Map of the Invisible World: A Novel

by Tash Aw

  Aware that she was being discussed (even an untuned Balinese ear could understand Karl’s maceration of her name), Nyoman raised herself slightly and shifted her weight to adjust her sarong. She looked up at Margaret with bored, bloodshot eyes and broke into a rich, soupy cough; she turned her head and spat a thick glob of phlegm into the bushes beyond the platform, projecting it so cleanly and powerfully that it rustled the foliage.

  “Elegant. That is the word, I think,” Karl said, frowning in concentration as he stirred a pool of paint on his palette; it was the color of mud after a heavy rain. “Life in Europe is no longer elegant. It is no longer sensitive or welcoming or warm. No, we are no longer innocent. We have had our childhood snatched away from us and now we are old, argumentative men, decaying and ready to go to war at any moment.”

  “Why do you always paint women like that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With long necks and angular cheekbones. I mean, all of you do it. Walter, who really started this trend, I suppose, he paints them with thin, curving necks and seductive eyes—when he bothers to paint women at all, that is. Boys are really his thing, as you know. Rudolf is the same, though his women are a bit more interesting because they’re sinewy and lean, just like men. Which, of course, they are—men with breasts and feminine lips; he’s really quite repressed, Mother says, not at all like Walter. Jos Smit isn’t a homosexual—well, at least I don’t think he is—and yet he paints his women in the same way. And now you. You’re not all copying one another, are you?”

  Karl turned to look at Margaret. His sand-colored eyebrows were clenched tightly in a frown. “Do you think my work is … derivative?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, no,” said Margaret quickly, though she was aware, even as she said it, that she sounded less than convincing. “I mean, you have a wonderful sense of color. Look,” she waved a hand at the canvas, over the spot where patches of orange lay next to strips of absinthe green: the morning sun falling on the hills (or at least that was what she thought it was). “No one else in Bali does it this way. It’s really, um, unique.”

  Karl returned to his canvas and began to dab some of the mud-colored paint into the outlines of the torso.

  “So,” said Margaret, “do you think you’ll stay here in Sayan, then? For good, I mean. You know what? Your use of light is really very arresting. Wow.”

  “Yes, I’ll stay,” said Karl, not looking up from his painting. “I don’t want to move anymore. This is my home now. I never want to move again.”

  “Great.”

  Karl set his brush down and turned to Nyoman, gesturing at her with upturned palms; the session was over for the day. “I like it here, I’m happy.” (He did not sound happy, thought Margaret.) “The people here like me and I like them. I like them very much.”

  Nyoman rose from the platform and coughed some more. She came around to look at the painting and giggled, raising her hand to her mouth. “Poor thing,” Karl said, stroking her brow gently. “I don’t think she’s feeling very well, even though she protests otherwise.”

  “Maybe she has tuberculosis,” said Margaret.

  Karl looked anxious; he laid his palm on Nyoman’s forehead, checking for fever. “You think so? Just as well I’ve asked her to come and live here with me. I think it will be good for her—and for me. I need my muse near me.”

  “That will be a cozy arrangement for everyone.”

  He smiled weakly at Margaret. “I’m very optimistic about my new life here. I feel settled, after all these years. It’s just an instinctive thing. You understand, don’t you? I know you’re still a child, but somehow I feel we’re very similar.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I do understand.”

  “Will you come and visit again? Soon?”

  “Sure. Maybe. Yes, well, it’s not the easiest place for me to get to. Anyway, au revoir, as they say.”

  “Au revoir.”

  It was raining when Margaret arrived home. The journey had taken nearly two hours and the paths had become very muddy. She had slipped and fallen heavily on her shoulder and now her neck felt sore too. She was filled with a thick, insoluble despair, something so rich and dark that she thought it physiological: She felt nauseous, and there was a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe she was catching a cold, she thought as she dried her hair and struggled out of her wet clothes. As she changed she noticed how small her clothes were—a child’s clothes. She hated them.

