Map of the Invisible World: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  Din’s desk, however, had been stripped clean. The low shelves behind the desk were bare except for a thin trail of ants snaking their way into a tiny fissure in the wall. It reminded Margaret of her father’s bed in the nursing home after he had died—ghostly, devoid of linen, of life; the room had been cleaned of all its contents, which had been placed in a few boxes. Din’s desk had the same quiet emptiness: You could barely tell that someone had occupied this space up to a few days ago. Mick began looking through the drawers but found only bits of string and a few rubber bands.

  “Nope, no clues whatsoever,” he said, running his hand under the desk, “it’s completely clean. Not even a porn mag taped to the inside. Is it normal for people to disappear like this?”

  “Students often leave without giving notice. One day they’re there, arguing with you about whether Brezhnev is a good guy, the next day they’re gone. Sometimes they’re killed in a riot or run over by a truck, sometimes they just give up. Mostly they run out of money and are too ashamed to be seen by their friends, so they disappear into thin air. But teachers, well, that’s not so common. You normally have warning signs. And someone like Din … he’s not the kind to surrender everything like that.”

  “Maybe there were warning signs and you just didn’t see them.”

  “You don’t understand, Mick: He’s bright. And ambitious. What his ambitions involve, I’m less certain, but he wouldn’t just throw it all away like that. He might not have been likable, but he was clever. He had a future. It’s possible he’s been fired, but then again, it wouldn’t be so sudden—and I would definitely have known about it.”

  “Does anyone really have a future in this country?” Mick asked as they left the office and made their way down to the courtyard. Margaret could not tell if he was joking.

  “We need to talk to the people who run the student council,” she said. “They’ll know where Din is—they’re all basically Communists of one kind or another, even if they say they aren’t. I lose track of all the factions, and I don’t think they really know what’s going on either. There are the most almighty fights on the council—mass brawls and chair throwing at meetings, death threats—that sort of healthy student debate. Recently a boy representing one of the Islamic groups found a dead cat hanging from the handlebars of his bicycle. He told me that someone threw a rock through his bedroom window at home—god, he was frightened, the poor boy. It seems the hard-line Commies on the council wanted him to vote with them on something, or march with them, and he didn’t know if it was a good thing. Problem is, I don’t know where Din stands on any of this. I think he’s fairly neutral—or as neutral as one can be in this country.”

  They made their way toward the main gates, where the protestors were still gathered. They heard a steady chanting: a single word that sounded to Margaret like rhi-no-ce-ros, or perhaps someone’s name. There was a time when she would have understood these not-so-clever in-jokes, these satirical references to things that happened in daily life, but she no longer grasped what was happening. She looked at Mick, who was walking quite calmly beside her, taking care not to edge ahead, as if waiting for her to lead the way.

  “They’re quite excitable, aren’t they?” he said.

  “They’re only students,” Margaret said, marginally reassured by her own voice. This was so stupid, she thought to herself. She was apprehensive about approaching a group of students with banners and silly bands of cloth around their foreheads. She even recognized some of them: There, that one waving the stick, she’d given him private lessons in English and taught him to say “Good day, how do you do?” He was harmless. They all were. And yet the memory of the previous day’s riot was still vivid in her mind. The whiteness of her skin that stood out so completely in the sea of dark bodies, how she had been made to feel different—profoundly and utterly different—in this country for the first time in her life; her helplessness; her reliance on Bill, on other people, on chance—she could still feel all these things, and she was scared.

  They paused in a narrow corridor behind a concrete stairwell that hid them from view.

  “Won’t this make good copy?” Mick said, laughing. “I’m finally a real foreign correspondent in the danger zone.”

  “Let’s not get carried away. It’s hardly the Bay of Pigs.”

  Mick was just feeling for his imaginary cigarettes when someone came around the corner, walking very quickly, brushing past him.

  “Sorry.” It was the girl they had seen earlier at the podium. She hurried along, not pausing to look back at them. Margaret recognized her as a member of the student council; she was certain she had seen Din talking to her on several occasions.

  “Miss, hello, miss, excuse me,” Margaret called out, starting after her. The girl did not stop; she did not even turn around.

  Mick took off after the girl, catching up with her after a few (surprisingly swift) strides. “Excuse us,” he said, catching her elbow. She drew away instinctively and looked up with a frown. Her eyes were dark, distracted, as if she did not understand where she was.

  “Sorry,” she said, blinking, “I didn’t hear you. I’m rushing to get somewhere.”

  “Is the protest over, then?” Margaret said. “I thought it was just warming up.”

  The girl put her hand over one side of her brow to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun. The shadows that fell on her face accentuated her slim nose and shapely cheekbones. She blinked and rubbed her eye; she was very pretty, Margaret thought.

  “Are you okay?” Mick asked.

  “Yes, sorry,” she said, “just a speck of dust.”

  “So you are abandoning the protest early.”

