by Tash Aw
The next day she was not waiting for him at the bend in the road, and when he got to school she was not there. He asked around and everyone said, Oh, yeah, that Madurese girl, her parents went back to Java or somewhere else, dunno, happens all the time with migrants, they weren’t born here so why should they stay?
Adam continued at school; his days were not the same without Neng. His nights, which had for some time been calm and heavy with sleep, became unreliable once more. The sensation of emptiness that punctuated his slumber returned, more frequently and powerfully than before. In his sleep he felt suspended in a void, and he would wake with a start, his legs jerking madly. When he awoke in the dark, he felt as if he had dreamed about his brother, but no image of Johan ever stayed with him, and he realized that his sleep had been as dreamless as ever. He had merely imagined dreaming of Johan—a dream of a dream. He thought he had banished fear from his life, but it was clear that he had not. He would go to the window and stare out at the inky blackness, at the shapes of the trees silhouetted against the night sky, and it would calm him a little to know that he was not in his Old Life with its unknown terrors but in his New Life with its known terrors, which were far less terrible.
One morning he awoke to find a large box on his bedroom floor wrapped in colorful paper printed with a pattern of butterflies and bow ties. There were creases on the paper as if it had been left folded for a very long time.
“Happy birthday,” Karl said, appearing in his doorway. Adam suddenly realized he did not know when his birthday was. At the orphanage there had been no celebrations—at least none that he could remember. “I didn’t know when your birthday was so I decided that, from now on, we shall celebrate it on the anniversary of your arrival in this house.” Adam had not realized that he had spent an entire year there; it seemed only minutes since he’d arrived.
“Why are you doing that?” Adam asked as Karl closed the shutters and door. It was a dull, drizzly morning, the sea mists remaining longer into the morning than usual.
“You’ll see,” Karl said, placing the box on Adam’s bed. “Go on, open it.”
Adam picked nervously at the wrapping paper until he saw a flimsy cardboard box, frayed and torn at the edges. It bore a picture of a curly-haired woman gaily spraying her underarms with deodorant. She wore bright red lipstick to go with her bright red dress and she showed off a bright red flower in her hair.
“That’s just the box,” Karl said, taking it from Adam. “Here, I’ll show you.” He reached inside and produced a glasslike object, not quite a globe. “It’s a magic lantern. Let me show you how it works.” He switched on the table lamp and placed the lantern on top of it. All at once the walls of Adam’s bedroom faded away and suddenly he was in a forest in Europe. A thicket of pointy trees engulfed his cupboard and from the trees a handsome blond boy emerged, riding a horse that glided over yellow moors. The sunlit sky swirled over this scene, golden and streaked with fantastic clouds. There was a castle too, honey-colored, but it was sheared off by a wide arc and faded into pearly blankness.
“Sorry, that’s where the disc fits into the lamp,” Karl said, reaching for the lantern and fiddling with it. For a moment the hollow gloom of Adam’s room returned once more but then, once Karl had adjusted the lantern, the dream resumed. A princess with pale blond hair and a blue gown stood atop the half castle, pleading with the youth to come to her.
“His name is Golo,” Karl said. He was reclining on the floor, his arms folded behind his head as he stared at the magic sky. “And the lovely maiden is called Genevieve. Isn’t she pretty?”
Adam nodded. He too lay down on his bed and looked at the sky. The rain drummed lightly on the roof and in the distance there was the faint rush of rough seas.
“It used to be mine,” Karl said. “I was about your age, I suppose, maybe younger. We had already left Indonesia and were living in The Hague. I had trouble sleeping. Every night there was a scene. My nanny—my Dutch nanny—would come into my bedroom and put the magic lantern on for me. I loved Golo; I wanted to be him. I would lie in bed hoping my mother would come and kiss me good night. I’d imagine her saying, ‘All right, my child, I’ll kiss you one last time, like Genevieve, but then you must go to sleep.’ She never came, but at least I had my magic lantern to make me feel better.”
That night Adam ate his birthday dinner of meat loaf and fried potatoes as quickly as he could. He got into bed and turned the lights off, his room transformed once more into an enchanted forest. He thought about Neng, about the time she had tried to kiss him; he knew that she would never come back. He felt a bitter numbness that seemed familiar, as if left over from his Past Life in the orphanage, and he knew he had to blank it out before it took hold. He took a deep breath and counted slowly from one to ten. He had to eliminate this feeling from his New Life.
“Good night, my son,” Karl said, opening the door and breaking up the forest. “I know you’ve been having a difficult time, but just remember, we’re very lucky people. I hope you’ve had a nice birthday.”
