Certainty (25 page)

“Do you fly kites, Wideh?”

He shook his head. “But I’m going to build one some time. A swallow. The pattern isn’t complicated, not like some of the others.” He motioned towards an older man in a quilted jacket standing nearby. His three kites, attached to one another in a triangle, were painted to resemble birds. They spun and fell sharply, their tails tracing patterns in the sky. The man stepped sideways and they plummeted to the ground, somersaulting over the grass before lifting up once more.

Wideh turned back to Matthew. “What is it like in Sandakan?”

“Nowadays, it’s peaceful. Not as vibrant as Jakarta, but the harbour is very busy; ships come in from many places. When I was small, I used to imagine the town was a child, standing with his back to the jungle, and his face to the sea.”

“As if to set foot in the water and sail away,” said Wideh.

“A swimming city!”

Ani laughed. “You never told me.”

“I still remember walking down to the harbour in the early morning,” Matthew said. “Seeing you there on Tajuddin’s boat.”

“She hardly speaks about it,” Wideh said, his voice filled with wonder.

“It was so long ago.”

“Everyone knew her. In Sandakan, Tajuddin’s boat was famous.”

Matthew and Wideh continued to talk, about kite-flying, then distant cities, and Ani did not interrupt them. She listened to their voices, this knitting together, felt as if she were balanced within, a soul sheltered between the past and the present.

A civilian regiment, recognizable by their khaki shirts and trousers, swept onto the road, stopping traffic. They moved in unison, chanting slogans whose words she could not make out. Beside them, the canal was busy with people bathing and swimming, the womens’ clothing blurring in kaleidoscopic patterns.

“One day, I’ll go to Sandakan,” Wideh said. “I’ll put flowers on the graves of my grandparents. Ibu told me both my grandfathers died there, and also my grandmother.”

“And if there are no graves?”

“Then the sea.”

Matthew nodded. “I, too, was glad to go back. If only to say goodbye.”

They sat together as the sun faded behind the trees, lowering through the branches. The kites drifted to the ground, a swirl of colour, and children ran to gather them up.

When they parted, he left as if he would be seeing them again, shaking Wideh’s hand, then putting his lips to the boy’s hair. She knew that what she and Matthew had shared in childhood had carried them safely through, a net where all other lines had been torn away. All these years, the net had held. His eyes rested on Ani’s face. They said goodbye to one another, and then he stepped away from them. She saw what he had given her, the one thing her parents had been unable to do, prepare her for this parting, this letting go.

A
betjak
came along and he climbed in. She watched the vehicle pull out onto the busy street, watched for as long as she could, until it was one among so many others. Wideh took her arm and pulled her lightly, and together they walked along the crowded road, eventually crossing back into the park, towards Jalan Kamboja.

In the late afternoon, Wideh sleeps on a blanket in the grass, a magazine open on his chest. The fuchsia shrubs, planted in a border along the canal, reach out luxuriantly. Low against the sky, a flock of avocet, or
kluut
, veer and dip in unison. They are familiar to Ani now, these elegant northern birds, the
kluut
with their black-tipped wings; the heron that stand in the fields, watchful.

The birds tip towards the east, their movement coinciding with the appearance of Frank Postma, who steps with a flourish into the garden, his daughter, Ingrid, close behind him. Ani walks across the grass to meet them, and he puts his hands on her shoulders, kissing her on both cheeks. Ingrid presents the box of pastries that she says they bought in the Indonesian market in The Hague.
Spekkoek
, Frank announces,
klepon
and
ongol-ongol
. Only the best. Ingrid nods. “A veritable dessert buffet.” At these words, Wideh gets to his feet.

Frank asks to see Wideh’s photographs, and, after some prodding, Wideh brings out an envelope of prints taken during a recent trip to Southeast Asia. In one, the harbour at Sunda Kelapa, a study of the myriad lines of rigging that criss-cross the sky. In another, a stand of trees half concealed by fog, the trunks, otherworldly, crooked and gnarled. “Mount Kinabalu,” he says. “A cloud forest in North Borneo. In the high altitude, the clouds deposit drops of water on the trees, and this provides what little moisture they need.” He selects a print and shows it to Frank. “Here’s a pitcher plant, one of the carnivorous plants of the region.”

