by Tiffany Tsao
Nutmeg nodded. “It’s been wonderful,” she said, meaning it. But before she could launch into any further detail, the fairy lights began to flash.
“It’s starting!” the Other exclaimed. Sure enough, someone had turned on the projector. The Other seated himself on the grass and fixed his eyes on the blank screen as if something were already playing on it. As Murgatroyd and the others followed his example—the One lowering herself slowly with some assistance from Ann—Murgatroyd couldn’t help but feel that something about the Other in that light, from that angle, reminded him of someone.
Murgatroyd leaned towards Ann.
“The Other,” he whispered.
“What about him?” Ann asked.
“Do you see it?”
“See what?”
“He kind of looks like . . .” He hesitated. “Like Hans.”
Ann started, but she quickly recovered and studied the Other for herself.
“I don’t see it,” she said finally, not without some relief. “Are you feeling all right? Does this have something to do with that . . . experience you had?”
Murgatroyd had told Ann what had happened that day in the Anti-Quest lab: how one Hans had become many and how he had glimpsed what Hans was like as a little boy. Ann hadn’t known what to make of it. They had told the One, but she had dismissed it and put it all down to nerves.
Murgatroyd looked worried.
“Don’t worry about it,” counselled Ann. “At least not now. Try to have fun. I’ll see you later.”
“You’re leaving?” asked Murgatroyd. “Don’t you want to watch?”
Ann shook her head. “I have something to attend to. But I’m sure Mildred and her team have done a good job.”
“Where are you going?” asked Murgatroyd.
“You and Nutmeg,” Ann remarked, sidestepping the question.
“Yes?”
“You seem good for each other.”
Murgatroyd blushed. Then Ann was gone.
At that moment, Mildred’s voice boomed across the clearing, strangely loud. She was using a megaphone. “My fellow Questians,” she began. “Thank you for your presence here today. Many of you are familiar with the project my team and I have been assigned to: a project that will enable all the new knowledge you’ve compiled to be shared with the public at large! A project that will significantly increase the number of people who know about the More Known World and the Quest!”
An appreciative buzz greeted these words.
“I’ll spare you all the details,” Mildred continued. She noticed a few Questians looked visibly relieved. “But suffice it to say that an hour ago, our website went live! Ladies and gentlemen, now anyone in the Known World with Internet access can learn about the More Known World for themselves!”
This announcement was met with a few puzzled murmurs from the non-web-savvy crowd, who made up the majority of the attendees. But once people decided that a website being live was probably a good thing, there came a belated wave of applause.
“We don’t have Internet access right now, unfortunately . . .” Mildred paused for laughter at this understatement. Then, realizing nobody thought it was funny, she moved on. “But what my team in the Known World has done is record a video tour of our website, so you can experience what people all over the Known World will see.”
Many of the audience members recognized the word video and began to murmur excitedly once again.
“Esteemed colleagues, I give you the Quest Online!”
An image appeared on the screen—one of Nutmeg’s drawings of Cambodia-Abscond—and above it in magnificently curlicued letters: “The Quest: There Is Always More to Know.”
Strains of majestic orchestral music began to play over speakers that Murgatroyd hadn’t even realized were there. And then came Mildred’s voice again, this time as part of the video recording: “This is our home page . . .”
Any lingering inattentiveness in the audience melted away entirely as they fell under the video’s spell—just as Mildred had intended. Everyone was captivated. Everyone except the One.
It wasn’t that the One wasn’t interested in the website—of course she was. But Mildred had already shown her on paper what everyone else was now seeing for the first time, and so to her, the images on-screen were telling her nothing new. While everyone around her was being hurtled into the Quest’s future, the One found herself drifting backwards into the past, as she often did these days when her brain was idle. And as was often the case, memory’s current took her to that unforgettable quarrel with Yusuf, to that exchange that still haunted her and would continue to do so till the very end.
“It can’t be fixed,” said Yusuf mournfully.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, look how much good we’re doing.”
“It doesn’t cancel out.”
“I know, but it’s too late. What’s done is done.”
“We shouldn’t have started them so young. Not Hector. Not the others.”
“We were young ourselves. How were we to know that?”
“And we shouldn’t have killed those people.”
“Oh, stop it. They weren’t people. And they were impossible to reason with. We tried our best, didn’t we? We would never have been able to open up exploration of the More Known World if we hadn’t removed them.”
Yusuf scoffed. “‘Removed’?”
“Fine. Killed. Are you happy? The facts stand. We had no choice.”
“We had no choice,” the One murmured to herself, raising her eyes to the screen.
Mildred’s voice was guiding the audience through a page headed “The Quest at a Glance”: “Fun fact for our visitors to know: since 1939, we’ve discovered more than two hundred thousand Territories . . .”
The One tried to smile. Oh, but Yusuf, look how much good we’re doing.
