Map of the Invisible World. Tash AwЧитать онлайн книгу.
sounding bright, she told herself, she was even better at being flippant). She retrieved the piece of paper and re-folded it neatly. ‘I just thought, well, this poor guy’s out there, stranded, his Embassy probably doesn’t even know, he’s about to be flung in jail or even worse, a shallow grave along with lots of communists. I guess Schneider just thought that with the contacts I have – well, used to have – I might be able to do something. But I can’t. It’s not the same any more.’
Mick did not reply; a moment of silence passed between them, the staccato tapping of Rudy’s typewriter the only noise in the airless afternoon. Margaret looked down at the folded piece of paper in her lap. The newsprint was blurring and the paper itself was becoming oily and limp from the humidity and the moisture on her fingertips. She wanted to reach for her bottle of beer, but suddenly the simple act of stretching out for it seemed impossibly difficult. Her head began to hurt again, the heavy numbness giving way once more to waves of stabbing pain in her temples. ‘I mean,’ she said at last, quietly, ‘I just don’t get mixed up in that kind of thing any more.’
Mick smiled and said, ‘Your beer’s getting warm.’
‘Please, Mick, can you help me? I need to find this man. I feel I need to do something.’
‘Dear old Margaret, always the do-gooder.’ He frowned and ran both hands through his dark wavy hair, rubbing his scalp as if he had an itch. ‘I don’t know, it’s getting difficult for our guys to gather information. Even our local fixers get in trouble with the army. There are soldiers everywhere, looking for trouble. Worst thing is that we don’t have enough cash to bribe everyone. We haven’t got enough money coming through from the US channels. CBS doesn’t use me any more, the BBC’s gone silent. ARTC are the only ones coming up with the goods for me right now. I just don’t know, Margaret.’
‘Please.’
Mick sighed.
‘For old times?’
‘We never had any old times, you heartbreaker.’
She stood up and tried hard to smile. ‘Oh, we would have gotten married and had twelve kids, if only you didn’t’ – she mouthed – ‘like boys.’
‘Oh, you wound me. I die, I faint, I fail.’
‘Truth hurts. Call me.’
She made her way slowly back through the adjacent building. There were more people about now, neatly dressed office workers carrying piles of papers as they walked unhurriedly across the lobby of the building. They glanced at Margaret with sleepy, bloodshot eyes. Some of the women were wearing the jilbab, their heads covered in scarves that came down to their waists, shrouding their slight torsos and revealing only their calm powdered faces. Margaret became aware that the squeaking of her sneakers was the only noise she could hear echoing in the cool emptiness of the space. She could hear no one else’s footsteps, and even the distant drone of the air conditioning had fallen silent.
Outside, the city was white and dusty with heat. She put on her sunglasses and began to walk. ‘Hey, lady,’ men called out, ringing the bells of their becaks to get her attention. She moved away, ignoring them. She wanted to walk; she wanted to move her body and clear her mind and not succumb to this immovable pain in her head. She continued past the dirty white façade of the Catholic cathedral, its spires rising forlornly into the sky. There was a thin patch of fresh whitewash on the walls next to the entrance, but she could still read the messy red graffiti underneath: Crush Christian Imperialists.
‘Hey, lady, hey,’ the becak drivers called. ‘Hey, pretty lady. Oi! ’ A group of three or four of them followed her in their shaded rickshaws, shouting incessantly. Suddenly their cries were all she could hear. The sound of the cars and the buses and scooters faded into a vague, distant roar, like the sound of the sea as you approach the coast but cannot yet see the water. She had to get away from these men, she thought, and crossed the road, wading calmly into the traffic, picking her way westwards to the barren expanse of Merdeka Square. She headed towards the construction site of the soon-to-be National Monument. The gigantic column was pushing slowly into the sky, its thick base shrouded in scaffolding. Monstrous pieces of machinery lay scattered around it, silent and unused like ruins of a lost civilisation. The earth in the square was bare and easily turned to mud by the heavy rains of the monsoon, but now, after a few months without rain, it was crumbling to dust, and she kicked up little red clouds as she walked briskly along in the heavy heat. It felt like a desert here, Margaret thought, uninhabitable by man.
She continued briskly, feeling the heat on her head. Stupid to come out without a hat, she thought, but she was not a delicate white flower that wilted under the sun. She marched on through this deserted island in the middle of the swirling city, trying to ignore her headache. A mangy dog trotted alongside her for a few moments and then sloped off to find shelter. In the distance, in the meagre shade of a spindly acacia, she noticed two boys, shirtless, their backs propped up against the tree trunk. She was not in the mood for hassle, but a quick glance confirmed that there was nowhere to go: all around her there was just a great emptiness with no pathways to divert her trajectory, no cover, no excuse to change direction. Besides, she thought, if she changed tack now they would spot her and know that she was avoiding them, and then they would come after her. She knew this for certain; she had lived here so long and knew these people so well that she could predict what would happen. The best thing to do was to carry on as if they were not there. They might be too lazy or tired to harass her. They were just kids: what could they do? In any case she must show that she was not afraid.
‘Hey, cutey,’ they shouted as she went past. She noticed at once that they did not call her ‘Auntie’ or ‘Mother’ or any other respectful term by which she was often addressed by young men. She should have been flattered but wasn’t; she carried on briskly. Instantly, they were at her side, flanking her as she lengthened her stride. Their frames were slight, even fragile at first glance, yet Margaret saw that they had the expressions and wiry musculature of older boys. Quickly she determined their age: fourteen or fifteen, old enough to be dangerous.
‘Hey – Dutch? British? American? Give us money, US dollars.’ They spoke with the rough accents of the Bimanese or Sasaks; these boys were from the outer islands, not Jakarta.
She continued looking straight ahead. ‘I don’t have any money with me. If I did I would give you some, but I don’t. Now go away, leave me alone.’
Thrown by her fluency in Indonesian, they were quiet for a moment. ‘One dollar,’ one of them said, holding up his index finger. ‘Just one dollar.’
‘No.’
‘OK, rupiah. You have rupiah.’
‘I told you, I have no money.’ They were still a long way from the edge of the square, a long way from the sea of traffic in the distance.
The first boy stepped in front of her and stopped dead. ‘You’re lying.’
He stood very close to her, looking straight into her face. He had a scar running across his forehead, a purple-white streak against the almost iridescent bronze of his skin. The pungent odour of his sweat filled Margaret’s nostrils and she could almost feel the sticky heat from his body. She looked him straight in the eye and was glad for the extra protection of her sunglasses. ‘I am telling you to leave me alone.’
His face broke into an ugly sneer, his lips parting to reveal surprisingly strong white teeth. ‘Why?’
‘Because I say so.’
‘So what? Give me rupiah.’
‘No.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another three or four youths jogging towards them, street kids, just like these two, shirtless and barefoot. She moved to one side and resumed walking, faster now: she had to get to the edge of the square.
There were bodies around her, but she kept striving for the road, for the noise of the traffic. Someone reached out and touched her, a hot clammy hand on her bare forearm. Don’t run, she told herself, don’t run. There was a tug at her shirt, then a pinch on