Map of the Invisible World: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  Margaret shook her head weakly. “This is precisely why you’re in a back-street office in Jakarta, filing the odd report for second-rate newspapers instead of gracing the cover of Time magazine. No instinct. Life isn’t an academic paper, Mick. It isn’t theory. It’s real. You have to know things.” Next to her there was a bookshelf fashioned from planks of wood and blocks of concrete. She looked at the spines on the row level with her head: Desire and Tragedy: French Painting in the Eighteenth Century; Romantic Failure: Jacques-Louis David and the Classical Spirit; Verlaine et Rimbaud: ou, La Fausse Evasion; Le Poète Qui s’Enfuit; La Vie Passion-née d’Arthur Rimbaud; The Peloponnesian War, Vol II.

  “But how? How could I know Din wasn’t telling the truth? He said, ‘Margaret told me to look after the boy,’ and I believed him. It’s called trust, Margaret. It’s called not being cynical. It’s called humanity. I haven’t lost that. I don’t want to lose it. Unlike,” he paused and drank a mouthful of beer, sluicing it around in his mouth as if cleaning his teeth, his cheeks puffing out.

  “Unlike me. That’s right. Sad, cynical, dried-up Margaret. Look at her, all bitter and washed up. But at least I would have known that there was something fishy about Din’s behavior. He comes out of my house with a bag of Adam’s things and you don’t think anything’s amiss? My cynicism, as you call it, would have saved a poor boy from being abducted.” This time she could not stop herself from imagining Adam being dragged around the city by Din. She saw him in some terrible slum, hungry and lonely and confused—and, worst of all, angry with her for having failed him. He had trusted her and she had promised to help, but in the end she had let him down.

  “But do you or Bill Schneider actually know Din is up to no good? This knowledge or instinct or whatever you keep talking about—what’s it based on? You’re being too suspicious. After all, you work with the guy and you’ve never had any reason to believe he’s a criminal.”

  Margaret shrugged. The glow of the table lamp made Mick’s face look broad and puffy, the deep lines in his skin accentuated by the shadows, his four-day-old beard fuzzy and indistinct. “It’s based on intuition, Mick, on understanding how people behave. You can’t just open some arcane textbook and find the answer. If you live in the real world, chances are you’ll have this instinct. If, on the other hand, your life is rooted in the past, you almost certainly won’t.”

  “It was a simple mistake. Nine out of ten people would have reacted as I did.”

  “Really?” Margaret reached for a piece of paper that lay on a messy pile on the floor beside her. “Listen to this. Your latest report—destined, I see, for the nether pages of the South China Morning Post: ‘Jakarta, 15 August 1964. Indonesia is falling slowly into the grip of civil war. Sukarno’s government is lumbering ominously toward its Aegospotami, and there are many who are ready to play Lysander to his Athenian fleet… .’ I mean, honestly, Mick, who the hell is going to read this nonsense? We’re living in 1964. We send men into space. We don’t live in city-states drinking wine from urns and practicing boy love. Jesus! The only reason you get any work at all is because of your passport. With all the Brits and Americans kicked out there’s only you Aussies and a couple of Frenchmen left—and still you can’t make a name for yourself.”

  Mick did not answer; in the uneven light the contours of his face deepened, and Margaret could not be sure if he was grinning or grimacing. “Shouldn’t we just concentrate on finding Adam, rather than discussing my shortcomings?”

  Margaret nodded. “I’m sorry.” Adam’s face came to her again and she tried to picture how he would look when he finally returned—tired and slightly bemused at her concern. It was all a misunderstanding, he would say. I’m all right, I just went for a walk and got lost.

  But no: However positive she tried to be, she knew that he had gone, and that she was responsible. This city was defeating her.

