Certainty

by Madeleine Thien

  This was where Matthew began to drift to sleep, breathing in the dry muddy smell of the hut, Ani’s calm, low voice blanketing him. The afternoon rainfall began to ease. He thought he lived inside a cupboard, then, some place warm and safe that housed only he and Ani.

  “Every day, the old woman asked him, ‘When shall we harvest?’ And he said, ‘Tomorrow.’ The man was so ashamed that he decided he had to run away.

  “On the day he was to leave, he decided to look one last time. When he opened a pod, he saw that it was filled with gold. He opened another and another, and each pod spilled tiny pieces of gold into his open hand.”

  The first time he stepped onto an airplane, it was 1953. He was eighteen years old and he was heartbroken. From the air, he had gazed down at Sandakan, the tidy rooftops, the vast plantations and, surrounding everything, jungle. In the years after the war, people in North Borneo had grieved their dead, laying stones and burning incense, tending the graves of their loved ones. But a collaborator is someone forever apart. His father had no grave in Sandakan, and his spirit floated untended, unmourned, except in Matthew’s thoughts, and in those of his mother. As the airplane rose higher, the thread that connected Matthew to the town grew taut, stretching, until it finally gave way. When the plane turned towards Australia, he looked down and saw the island of Borneo, so grand and beautiful in his imagination, diminish to a speck on the wide sea.

  That memory merges into another, of his daughter, standing in the departure lounge of the Vancouver airport. He watches as his daughter embraces his wife. They are at ease with one another, they have always been, their attachment visible for all to see. She is twenty-four years old, full of hopes, expectations, on her way to study in Europe. This is her first journey away from them.

  The fluorescent lights press against his eyes. He is brought back by his daughter’s touch. She has turned towards him, and in Matthew’s arms now she is slender and fragile. She has Clara’s face, open and generous, always perceptive. The airport, brightly lit, full of noise and chaos, falls away from them. For a moment, he is a child again, sitting on his father’s shoulders, far above the ground. This is a time before the war, the leaves in the rubber plantation are a canopy high above them, and he listens to the sound of his father’s footsteps. But the lamps go out and he is alone in the trees. The question haunts him still: To what lengths would he go to keep his child safe? How much of himself would he sacrifice? When she was young, Gail had followed him everywhere. All these years, he has tried to understand how their relationship changed. He has failed her in some way, he thinks, closed himself off in order to protect her, to protect them both. Whenever she asked about his childhood, about her grandparents and the life he lived in East Malaysia, he smiled, looked away, or brushed her questions aside. In this new country, he told himself, there would be no need to reach back into the past for consolation. He has long accepted that some questions will find no meaningful answers, some stories cannot bear repeating.

  Don’t leave, he wants to say, holding her. How can I help you to understand?

  Instead, he keeps his peace. And his daughter, so full of life, so young, kisses him gently on the cheek. Then she turns and walks away, disappearing through the gate.

  Inside the hut, the absence of noise wakes him. Matthew sits up, cross-legged, waiting patiently to get his bearings. Outside, the rain has stopped, and the doorway is edged in faint light. Ani is still asleep, her mouth slightly open. A jade pendant, once worn by her mother, lies beside her on a square of cloth.

  He touches her shoulder to say goodbye. One of her hands clutches the fabric of her sarong. She does not stir.

  Outside the hut, he sees the last of the sunset, a sliver of turquoise light against the curve of the hill. He follows the road, where the thin trunks of the rubber trees leave a shadow, barely perceptible. At the side of the track, almost hidden by the grass, he notices a bicycle wheel lying abandoned and he goes to examine it. Lifting the wheel in his hands, he remembers a game of main lering played on Jalan Campbell on a hot, dusty day, how the rains started and the wheel was forgotten. Someone found fruit on the ground, a fresh coconut, and the children broke the shell open and shared the liquid between them.

