The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Read Online Free PDF Page B

does not lie. And could he rise higher, even to unprecedented heights? Could he someday be a major? Idi suppresses a smile as he opens the commander’s door and lets him proceed before him. And if these damn
askaris
don’t like a Kakwa-Lugbara for their supreme commander, Idi will find some thick white cream to spread on his face and hands, and then they’ll know he’s to be taken seriously, that smart people do not mess around with Idi son of Amin. Idi decides that’s exactly what he’ll do, as he steps into the major’s office to seal his fate. He will coat himself in leadership. If they make a black cream for officers, then somewhere back in England they must also make a white one for that same purpose.

The city, stuffed with greenery , gently steams. If wrapped in bamboo leaves, these buildings would soften like gluten and stick to each other. Saloth Sâr has no idea that someday he will devour them.
    The boy’s entire body pulses with desire. He is standing on the street corner before the École Miche, savouring the wet heat trapped inside his thin shirt. The back of his neck is sticky. A slow-moving rickshaw rounds the bend, drawn by a half-naked Vietnamese driver and carrying a mustachioed gentleman in a cream-coloured suit, obviously in no hurry to reach his destination. The gentleman stares at the pink-cheeked and newly virile Sâr, whose wide face has flowered into a smile. A photograph of the smooth-skinned fourteen-year-old boy could grace the cover of any travel brochure for Indochina. The gentleman sucks his cigarette and tips his hat in greeting, but Sâr doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he watches the rickshaw bump north towards the colonial villas in Wat Phnom. Arrogant Frenchmen are of no concern.
    School has ended for the day. His friends, like vapour, have reabsorbed into the humid air. Sâr has declined their persistent invitations to visit the market en masse, where the giddy teenagers will play at boldness, tryingto hide their Cambodian features and pass for Chinese, snacking on fried crickets and unripe bananas, goading each other into haggling with the Vietnamese merchants. On most days the central market is Sâr’s favourite destination, still a novelty with its art deco dome, peculiar chevron-shaped windows, and four corridors extending outward at slight angles like a heron’s foot. He loves the diesel fumes, the scent of coriander and lemony rice-paddy herbs, the magical wristwatches on display between bits of junk on the pavement, and the overheard phrases of incomprehensible Mandarin spoken by the foreign merchants. Still, he can’t go today. The heat is too intense, too distracting.
    He is picturing Chanlina, a palace dancer, one of the King’s lesser wives. He sees her full-moon face, popping lips, and dark, coy eyes. He can’t stop thinking about her, although he’s only met her once, when there were other people around. Sâr’s sister Roeung, who works in the palace, introduced him to the dancers. She told Sâr that he could visit any time, but he’s not sure if he should take her at her word. Roeung never specified if those visits had to be
with
her. He wonders if the dancers would mind him dropping by, just a friendly visit to say hello.
    As he starts towards the palace, Sâr realizes that he’s made his decision, and his stomach tenses. The combination of heat and anxiety makes his legs feel weak. Sâr walks on, taking cover from the sun beneath the inconsequential shade of high palm trees and the thicker foliage of the odd teak or rosewood. Even so, the heat is too much to bear. The skyis blue and nearly cloudless, as it’s been for months. When the New Year arrives next week, greeted with festivities at the palace, and familial gatherings and games in the park at Wat Phnom, it will usher in the seasonal procession of cooling monsoon clouds. Such relief seems improbable today.
    It’s a stupid plan, destined for failure. He’ll never get to see them. The guard will