Adam nodded as Karl turned the light out. “Wait,” Adam said quietly in the darkness. “What day is it today? What’s my birthday?”
Karl paused at the door. “It’s August seventeenth.”
Later Adam would learn that August seventeenth was also Independence Day. On his birthday there would always be rousing songs on the radio as well as the president’s speech, the whole of which Karl would insist they listen to. There would be red and white flags hanging from the eaves of houses, and in the evening there would be festivities in the villages—food and dancing—that continued late into the night. Before he went to bed Adam would put on his magic lantern and stare at the swirling scenes that he knew so well, and he would listen to the far-off sounds of laughter and smell the faint sweetness of grilled meat and charcoal smoke that carried on the sea breeze.
No, Adam thought: He was not just like the other boys.
Slow down, Johan, slow down.
They sped through the silent city, neon lights staining the night with electric temptations. pussy cat $$$ shanghai dream copacabana fantasy girls girls girls.
Please, Johan, slow down, Farah said. You’ll kill yourself one day if you keep driving like this.
At darkened intersections he ran the lights without even looking. He never looked out for other cars, he never looked out for anything. Don’t worry, he said. It’s okay. It’s late, there are no cars. He drove with his head held back as if blown by the wind, but there was never any wind in this city.
Shit, Bob said in the backseat, this is great. He cowered as they careered around the roundabout, the new tires of the Mercedes squeaking. Farah gripped the door tightly and said again, Please, Johan, for god’s sake, but she knew that there was no use talking to him when he was in one of these moods.
Hey, Johan, hey, guys, Bob said. Let’s go down to the river and see what’s happening with the girls. Friday night, all the Mak Nyahs will be out. Come on, let’s go.
No, Farah said. I don’t want to go. Johan, please.
Come on, Sis, be a sport. Let’s have some fun. What do you say, Johan? Everyone knows that those Pondans have the best tits in town. I want to see their little dresses with their asses sticking out, oh, yes sir.
Johan smiled and shrugged. Okay, why not.
They slowed to a crawl as they left the lights of the broad tarred road and turned into a narrow lane, then into another alley, then onto a long thin road that ran along the shallow muddy river that hardly seemed a river at all, just a trail of sludge between two huge mudbanks.
Kill the lights, Johan, kill the lights quick.
The Merc crept along silently, hardly a rumble from its engine. Shadows stirred in the deep canopy under the old rain trees. There were a few cars parked along the road but it was difficult to tell if anyone was in them.
Get an eyeful of that baby, Bob said, sticking his head out of the window. The girls emerged from the darkness, singly or in pairs, linking their arms a
s they sashayed toward the car. There were all kinds of girls—Chinese girls, Malay girls, Indian girls, and especially girls who were boys—but in the eternal nocturne of this street they were just girls.
Which ones are real, which are fake? Farah said. I can never tell.
A duh, you’re really stupid, aren’t you? Bob giggled. What do you mean?
I mean, which ones are really girls? Don’t tell me you know which ones are, you know—
Transvestites? Johan said.
Yes, boys pretending to be girls.
Is it important? Johan laughed. He had a cold, hard laugh tonight. Farah did not like it when he got this way. Why do you need to know? Don’t tell me you want some action?
You’re disgusting.
Johan said, They aren’t boys pretending to be girls, they’re boys who are girls. Some of them aren’t even boys anymore, they’re real girls … just like you.
Ceh. Farah shook her head. Don’t say that, they’re not like me.
Wow-ee, Bob cried. Hey, girl, show us your tetek.
The prettiest ones are farther up, Johan said, by that Austin under the big tree.
They stopped the car. There were about a dozen girls on the street. They felt safe now, they knew this car was not a police car. A couple of them walked in front of the Merc, swinging their hips and flicking their long, glossy hair. Their calf muscles were taut and sinewy in their high heels and they swung small beaded handbags over their shoulders. Hey, boys, they cried, love your big car. Come here, boys, come and see what Mummy has for you.
Come on, Johan said and stepped out of the car.
Shit, no way—Sis, stop him! That boy is crazy!
Johan come back, come back, Farah pleaded, it’s dangerous. But he was already some distance away, walking like he always did in his bright springy way with his hands in his pockets.
Johan, Farah’s voice was an urgent whisper. Her footsteps in the dark: She was running. He did not look back. Ahead of him he knew there was a crumbling brick wall, just the right height to hide a couple crouching down behind it. And by this wall there would be a girl, always the same girl.
