It’s not absolutely certain that she will come. (There hasn’t been an answer to the message his secretary delivered.) That implies a degree of uncertainty. Which deep down he disapproves of since he has an infinite number of other things to concentrate on. (A comforting thought: the hotel room is booked and if she fails to come there will almost certainly be someone else willing to stand in for her.) And should she get the idea that she can treat him as she pleases, none of her family’s protectors would, he thinks, be in a position to prevent him destroying her.
Soft leather soles on the sun-warmed steps. Music from the open windows. Voices. A group already in conversation on the balcony above the entrance. He walks across the first terrace quickly.
The air is cooler here, a kilometre or so above the low country.
The hostesses are standing on each side of the open doors. They curtsey and greet him with heads bowed low. They are dressed in traditional costume, like a toned down version of the royal corps de ballet. (His gaze rests lightly on the nape of their necks, follows the fine hair down into their collars.)
He steps out of the blazing white afternoon light into darkness.
The sound of jazz and the hum of voices increase. He takes a glass from the tray held out to him and looks around.
Who is there? The usual contingent of dignitaries, diplomats and carefully selected businessmen. Their white suits contrast with the bright colours of the dresses worn by the young society ladies. The doors out to the large terrace are wide open (which lets in a slight but welcome draught). The sun is still too hot for the party to move outside.
Soft hands are proffered for shaking. There are polite phrases to respond to. He navigates his way around the rooms. Who is where?
Nouth, the president of the Council, comes over to him and puts an arm on his shoulder. He draws him towards the roulette wheel, suggests that he tries. He shakes his head.
Sary:
You’ll have to excuse me. I’d rather save my luck for more important occasions.
Nouth:
As you like. I’ve got plenty of it. And remember this, my young friend, it is only in politics that you have to have luck all the time. Once is sufficient with the roulette ball.
Nouth was appointed to the Supreme Royal Council at the same time as he was (and the Minister for Internal Security Kim Tith). Both Tith and Nouth are considerably older and Nouth is one of those people who seem to be above the turbulence at the centre of power. (Compared, for example, to his father Nhean.) Nouth (who is actually a born courtier with ancient mandarin blood in his veins) was made a minister when the prince was crowned—that’s all of fourteen years ago. And since then Nouth has held numerous portfolios (the prince uses him as a sort of universal panacea). It was Nouth who (encouraged by his father) first introduced Sary to the prince as the hardworking, well-educated, efficient and combative patriot, who can assist in the struggle for independence that the prince had always been looking for.
(He and the prince had immediately taken to one another. As if they were communicating on a wavelength all of their own, one on which all earlier calls had gone unanswered. Going home from the first meeting he had felt an unparalleled enthusiasm, as if all of a sudden everything was possible.)
He leaves the older man with the palms of his hands resting on the green felt of the roulette table. And goes impatiently back to the foyer.
Is this where she is? Is she here?
Cameras are flashing in the foyer (stucco, a feeble crystal chandelier, faded French murals portraying odalisques). It’s not really surprising. The prince is there, after all, posing with the ambassador of Czechoslovakia. Smiles for the camera. Then a change of wall and a change of ambassador. New smiles, puffs of smoke from the flash bulbs. The photographs to be dispatched and published immediately in one of Sary and the prince’s recently founded papers. (When they shake the prince’s hand the ambassadors crouch a little to compensate for the difference in height.)
The prince makes a speech, jokes, his gaze constantly sweeping across the semicircle of guests/listeners. His thickset body never still. He sees Sary and his face lights up even more, calls his name in his falsetto voice. Sary bows slightly in return. Another ambassador is lined up by the photographers.
He puts down his glass. Picks up another. Takes a cigarette from one of the waiters, who also gives him a light.
Then she is standing there, her back to him. (Immediate recognition of the curve of her shoulders, the long line of her neck.) She is talking to two other young women he thinks he can remember from the beauty contest. She is wearing another close-fitting dress, new to him, in various shades of graphite grey, pistachio green and pale yellow. Sequins glitter on the yellow and on the high collar. (The other two girls are dressed more conventionally. Which, he thinks, some of the men present would no doubt find preferable.)
The acid taste of champagne in his mouth, his mild intoxication, her elegant (restrained) movements a few metres in front of him. (His quick flutter of breath, light as a butterfly wing.)
All of a sudden he becomes aware again of the people moving around him.
He turns on his heel, goes back into the big room. None of the eyes he meets shows any recognition of the fact that he had stood and stared at the young trio far too long.
Even though many people are inquisitive enough to ask which of the men arrived with Miss Cambodia, he doesn’t think it would be impossible to make them believe she is present in her own right.
The music on the gramophone falls silent and the buzz of voices grows louder. Over by one wall the band is getting its instruments ready. The clarinettist is moistening a reed between his lips, the guitarist’s fingers are hovering over untuned strings. The Royal Jazz Band. Five blue-blooded men from various lower ranks. He recognizes the prince’s exclusive saxophone case, leaning in the window embrasure. It’s covered with those ridiculous labels from different capital cities.