CHAPTER 20
“Not much traffic this morning.”
Su Wei chose not to respond to this inane statement, but as usual, her older brother persisted.
“There are usually more cars on the road at this time. Strange, don’t you think?”
In order to appease him, she gave a nod and made a faint hmm sound. To her relief, this seemed to work and she could return to giving full attention to the scenery whizzing by outside—more specifically, to the people wearing green.
If she counted more than fifteen people wearing green during the ride from the house to the museum, she knew that the likelihood of her daughter showing up that day was higher than 50 percent.
If she counted between one to fifteen people wearing green, this indicated the likelihood was less: between 30 and 50 percent.
If she counted zero people wearing green, it meant that the likelihood was much greater: 70–80 percent.
In order to count as “wearing green,” green had to constitute at least 25 percent of any article of clothing, including footwear, hats, and bags, but not including jewellery or hair accessories.
Dogs counted as people.
In all the years she had been doing this, she had never counted zero people wearing green.
This depressed her.
But on the other hand, the fact that the likelihood never fell below thirty percent buoyed her spirits considerably.
Sometimes she worried that An An had in fact visited the museum already, and that she had somehow missed her, even though she had been stationing herself there ever since it opened thirteen years ago. Maybe An An had slipped in during one of her toilet breaks, or on a day when her brother had deemed her too ill and confined her to the house.
Still, Su Wei was not an irrational person. Even in the unlikely case she had missed An An, she figured it was more than probable that her daughter would return again. The museum was always bringing in new exhibits, one of which would surely bring her back.
Diligence was the key to success.
The car pulled up behind the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts.
She brought the morning’s count to a close. Nine people wear
ing green. A 30–50 percent chance.
“Did you bring your lunch?” her brother asked.
“Of course I did,” she snapped, regretting it almost immediately.
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” said her brother quietly.
“I know.”
“I care about you. Why else would I bring you back to Taiwan to live with us?”
“I know,” she said again. She did. She appreciated her brother and sister-in-law a lot, even though they were a pair of overbearing busybodies. And even though their three children had always been unattractive and stupid—even more so now that they were grown. How inferior they were to her own daughter, wherever she was.
Her brother sighed. “I may have to work late today. But I’ll try to pick you up at the usual time.”
She nodded, hopped out, slammed the door, and walked around to the front entrance. On some mornings, the light turned the building a dusky rose. Today, it was an unflattering hybrid of brown and grey.
She waved and flashed a smile at the museum guards, who did the same in return. She didn’t feel like smiling, or waving, but she knew it was important to be on good terms with them. They probably thought she was crazy for coming here every day, and she didn’t want to give them any reason to kick her out for good.
She walked through the lobby and unfolded her small canvas camping stool in her usual corner in the sculpture hall. Then she sat down, folded her hands, and proceeded to keep watch.
At 10:30 a.m., she hurried to the toilet and back.
At noon, she went outside to eat her lunch of rice, stewed beef, and vegetables, keeping her eyes fixed on the entrance the whole time. Then she circled the plaza fifty times and did some light stretching, still watching the entrance like a hawk.
At 1:00 p.m., she went to the toilet again, then returned to the sculpture hall.
At 1:07 p.m., after all these years, her daughter finally showed up.
Even at a distance, she could tell it was An An. She was as perfect as ever.
“An An!” she called, standing up and waving.
An An froze and took a step back, as if about to dash away. But before her daughter could escape again, Su Wei scurried across the hall and seized her by the hand.
The sobs came suddenly, consuming Su Wei, tumbling out of her mouth and streaming from her eyes and nose in great, choking hiccups. No wonder she’d been miserable for so long. She’d been underwater. She’d been drowning. And now at last, the water was draining from her lungs.
“An An, it’s you,” she whispered, one hand pressed to her daughter’s cheek, the other stroking the eye patch as if feeling out what lay beneath.
Ann averted her gaze. “No, not anymore.”
But her mother pulled her closer still.
“I know the truth. I can see it in your eyes.”
It took Ann longer than usual to make her selection at the 7-Eleven. And when she finally did, the pink-haired teenager working the cash register scowled and tugged at his eyebrow rings in disapproval.
“Five KitKats and five bars of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. That’s all? Shouldn’t you stock up?”
His voice was incongruously rich and warm, but Ann had known Ivan Ho too long to be surprised anymore. She shrugged. “It gives me an excuse to stop in and say hi.”
At this, Ivan smiled. He reached under the counter and added a tube of Smarties to the pile.
“I don’t like Smarties,” said Ann.
“These are special. As of two years ago, they changed the packaging.”
Now Ann was the one to look disapproving. “Two years ago?”
Ivan rolled his eyes. “Smarties don’t go bad. Give them to Murgatroyd. He’ll appreciate them, even if you don’t.”