Hello, this girl said. Hello, handsome. She was not tall and not short, the same height as Johan. She had slim shoulders and sturdy hips and she never concealed her face under a thick layer of powder, not like the other girls. I haven’t I seen you in a while, she said, lighting a Winston. Where you been?
I’ve been around.
Is that your new girl?
No, that’s my sis.
Pretty.
Actually, she’s my adopted sister. Farah, Regina, Regina, Farah.
Hello.
Hello, Princess. Regina took a long drag of her cigarette. It glowed like a jewel for a second or two before fading again. Listen, children, nice to see you, but I have stuff to do. You know. The cops have been down here already tonight touching the girls up and taking our money, so …
Yeah, sure, see you around.
Who’s that? Farah whispered. Oh my god, Johan. Please don’t tell me you’ve been seeing prostitutes.
In the dark he made a slight movement with his shoulders, like a shrug but not quite. As they went past the Austin a girl got out of it, smoothing her hair away from her face. The bangles she wore on her wrist filled the air with a lovely metallic symphony, but the car suddenly started up and its lights filled the road with a sharp glare and suddenly there were people running for cover, dashing across the pool of light that swept along the lane before leaving it in darkness once more.
Shit, a baritone voice called out, I thought it was the cops again, now my hair’s all ruined.
Hair? Call that topi keledar hair? Darling, it’s a crash helmet, just take it off next time.
Where did you guys go? said Bob. Let’s get out of here. He was quieter now, sitting with his arms folded and his hands tucked tightly under his armpits as if it were cold. I want to go home. I’m tired.
No, Johan said. Not yet. The Merc emerged from the alley and burst into life once more.
Sometime afterward, when they were still driving, they reached that moment in the night when there were no more lights on the streets and the air that came in through the windows no longer felt hot and sticky.
Johan said: Do you ever get this feeling, Farah?
What feeling?
That your life is not your own. That you can’t control it.
No, what do you mean?
I mean, do you ever feel that your real life is somewhere else, that someone has stolen it and taken it to another place far away from here?
Farah looked at him and shook her head. No, Johan, Mummy says we’re not allowed to talk about that. Let’s go home.
No, said Johan. Anywhere but home.
In this fast young city he did not want to sleep, he did not want to stop. This was a place that had no past, only the present. What happened yesterday was just a dream; last week was forgotten, last month never existed at all. Every night was the same. Your life started afresh at six thirty, repeating itself like a clock. There was no escape. It was always like that in this city.
· 5 ·
The telephone stopped ringing just as Margaret opened her eyes. It had been ringing for a very long time. Her head hurt terribly. She squinted at the clock: 9:40. She could not remember the last time she had woken up so late. She was turning into a grand old white housewife, she thought to herself as she padded her way slowly to the bathroom; she wished there was a bell she could ring so that some dusky, half-dressed youth would appear bearing two aspirins on a silver tray. She had fallen asleep in the rattan armchair in the sitting room and had remained there for some time before being woken by a stiff neck. She had summoned just enough energy to stumble into her bedroom and had fallen into bed without showering, and now she felt suffocated by her own cold sweat, as if someone had coated her skin with a thin layer of wet paint.
The phone rang again as she dressed. Now that she was awake and fully conscious, the phone seemed curiously dangerous. She picked it up slowly and put it to her ear but did not say anything; she barely even breathed. There was silence, as if the person on the other end was holding their breath too, and the air in her bedroom began to feel stifling. The line clicked and went dead. “Probably just the exchange acting up again,” she said aloud. The sound of her own voice reassured her, and she began humming to herself, a vacuous tune that she soon realized was the song she’d heard at the Hotel Java the night before. Somehow she knew the phone would ring again, and this time she would not be so cowardly. Dressed now, the pain in her head dull rather than stabbing, she reached for the phone as soon as its harsh drilling started up.
“Hell-o,” she said loudly, challenging the mystery caller.
There was a half-second’s pause. “Margaret?” Din’s voice sounded timid, almost scared.
“Yes, hi, Din, it’s Margaret here. Did you try calling me earlier? Just a second ago?”
“Um, no,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she said, sliding her feet into her shoes. She was sure it was he who had rung, it must have been. “You recovered from the horror of last night?”
“It was interesting, actually, I was thinking about it on the way home. I’m glad you took me along. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”
“Sure. Maybe.”
“Are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Why shouldn’t it be all right?”
“Well, it’s just, you’re always on time, that’s all. You’re usually here before me, so I thought I’d ring you to see if you were okay.”
