Tash Aw – Map of the Invisible World (страница 8)

These were the stories that Adam loved above all others – the unofficial history of Perdo; he clung to them dearly, afraid they would desert him. He knew exactly why he found them so comforting – they gave him a reason to be different: maybe he, too, had foreign blood in him. And this was why he did not look like the other children on the island, why they hated him.

He often wished that he had the coarse curly hair of the local boys, as well as their sturdy square faces that made them look, well, rudimentary, more suited to the sharp changes of weather on the island. Sometimes, if he stayed out in the sun for too long, the skin on his forearms and knees would begin to smart, as if rubbed with fine sand, and by the end of the day it would feel hot and taut, properly burnt by the sun, just like Karl’s – a foreigner’s skin. On those occasions he wished that he had the other children’s darker, thicker skin that turned to leather by the time they were teenagers, shielding them from the elements. He wished he did not have his straight hair and brittle jawline and fragile cheekbones; he wished he did not stand out quite so much.

For one bucolic year after he moved into his new home, he did not have to worry about other children – or, indeed, about anything else. Much later in his life he would remember that first year with a mixture of nostalgia and regret, and he would experience that odd sensation of sorrow and yearning said to be a trait peculiar to people of the south-east, even though he himself was not genetically native to the region. But the truth was that life during this time was simple, blissful and untroubled, in a way that can only happen when two people are desperate to achieve happiness.

Their days were idyllic and filled with all the things that fathers and sons dream of sharing. They made kites in the shape of birds that sometimes swept effortlessly into the sky but more often crash-landed after the briefest of flights, much to Adam’s and Karl’s amusement; they played takraw in the yard, Adam’s plump legs proving surprisingly adept at juggling the hard rattan ball, Karl less so because of his one weak leg; they hollowed out lengths of driftwood and collected lengkeng seeds to play congkak, a game which Karl explained had been brought to these islands by Arab sea traders many hundreds of years ago; they found an old biscuit tin amongst Karl’s things that contained chess pieces, and drew a chalk chessboard on the floor of the veranda that had to be re-sketched every time the rains swept in and washed it away.

It was a Spartan happiness, it is true. Sometimes, Karl often told him, it is better not to own things, especially precious things, because they will be lost or taken away; things cannot last beyond your lifetime. Karl did not spend any money on toys, for example, or anything he deemed to be ephemeral or trivial. Once or twice, Adam had paused in front of the glass cabinets at the Chinese store in town, admiring the brightly coloured motorcars and plastic water pistols. ‘No one here can afford these toys,’ Karl had said, gesturing in the vague direction of the villages on the coast, ‘and yet they’re quite happy. We don’t need these things either – we’re just like everyone else.’

And so they pursued simpler pleasures. Adam learnt to wade into the shallows and, when the sea was calm, he’d paddle out over the reefs with Karl. He would float along quite calmly for a while but then he would be panicked by the enormity of the ocean, the endlessness of its possibilities, and he would start to flail around, desperate to regain the sureness of the shore, until Karl came over and held his hand. His previous world now seemed empty and colourless, but in this world there were kaleidoscopic fish, purple sea urchins and pulsating starfish; and beyond the coral there was the promise of shipwrecks, their silent corpses filled with treasure from a lost time. Later, Karl would tell him about each of the wrecks: one of them had been shipping opium to China, another had been decommissioned from the British Navy; the biggest one contained hundreds of bottles of precious wine from Oporto and Madeira, still drinkable. In this way Adam learned the history of Perdo; about the Opium wars, Catholicism and the destructive power of religion, and the unjust conquering of Asia by Europe.

This is how Adam believed his new world would begin and end – in this place where he was safe from danger but connected to the possibilities of the world. It was then, however, that Karl began to talk about school.

‘Can’t I just stay at home and learn things from you, pak?’ cried Adam, trying to stem his growing unease. ‘What else do I need to learn?’

