Map of the Invisible World: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  “You were separated when you were very young, weren’t you? That’s tragic.”

  “Yes.” Adam nodded. He began to feel slightly light-headed and dizzy and wondered why.

  “It must be difficult for you.” Din continued speaking softly, pausing carefully as though appreciating the enormity of what Adam had just shared with him. “All these years without your brother, alone.”

  Alone. Yes, thought Adam, alone.

  “I don’t know if it helps,” Din went on, “but you are not on your own in this respect. Many many young children—tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, possibly millions—have been orphaned in the last few decades, just like you. Poverty and disease and this stupid transmigration policy have created generations of orphans. If a poor family has to move to another part of the country they often leave their children behind because they don’t know what awaits them in their new home. They think they’ll come back for their kids or send for them later, but they never do.”

  As Din spoke Adam realized why he felt giddy—it was relief, of course, relief at being able to speak about Johan without feeling baffled or guilty or lost. It bothered him that Din, whom he had met only five minutes ago, should have so many insights into his life; Adam had not yet even decided if he liked Din.

  “So what do you know about your brother?” Din was patient and coaxing, no longer insistent as he had been earlier.

  Adam shook his head, half-expecting to be reproached.

  “Nothing?”

  “I get so angry that I can’t remember anything. I hate it.”

  “Hey, hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not your fault.”

  A car drew up outside, its engine rattling to a halt.

  “We’ll talk about this some more,” said Din, “but only if you want to.”

  The metal gate creaked open, the mailbox clanging loudly. Adam stood up and saw Margaret approaching the house with a European man.

  “I think,” Din lowered his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, “we’d better keep what we’ve been discussing a secret for the time being, don’t you?”

  Adam nodded, though he was not quite sure why he should hide their exchange from Margaret. All he understood was that he was already complicit with Din in some way.

  Margaret paused briefly as she stepped into the house. She looked slightly perplexed to find Din there, thought Adam.

  “I didn’t know you knew where I lived,” she said by way of greeting. “What brings you here?”

  “I got your address from the registrar’s office. I rang a few times but there was no answer, so I thought I’d come over and check to see if you were all right. You didn’t come to the campus yesterday so I thought—”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I see you’ve met Adam.”

  “Yes. Well, um, I’m glad you’re okay.”

  On seeing Margaret, Adam experienced the feeling of relief and security he had felt upon meeting her for the first time the previous night. The image of the young Margaret and Karl standing together in the photograph came back to him and made him remember why he had come to this city in the first place: to regain his father. “Any news?” he asked.

  She frowned and shook her head; she came toward him and put her arms around him, surprising him with a long, firm hug. It did not feel foreign or bizarre to him that she should do this; he was glad that she did. “No news yet, I’m afraid, but we have our contacts working on a way to find him. We will find him.”

  Din said, “I’d better go now. I just wanted to check that you weren’t in trouble. Nice to meet you, Adam.” He slipped on his black canvas shoes without bothering to undo the laces. As he closed the gate behind him he gave Adam a brief nod and smiled. Adam turned away; he did not want Margaret to see that something had passed between him and Din, something that amounted to a betrayal of her trust and hospitality. He was glad that Din had gone.

  But it disturbed him to find that he could not forget all the things that Din had told him.

  · 11 ·

  As Margaret stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, she tried to figure out why she had so readily embraced Adam. She could not explain what had made her feel so happy upon seeing him again, why she had been overwhelmed by a sense of relief bordering on joy at finding him safe and eagerly awaiting her return. When he stood up to greet her, the expression on his face was one of such hope and anticipation and vulnerability that she had to respond. And so she had gone up to him and put her arms around him, circling his chest tightly, as if she needed to reassure herself that he was still there. She had done so without thinking, and for all the time their hug lasted—three, four, five seconds? More?—it ceased to matter that Din and Mick had been in the room, watching.

  The kettle began to whistle. Margaret poured the boiling water into the teapot and watched the darkening water swirl with tea leaves. She remembered her mother’s words to her when she was a teenager. “You’re not a tactile child, are you? I have no idea why,” her mother would say, sighing. “I suppose it’s my fault—didn’t cuddle you enough when you were a baby, or stopped breastfeeding too early. Oh dear, it seems all that Freudian nonsense is true after all. Do try to be more physical, Margaret, more expressive.” It used to rile her intensely whenever her mother said this, largely because she knew it was true, but also because she wished she found it easier to reach out and touch other people. It was not that she did not like touching or being touched—she liked both. She had no idea why it did not come naturally to her. And yet she had hugged Adam without a moment’s hesitation or embarrassment, the self-consciousness returning only later, once they had detached themselves from each other. “I’ve never got that from you,” Mick had whispered as she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen.

