Tash Aw - Map of the Invisible World

They studied the slide under the magnifying glass, taking turns to peer at it.

“This is the one the Indonesian people would want to see back in the country,” Bill said, tapping his finger in front of the Capture of Prince Diponegoro . “It would be very fitting in a grand, public space, maybe at the presidential palace. It’s noble, dignified, bold in its statement, but still very classy. It’s the subject of our official promptings, the negotiations that are, let’s say, documented.”

“Why do I always know that there’s something dirty going on with you, Bill?” said Margaret as she leaned over to look at the slide. She thought Prince Diponegoro very handsome, but also somewhat fragile underneath his proud regard. She felt more than a twinge of revulsion for the Dutch figures in the painting; she thought them ridiculous and even disgusting. She was falling into the trap, she knew, but she didn’t mind. She did not usually enjoy the sensation of being manipulated or of being slyly coerced into feeling or thinking something, but in this instance it felt entirely natural, as though she ought to side with the Javanese and that there was no other option.

“The question is,” Bill continued, “how much is this painting worth to the president himself? I mean, personally?”

“You mean, is it worth giving us oil concessions in Sumatra? Or do you mean, is it worth turning his back on Russia?”

Bill smiled. “No, obviously no painting is going to be worth that much. What I meant was, does the president personally value this painting enough to make him feel favorable toward us again? It’s a grand, public statement, but what does he himself feel for the painting?”

Mick reached for the magnifying glass, almost pushing Margaret out of the way. “Hmm, very good,” he mumbled. “Very, very good. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing. Brilliant composition.” He bent over the magnifying glass, shifting it slightly now and then.

“Good, isn’t it?” Bill said, opening a drawer. “But frankly I don’t think it’s quite the thing to push the president’s buttons. It’s too static, too quiet. It demands too much involvement from the viewer. If the president is going to make a grand gift to his nation, he’ll want something more flamboyant. Something, oh, I don’t know, aggressive, something that’s more his style.” He placed another slide on the desk and slid it toward them. “That’s why I’m trying to get this painting too. Another Raden Saleh, not at all well known. I have a feeling that this is more likely to make the president sit up. It’s totally the kind of thing he’d like to have in his private salon, or in his boudoir when he’s seducing some wench. Or even on public display, as if to say, ‘I’m still a powerful man.’”

Mick moved the magnifying glass over the new slide. “Wow. That is quite something. It’s like Delacroix, just like Delacroix, in fact, only a bit rougher, more earthy. Fantastically romantic. Margaret, look!”

Margaret noticed Mick’s quick breaths as she took the magnifying glass; his eyes were shining, like a child’s — a child who had just woken up from a long sleep and found a present at the foot of his bed.

The picture was of two lions and a tiger mauling a chestnut horse that was rearing up in terror, its eyes wild with fear. Its rider — a white man — looked tiny and helpless and strangely calm, as if he had accepted his fate. Margaret felt sorry for him; he wasn’t as beastly as his comrades in the first painting and didn’t, therefore, deserve to be ripped to shreds by these beasts.

“It’s called Lions and Tiger Attack a Horseman , dating from Raden Saleh’s time in Paris, not long before he moved back to Java. It’s a monumental work, completely breathtaking in real life, ten by twelve.” Bill stretched out his arms vertically, reaching for the ceiling, then sideways, as if doing exercises. “I heard of it from someone I had dinner with years ago and managed to track it down. It took ages, but I recently found it in a private collection in Geneva. We’re arranging for its purchase — for quite a handsome amount of money, I must say. The owner isn’t anxious to sell, says it’s an heirloom or some nonsense, but everything has its price, even family history. Of course, the transaction is not being documented by any newspaper or auction house or dealer. Neither the buyer nor the seller wishes to be identified, I think the expression goes.”

“I see what you mean,” Margaret said. “It’s right up the president’s street.” She was struck by Bill’s unerring instinct for finding the way to appeal to someone’s basest instincts, for knowing exactly what they would like to see or hear. And she realized why she had felt drawn to him all those years ago — not because she had fallen prey to his tricks, but because they were similar in this respect: They could both get what they wanted in order to survive.

“The only way to get him on our side again is to appeal to his human instincts, to touch a chord. It’s gotten to the stage where no amount of official aid can make him see eye to eye with us. It’s too late for that. His public rhetoric is way too anti-American for him to back down now. But behind the scenes we can still try and make sure that he finds us, well, of interest. We don’t give a damn what he’s obliged to say in his great speeches, as long as he feels that we can still help him.” Bill watched Mick pore over the image. He raised one hand to his lips and began absentmindedly to nibble his thumbnail, his jawbone twitching. Margaret remembered this old habit of his, this tendency to switch off and become blank and introspective, as if no one else was in the room; he used to do it all the time in college, but she had not seen it since he became Bill Schneider, senior statesman. “The bastard’s got to fall for it. He’s got to. It’s … magnificent.”

“It’s not like you to get emotionally involved in your job, Bill,” said Margaret. “Aren’t you the model professional, always detached and cold and analytical?”

He shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting old. But this painting is special. When I saw it, I was blown away. I just stood there, gaping. There was something about it that made everything else I’ve done in my work irrelevant and trivial. It was hanging there on the wall of this beautiful old apartment in Switzerland, so out of place. And I got that feeling I get when I go to a lousy zoo in a lousy town, and see some huge and powerful jungle animal in a cramped cage, and it’s barely moving because it’s so shell-shocked it doesn’t know what to do anymore. Yeah, I guess I must be getting old.”

“No you’re not.”

They stood watching Mick as he raised the image to the light, still holding the magnifying glass to his eye the way detectives did in movies. “I want to help you, Bill, honestly, I do,” said Margaret, “but I’ve got to find the boy. He’s out there, alone in a huge city he doesn’t know.”

Bill moved so that he was standing with his back to Mick, shielding Margaret from Mick’s view. He dropped his voice. “Listen, please help me. I can’t do this without you. No one in this whole building can do it. You’re a neutral. The Indonesians don’t really even consider you American. You’re one of them, almost. I’ve fixed everything, all you have to do is talk us through the palace and get an audience with the president. We need to talk to the big guy himself. None of his acolytes will do. My name is mud over there, and besides, we have to be so careful now. We can’t make a misstep — and you know what I’m like, I just can’t judge these guys like you can.”

Margaret shook her head. “No way. Absolutely not. I need to find Adam.”