  She found her mother in her study, sitting amid piles of photographs, all of which appeared to be of the same people—Balinese dancers who looked dead.

  “No, they’re not dead,” her mother said, busily sorting through the prints in no apparent order. “They’re in a trance. Your father and I have been taking photographs of them. It’s going to be a very comprehensive record. What’s wrong with you? You look decidedly pale. I would ask your father to take your temperature, but he’s off somewhere with one of those amusing homosexual painters, hunting for butterflies. At least, that’s what he said. I hope it wasn’t a euphemism for something pederastic. I’ve just lately had a faint suspicion that he might be doing slightly more adventurous fieldwork than he’s admitted to, though of course that wouldn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  “Mother, I’m not feeling very well.”

  “What is the matter with you? You hardly ever get sick. There was that one time in Tchambuli when you were bitten by a viper and had convulsions, of course, but you’ve never been sick since. Let’s have a look at you. Why on earth are you crying? Oh god, it’s that silly thing young Westerners call love, isn’t it? Who is it? That delicate new Dutch boy? Listen, Margaret Bates, there’s only one thing I can tell you in these matters: Never allow yourself to become too attached to a man—or a woman, for that matter, though men seem somehow worse. I’ve seen this boy; he’s very engaging, but soon he’ll be gone. I don’t know if it’ll be one month or five, one year or five, but they all move on. Man is a restless creature, nomadic at heart. We all seek new experiences, and that’s the way it should be. Somehow it’s easier for the male animal to do it than the female, but if you remain truthful to yourself you’ll soon find that you are a nomad too. Don’t settle down, darling; your home is where you are. You’re in control. Not Karl de Willigen or anyone else. Falling in love is just a notion. You can control it like anything else. Now, do stop crying. Boil yourself some water and make a pot of tea. I have to press on with my trance dancers.”

  That night seemed very long. Margaret lay in bed without moving, blinking in the darkness, arms laid flat beside her. She tried to remove all thoughts of Karl from her consciousness, filling her head instead with a steady blankness. The emptiness brought relief but not sleep. Sometime after midnight she heard her parents arguing, their raised voices puncturing the fragile peace of her nonsleep, and suddenly she could see an image of Karl in her mind’s eye; his slim hands and tawny hair, or his new house, perched precariously on the ridge. Or Nyoman. She could hear Karl’s lilting voice too, and then she’d have to start again, this conscious process of deleting each image one by one, extinguishing them each time they resurfaced, like figures from a shadow play that refused to die. Pull yourself together, Margaret Bates, she repeated; you can do it. There, you see? Falling in love is a matter of choice. Gradually she began to feel better and, sometime toward dawn, as sleep finally came to her, she felt herself falling out of love with Karl.

  · 22 ·

  Adam lifted his head and blinked. Light was falling onto the floor in a stream of constant color. He looked up: A crystal chandelier hung above him, its sharp nose pointing toward him like a huge icicle that he feared would crash down upon him at any moment. The dark, shiny floor reflected the light, and when Adam looked down he could make out the blurry outline of his face and body. At first he did not recognize himself; he looked different, as if lost in another world where all shapes, all things, all people were altered, only a fraction, but enough for him not to be sure where he was. Every tim
e he moved the light would change completely and half his body would be shaded; and if he turned his head slightly, part of the ceiling would suddenly shift and make him seem taller.

  He was surrounded by beautifully dressed people—the men in Western-style suits or military uniforms, the women in long dresses that swept around their ankles. They were wearing jewels too, these women—necklaces and brooches and earrings the likes of which Adam had never seen before. He tried not to look, to keep walking steadily; the problem was that he did not know where he was going. Young men in hotel uniforms paused before him. He could tell that they wanted to ask him what he was doing there, but he knew that as long as he kept moving he would be safe. He needed to keep calm and act as if he knew this place.

