Tash Aw - Map of the Invisible World

“Yes, I’m a part of this whole disgusting system, a country divided neatly in two,” Z said, her hands moving up to his neck. A heavy blankness was beginning to fill his head, an intense, pleasurable numbness that seemed to cloud his vision and impair his hearing so that he found it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. It was a struggle to discern her words; her voice had become a low, steady lullaby, measured against the tick-tock of the pendulum and the kneading of her hands. “The rich — like me, yes, like me — do anything we please. Everyone else has no hope. They live and die completely by chance, with no control over anything. Sometimes some of them have dreams — like Din, I suppose. They have plans for their lives. But soon they discover that these dreams are worth nothing, and neither are their lives. We, on the other hand, never have plans. Life is simple for us, we just acquire, acquire, acquire. Every day is the same for people like me. We never, ever dream.”

“Don’t you?” Adam mumbled.

“No. A dream requires an ideal of some kind. Take my father, for example. He has no ideals. He just takes what he can, as much as possible, and will continue to do so for the rest of his life. He came from a very poor family and he has one simple goal and that is to distance himself from that poverty. All his friends are the same; they don’t have ideals. You can’t get rich and dream of creating a beautiful country at the same time. So you have to give one of them up. And if you choose wealth, then you give up your dreams. This is the reality of it. Someone like Din could not have helped you find your brother, but my father could do it tomorrow, if he wanted to. And it is precisely because he doesn’t have dreams.”

“And you? Do you have dreams?”

Adam felt a weakening in her hands. Something is wrong, he thought; and when he turned to face her he saw that her eyes were moist. She sat on the bed next to him, her arm pressing gently against his. “Din and his crazy lot, at least when they think about the future they have a vision of something wonderful. It’s a stupid, misguided dream, but at least it comforts them. Me, I don’t have that. Look at this place. It’s not a home. Can you hear laughter, or music? No. There’s just me. And you.”

She stared at the clock, frowning as if trying to make out the time. Adam thought that she was perhaps waiting for him to say something, but he was afraid he would upset her by saying the wrong thing, so he kept quiet. He shifted so that he was facing her; he smiled, trying to catch her eye, but she continued to look at the clock. In a quiet voice she said, “That’s the worst thing. People like me, we don’t have dreams. I talk a lot about changing things, but deep down I know nothing will change. Not ever. That is why I don’t dream, I don’t think about the future. Because when I do, all I see is emptiness.”

And this was when Adam realized that she was crying. She did not sob or sniff or weep hysterically or do any of the things Adam associated with crying. She did not move; her eyes simply filled with tears, and after a few moments she rubbed the back of her hand across her cheek, quite roughly, as if dislodging an irritation. When Adam reached out and put his hand on hers he found it damp and slightly sticky. His head still felt very heavy. He could smell the sour-sweet odor of her breath, and he could hear her breathing too, one exhalation to every five ticks of the pendulum. She raised her hand and brushed back the hair that fell across his forehead. You have lots of dreams, don’t you? she said. Or that is what Adam thought she said. And then she leaned forward and let her head rest on his shoulder; he could not tell if she was crying. She pulled him gently until he was lying flat on the bed, and he could not stop himself from falling into what he knew would be a very long and very deep sleep. He felt her head on his chest, and the gentle reverberations of her voice in his rib cage, which did not hurt so much anymore. Go to sleep now, she said. Go to sleep.

* * *

Nightfall.

Sometimes the rain clouds that gathered in the afternoon refused to break and the skies stayed dark and cobalt colored, and the day turned into a long, purple dusk that hastened the arrival of darkness. Later, much later, once night had taken hold, the rain would at last fall and make the streets of the city slick and sometimes a little muddy, and the buildings would be quiet and empty, and out in the new suburbs the stretches of fields and scrubland that separated the clustered lights of the houses would be blank with darkness, and you could imagine that they were filled not with heaps of rubbish and broken bicycles but with trees and ponds. Sometimes you could imagine the sea. And this was when he felt happiest, for the night seemed longer and deeper and more silent.

They ran across the playing field, splashing through puddles of water. They stumbled and Farah laughed, a sharp, childlike cry that made Johan think that she had hurt herself, but when he turned to look at her he knew she was smiling. Even in the near-dark he could see that she was happy. There were goalposts at one end of the field, three wooden poles nailed together to make a spindly frame whose two feet stood in pools of water. Farah jumped and touched the top bar with her hand as she ran underneath it. Look, Johan, she cried.

They reached the shelter at the far end of the field that housed a wooden table and some benches. They tugged at the edges of their shirts and tried to wring the water from them, but it was useless, so they just sat on the table with their feet on a bench, out of breath from their dash through the rain, laughing.

I have mud in my shoes, Farah said, but she did not sound unhappy.

Me too. I suppose we just have to wait until the rain stops.

It was not a fierce storm but the rain was still heavy, drumming loudly on the flimsy roof overhead and falling in thin, steady streams where the grooves in the zinc sheeting sloped toward the ground. They stared out at the darkness but could not make out any shapes. The goalposts and the seesaw and swings in the children’s playground had disappeared and they could see very little except the pale haze of the rain. Now and then the sky would be lit by a distant flash of lightning and suddenly they would see everything again, the young acacia saplings bending in the wind, the rows of thorny bushes, the merry-go-round. Everything would burst into life for a few seconds and then disappear into the darkness again, and there would only be the soothing rumble of thunder.

Daddy says you’re going to military college.

Johan did not say anything for a while. He leaned forward and water ran from his hair onto his brow and began to tickle his eyes. He blinked. Yes, I suppose I am.

Farah imitated him and rested her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin with her hands. Are you upset?

He shook his head. He was thankful it was dark because he knew she could not see his face clearly.

Anyway, she said, Sungai Besi’s not so far away. Daddy says you can come home from time to time.

Sure.

Don’t be sad.

Who says I’m sad?

Me. Because I’m sad.

You mustn’t be. Johan looked at her, but she was not facing him and there was not enough light to make out her face. He was glad he couldn’t see.

Johan. He felt her hand search for his, her fingers stubbing clumsily into his thigh before finding his forearm, then his wrist. She let her hand rest gently on his. It felt very light. She said, Johan, please share with me. Your life, I mean.

We grew up together. You know my life.

No, I mean before that. Somehow I feel, oh, I don’t know. I think sometimes that was your real life and when you came to us you stopped living, you just gave up. You shut us out. Even Mummy. Even me.