“Oh, that reminds me . . .”
Ivan was one step ahead of her. He reached for a jumbo-sized jar of Tally Ho Miracle Cream from the shelves behind him.
“Send Murgatroyd my regards. Tally sends his too.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“On the house.”
Ignoring him, Ann pulled a small glass bottle out of her purse. When she set it on the counter, the contents swirled violently.
“Fermented tempest. From Zimbabwe-Cravat. I thought Tally might be able to find some use for it.”
“I didn’t know tempest could be fermented.”
“Well, maybe not ‘fermented,’” Ann admitted. “It might just be rotten. I left it out in the sun for a while.”
Ivan put the jar away under the counter. “It’s all right. Either way, Tally will be pleased.”
“How is he, by the way?”
“He’s well. He’s discovered how to make a pill that makes everything taste like oranges.”
“Who would buy that?”
“People who feel they aren’t getting enough citrus in their diet.”
“And how are the mosquitoes?”
“Fat. I had to buy another terrarium because the first one got too crowded. That soil you brought them from Cambodia-Abscond was something else.”
“Glad they liked it,” said Ann. She slid the chocolates and miracle cream into her bag and turned to go.
“How’s your mother?” Ivan asked.
She turned again. “How did you know?”
“You’re not wearing your contact lens.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Ivan shrugged. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
The dried tearstains were what had really given it away, but Ivan thought it better not to tell her this.
“Anyway,” Ivan continued, “you were bound to do something with all the reconnaissance you asked me to do.”
“You were right,” said Ann tonelessly. “And Hans was right. She’s crazy. Not stark raving mad, but mad nonetheless.”
“Won’t seeing you . . .” Ivan trailed off, realizing he shouldn’t have started the question in the first place.
But Ann finished it for him. “Make her worse? I don’t think so. If anything, I think it might help.” She paused. “We’re meeting again in three months after I get back from exploring.”
“Which Territory?”
“Can’t say. It hasn’t been named yet.”
Just as Ann turned to leave again, Ivan snapped his fingers.
“Silly me. I almost forgot.”
He reached for his back pocket and produced an envelope.
“More information for the Duck Assassin’s file.”
“We know his real name now,” said Ann. “You should stop calling him that.”
Ivan grinned. “His other name’s more fun.”
Ann frowned. “Act your age. You’re not as young as you look.”
Despite her best efforts, however, her mouth twitched upwards in the briefest hint of a smile.
Ivan saw it and was pleased. “You’re right,” he said gravely. “I’m not.”
Ann turned to go for the third time. And for the third time, Ivan called out.
“You know, I’m always here for you.”
“I know,” she replied.
The bell hanging above the door let out a cheerful tinkle as she left.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Being able to write (and publish!) a sequel to one’s first novel is such a privilege, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully believe this book really exists. Fortunately, reality does not depend on my limited capacity to believe, and for this book’s existence I would like to thank the following people:
My gratitude to Hilary Levey Friedman for her insight into child beauty pageants in the US during the 1980s, and to Lily Hsueh for providing insight on the Taiwan-related aspects of this story. Thank you also to Chrissie Perella, the library archivist at the College of Physicians of Philadelphia for helping me figure out what the Mütter Museum would have looked like in November 1986.
Three cheers for my agents, Jayapriya Vasudevan and Helen Mangham, at Jacaranda Literary Agency, who have been supportive of me not only as a writer, but as a human be
ing. Thank you to Gabriella Page-Fort at AmazonCrossing for being such an advocate of this series, and to the wonderful AmazonCrossing team in general for all the work they’ve put into this novel’s production. Deepest gratitude to Coonoor Kripalani-Thadani, who played a critical role in getting this book’s predecessor published, without which this book wouldn’t exist; to Lis Kramer, who has been so wildly enthusiastic about the last book and this one, I suspect I must have paid her to deceive me when I wasn’t looking; and to David McIlwaine for going beyond the call of duty and encouraging me with great persistence to finish this novel.
And of course, thank you to my family: my grandparents, my mother and father, my siblings and Lian, Justin for being such a supportive spouse, and Zephyr for putting everything in perspective.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Leah Diprose
Tiffany Tsao is a writer, translator, and literary critic. She spent her formative years in Singapore and Indonesia before moving to the United States, where she graduated with a BA from Wellesley College and received a PhD in English from the University of California, Berkeley. She currently resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and offspring. Her debut novel, The Oddfits, was published in 2016, and her writing and translations have appeared in Asymptote, Asia Literary Review, LONTAR, the Sydney Review of Books, and the anthology BooksActually’s Gold Standard 2016. Her translation of poetry by the Indonesian writer Norman Erikson Pasaribu was one of the six winning entries in the 2016 Pen Presents . . . East & Southeast Asia competition, and her translation of Eka Kurniawan’s short story “Caronang” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