  There were soldiers guarding the doors. None of them had even looked at Adam as he walked in. There had been a group of young men, not much older than himself, getting out of a van just as he arrived. They looked like athletes—soccer players, maybe. They were dressed simply but neatly, as Adam was, some of them clutching cameras. They were excited to be there, smoothing their hair with both hands and buttoning the top button of their shirts, wanting to look smart. Adam had slipped in with them, trying to blend in. He’d combed his fingers through his hair the way they did and made sure his collar was buttoned at the neck.

  And now they were drifting away, shuffling uncertainly on the smooth floor of the lobby, and Adam was alone again. He tried to remember Din’s instructions: He looked around for the Batik Bar but could not see it. There were too many people here. Someone approached him and he drew back instinctively. A young woman dressed in a kebaya was holding something out to him, a tray bearing purple and white orchids, each one wrapped in a glossy, green leaf, held together by a gold pin, and he understood that he was meant to take one of the orchids. At the far end of the lobby he saw a staircase, broad and curving, lined with gold banisters, leading to a mezzanine level that overlooked the lobby; if he could just get there he would be able to go up to the gallery and get a clear view of everything. He made his way slowly toward the staircase, but he could walk no more than a few steps before finding his path obstructed. People stood chatting in large groups and Adam did not wish to announce his presence by saying “excuse me,” so each time he met an obstacle he had to stop and search for an alternative route. Each time he brushed past someone he felt the heavy bulk of his bag; it seemed to have become even bigger and more prominent since he had stepped into the hotel.

  The stairs were not far now. A large party of foreigners—Japanese, he thought—blocked his way. Another waiter came by with a tray, this time bearing glasses of cold honey-colored drinks. He paused not far from Adam, hesitating; Adam could tell that he was not sure whether he should serve Adam. He looked like a boy from the islands, Adam thought, maybe even from Perdo. Maybe he recognized Adam from somewhere. He looked directly at Adam’s face, then dropped his gaze to Adam’s feet, scrutinizing every item of Adam’s clothing before staring once more at his face. And then he turned away, offering his tray to a European man nearby.

  Adam felt the strap of the satchel beginning to chafe on his collarbone. Every time he moved, even if it was just to turn his head, it rubbed painfully against his skin. For a few moments he thought about opening the bag and taking some of its contents out in order to lighten the load. But he knew he could not do that. He knew he could not open the bag here in the lobby; he did not even want to think about it. All he needed to do was to find the restroom and leave the bag there. Then he could walk away and continue with Life, whatever Life was now. If he did what Din told him, Din would help him find his brother. They would go to Malaysia together and find Johan, and there would be a New Life, one which would not be burdened by empty memories.

  He noticed a parting in the group of Japanese men: a small gap, just enough to squeeze through. It would not last long. Adam pushed his way through this narrow corridor, turning his body sideways so that he barely brushed past the men. Someone moved, knocking into him; he felt the softness of the man’s jacket against his cheekbone and caught the whiff of fragrant aftershave; he heard the man say “sorry” but he did not turn back. He was at the foot of the stairs when he noticed a sign, a square board painted with a colorful motif of batik patterns. The gold letters and the arrow on it indicated where the bar was; Adam headed in that direction and soon saw another arrow pointing the way to the men’s lavatories. Din was right, he thought, it was so easy. There was nothing to worry about.

  The lavatories were cool and silent, sheltered from the bright chatter of voices in the lobby, lit only by wall sconces that cast a faint amber glow. The walls were of black marble, flawless and shiny even in the absence of bright light; and in one corner there was a large, white orchid plant whose leaves were beginning to turn leathery and brown at the edges. An old man in a white uniform was wiping around the sinks with a dirty cloth; he worked slowly, moving the rag in lazy, uneven circles, watching Adam in the mirror. A sudden hiss made Adam start: The urinals filled with water that gushed loudly, reverberating in the quiet space. Adam went quickly to the cubicle at the far end of the row of four; he locked the door and remained very still, listening for the old janitor as the flushing of the urinals subsided. At first he thought he could hear the limp flopping of wet cloth on hard marble, but then there was silence. The janitor’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the floor but Adam could not tell where he was. Adam lowered the toilet seat, letting it fall with a clatter. He coughed. Still he could not tell if the janitor was there. He lifted the satchel from his shoulders and placed it very gently behind the toilet, deep in the corner. Even if someone came into the stall he would not see the bag unless he looked for it. Now that he had gotten rid of the bag he felt free and unencumbered once again. But if the janitor saw him emerge without it he would be in trouble; he had to wait until the old man had gone before he could leave.

