Map of the Invisible World: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice,” she said. “I’ll try to be as quick as possible. You must be very busy. I really am sorry to trouble you.”

  “Not at all,” the man said, and smiled. “We are in no hurry. You’re very welcome here.”

  That was the way Asians said, You’re really getting on my nerves now. At least she knew that.

  Everywhere she looked, Margaret saw soldiers manning doors or marching briskly along the edges of the lawns in pairs or tightly knit groups. Older men in military uniform walked along the hallways and disappeared silently into half-open doorways. Some of them looked briefly at Margaret but no one so much as nodded in acknowledgment. She found herself being led through a lavish reception room, her feet sinking into a plush carpet. There were a few armchairs covered in gold damask and a round table with a marble top and gilded, carved legs. On one wall hung a large mirror, also carved and gilded; everything in the room seemed to be carved and gilded; on another wall a row of photographs in (gilded) frames showed the president on Independence Day, leaner than he was now, and fresher looking, Margaret thought; back in those days he was still more of a revolutionary, less of a hardened statesman. She felt a sudden frisson of excitement, a quick, thrilling shudder as she recalled the atmosphere of those dreamlike days when the future of the country had seemed clear and full of possibility. She remembered the collective anger over New Guinea, the indignation she herself had felt when Holland refused to hand it back to Indonesia, viewing it as a personal slight, as if the Dutch had taken something from her own home and refused to give it back. When the president declared Indonesia’s intention to take back Papua, she had seen it as the righting of a wrong.

  “Please wait here,” said the man in the too-large suit before disappearing into a door at the far end of the room.

  She had been in this room before, she thought. The view from the windows was still the same: a giant suwar tree, its canopy dominating a stretch of lawn that ran down to the boundary railings; but the room had been much less opulent on her last visit, less gold, no carpet. Yes, she thought, it had been in this room that she had been chatting with some middle-ranking treasury people when, suddenly, the crowds parted and she had found herself face-to-face with the great man himself, dressed in his immaculate uniform, dark necktie, medals, and traditional black topi. He was smaller than she had expected, but this did not diminish the naked charm he exuded. He was forceful without being forced, convincing in every minute gesture, and his nonverbal language was simple, thought Margaret: He sought to conquer everything he encountered. When he shook Margaret’s hand she felt the roughness of the skin on his palms and saw the pockmarks on his face when he smiled. His first words as he took her hand in his were, “And what is your name?” as if they had been chatting for some time and had presumed some degree of familiarity. He spoke in English, and she, of course, replied in Indonesian: “Margaret Bates, honored to meet you.” Actually, she had responded not merely in standard Indonesian but in what scant Javanese she knew. It was said that Sukarno was never caught off guard, but her brief cameo was enough to cause him to raise an eyebrow and incline his head ever so slightly. She enjoyed that. And before he had had a chance to speak, she continued in Indonesian, knowing that she spoke with none of the hesitation that nonnative speakers usually did. It was a little hot, wasn’t it, and the rains were late that year, but, well, one mustn’t complain, for at least one wasn’t a rice farmer, poor things. “Hmm, what an exceptional woman,” he said. “And I was told you were an American!”

  “Well, hardly. I was born in Irian, you see. The first years of my life were in the farthest reaches of Indonesia.”

  “If you believe what the Western world says, you were born not in Indonesia but in the farthest reaches of Dutch New Guinea.”

  “But anyone in their right mind—anyone with a sense of justice—knows that Papua has always belonged to us. I mean, to Indonesia.”

  He smiled. “The problem is that it is ours but it does not belong to us, at least not officially.”

  “Not yet. I’m very heartened to hear of the president’s intention to confront the Dutch.”

  “You are not afraid of battle, I see.”

  “It depends on the purpose of battle. Why do we fight? Who are we fighting? We must always ask ourselves this.”

  His eyes were very dark and direct. “How wise. We fight to bring nobleness to our souls. Nobleness brings order. Order brings peace. But sometimes the struggle itself becomes, how shall I say, essential. And sometimes,” he paused and smiled, “this fighting makes you feel alive.”

  “Life is a battle.” She shrugged. “Without battle there is no life.”

  He laughed, the lines on his face creasing deeply. “What a fascinating American you are.” He continued to look her in the eye as he moved away, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Afterward she had felt flushed and giddy with something she could not articulate; it was a feeling that lasted days, if not weeks.

  Virtually everything had changed in this room, even the smell. Before, there had been that pleasant aroma of food and wood, slightly musty but entirely welcoming, but now Margaret could smell nothing except the faint whiff of wool carpets. She was certain that there had been a Toraja carving mounted on the wall where the mirror hung; and she could not remember the Venetian chandelier (there had been plain glass lanterns, surely). She sat patiently and drew her fingers idly across the envelope she was carrying, feeling the outlines of the two slides contained inside.

