. Confrontation with the apparatus of state merely reinforces the buggers’ convictions, it radicalizes them and makes them take even greater risks.
Exactly, the prince interrupts him. In order to control them, metaphorically speaking we have to crush them. And the simplest way of doing that is… well… to do it literally.
Sary looks at the prince sceptically. Says: Is that what you really want? According to the opinion polls I’ve had done, that would mean that we’d have to break the necks of a frighteningly large part of the population. Doesn’t that conflict with your worries about excesses?
The prince (with a mocking smile): Are you worrying about the gross national product, dear friend? There aren’t that many of them, les petits khmers rouges.
But (the prince continues, serious again) you are right in principle. We risk creating unbridgeable gulfs if violence were to become—what should we call it—a reflex response. I want the whole country behind me. In spite of your efforts the current situation, if I understand it properly, is that an electoral victory with a desirable margin is far from guaranteed—am I right?
Sary says (intentionally provocative: there are times when he finds it impossible not to adopt the big brother’s role he feels in relation to the monarch, who is five years younger than him): Are we going to do what they’ve done in South Vietnam then? Prime Minister Diem’s success in the election can be explained by his heavy-handed methods. Emperor Bao Dai has been effectively outmanoeuvred there.
The prince, irritated, shakes his head and says that that doesn’t hold water. Bao Dai gambled away his people’s affectio
n at the roulette tables of the Riviera without any help from anyone. Look at me, the prince says (raising his voice), unlike Bao Dai I know my people. Mes petits enfants respect me. And that is because I am present in and a part of their lives. All my journeys to the provinces. The schools, the roads, the bridges I open. The opportunity they have to come to me personally for justice. I am also Citizen Sihanouk, an absolutely ordinary citizen even though I have a greater burden of responsibility on my shoulders. Presence, says the prince, slapping the arm of the chair with the palm of his hand. Being there, that’s what matters, isn’t it? And that jackass Diem (clenched fist, with the princely index finger raised) is guilty of reaching a fundamentally false conclusion in that he confuses fear and respect. He does, doesn’t he? He has sown dragon’s teeth and now he is carefully watering them. No, my dear minister, we won’t have that. And it’s your bloody responsibility to keep it all within the boundaries of the law.
(The prince firmly squeezes a few drops of lime over the next piece of papaya.)
My prince, are you including les khmers rouges in that?
(Silence.)
I am relying on you.
Sary (nods, satisfied) says, of course.
But, the prince goes on sharply, Thursday night. I want to see concrete results. That man has forfeited his rights. (The prince continues, muttering:) Less than five years ago his comrades in the party had to scrape up the remains of Ieu Koeus from the pavement outside their headquarters. And still there are these senseless attacks on such fundamental national values as the monarchy and, by extension, the constitution itself. Not criminal, perhaps, by the letter of the law, but nevertheless in a criminal spirit. They seem incapable of learning from their mistakes, don’t they?
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