Tash Aw - Map of the Invisible World

“What girl?”

“The one we met,” said Mick, handing Bill another bottle of beer. They moved and talked slowly, as if they had been doing something physically strenuous. It was the relief, thought Margaret; they were exhausted by the relief of finding Adam.

“Her name is Zubaidah,” said Adam. “I guess she saved me.”

“Turns out she isn’t a red-blooded Commie, after all,” Mick said.

“I knew there was something weird about that girl. I just couldn’t figure her out. I didn’t like her. I thought she was duplicitous and insincere,” said Margaret. “But it does at least prove that it takes a woman to straighten things out.”

Mick said, “Margaret didn’t like being out-Margareted by the young lassie.”

“No,” said Adam. “She was not insincere. She helped me see things clearly. Without her, I would have ended up doing things I didn’t want to. This time it was Din, but it could have been anyone. I was just allowing anyone to take advantage of me. But Zubaidah didn’t. She didn’t push me, she just … I don’t know. She helped me, that’s all I’m saying.”

Margaret watched him as he spoke; he looked down at the table, raising his eyes to meet hers only now and then, as if afraid of challenging her. She put her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry,” said Adam. “It’s not your fault things turned out the way they did.”

Margaret wanted to believe that this was true, that she was not in some way to blame for the fact that Adam was now truly an orphan and that Karl was missing forever, most probably dead. She could not shake the feeling that the current state of affairs was due, in some major way, to her shortcomings, her misjudgment, despite Adam’s trusting, almost grateful smile, which made her feel even more guilty. He had trusted her too readily, she thought, too unquestioningly And his utter faith in her had, in turn, made her believe that she was capable of achieving anything. She remembered something she had seen when she was a child on Irian: a small, dull buff-colored bird attacking a snake, falling on its thick coils in swift, stabbing dives until the reptile was forced to retreat. A villager told her that the bird was a mother protecting her nest from predators, to which Margaret had said, Oh, I understand, the bird loves its children so much that it becomes brave enough to attack a much bigger animal. And the villager said, No, it is not love that makes the bird do what it is doing. It is foolishness. This bird actually believes it is stronger than the snake, it actually believes that no harm can come to it. It is a very silly bird.

Margaret understood, now, that it was not love that made her want to help Adam but a vain and unthinking sense of heroism. It had flattered her to think she could change his life, and hers.

“Adam,” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible. “I don’t know if Bill and Mick have spoken to you. We have had no news about Karl. We have tried everything, but I think you should know that the signs are not encouraging. I think,” she paused, wanting to sound firm but supportive, “I think you should prepare yourself for the fact that we might not be able to find your father.”

Adam stared at his still-greasy fingers; he let them hover rigidly over the table, watching them as if entranced by their stillness. “He might still come back somehow. Nothing is impossible. I know you think so too.”

Margaret nodded. “That’s right, I do. I guess some stupid part of my brain will always be wired to think like that. But we all have to face the facts sometime — even me.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

A few drops of rain had begun to fall, playing a tinny percussion on the zinc roof over the yard. In the distance a patch of cobalt blue cloud was marooned in the otherwise colorless Jakarta sky. Sometimes, at the end of the dry season, there would be times like this, when everyone would think the first of the rains had arrived. You would feel one or two heavy raindrops on your arms and the skies would darken, and you would think that the drought was over, but then the clouds would dissolve and the air would lose the smell of moisture and the aridity would return. You could never really tell when the monsoon would arrive.

IT WAS MICK who decided they should leave.

“You mean, leave Indonesia?” Margaret had protested.

“Got a better idea, sweetheart?” said Mick, lowering his voice as they stood in the yard. “This country is falling apart — not just at the edges but at its core. I’m staying because it’s my job. Why are you staying? Because it’s your home? Wake up, darling. You need to leave, for a while at least. Maybe one day you can come back. Or maybe you’ll never come back. Who knows? You can decide all that later, once you’re far away from this madness. Go somewhere: Singapore, Bangkok, the States, Paris — wherever. Somewhere you can sit down in a nice clean café, drink coffee, and take stock of things, think about the future in an objective way. Take the boy with you. You do have a future, it’s not too late for you. Don’t end up like, well, me, just bumbling through life. It suits me. It doesn’t suit you.” He produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Where did you get those? I thought you’d quit.”

Mick smiled as he sucked on the just-lit Marlboro, his lips contorting into a funny shape. “I’ve started again.”

It was a good idea, Bill agreed — at least for now. He would arrange a visa for Adam; they could go to Singapore, wait for a while to see if there was any definitive news of Karl, before moving on. Or perhaps it would be better just to go to the States. Bill would fix everything; he could at least do that for them. But they had to act now, quickly. There was no time to lose.

Sitting calmly in the Buick, Margaret looked at Adam. He held his canvas bag in his lap, cradling it with both arms the way a heavily pregnant woman might hold her belly. He said, “I didn’t have time to say good-bye to Z. I waited for ages, but she didn’t come back.”

“You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

There were not many cars on the road this evening but every so often they would see convoys of army trucks carrying troops or armored vehicles posted outside buildings. Evening brought with it a sense of anxiety. Margaret did not think that she had ever associated darkness with fear; no, that was wrong: She had done so when she was a child.

“I’m sorry I was negative about her,” said Margaret. “It’s just that my judgment has been so shaken by everything that happened with Din. I couldn’t trust anyone with you.”

He nodded.

“Because Din was not a bad person,” she continued. “I shared an office with him, for god’s sake, I couldn’t have been that wrong about him. Very, very misguided, perhaps, but not fundamentally evil. But from the moment he involved you in whatever he was up to, well, that’s when I stopped having any sympathy for him.”

“I think we should wait awhile,” Adam said. “Just a while. You never know what might happen. Z might be able to find my father. We just need to get in touch with her. I still have this feeling he’s not far away. I know there’s still hope.”

Margaret looked at Adam’s face, so much older now than it had been a few days ago, but still that of a boy. It was this ridiculous thing called hope that kept it that way, she thought, but she could see it changing, the hope ebbing slowly away. Soon he would be a man, and quickly, inexorably, old. It was what happened when hope slipped out of your clutches. In certain isolated near — Stone Age tribes in Irian, Margaret had seen how the aging process was far less defined. People did not blossom in adolescence then fade painfully into old age; they were born elderly, mature beyond their years — child-adults — but then they seemed to remain this way, their faces permanently etched with the quizzical smile of an infant even as their hair became flecked with gray. It was because they were not programmed to hope, to look forward to some magical potential, and so did not degenerate as the boundaries of their lives shrank with age.