  There were other games, too. Congkak, played on a wooden board pitted with eight holes. Its bottom curved like a boat, one end rising up in the shape of a magical bird. To play, they’d used shells, seeds or stones, whatever was at hand. The loser would have to place the congkak board on his head and walk up the road and back again, the other children laughing alongside him.

  Matthew finds a branch at the side of the road and sets the wheel upright, then pauses, listening. It is a busy time of evening, yet the road is empty. Where are the trucks, the labourers returning from the plantations, people hurrying home before curfew?

  He puts the wheel in motion, using the branch to keep it steady. As he quickens his pace, the sky changes to red, to purple. The colours appear so solid, he feels that he could reach up and pull the sky down, settle it over him like a vast curtain.

  Eventually he comes to a place where the trees part, and he has a clear view down to the harbour. Below, smoke is rising from the Japanese administration buildings, the wind carrying it towards the water, where it hangs, suspended, in the twilight. There is a bonfire, soldiers gathered around. Fragments, pieces of paper, float in the air above them.

  Even after the heavy rain, the road is dusty once more. He continues walking, and the bicycle wheel rolls quietly beside him.

  The hut comes into sight, his father standing in the doorway. Matthew is suddenly aware of the dust on his skin, the layer of dirt on his clothes. He hesitates, not wanting to disturb his father’s thoughts, not wanting to be seen, and the wheel, steadied by his hand, glides to a standstill beside him.

  His father is looking in the other direction, down the road. Then he turns, sees Matthew, and motions him forward with his hand. “Come, Matthew,” he says. “There is something I need you to do.”

  Matthew lays the bicycle wheel against the side of the hut, then follows his father inside. His mother is nowhere to be seen; she must still be visiting her brother on the far side of the plantation. His father pushes the cabinet aside and brings out the radio, but he doesn’t switch it on. Instead, while Matthew watches, his father kneels down again. When he straightens, he is holding a large glass jar filled with coins and bills.

  “Look at me.” His father’s eyes are clear, his shoulders relaxed. “This is British currency,” he says, placing one hand lightly on Matthew’s arm. “This will be valuable again after the war is over. Do you understand?”

  Matthew nods.

  “I want you to go into the plantation. You must be very careful and you must make sure that no one sees you. No one at all. Not the Japanese, not the workers, nor any children hanging about.” His father puts his cigarette to his lips, draws, then exhales, studying Matthew. “Count out the rows. At the thirtieth row, go to the thirtieth tree. I want you to bury this jar in that exact place. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Good.” His father stands up. He puts the jar into an old rice sack. “Take it now. Make sure that you are not seen.”

  Matthew nods, his stomach tightening.

  “Now,” his father repeats, his voice firm. “Go quickly.”

  Matthew takes hold of the sack. He is surprised by its weight, but he swings it carefully over his shoulder.

  “When you return,” his father says, almost as an afterthought, “stay inside the hut. Keep the door closed and wait for your mother. Everything will turn out for the best.”

  The last of the day’s light is gone, but already he can see the moon, low in the sky. Matthew shifts the weight on his shoulders. He walks forward a few steps, then glances back. His father is outside, leaning against the hut, head bowed, and he reaches into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He wipes his face and hands, then straightens his body and steps slowly, resolutely, away from the wal
l.

  Matthew begins to run. When he reaches the edge of the plantation, he is breathing fast. Behind him, a truck rumbles along the road, and when he stops and turns he sees that the truck has come to rest in front of the hut and two Japanese soldiers are climbing out. His father goes to meet them. Matthew stands motionless. The leaves of the rubber trees shift in the wind and a light breeze cools his sweating body. He lowers his arm, lets the sack rest on the ground. The sounds twist around him, a bird or an animal crying, and from somewhere nearby, the acrid smell of smoke.

  In the distance, he sees three distinct flares as cigarettes are lit; the embers are visible, though small as fireflies. Beside him, the plantation seems immense, unfathomable without the light from the kerosene lamps. He has never gone into it alone, and never when the lamps were unlit.