  Someone appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. It was not her guide with the ill-fitting suit, but a much younger man in a smart, vaguely military-looking suit, not quite a uniform but not really civilian dress either, the buttoned epaulets and breast pockets giving him the air of an adventurer. There was a colored emblem stuck to his lapel that looked like a military decoration, but Margaret could not be sure; she was never very sure about these things. He walked briskly, with the upright bearing of a soldier, quickening his stride as he approached her.

  “So sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I’m one of the president’s aides-de-camp. Hello, pleased to meet you. Unfortunately, there’s been a slight problem. There was an incident yesterday.” He smiled and frowned at the same time, managing to look at once unruffled and concerned. “The president’s schedule has therefore been rearranged.”

  “Goodness, that sounds serious. Where was it?”

  The smile-frown played across his face once more. “Don’t be alarmed, it was nothing serious. A security threat at an official occasion the president was attending—not far from here, actually, right in the center of town. At the Hotel Java. It shows that such things can happen anywhere. Sadly there is much unrest on the streets of Jakarta these days. We have to treat everything seriously, no matter how minor.”

  “So where is the president? Does this mean I won’t get to see him today?”

  He smiled, without the frown this time. “I’m sorry, but he is—detained elsewhere.”

  She imitated his half smile, half frown and stood up slowly. “That is a shame because I’ve brought something of great value to the president, something that would interest him very much. A gift from the people of America.”

  “The president is not interested in gifts from the United States of America.” He held his smile firmly.

  “I understand. But I said that this is a gift of the people of America, the good ordinary people who are his friends. I didn’t say it was a gift from the president of the United States.”

  He hesitated, his smile beginning to weaken. “I fail to understand the difference.”

  “Here,” she said. “See what you think.” She reached into the envelope and took out both slides, handing him one. “I’m sure you’ll be able to recognize its worth.”

  He held it up to the light, turning it from side to side, like a child regarding an unfamiliar new toy. He doesn’t have a clue what it is, thought Margaret. She said, “It is somethi
ng very rare and very valuable.”

  He did not answer but glanced at her with a look of self-conscious disdain, which Margaret knew was a giveaway signal as to his lack of understanding of the situation. “It is something important to the Indonesian people.”

  “Please do not tell us what the Indonesian people value. I think I would recognize something that was truly valuable to us.” He lowered the slide and held it out to her, turning his shoulder slightly as if preparing to leave.

  “It is, above all,” Margaret said quickly, “something dear to the president himself. Something he treasures. Its beauty and value may not be obvious; maybe you and I cannot see it, but the president can. Only he can judge for himself. I wouldn’t dare presume to do so on his behalf. Would you?” She did not reach to reclaim the slide; it remained almost motionless, tiny and lightweight.

  “I don’t think this is an important thing,” he said, and looked at the translucent square resting gently between his thumb and index finger.

  Margaret shrugged and made a bowing motion with her head, as if deferring to his decision. She took half a step backward to show that she too was ready to leave. “Very well. That decision is yours to make, I understand. But please do remember that what might be valuable to you might not be so to someone else. Beauty and nobility and all the unquantifiable things that the Javanese value are, unfortunately, overlooked by us, the people of the West. There’s so much beauty in this painting. I thought perhaps you—you are Javanese, aren’t you? Yes, I thought so—well, I thought you might see that. But I have done my duty and you have done yours. It is time to bid each other good-bye, I think.”

  The aide-de-camp blinked at Margaret for a moment or two. He shook his arm, flicking his wrist to look at his watch. “Follow me,” he said. “I’ll give you three minutes, that’s all.”

  They left the room and walked quickly along a narrow corridor that seemed dark in spite of the windows that lined it. Outside there was a row of newly planted saplings that had not quite taken: Their leaves were beginning to turn crinkled and dry, falling on the bare earth. It was hot and musty in the corridor; the windows had not been opened in a while. Margaret hurried after the young man, struggling to keep up. They passed through an office manned by men and women dressed in pale khaki uniforms that gave the impression they were about to leave on an expedition somewhere remote; they did not look at Margaret as she went by but carried on bending over filing cabinets and typewriters and maps. Half-empty bottles of Fanta stood on desks along with overflowing ashtrays that permeated the air with the scent of kretek, which comforted Margaret. On one wall hung a crude oil painting of a volcano shrouded in cloud, and the national flag had been pinned loosely to a wooden board, where it fluttered at the edges as it caught the weak draft of the ceiling fan. They went through a sort of anteroom filled with mail bags and suitcases, and then finally emerged into another room whose windows opened once more onto the expanse of lawn, with the fountain in the distance. Three men in smart gray military uniform sat around a table, chuckling at something that had just been said; they looked up when Margaret entered. One of them had many medals pinned to his lapel. He said, “Who’s this?”

  Margaret recognized the president immediately. He had not aged well; his face was jowly, despite the lips set tightly in permanent defiance of the world. His cheeks seemed even more pockmarked than before, and he looked much heavier. When he spoke, Margaret felt none of the dazzling power of youth he had once had; and the frown on his brow made him seem confused, not angry.