  He waited and listened: nothing. Was that someone moving? He held his breath and listened again. Was that the sound of running water, a pipe somewhere? In the lobby a band had begun to play, something bright and brassy, with wind instruments—a trumpet, Adam thought. It made it difficult for Adam to discern the different noises—which sound was being made by whom? He had to make a decision: If he stayed in the cubicle for much longer the janitor would begin to get suspicious. He coughed again, though he did not know what for—it sounded less unnatural than standing there in complete silence. He listened again: still nothing, as far as he could tell. He reached out and touched the door of the stall, feeling the smoothness of the varnished wood. He waited and wondered: How would this end?

  Nothing in life is certain, he remembered Karl telling him; you just have to surrender to chance and let life take you where it wants to. If you do that, my son, you’ll probably end up exactly where you dreamed you would be. They had been sitting on the steps in front of their house, early in the evening; the sun was disappearing theatrically below the horizon as it did on every clear evening in Perdo. They were trying to fix the radio, which had broken, and it was taking them a very long time. Tell me again about the war, Pak, Adam had said; so Karl told him about how he had left Bali by stealth, in the dead of night. Adam loved this story of danger and adventure. He loved hearing how Karl had traveled by boat for weeks until he finally reached Holland, thinking it was safer for him there, but then Holland was invaded anyway. Adam loved hearing Karl say, “I lay in bed every night praying that I wouldn’t die because if I died I would not be able to get back to Indonesia; I used to dream about being somewhere else, in another world far far away.” Why didn’t you want to stay in Holland? Adam had asked. And Karl had said simply, “I don’t know why. All I knew is that I had to come back here, to where I belonged. Life is like that, Son. Sometimes you don’t know why you do something, you just do it. You just surrender yourself to chance and hope that it takes you to all the things you ever hoped for.”

  Adam reached for the door and opened it, walking quickly toward the exit. The old jan
itor was still there. No matter; he was free at last, able to move quickly and without fear. He had done what was needed of him, and now he would begin his New Life, and it would lead him eventually to Johan—to his past and his future. He walked briskly, past the Batik Bar and back out into the lobby. This time there was even less space among the people, but Adam was more insistent than he had been before, working his way through the tight maze of wool-and silk-clad bodies; he muttered quick excuse me’s and ignored the sighs of annoyance that he received in reply. He fixed his sights on the great cubic chandelier that hung over the center of the lobby: If he could just make it to that point he would then be able to make a break for the doors beyond.

  A military band on the mezzanine was playing silly, sugary tunes—folk songs that Adam thought he knew, though they had been altered to such a degree that he was not sure if they were the same songs. There was the one about the fisherman and the seagull. The fisherman was in love with the daughter of a rich farmer who wouldn’t let her marry the fisherman because he was too poor. So every day the fisherman would pour his heart out to the seagull, and the seagull would give him advice; it would sing to him and say, Never lose hope for love, for love will come back to you, never lose hope for love, for love is true even if man is not. That was the chorus. Except Adam was not sure it was the same song; he couldn’t tell because of the trumpets and the clanging of the drums. The song finished and they began “Bengawan Solo.” He heard a murmur of approval, a sigh of nostalgia accompanied by a ripple of applause. But above the music Adam sensed something else. A few soldiers had come into the lobby, spreading out as if to look for someone; with them was the waiter who had looked at Adam earlier, the one who had not wanted to serve him drinks, who was now pointing in the general direction of the Batik Bar. The soldiers craned their necks to try and see into the crowd. Adam bowed his head; he knew they were looking for him.