  She looked around the sparsely furnished room. There was another bowl-shaped rattan chair and a small armchair, which Mick occupied, the stoutness of his frame making it seem like a piece of children’s furniture. There was no table, no cabinet—nothing in which to store the various objects that lay scattered across the floor like the aftermath of an amateurish burglary: two pairs of sneakers, a badminton racket and three worn shuttlecocks, files, heaps of books, a broken radio, a postcard of Hobart’s “beautiful waterfront” and a porcelain dish painted with the face of a very young Chairman Mao, which Mick had used as an ashtray. On the inelegant bookshelves, propped up against some paperback novels, there was a photo of Mick as a child, age four or five, dressed in a tweed jacket and striped tie, seated on a bicycle. His mother was bending over to hold on to the handlebars, her head tilted up toward the camera. Though she was a heavy woman, her features were fine, almost fragile, with an aquiline nose and narrow dark eyes that belonged to antique, Oriental lands—a kinder, gentler world, Margaret thought. Her wavy hair was brushed to one side and held with a small clip, and her dress was austere and black, the kind of thing she looked too young to wear.

  “I think she was Ottoman Turk,” Mick said. “My father was always saying she wasn’t pure Greek. It was their little joke, something he always teased her about—though the whole Greek thing didn’t ever mean much to me when I was growing up in the suburbs of Melbourne. My father wasn’t a thin man either, so you see, I’m destined for obesity.”

  Margaret laughed. “There you go again, blaming everything on others.”

  “At least I’m predictable. Listen, you should get some rest. You’ve had one hell of a day. Adam will turn up tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  Margaret forced herself out of the chair. Her back felt very stiff all of a sudden. “I’m sure he’s safe and sound with Din, doing what ever young men do in this city nowadays. I’m just, I don’t know, overreacting, I suppose. This whole place is going crazy and I can’t read what’s happening. I’ve lost touch, Mick. I just don’t have it anymore.” She was glad the light was so dim; she knew she looked worn, and she did not want him to see her like this. She pulled at her skirt, trying to straighten it; she wished it were longer, that it reached all the way down to her ankles like a chaste Muslim robe.

  “You know what? You should be doing my job and I should be doing yours—you’re good at putting yourself in danger, and I’d be very good sitting in an office doing aimless research.”

  “Good night, Mick. See you tomorrow. Not too early. Let’s give ourselves a break.”

  “Margaret,” he called out abruptly. For a moment she thought that maybe he did not want her to leave, that he did not want to be alone. “I managed to find some news. On Karl. It wasn’t easy. And I had to be inventive and think about how to get information that no one else could get—just as you told me to. You’d be proud of me—”

  “Mick, just tell me.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not good.”

  IN THE LATTER half of the eighteenth century the European population of Batavia began to move southward, away from the now cramped and unsanitary old fort on the coast, in search of better living conditions. They moved beyond the malarial swamps and the poorly drained stretch around Jacatraweg and eventually settled in an elegant suburb of sturdy white houses with colonnaded galleries, built along tree-lined avenues and pleasant open spaces. They called it Weltevreden: to be contented. The development of Weltevreden coincided with the sharp rise in Dutch military activity in the East Indian archipelago during the first decades of the nineteenth century, boosted by the arrival of Governor-General Daendels, whose nickname, the Iron Marshal (or the Thunder Lord, or any of the half dozen names by which he is known to Indonesian schoolchildren), gives some idea as to Dutch attitudes of the time. Under Daendels’s rule, Weltevreden saw the construction of military barracks and houses with neo classical facades for high-ranking army officers and civil servants. Enormous new administrative buildings were constructed using the stones from the dismantled fort, and lavish celebrations were held at the army club (called, one can only assume ironical
ly, the Concordia). Each time a new island in the Indonesian archipelago was conquered, or whenever a Javanese prince submitted his lands to Dutch rule, appropriate celebrations would be held—an open-air concert, per haps, where bands would play French operettas and finely dressed Europeans would drive up in their carriages and form a wide circle around the musicians, presaging the drive-in movie theaters that would one day exist in this part of central Jakarta. At the heart of Weltevreden lay a pure green space, one square kilometer: Koenigsplein; at various times a racecourse, a pleasure ground, and a military training ground. The whole of Utrecht would fit in it, the Dutch would say, laughing, as they passed the square on their way to drinks at the Harmonie Club or a play at the Schouwburg.