  He walks into the plantation and the light of the moon dims. Beneath the canopy of trees, the darkness seems to press against his eyes, a blindfold, a weight. He walks on and on, touching each tree as he passes it. Something on the ground catches his feet, and he stumbles forward. There is a smell of vomit, of decay. When he puts his hands down, trying to steady himself, they are in water, something wet. His heart collapses inside his chest. He has lost count. Terrified of making a mistake, he retraces his steps. He finds his way back to the road, beyond the trees where the moon is once again visible.

  Far away, the three embers glimmer in the dark. His legs, trembling, give way and he crouches on the ground. His entire body is shaking now, and he wishes that his mother would return, that she would light the last candle-end. A tiny flame glowing inside the hut to bring him home.

  He does not want to disappoint his father, but he cannot step back into the trees. Breathing heavily, he lifts the sack onto his shoulder and stands. He walks in the direction of the hut.

  As he draws near, he begins to hear their voices, softer than usual. A few seconds later, he is close enough to make out their words, but he stays hidden in the dense brush beside the road. They are speaking in broken Malay, sometimes changing to Japanese. He stops and kneels on the ground, almost behind the hut, hugging the sack to his chest.

  The Japanese lieutenant is standing beside his father. Matthew recognizes him immediately, a man taller than all the rest, who, when he comes to the hut, brings meat and cigarettes. The lieutenant is speaking. He says that Australian soldiers have landed in the west of Borneo.

  In his hands, his father is holding another jar, also filled with money.

  “It’s over,” the lieutenant continues. “I don’t have a choice any more.”

  His father’s voice is quiet, strained. “And the others who worked with me. I went into town. The offices are abandoned.”

  “The others?” The lieutenant pauses, exhales a plume of smoke. He says, angrily, “What do you think happened to the others?”

  The second Japanese soldier walks a few paces back, glancing into the open door of the hut. Matthew quiets his breathing, wills his body to become a part of the darkness. The moon traces the faintest light on the ground.

  His father turns to face the soldier. “Come,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “Take this money.”

  The soldier laughs. “You see, we know you. That’s just what I expected you to say.”

  “I thought you would have tried to leave Sandakan.” The lieutenant’s voice is casual. “I thought you understood; the most dangerous time is when war is over.” He drops his cigarette-end on the ground and puts it out with his boot. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a box, opens it, and offers it to Matthew’s father. Two more cigarettes are lit.

  The ember of his father’s cigarette wavers in the air, and for a moment his father gazes into the trees as if searching for something, an opening, a way to escape. His eyes rest on the patch of ground directly in front of Matthew. His father lifts his eyes, and Matthew knows that he has been seen. He wants to stand up and go to him. He begins to push himself up from the ground, but the expression on his father’s face, surprise, but something more, grief, incomprehension, stops him. His father closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they seem to burrow into Matthew’s body, holding him still. The lieutenant says quietly, “Where are your wife and son?”

  His father does not answer at once. “My wife is with her brother,” he says finally. “I do not know where my son is.”

  Time passes, and his father holds the lieutenant’s gaze.

  The lieutenant looks towards the hut. He walks to the doorway, steps in, and disappears.

  “Please,” his father says. “Take this money.”

  The lieutenant re-emerges. He approaches Matthew’s father, taking the jar thoughtfully in his hands. His eyes drift over the trees. Matthew’s legs, frozen in a kneeling position, begin to tingle, and a wave of sickness causes him to bow his head, eyes watering. The lieutenant taps his cigarette and the ashes fall to the ground. “From what I hear, all of Tokyo is burning. There isn’t a building standing. It’s tragic, but this is the nature of war, and you and I, we are both on the losing side.” He pauses, looks down at the jar in his hand. “Maybe you don’t believe it, but I pity you. I’m offering you a choice. Come with us now. Let’s not do this here in the open.”

