LOS-ANGELES - SAIGON
PHNOM-PENH - VIENTIANE - HANOI

Phnom Penh Under Siege

Six or seven hours by plane from America to Paris isn't much but I prefer the long way around. Los Angeles, where cocaine has replaced champagne in the restaurants. Hawaii, tropical pollution, where the notes of the ukulele are only heard in elevators and on car radios. Tokyo, where the locals are surprised by my relaxed demeanor. A wealthy American student is travelling with me. He thinks he's going to improve his technique through our daily one-hour lessons.

*******

Another stop on my itinerary is Vietnam, where the war grinds on steadily. I receive invitations from both sides of the DMZ. This means I’ll need a new passport for the South, because I have a Socialist visa, and another for the North, because my papers are filled with the marks of imperialism and counterrevolutionary activity. In Saigon music has been badly neglected. The Conservatory has been all but abandoned. An old, majestic-looking man, dressed in silk, is seated on the ruined stage. He is singing a classic Vietnamese melody, "Nostalgia for the Past." The singer supplies the accompaniment with a crescent-shaped lute, one of Vietnam’s most important traditional instruments, which produces clear, powerful sounds. Given the present circumstances, the title is particularly poignant. Several music-starved guitarists grab me as if I were a lifesaver. The wealthiest among them want to emigrate to France, where they can continue their musical studies. As for the others, it's uncertain that the guitar will be able to save them from the tide of history.

*******

To get to Hanoi you have to pass through the battle-torn city of Phnom Penh, then through Bangkok and Vientiane. An Air Cambodia Caravelle takes off, surrounded by American Phantom jets. I am the only passenger on board. The steward pours me a glass of champagne.

- You're going to need it!

The capital is close to surrender. Completely surrounded, the city has been without water and electricity. Wave after wave of B-52s bomb the opposite bank of the Mekong. As in the fortified citadels of medieval Europe, French prisons during the Reign of Terror, history's worst epidemics, and—at least according to William Styron (author of Sophie's Choice)—certain ghettos, the atmosphere is festive. No one is making any plans for the future; they have abandoned hope to avoid further disappointment and frustration. Faced with death or capture, the French finish off their last reserves of foie gras and vintage wines, the Russians distribute their caviar and their vodka, and the Americans chow down on corned beef and bourbon. I can’t sleep for three nights.

The outlook of the Cambodians is very different. They are more fatalistic. For them the long flow of history is unavoidable, like the semiannual flooding of the Mekong. We are born. We die. We get through life as best we can. Naturally, no one at this time could have known what Pol Pot’s brand of Socialism would look like.

The Minister of Culture, undaunted, arranges for my stay. In the Royal Palace, which looks as though it's been plucked straight out of a fairy tale, a dance troupe gives a performance in honor of the touring musician. The contrast between the sensuality of a wrinkled eyebrow, the subtle movement of an eye, and the war’s blind destruction is extreme, and the spectacle, given the context, moves me to tears. Was it really here that I experienced the splendors of Angkor Wat, its beauty and serenity, from the roof of a passing train? Paradise contains the seeds of Hell.

- As a Parisian musician, do you think I should pass a law making it mandatory for the young girls to learn French?

Long live the French language!

The tremor and rumble of bombs is now so close that it serves as a backdrop for my recital. Much like Victoria Falls, these seismic shocks create more than noise, they create an insidious vibration deep within the organism. In the wings the voice of a chapey (a two-stringed Cambodian guitar tuned in fourths) player can be heard distinctly. His song, a satire, tells the story of a giant who puts fuel in the stomach of his horses and stitches wings onto them so he can be reunited with his lover, whose breasts are as big as his chapey. The sounds he produces with the instrument are so sweet that we have to go down to the cellar to escape the unending vibrations of the bombings.

There in the cellar this magnificent artist offers what will most likely be his musical testament. As he sings he improvises subtle descants. An exquisite musical balm falls from the searing drone of his instrument, the harmonic pedestal that allows his dream to take shape. E notes against the drone, dream against reality, pressure and release, upbeat against downbeat, the Ramayana against a B-52.

*******

A small American bomb serves as a warning to France, massacring its ambassador (This exploit was repeated in 1999 at the Chinese embassy in Serbia.)

The plane to Bangkok, on the other hand, is packed and the North Vietnamese embassy in Laos can't seem to find my visa. In Hanoi the French Cultural Counselor, Mr. Calvi, who is organizing my stay, bends over backwards to help, but still can’t get an answer from the People's Commissar overseeing my visit. On the Wednesday of the departure, we still haven't heard anything. Because there are only two flights a week and because I have to play in Malaysia on the following Saturday, I can't postpone my departure any longer. The diplomat is a nervous wreck because he suspects that the authorities have changed their minds. He thinks the Vietnamese are afraid of setting a precedent and of being culturally invaded. The two other performers-in-waiting are Marcel Marceau and Jane Fonda. A tough blow for ideology. Then, at 9.45 A.M., the diplomat receives a phone call:

- The artist's visa is ready!

- But you know perfectly well that the plane took off fifteen minutes ago!

Yes but...The Aeroflot employee in charge of departures to Vientiane is Russian. Rather than talking about my missing visa, I speak to him about his charming country, and play a piece by Piotr Panin for him--a nostalgic allusion to his distant homeland. I board the plane.

When I finally arrive, the counsellor can't believe his eyes.

- You’re here? Great. Now that I’ve gone through all the trouble of getting you your visa from the Vietnamese!

*******

The welcome I get from the North Vietnamese is spectacular. They certainly haven’t turned their backs on music education. At night the professors leave for the frontlines and give the troops lessons. A young pianist even entered the Chaikovski concert in Moscow. It didn't prevent him from winning the war.

At the end of the concert a dozen teachers serenade us with a presentation of traditional music, which I quickly join. However, we can communicate only through an interpreter. After the session Mr. Calvi invites our high society to the Legation, which is still smoking from the bomb, sent courtesy of the U.S. Air Force (admittedly, not all the counselors were working on culture affairs). In his bewilderment, the leader of our group gives in. This had never happened before, the Legation clearly being a forerunner of capitalism. In the mess hall glasses of champagne are served. Considering the time and place, the evening was one the dinner guests would remember for a long time to come. The guests soon began to relax. The musicians, who supposedly don’t speak a word of French, begin to sing "La Madelon," followed by "Auprès De Ma Blonde." By the second glass of champagne, they abandoned all restraint and launched into...The Marseillaise.