‘What you need to learn isn’t contained in textbooks. You need to learn how to live with other people your age – how to be like everyone else. You mustn’t become too privileged.’

But Adam already knew that he was not like everyone else. That was why he was here in the first place, living on this island that was not his real home, with a father who did not look at all like him.

Other children. The very sound of the words made him feel sick. For nearly a year he had had little contact with other children. He had seen them in town whenever he and Karl went for supplies, but he avoided their cold hard stares and clung to Karl’s side, never looking directly at them. He saw them crouching by the roadside, blinking the dust from their eyes as he swept by in the car. And further along the beach he sometimes saw them splashing in the shallows in the late afternoon when the sea was flat, the shadows of the trees reaching across the sand towards the water’s edge. Their faraway cries were shrill and threatening.

* * *

‘Don’t worry, you’re just like the other boys,’ Karl said as he took Adam to school that first day. He spoke in a calm voice, yet Adam knew that Karl himself was not convinced by what he was saying. ‘You’ll enjoy being with compatriots your age. If ever you feel scared, tell yourself, ‘I’m just like everyone else here.’’

The school was a one-room shack on the edge of town, a squat concrete block with a roof of corrugated iron. Adam loathed it from the beginning; its very appearance made him feel sick, and spots of colour appeared in his vision, as if he was going to faint. (I’m just like everyone else here.) There were about eighteen or twenty children crammed into the small classroom, all boys, save for one girl whose roughly cropped hair made her look like a boy. One side of her face was obscured by a birth-mark, a purple-red cloud that stretched from her temple to her jawbone. Adam had to stare closely before deciding that she was indeed a girl; she stuck out her tongue and threw a scrunched-up piece of paper at him. The other boys gathered round him and examined the contents of his new canvas satchel: an exercise book with buff-coloured covers, a pocket atlas and a new box of coloured pencils. His classmates tore the pages from his books and folded them into paper airplanes that they launched into the air with sharp spearing motions. Adam watched as bits of the atlas glided past him: the pink-and-green of the United States floated dreamily in circles until it stubbed its nose on the blackboard and fell abruptly to the ground; the whiteness of the Canadian tundra swept out of the window in an arc, into the dusty sunlight; and the silent mass of the Pacific Ocean that Adam loved so much, dotted with islands (Fiji? Tahiti?) lay on the cracked cement floor, waiting to be trampled upon.

At the end of that first day he did not have the strength to cycle the entire journey home; he pushed his bicycle along the final sandy stretch, too tired even to cry. When he reached the house he let his bicycle fall to the ground; he sat on the steps to the house watching the pedals spin lazily to a stop. There were sea-eagles hovering against the powder-blue sky, barely trembling in the wind. Karl sat with him and put his arm round his shoulders. He shook his head and said, ‘It’s a privilege, you know.’

‘What is?’

‘Education. You saw those kids at school? What kind of families do you think they come from?’

Horrible ones, Adam wanted to say. Filthy, mean, horrible ones.

‘Poor ones. Farmers or fishermen who can’t read or write, and yet everyone has had to pay to get into that school. They take a small packet of money or a carton of cigarettes to the education officer and beg him to put their child’s name on the school list, and if they don’t have cash they take a goat or some chickens or sacks of rice. There isn’t space for everyone, so the kids whose parents pay the most get in. I had to do the same – I paid the most because I’m, well, they look at me and their minds are made up.’

‘Because you’re foreign?’

‘Because I’m rich. Or at least that’s what they think.’

Adam watched as Karl lifted the bicycle and set it upright; its handlebar and pedals were covered thickly with sand that fell to the ground in clumps. ‘The point is,’ Karl continued, ‘none of those people can afford to send their children to school. They’d rather have their kids with them, working in the fields or out at sea with them. Then they have to pay for uniforms, shoes, books. Why? Because they want their children to read and write, to have nice jobs in offices and drive cars in Jakarta. They might not realise it, but they believe in the future of this country.’