  “It’s, uh, this is the American visitor I mentioned earlier,” said the aide-de-camp.

  “I told you, I’m not in any mood to receive visitors,” the president replied, lifting a fine china cup slowly to his mouth. His lips reached for the rim of the cup as if uncertain of where it was, and he sipped hesitantly, noisily; he did not look at Margaret.

  “I promise I will only be a few minutes, Abang Karno.” She spoke in Javanese, as clearly and calmly as she could, and when she heard her own voice she felt as if the voice belonged not to her but to another person, someone she had long forgotten. “It is an honor to meet you again.”

  All three men at the table were studying her now. The president looked her squarely in the eye and his mouth began to draw into a faint smile. “Age is a terrible thing, for it destroys the memory. I have always had an excellent memory, but I cannot place you. I find this extraordinary.” His voice was still clear and strong, perhaps a touch deeper than before; but it did not excite Margaret as it once had.

  “You have many things to think about, many people to remember. I wouldn’t want you to waste time on just one person like me.”

  “Every person is worth remembering.”

  “I have brought something for you,” said Margaret, pointing at the envelope the aide-de-camp was still holding. “It is something my, um, people would like to present to you as a gesture of goodwill and friendship.”

  “And who are your people? You speak as if you come from the foothills of Merapi, but clearly you do not mean the central Javanese.” The men at the table laughed, and Margaret allowed herself a smile.

  “Sadly not. I mean the good, honest people of America. Not so long ago you said that if America gave you a billion dollars and Russia offered you a loaf of bread, you would take the loaf of bread, because it would be given with love. Many of us understood why you said that. But we were hurt too because there are those of us who love this country very much.”

  The president smiled broadly and Margaret felt a chill of excitement. “But this country is your enemy. I am your enemy, I am dangerous to your country. Isn’t that true?”

  “I don’t know. That is something for politicians to decide, not ordinary people like me. But even if it is true, are we not meant to love our enemies?”

  “This woman speaks like an Indonesian, not a Westerner,” the president said, turning to his companions. “Does she not?” They nodded and smiled. He said, “I think I do remember you now.” He took the envelope and shook it gently so that its contents fell onto the table. His fingers reached for the first slide with a certainty that suggested he already knew what it was. He held it level with his eyes for a second or two and lowered it without comment. “I see,” he said, sliding it neatly into the envelope. “A gift of something that is ours. Tell me, how does one make a gift of something that already belongs to the other person?”

  “One can’t do that. It is impossible.”

  His smile was charming yet severe. “So there is no gift.”

  “The gift is not of the painting, of the object itself. It is the restoration of ownership, the reversing of an injustice. Some might say that this is not a gift, that it is simply the course of natural justice, but you and I know that in today’s world it takes courage and no small measure of generosity to provide the gift of fairness.”

  The president looked at his colleagues and at the aide-de-camp. He nodded. “What are we to make of this?” They smiled nervously, unsure of the required response.

  “I take it you have seen the Capture of Prince Diponegoro,” Margaret continued. “Please have a look at the other one. It is something chosen for you.”

  Holding Margaret’s gaze, the president felt for the slide that remained on the table; even when he had brought it to eye level he continued looking at Margaret, not the slide. She felt a quickening of her pulse, a heavy tapping in her chest, and a tingle in her temple; she smiled. His eyes moved slowly to the dark square framed between thumb and forefinger, staring at it with no discernible change in expression. Without moving, he raised his eyes to look at Margaret for a split second before returning to the slide. He remained motionless, unblinking.

  It is said that Sukarno had such great powers of concentration that he was able to read Dutch backward, or, rather, in reverse. It was a skill he was reputed to have honed as a teenager in Surabaya, where he would sneak into the projection room at the picture house and watch the films from behind the screen, hidden from
the good seats occupied by Dutch people. Margaret had never known if this was a true story or one of the thousands of myths about him. In this country you had to surrender to myths, to the uncertainty of stories, to the failure of logic—that was something she had learned as a child, and she had rediscovered the aptitude quite easily on her return to Jakarta in adulthood. In this case she thought the story was probably true. She liked the idea of a young Sukarno sitting behind the picture screen, for it must have reminded him of the shadow plays so beloved of the Javanese, and given him the impression of being in control. He was not the poor-but-smart young boy the myth made him out to be, but someone already quite powerful. He could see the foreigners and understand what they were watching, but they could not see him. And although those eyes were older and smaller now in the gathering fleshiness of his face, Margaret could still see the intensity of the teenager’s gaze.

  The president cleared his throat but did not move. Behind him, on a sideboard, stood a framed photograph of him with President Kennedy. They were riding in the backseat of a convertible with the top down, both smiling broadly. In the fuzzy background, across what might have been a parade ground, a row of cadets were standing at attention, their white gloves and belts dazzling against their dark uniforms.