  “That?” the girl said, looking vaguely in the direction of the main gates. “I don’t know how long that will last. I’ve done my speech, and now there’s something else urgent I need to attend to. I’m sorry, but I’m very late already.” Raising her eyebrows as if to excuse herself, she pointed over her shoulder, motioning to where the bicycles were kept, and Margaret noticed a stripe on her wrist, a band of light-colored skin that had been shielded from the sun by a wristwatch or a bracelet. Odd, thought Margaret, though she could not say exactly why she found this unusual.

  “We were just wondering,” Margaret said, trying to sound firm, “if you knew the whereabouts of Maluddin Saidi. You might simply call him Din, as I do. You know, my assistant. He’s a research student. Do you know who I’m talking about? He serves on the student council, I think.”

  The girl nodded. “Of course I know him. I’m sorry to tell you that Maluddin has been reported for suspected membership in extremist groups that use violence to promote their political views—if you can call such views ‘political.’ Actually, I’m not sorry to tell you this. He deserves it. Those people are just idiots, if you ask me.”

  Margaret could usually tell where someone came from—their native region and level of society—but this girl was frustratingly elusive; she spoke fluently and without much of an accent. She reminded Margaret of those society girls one saw, the extravagantly dressed daughters of the burgeoning nouveau riche, educated in the States or Australia. At the same time, there was something of the shanties about her: the slight aggressiveness of her consonants, the confrontational way of speaking to someone in authority, the way she was nervously pulling at strands of her glossy black hair while trying to appear casual—all these things suggested to Margaret someone who belonged to the new-style socialist movement.

  “You mean Din’s been dismissed? Just like that?” The idea of him being locked out of his own office, kept away from his books and typewriter—all the things that were important to him, that held the key to his future—made her angry.

  “No,” said the girl, still squinting into the light and blinking with irritation (not because of the dust, Margaret thought, but because she was unhappy at being challenged). “For now he is merely suspended while the evidence against him is being considered. Of course we in the council will be pushing for his swift
dismissal. The longer his type has any links to well-intentioned student activists, the worse it will be for everyone.”

  “The worse it will be for you, you mean?” said Margaret. “I suppose it was you who reported Din to the authorities?”

  The girl lifted her chin slightly—a scant millimeter’s change in the way she held her head; it would have been imperceptible to anyone but Margaret. “Of course,” she said. “It was my duty. We can’t take the risk of having someone violent in our midst. For Indonesia to progress, we need a pure, good-hearted revolution. I’m sure you agree.”

  “You’re supposed to be his friend. I’ve seen you talking to him, laughing, having fun. I even wondered whether you were his girlfriend.”

  The girl laughed. It came out as a snort, an artificial chuckle. “I wonder why you are so concerned about him. Evidently you are sufficiently concerned about his private life that you have taken to spying on him. Yet you don’t know him intimately, or else you would know about his violent ideals.”

  Oh my god, thought Margaret, this girl is patronizing me. Margaret could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to her in this way.

  “Yes,” the girl continued, “it’s a good idea to defend this poor, clever boy from the kampung. All he wants is to finish his doctorate and help Indonesia achieve justice and fairness. By making bombs. By taking men and women from their families in the middle of the night and making sure they never return.”

  Mick cleared his throat and laughed heartily. “That’s not what Margaret meant, was it, Margaret?”

  Margaret did not answer. She tried to hold the girl’s gaze but was unnerved by the coldness of the nearly black pupils that stared back at her without flinching. The girl had stopped blinking but her eyes were still red and moist, irritated by that speck of dust; it was as though she wanted to prove how easily she could withstand something that bothered her, how she could control her reflexes. It was something Asian women seemed to be able to do so easily, something Margaret had always been able to imitate; but now she could no longer do so. She knew she was displaying signs of irritation. Do not get flustered, Margaret Bates, do not back down.

  “What’s your name?” Margaret asked, trying to sound calm.

  “Zubaidah,” the girl said. “Most people know me as Z. It’s a nickname my parents gave me.” Her reply was even calmer than Margaret’s question.

  “Ah, yes, Z of the famous revolutionary pamphlet. Hello, Z. I didn’t think you would be quite so innocent looking. I’d expected someone rougher.”

  “That’s because you’re full of prejudices. I’m sorry, but I really am very late,” Z said, lifting her arm and turning her wrist in an instinctive motion; but there was no wristwatch there, and she looked up at Margaret again. “I don’t have time to stand around discussing this.”

  “Z. Zubaidah,” Margaret called out as the girl walked away. “We really need your help. Do you know where Din is right now?”

  Z stopped and half-turned to face them again. She was still frowning but her face seemed to have softened and she looked puzzled.

  She shook her head; her hair brushed against her jaw, making her look very young. “I don’t know where he is. I would tell you if I did. I can tell he is very important to you.”

  “Don’t you have any idea?” Mick said. “Please try and think. Did he mention anything to you about where he was going, what his immediate plans were?”

  Z’s frown deepened; she shook her head. “No, sorry. I really must go. I’m very late. Good-bye.” She took a few quick steps and turned once more. “Just for the record,” she added, “Din and I were never involved in that way. I don’t have time for silly love affairs.”