He surveys the room, which is framed by the gleaming rectangles of the windows. Dark reflections on the chandelier. Something touches his leg and to his astonishment he looks down and sees a black poodle (whose nose is now seeking his crotch). He shoos the animal away brusquely and it moves on to a group that (as far as he can see) consists of a permanent secretary from the defence ministry, a French journalist and an Indian diplomat. The men jump when the dog winds its way between their legs. (The Frenchman pushes it away roughly with the sole of his shoe.) And then, hardly a surprise, he hears Ambassador McClintock’s thick American accent above the noise (even before he sees that the brawny figure has made his entrance). He notes that McClintock has at least shown enough judgement to leave his shorts and riding crop at home. But he has brought that awful dog with him.
He prepares to withdraw should the American approach. McClintock, however, makes no effort to circulate (he remains standing over in the doorway with the British chargé d’affaires Little Cook and some Australians). The poodle disappears out onto the terrace.
He hopes the prince will catch sight of the dog and, in a fit of rage, have it shot. Even though the diplomatic consequences would be difficult to predict.
A ripple runs through the gathering.
The prince is coming. (Like a sort of low-powered magnet that drags those in close proximity along for a few steps.)
The prince’s shrill laugh, the guests smiling around him. Polite or beguiled or both.
Sary’s eyes seek for something graphite grey, something pistachio green or pale yellow, seek the glitter of sequins.
The prince’s progress proceeds at its usual slow pace. Each step offers the opportunity for princely repartee and showing off.
Young Mau Say detaches himself from the prince’s magnetic field, stands discreetly alongside Sary. And in his low-key way asks about the manuscript. Sary answers that he is satisfied with the new section. Mau Say asks if it is all ready for publication and he answers, yes, by Albert Portail in Saigon. Mau Say smiles his quick timid smile, which Sary (always quick
to judge) at first mistook for weakness. But behind the shyness the young economist has a hard edge that may take him far or be the ruin of him. (When they were fellow students in Paris both of them found themselves in conflict with the Reds in the student union. At the big meeting called to sort out their differences of opinion, Mau Say left the meeting, slamming the door behind him. Then he formed a new union.) Character and energy, he thinks. Mau Say asks: And the title? He answers that we’ll keep the one we have. (Bilan de l’oeuvre de Norodom Sihanouk pendant le mandat royal de 1952 à 1955.)
They are interrupted: the loudspeakers are making unpleasant crackling noises.
He turns his face towards the improvised stage just as a couple of spotlights come on. The prince is holding a shiny square microphone. His eyes glide from listener to listener. (A broad smile, white uniform jacket embroidered with gold thread, black sampot trousers, a quick boyish wave to some special guests.) Dear Friends, the prince says, Dear, Dear Friends, thank you for your kindness in wanting to share this evening with me. This evening is an evening for dancing but also an evening for forgetting. Forgetting? You’re wondering what I mean by that. Well, as you all know, on Sunday the future of our beloved kingdom will be decided at the ballot box. And who knows how it will turn out! But! (in a low seductive voice)… let us forget that for one night and, in the words of the worthy Señor Edmundo Ros, let us say Si! Si! Si! to the future, Si! to the wonderful night ahead of us.
(Applause)
And the prince turns to the band (which responds to him with the opening chord). With a pair of maracas in his hands, the prince (eyes closed) falls into the rhythm. Starts singing, almost in a whisper (In Spain they say si, si / In France you’ll hear oui, oui / Ev’ry little Dutch girl says ya, ya / Ev’ry little Russian says da, da / etc.).
Sary turns his head, stretches to look over all the heads. And there she is. By the big fireplace at the far end of the room, partly hidden by the double doors. He watches her watching the band. A smile seems to be hovering on her face.
(Outside, forty-five minutes later) Far below them white pelicans are sailing on the rising currents of air.
Far below the pelicans: the dark green jungle with its screams, its chattering, its whistles.
After that (a thousand metres down): the sea. The thin line of the horizon shading over to dusk in the far, far distance. The smell of salt and endless water, filtering up through the scents of the rain forest.
And behind them: through the open doors and windows the Royal Jazz Band can be heard playing Django Reinhardt’s drawling Manoir de mes rêves. Again. Probably at the prince’s command.
Behind which them? Well, Sam Sary, Sim Var (newly appointed general secretary of the prince’s Popular Socialist Community and one of the founders of the Democratic Party, who has recently changed sides—that is to say, a vital recruit who must not allow his loyalty come into question), guests, servants, a black poodle.
This Sim Var (who is now explaining, as he did to a larger audience a little earlier, that party districts should be organized on the French model) is not a man in whose company he wants to spend the rest of the night. But he still doesn’t know how to place the older man, who is wearing his habitual light-grey suit and horn-rimmed glasses and who allows his dialect to colour his speech in a way that is easy to imitate (he has already—admittedly in Sim Var’s absence—done so and reduced a whole government meeting to laughter). But there is something about the goodwill the prince shows to Sim Var that suggests a need to be careful. He doesn’t understand what the goodwill depends on, since all he can see in the man is cold-blooded calculation concealed behind a rather wooden facade.