  There were, of course, setbacks in this happy existence. Soldiers would return gravely wounded from the bloody guerrilla war in Aceh; they would be sent to recuperate in the great army hospital that stood on the edge of Koenigsplein, an ever-present reminder to the inhabitants of Weltevreden of the true nature of their lives in the East Indies. Some were foolhardy young men who were fond of saying that the greatest enemy in the Indies was boredom, but the truth was that there were many ways to die in the Indies; death lurked in the shadows, often well-disguised. If you were a white man there was only one thing to do: make as much money as you could and get back to Europe as quickly as possible. This is what older, wiser men said to themselves as they went past the hospital, whispering a silent prayer of thanks. Today the emptiness of Koenigsplein has been replaced by the emptiness of Merdeka Square; everything else has been swallowed up by the sprawl of Jakarta, but the hospital still stands.

  “Please, we are family members,” Margaret said to the nurse, who was finally beginning to relent; she reached for the key to the drawer and unlocked it, but seemed reluctant to pull it open. She stood behind the counter, staring at Margaret through thick black-rimmed glasses that made her eyes look bulbous and confused. She was about fifty, no taller than Margaret but strongly built. Her scratched, fuzzy badge announced her name and position: CANTIK HARTONO, SENIOR NURSE. Sensing that Cantik’s resolve was weakening, Margaret subtly pressed home her advantage. “Ibu Cantik, please don’t think of us as impolite,” she said, bowing slightly, “we seek only your kindness and your help.” A whole lifetime in Asia had taught her to back off in order to get what she wanted: If you insist too strongly you will cause embar rassment, and embarrassment leads to refusal, and refusal in Asia is irreversible, for about-turns involve loss of face, tantamount to humiliation. Therefore never be too (overtly) forceful; never insist, always suggest. Read body language. Smile. Bow. Do not overreact. Be humble. Acknowledge your foreignness. These were the simple rules by which Margaret had successfully lived in Asia, and they were proving effective once more. She turned to look at Mick, who was reaching into his shirt pocket, nervously feeling for his cigarettes. She shook her head slightly and frowned; his hand fell from his chest and hung limply by his side, fingerstips rubbing together lightly as if playing with grains of fine sand.

  “We are not from the embassy, or from a newspaper,” Margaret said, noticing that the nurse was eyeing Mick with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “The patient is someone very dear to us, and we—well, his whole family—have been suffering because we have had no news of him. He has a son—look.” Margaret slid a photo of Adam across the smooth surface of the counter. It had been taken when he was much younger, and he looked timid and fragile, smiling nervously at the camera from underneath an enormous coolie hat. Margaret had chosen it specially from the scattered collection he had left at her house. “It’s his adopted son. An orphan. His name is Adam. The poor boy has no one else in the world.”

  From the drawer, the nurse pulled out a thick buff-colored folder and began leafing through the papers inside. She paused several times and returned to documents she had already looked at, and then pulled out another folder and did the same thing. Margaret watched her trace her finger down each sheet of paper, noticing the rough, leathery skin on her hands; every time the finger hesitated, pausing at a name or a line of unreadable text, Margaret felt the urge to reach over the counter and grab the folder. Every time this nurse named Cantik sighed or tutted or shook her head, Margaret thought: Oh no. She hoped Cantik would say nothing, that her finger would continue down the page and then repeat the same journey down the next one, and the next, and the next.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cantik said at last. “I don’t know what is going on. K. de Willigen—that’s him, isn’t it?—well, yes, he was here. Ward 5C. Intensive care. Discharged two days ago. Normally patients come out of intensive care and get moved into another ward, but he’s no longer at the hospital. It happens nowadays. Not enough beds in Jakarta, especially with all the”—she looked around cautiously—“troubles going on in the country. Anyway, his medical record is missing. I don’t know why. I can’t even tell you what he was suffering from.”