  She opened a can of condensed milk and poured it into three mugs, stirring in the tea. She had made Mick stop on the way home so that she could buy some food for Adam—two loaves of bread, an assortment of canned meat and sardines, and a bag of hard candy. She had never been a good cook, or even particularly interested in food (that, at least, was something she had shared with her mother), but in recent months her lackadaisical approach to feeding herself had worsened, and she rarely planned meals. She would last most of the day without eating anything, and at some point in the evening she might think, I’m hungry; and then she would stop at the closest place for a bite to eat. Sometimes it was an expensive restaurant in a luxurious hotel, sometimes it was a satay or mee bandung stall by the roadside, sometimes it was a bag of peanuts at home—it made little difference to her: It was all just food.

  So why was she now seized by the urge to make sure her kitchen cupboards were full? She stood before the array of canned goods, wondering how she could prepare a wholesome, tasty meal for Adam. It troubled her to think that he had not had a healthy meal for days; the remnants of his breakfast of hard, almost-moldy cheese lay on a plate in the sink, the dried-up bits of rind looking like old bread crumbs. Margaret felt ashamed; she had to change her ways, quickly, or she would not be able to help this boy.

  She sliced a loaf of bread and emptied the contents of a can into a saucepan (Great Wall of China Fried Dace in Black Bean Sauce—she did not even know what Dace was); she tried to light a burner but the pilot light was out. She dipped her finger into the sauce and found it cold and slightly slimy—perfectly acceptable to her, but not for Adam. She opened a tin of Spam—the picture on the can showed what looked like a leg of ham cut into slices on a platter decorated with festive ribbons and balloons, but when she opened the can she found only an opaque layer of fat. She had no idea what lay underneath. Okay, don’t panic, Margaret Bates, she told herself, don’t lose control, you can do this.

  “Mick,” she called in a half whisper, half cry, “I need help.”

  “You said you were going to make dinner,” he said as he came into the kitchen.

  “Yes, but …” she gestured at the growing mess
around her. “I just don’t know how. I’m not even hungry, but I need to feed the boy.”

  “All right.” He sighed, dropping his shoulders theatrically. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mick. I was really really hoping you’d say that.” She went up to him and thought about giving him a hug but ended up patting him on the shoulder instead.

  In the living room Adam was idly winding the red enamel alarm clock that usually sat halfway up a bookshelf. Margaret was not sure it even worked anymore. A couple of banana skins lay flaccidly on the table; fruit flies rose from them in a spiral as Margaret sat down facing Adam.

  “Sorry, I ate some bananas,” he said.

  “Are you okay now?” Margaret said, looking anxiously in the direction of the kitchen, hoping that Mick would hurry up.

  He nodded. “I’m fine.” In his hands the clock revolved slowly, the words golden cock made in china spinning around and around again.

  “My father has a limp,” he said, concentrating on the clock. “He walks in a funny way. Did you know that?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “One day, I don’t know why, he came to meet me at school. He bicycled, but he was not used to it and it was far. With his weak leg he couldn’t go very fast and the bike wobbled and looked very stupid. All the other children were laughing at him, and I remember feeling ashamed and wishing that I had a different father, one with two strong legs.”

  “He thought it would go away, but I guess it didn’t.”

  “You don’t think he would ever abandon me, do you?” he asked without looking up at her.

  “Of course not. It’s been many years since I’ve known him, but from what I remember of him, he isn’t the type who would just get up and leave when the going gets tough. Believe me, I should know.”

  “Mm.” He did not sound convinced. All his childlike hope and energy had drained away, and now he seemed tiny and weak. She wanted to reach out to him, but this time she hesitated.

  “I often wondered,” Adam continued, “why my father never married. I asked him once if he had ever loved anyone. He nodded and said, ‘But it was difficult. The world was a different place when I was a young man. There were other things to think about.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but I remembered it clearly because he seemed so sad when he said it. I knew not to ask him again.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “I used to imagine that you were his wife and that we would one day settle down together, as a family.” He looked up at her and smiled, and suddenly he did not look so fragile. “Crazy idea, isn’t it?”

  She laughed with him. “Very.”

  “Did you love each other?”

  The question was delivered calmly but swiftly, and Margaret had not anticipated it. Caught off guard, she could only smile vacantly at him. It was, in fact, a question she had asked herself hundreds of times over the course of her life. She was still not sure of the answer.

  “Wait, don’t starve, weary travelers—salvation is at hand!” Mick appeared from the kitchen bearing a tray of food. Margaret watched as Adam ate and it made her feel unaccountably happy to see him being nourished. His last question still echoed loudly in her head, bringing back the memories of a hundred minor incidents that might have determined the answer: Yes, they had loved each other; or, no, only one of them had loved the other; or, it was never so easy. Karl had been right: There had been more pressing things to think of in the world than love.

  Evening brought with it a languid rain shower, drumming a monotone on the roof. Adam looked more at ease now that he had eaten; he was smiling again and asking Margaret questions about the United States and Europe.