  “You’re young,” Margaret said. “All young people have time for silly love affairs.”

  “Not me—I have more important things to do than chase after love,” Z said, half-smiling. She turned to leave, walking fast; when she reached the end of the shaded walkway she broke into a run, kicking up dust in the hazy afternoon sunlight.

  · 21 ·

  The studio was small but light and clean, built onto the side of a house overlooking the river valley. One wall had been more or less removed, exposing the room to the full view of the ravine that fell away steeply to the clean, dark waters below. In the distance, the hills formed an undulating ridge covered in bamboo. Against this backdrop Karl had built a platform; and it was on this flimsy wooden dais that his model now posed. She was a glum-looking girl of about eighteen or nineteen, sitting with her legs folded, idly drawing invisible circles on the floor with her index finger.

  “What do you think? Do you like it?” Karl said to Margaret without looking at her. His eyes shifted languidly between canvas and model. He painted in short, jerky strokes, his wrist flicking rapidly in vertical movements or dabbing delicately at the canvas.

  “Um, yes.” Margaret hesitated. The painting was a mess, she thought: splotches of vivid color that bled into each other, violent green hills in the background and the head of a long-necked woman who bore little resemblance to the model.

  “No, not the painting,” said Karl, noticing the direction of Margaret’s gaze, “my new studio. I couldn’t have found it without your help.”

  Margaret shrugged. “I didn’t do very much. I just pointed you in the right direction, that’s all. There are lots of painters around Sayan, and I knew you’d feel at home.”

  “I feel more than just at home,” he replied, pausing to turn to her, paintbrush poised featherlike in midair. She had never before seen a face so clear, so animated. “I feel this is where I was supposed to be all my life, my rightful place in the universe.”

  “I hope you’re not going to say ‘spiritual home.’ That’s what they all say.”

  “The light,” he continued, as if she had not spoken, “is perfect. The vegetation, the temples—everywhere I look there is something my eye is not accustomed to. I feel like Gauguin must have felt when his ship first arrived in Tahiti.”

  Margaret peered over his shoulder and examined the painting. There was certainly a lot of Gauguin in it: the vivid patches of color; the doe-eyed girl whose bodiless head already bore the obligatory frangipani flower behind the ear; her demure, enigmatic regard, looking yet not looking at the beholder, inviting yet repelling the Westerner (no, Margaret thought: the Western man; she herself was neither drawn nor repulsed, merely bored). Margaret remembered her mother showing her picture books with color plates of Gauguin’s paintings. She was twelve at the time, and her mother had embarked on a lengthy lecture on the “coming of age” of young girls in Tahiti. (“This is what some mothers might call the Birds and the Bees, or Facts of Life, or other nonsense,” her mother had said. “I am going to tell you what happens to the clitorises of girls your age in places not too far from here—and I don’t expect you to be shocked.”) The long and short of it was that Margaret had thought Gauguin a terrible painter, amateurish and unhealthily drawn to sexual matters—not in a romantic or dashing way, but in a rather dull, predictable manner. Even at the age of twelve she didn’t like what she saw. She did not find it the least bit surprising when her mother told her that Gauguin had died of syphilis.

  “Look at her,” Karl said, “isn’t she perfect? So wonderful to paint. Her name is Nyoman. Isn’t that the most wonderful name? Nyo-man. It sounds like something rare and delicate.”

  “It just means ‘third child.’ Every third Balinese you meet is called Nyoman, male or female. Where did you find her?”

  “In the village. She was sitting by the road with a group of women—it was just like Gauguin—and they waved at me and wanted me to stop and chat. I was overwhelmed by their openness, the warmth they offered to a complete stranger—but also a bit sad, because I knew I would never be able to capture how I felt on canvas. I thought I should try, nonetheless, and therefore I asked Nyoman if she would come and pose for me. Fortunately, she agreed. I’m having trouble getting her skin tone the color it should be. Look. It should be clearer t
han that. But I think I have the form of her body just about right. It’s quite unlike painting Occidentals.”

  Margaret looked at the outline of the body on the canvas, the flesh yet to be filled in; it was slinky and lithe. The girl herself was, thought Margaret, quite plump and already running to fat, as was quite often the case with girls in this area, where the harvests were dependable and the droughts rarely severe. Above her sarong her breasts were full and heavy, her arms stout, almost muscular. This Nyoman girl was only a few years older than her, but she was already a woman—a woman with an identifiably womanly body, ready to bear children. Margaret folded her arms across her chest; she felt like a flat-chested, malnourished urchin, a tiny young thing.

  “Look at the grace with which she moves,” Karl continued. “It’s as if she will forever be a child, even though she’s already a woman.”

  “She’s only eighteen, you know,” Margaret said, arms still folded tightly across her chest.

  “I’d forgotten how effortless their movements are here in the Indies,” said Karl, as if Margaret had not spoken. “We Occidentals lost this sense a long time ago—centuries, maybe even millennia. We lost touch with the primitive, unspoiled parts of ourselves, so we no longer know what it is to be innocent and childlike. Look at Nyoman, for example, look at her elegance.”