  “But you’re sure he’s not dead?”

  Cantik chewed on the end of a pencil as she flicked through the last pages of another folder. “I have no idea. I’m sorry. You know, in this place we often get people whose records are confidential. If your friend was someone important, well … a lowly person like me wouldn’t know anything much. I just take my pay and go home.”

  “He wasn’t really very important,” said Margaret. Part of her felt an unusual relief at the lack of answers, for she knew that the answers were not likely to be comforting. She had become sentimental and cowardly, she thought, just like everyone else: afraid to confront pain, preferring to delay it instead. And yet another part of her felt cheated, frustrated. She hated this feeling of being thwarted, and so she stood at the counter, caught between these two conflicting sensations: Should she retreat into a cloud of uncertainty or push on with her quest?

  “I know who can help you,” Cantik said, looking at her notebook. “Dr. Hendro. He was on duty in the intensive care ward two nights ago. I can call him, if you want.”

  “No, really, Ibu Cantik,” Margaret said, “that won’t be necessary. We don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “Oh, look, there he is!” She pointed behind them at a lanky youth hurrying down the corridor in a pigeon-footed shuffle. “Hey, Hendro!”

  The man turned around but did not make any movement toward them. He did not look like a doctor: He wore nice brown trousers and a checked cowboy shirt, and his glasses were shaded, not quite dark enough to be sunglasses but not clear either. Margaret could barely make out the shape of his eyes.

  “Yes?” he said. He had a rich voice that seemed too old and elegant for his long-limbed, gawky body.

  “We’re, um, we’re looking for a patient you might have seen recently,” Margaret explained. As she elaborated, the doctor shuffled toward them and went behind the counter as if taking up a defensive position. He flicked absently through Cantik’s folders and shook his head before Margaret had finished.

  “No longer here,” he said, his voice becoming even more magisterial. “I remember him. Dysentery, dehydration. Suspected septicemia. Quite common among white people—as you know.” He looked at Margaret and Mick with an expression of mild amusement (perhaps even contempt, thought Margaret, and she didn’t believe she was wrong). “He asked me if he could be discharged. We don’t keep patients here against their will, you know. We live in a free country now.”

  “You let him go, even though he was dying?” Margaret said, trying hard to remember her rules of engagement (Do Not Lose Temper, et cetera).

  “If a patient no longer wishes to be treated, that is not our problem. There are five hundred people waiting for a bed in this hospital, so if someone is ungrateful for all the things Indonesia has done for them and wants to leave, we say, Please go.”

  “You obviously haven’t heard of the Hippocratic oath here.” Margaret felt Mick’s hand on her elbow, exerting the faintest pressure. “How could you let a dying man out onto the streets? You say he had a blood infection—how could you s
tand by and do nothing?”

  The young doctor smiled. “I want to ask you something. Have you ever seen a pregnant thirteen-year-old girl dying in childbirth because she is malnourished and doesn’t have enough strength in her body to keep herself alive after giving life to her baby? What about boys of eight or nine who have arms chopped off in wars with their Christian neighbors, or grandmothers whose families try to poison them because they don’t have enough money to feed them, only the poison doesn’t work, or isn’t strong enough, and they have to come to the hospital? I see these things every day here. Every day. So one white guy with a bad stomach isn’t going to give me sleepless nights.”

  “A dying man is a dying man,” Margaret said, and felt the tug of Mick’s hand again, more insistent this time.

  The doctor shrugged and made a cursory effort to flick through the papers again. “As I said, not my problem. Anyway, he was admitted under army rules. I don’t get mixed up in all that. I just treat them while they are here. I think, however,” he paused and smiled, “I think there are special rules for Dutch people. Maybe he has been repatriated. I honestly don’t know what happened to him. I came in the day before yesterday and he was no longer in the ward.”