  “I think you should go to bed now,” she said when it was very late. She insisted that he take her bedroom and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She would sit and chat with Mick for a while. She didn’t mind the sofa. She checked on him after half an hour, and again after an hour, anxious that he should sleep as soundly as possible. She pulled the curtains shut to keep out the droplets of rain that were blowing in through the windows; Adam had kicked the thin sheet away from his body, and she drew it back up to his chest, moving it as gently as possible so as not to wake him up.

  “It’s weird, seeing you like this.” Mick chuckled gently.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know—nervous, as if you’re not quite sure what you’re doing. I’ve never known you to be anything but in control. I’ve never seen you—hmm, how shall I put this?—so tender.”

  “You mean I’m a cruel, heartless witch?”

  “No, no, just … I don’t know, it’s funny.”

  “I am nervous. We still haven’t heard any news from Bill Schneider. I don’t know if we can trust him—and besides, I’m not sure just how much he can do.”

  “You Americans still have plenty of connections in this country, despite official relations. Let’s wait and see.”

  “We can’t afford to wait, Mick. This boy’s future is at stake. I can’t bear the thought of him homeless, without the only family he’s ever known.” She stood at the window and watched the rain wash thin rivulets of mud across the narrow street. The dead leaves in the front yard made a crackling noise as the raindrops hit, but otherwise all the usual noises of the neighborhood had ceased: the barking of dogs, the howling of copulating cats, the scooters, the radios, the angry shouting of young men, the crying of babies. All that stopped when the rains came. It was late now; the immense city was settling down to its brief sleep.

  But Margaret was not sleepy. She could not stop thinking about the question that Adam had put to her, the one she could not answer: Had she loved and been loved in return?

  · 12 ·

  Tonight something strange is happening to Adam—or more precisely, something strange is happening to his dreams.

  As he felt the first warm waves of drowsiness wash through his head, he had become aware of something out of the ordinary, something that did not usually accompany his sleep. It was a smell—sweet, complex, and faintly milky: Margaret’s room. Turning his head so that his nose rested against the pillow—her pillow—he’d inhaled deeply. This perfume was not very strong; it seemed to hover over the bedclothes, evaporating if he breathed in too much of it too quickly. If he tried to fix it in his senses it would disappear, but, sooner or later, it would return to him. It was a smell that seemed to have existed long before him, that was everything and everywhere, cocooning and protecting, at once a lullaby and a stimulant.

  And on this night, because of this perfume, or because of some other unfathomable reason, his dreams are clearer and sharper; and in fact they do not even seem like dreams.

  These are memories. Adam knows this even though he is asleep. These are memories of his Past Life.

  Tonight, images come to him as they sometimes do, but they do not dissolve into that terrible emptiness or flicker faintly on the edge of his sleep. They seem instead to drift like bits of flotsam that cling together to form a raft of recollections.

  He is in a room, a small, square room with a concrete floor that looks smooth, almost shiny, yet he cannot feel this smoothness; his feet feel leaden and clumpy. This is why: He is wearing shoes. He does not normally wear shoes. He looks down at his feet and sees a pair of canvas sneakers, frayed at the toes where they have been scrubbed clean with a coarse brush. The rubber soles squeak as he swings his legs. This is a sustained image, but will it lead to anything else?

  Yes. There are other people in the room—three, to be exact. One of them is a man who is wearing a white shirt with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There are fine golden hairs on his forearms, glinting in the light. His hair is the color of sand, and his voice is not like that of the others. This is Karl. Karl is talking to another man, or, more precisely, he is listening while the other man speaks. This other man’s voice is calm and lilting, like the first tentative notes of a song. He is trying to persuade Karl of something. Adam understands that there is a problem. Something
is not right. He understands that Karl is to take him away, but the man is saying something that Adam can’t understand. He can only hear the voice, cajoling, urging, and suddenly he begins to feel afraid.

  Through the open window he can see the silvery green leaves of a lone coconut tree, spindly and tall, jutting out from the scrubby bush. It is the only thing of color in a landscape bleached by the drought. Yes, there is a drought. It is hot. Adam begins to feel tired, as if he is fainting, fainting into a deep sleep.

  Johan. Wake up, darling. Are you okay? You sleep too much, baby. You’ve been in bed all day—look, it’s nearly dark. Daddy will be angry if he sees you asleep again. You know what a temper he has. Look what Mummy’s bought you, some of your favorite kuih lapis. Adoi, why so sleepy all the time? Poor darling boy, look at you. Come on, sayang, don’t spend your life in bed. Such a waste. Hmm? Don’t mumble. Here, drink your Milo. Mummy put extra milk in for you so your skin will be even nicer. When I first saw you I said to myself, aiyoh, this boy’s skin is so smooth. You were so beautiful even as a small child. All the others were very ugly, all dark and skinny. What? Why jeling mata like that? Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight, just you and me? Farah and Bob can stay and do their homework. Come on, let Mummy take you out for a treat. I want to. Daddy’s at the club with his friends this evening. We’ll go somewhere really nice, okay?