Then the prince joins them out on the terrace. (The sweat shining on his face shows that he has been dancing.) So you two are out here conspiring, he shouts in a shrill voice while he is still walking down the steps. Perhaps I ought to have you thrown over the edge, he continues, leaning over the balustrade and looking at the pelicans, the jungle, the sea. That light enervating laugh. His hands run through his thick hair, cufflinks sparkle.
Sim Var starts lecturing again but the prince interrupts him impatiently with tomorrow, Monsieur, tomorrow. There is a time for everything. Tonight we should be enjoying ourselves. As if there were no tomorrow. That’s right, isn’t it? Say Si!
The shrill laugh.
Sim Var smiles and looks inscrutably out towards the sea.
The band plays the tutti closing chord of the piece. In the silence before their next number a short dark roar can be heard from the jungle below them. It is repeated several times at regular intervals. The jungle is silent for a few moments before the chattering and whistling start again. The prince looks at Sam Sary in amazement and he looks at Sim Var in amazement and he in turn looks at the prince (and so on). A tiger! the prince exclaims and laughs once more. Did you hear that, my friends, a tiger? I am the tiger, aren’t I, the tiger who rules over the wild jungle! Have you heard a tiger before? the prince continues, imitating the roar. More laughter. More imitations.
He looks at the excited prince who is leaning over the balustrade (as if there is any chance at all of seeing the tiger down there through the deep green canopy of the jungle), at Sim Var who is smiling in an almost paternal way, and he thinks, say what you like about superstition and omens but this is a good one. The lord of the jungle greeting his equal.
He notices that the first star is now twinkling in a sky growing paler out over the sea. Behind them the band has got back into the swing. He sees Monineth and some of her friends silhouetted in the doorway. He recognizes one of them—was it Nana? Nana, who also took part in the beauty contest. (The rest of them are new acquaintances whose names he has definitely forgotten.) But no Somaly. The young women are holding champagne glasses in their hands and every so often their inebriated giggles can be heard through the music. Monineth with her European features is wearing the same deep blue dress as on her nineteenth birthday (a few months earlier). The silver threads glisten when she moves.
The prince follows his gaze and says that you could guess how beautiful Monineth was going to be even when she was just a baby, and that it doesn’t show, does it, that she has already borne me two children. He suspects there is a certain sharpness in the prince’s words. So he looks out at the horizon instead, empties the lukewarm contents of his glass over the balustrade and gets a waiter to give him a new one.
The champagne and Monineth’s close-fitting dress increase the tingle of desire he feels in his hands. But he can’t leave the prince alone with Sim Var. He needs to be present during their conversation (even though it will probably turn out to be quite harmless). He asks the waiter for another cigarette.
The waiter (an immature adolescent who seems bowled over to be there—in his imagination he is already recounting everything he has seen to his peasant family and his easily impressed friends) gives him a light with obsequious fussiness, which (along with the stripling’s conceited expression) annoys him, and after the first puff he asks the young man to wait for a moment. Which party will you be voting for? he asks and sees (with some satisfaction) a shiver run through the waiter’s body. The man’s eyes flit back and forth between him, the prince and Sim Var, both of whom are now waiting for his answer. His mouth hangs half open, questioningly. With a slight tremor in his voice he answers that he will obviously be giving his vote to His Majesty. The prince gives the young man a friendly nod and he bows and bows again before hurrying away pale-faced towards the steps of the casino.
The prince gives Sary an irritated look. Sim Var’s eyes are hidden by the reflection on his spectacles.
Sary says (in a bantering tone) that we still have some way to go before the people vote with their hearts, don’t we? The prince snorts and answers that one can’t expect any more of les petits enfants than that they recognize what’s best for them, can we?
It will come, Sim Var says, acting as mediator. A reform of the education system will not only create a more knowledgeable electo
rate, it will also create a more grateful one. It might, however, need to be given a little help at a first election such as the present one. But, Sim Var adds (without looking at Sary), the task has been made rather more difficult by the fact that we now have twice as many minds to convince.
Sary asks (more vehemently than he intends) whether Sim Var is referring to his wife Em’s work for women’s suffrage? In a modern democracy, surely, a free and universal election must by definition include all adult citizens?
The prince interrupts him:
Tomorrow, Messieurs. That’s all for tomorrow.
He can feel the alcohol affecting his thinking. He shakes his head slightly. Thinks: I must sharpen up. The prince is totally capricious. And where is she?
The prince:
How many of the opposition are doing forced labour?
Sam Sary:
I don’t have the exact number in my head but those bloody communists are constantly going on about their desire “to build the country” and that is precisely what they have now been given a golden opportunity to do—even if they are doing it in leg-irons!
Sim Var: (a short, dry laugh)
The prince (smiling):
You really must lend me those words for my biography.
He gives a slight smile. And hopes there are not going to be any questions about how the biography is progressing. He hasn’t had time recently to do more than note down occasional princely quotations on slips of paper (which he has then proceeded to mislay here and there). But at least his and Mau Say’s manuscript is finished. Almost finished.
Song for an Approaching Storm Page 14