  His father’s voice is low. “Everyone knows what happened here, this will not change the things that matter –”

  The other soldier, standing by the door of the hut, has come forward. With a heavy movement, he swings his rifle into Matthew’s father’s back. His father is taken by surprise. He cries out in pain, falling forward on his hands and knees.

  The lieutenant says something to the soldier, but Matthew cannot understand the words. His father crawls forward a little, then stumbles to his feet.

  “I have done everything you asked. I’m begging you. I have a family –”

  “I cannot help you any more.”

  His father lurches forward and begins to run blindly towards the road. The soldier catches him easily and he swings his rifle up, where it remains for a second before he brings it forcefully down. His father crumples. His arms reach up to shield his head and Matthew can no longer see his face.

  The lieutenant’s left hand, holding his cigarette, draws a line in the dark, and stops. The soldier sets his rifle casually on the ground. In his hand there is now a pistol. He puts the pistol against Matthew’s father’s head. His father starts to say something, three or four words, but Matthew hears only “ Tolong, tolong. Please,” before the first shot is fired. His father’s body shudders and falls forward. He hits the ground chest-first, both arms outstretched, the hands open. Matthew scrabbles at the grass as if he might crawl towards his father, but his fingers close around air. The world empties before the second and third shots. While the sounds are still audible, the first soldier drops his left hand and lets his cigarette fall to the dirt.

  The other man is picking up his rifle. They are speaking to one another in low voices, and then his father is lifted off the ground, swung and tossed into the back of the truck. The two men climb into the cab, the lieutenant carrying the jar of money. The engine starts, the headlights sweep the road. The truck reverses, bearing down on Matthew, the lights freezing him. The gears sound and the truck begins to roll forward. The truck turns down the road and drives away.

  Matthew lies in the dark, unmoving. The sound of his breathing lifts away from him. The truck’s wheels have raised a cloud of dust and he can taste the road in his mouth, in the back of his throat.

  His legs ache with the effort, but he pushes himself to standing. In the dark, he fumbles for the bag and pulls it over his shoulder. Then, turning, he walks slowly in the direction of the plantation.

  All his thoughts are clear. He goes first to the storehouse where sheets of rubber hang to dry, and there he finds a small shovel. Then he goes back and begins to count out the rows. His eyes have now adjusted to the darkness. In front of the thirtieth tree of the thirtieth row, Matthew sets down the sack. There are notches in the wood, thin diagonal lines w
here the rubber has been tapped. All around him, he hears the itching sound of cicadas, a bird, unidentifiable night sounds.

  In his mind, his father says again, Make sure no one sees you. Matthew stares into the darkness, then kneels on the ground. He traces an outline in the dirt, making a circle, then he begins to dig with the shovel. His father comes towards him. Please, he says to Matthew, go quickly. This is the place where he will plant the money. It will be like the seeds that his father warned him not to swallow, a strange plant growing from an unexpected place. After a few minutes, Matthew has made a small opening in the ground. Not enough. It has to be so deep that he can stand in it, with only his fingertips brushing the air.

  His father gets to his feet. Take the money, he tells the men. He gestures towards Matthew, and Matthew steps out from his hiding place and onto the road. He goes to stand beside his father. His father places his hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

  Minutes pass, perhaps hours. The plantation falls away, and he returns to the house on Jalan Campbell. High on a shelf, there is a wooden box whose contents he cannot see. All he hears is the scratch of a record, then a woman’s voice. Through a doorway, he glimpses his parents standing together, his mother holding a jacket open, his father sliding his arms into the sleeves. She runs her hands across his back. He turns to face her. Matthew climbs down into the hole that he has made. There are places so narrow that he has to use his body to widen the opening. When he is standing at the bottom, he reaches his hands up and turns his face towards the fresh air. The dirt surrounding him radiates heat, and he realizes that his entire body is sweating, he can feel the drops running from his hair, down his face and neck. Gripping the surface, he braces his knees against the walls of the hole and forces himself out. He feels no pain and no fatigue. His arms lift him out of the ground and he does not feel the effort.