For a moment, Ani believes it is her father speaking. In her memory, they are walking single-file through the jungle, Ani between her parents, their voices layering into the canopy above her.

Sipke appears, bringing beer and wine and a half-dozen glasses. In the last few months, his hair has begun to grey, a brush of white at the edges. Ani pours the drinks and Sipke stands with one hand on the small of her back, listening as Wideh describes Jakarta, the neighbourhoods bulldozed or rezoned, made over into something entirely different. Walking on Jalan Kamboja, he had searched among the remaining businesses, finding an elderly woman who remembered the street the way it was in the early 1960s, the Pondok Restaurant, the Dutch portrait studio. “They went away with their little boy,” she had told him. “I’m not sure where they’ve gotten to now.”

“Up to no good, of course,” Frank says. He lifts his glass, takes a sip of beer. “I remember it all so clearly. Now, when I look at these young kids, going off with their cameras to Bosnia, to Croatia, I want to pack my bags and follow them. Being a photographer is what I’ve always done. I’m not equipped for any other life.”

“That time is gone,” Ingrid says, reaching out to touch her father’s shoulder. “You’ll have to content yourself with dusty old Holland. What was that line again?” She looks up at the cloudless sky, remembering. “‘O starshine on the fields of long ago.’”

Sipke finishes the words. “‘Bring me the darkness and the nightingale . . . and the faces of my friends.’”

Twilight comes, and the frogs are a chorus on the banks. Joos, their neighbour and Sipke’s boyhood friend, shows up with box wine. Quantity, Joos says, is the order of the night. Beside him, Sipke frowns at the seal. While the glasses are being refilled, Ingrid stands up and finds Wideh’s guitar leaning against the wall. She sets it on her lap, her fingers moving lightly over the strings, and the notes disperse, weaving together the space around them. Their voices rise, enclosing her, Frank’s erudite and Joos’s bombastic. Her heart eases to see Sipke and Wideh relaxed and laughing. It does not feel as if it is she who is leaving. Rather, the world is withdrawing from her, stepping back; it is taking its leave.

There is a child in the canal, barely visible. In the dim light, Ani can see her floating on her back, her hair in pigtails, her arms flung wide. Around her, tall fronds reach above the water, interrupting the reflection of the evening sky. Slowly, the girl drifts past. Then, as if aware of someone watching, she turns onto her stomach, swimming, her shoulders appearing then submerging, her pale feet taking turns to break the surface.

When Ani looks up, she sees Sipke, and the tenderness in his expression returns her to a morning almost thirty years ago. She and Wideh are in the airport in Amsterdam, their one trunk on the ground. She sees the mass of people, the high wavering lights, and then Sipke coming towards them.

Together they leave the airport. Outside, they find that a light snow is falling. Sipke has borrowed his brother’s car, and they drive under a series of concrete bridges, into the open. The colours transfix her, muted shades of green and brown, ice beneath a pearl-white sky. Everywhere, the land is unfamiliar, unimagined, canals slipping across the fields. For a moment, the future comes to her, as vivid and clear as a memory unfolding. The highway rises onto a plateau, the land falls away. The North Sea opens before her, wind rippling the water.

9

The Glass Jar

January

I
t had been one of those rare winter days, almost a year ago now, Ansel recalls, when the chill of the season seemed, for a few hours, a thing of the past. He had just arrived home from work, and Gail was sitting on the front porch. She had earphones on and she was listening to music. This is the way he remembers it. Gail in jeans and a cardigan, watching the life of the street go by.

What are you listening to? he asked. She told him to guess, and then, smiling, she took both of his hands, doing a jive. Somebody across the street whistled long and low. Car doors slammed, talk radio spilled out a nearby window. She was all energy, all heat. They were dancing on their handkerchief of lawn, and he felt as if something he had lost was, for a moment, within reach again. Later, her feet on his lap as she read the newspaper. This is good, she had said. Her voice was hopeful. This is right.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor waver. Ansel takes the stairs up, emerging on the fifth floor, into the quiet of the
ICU
. He stops at the nurses’ station to take his bearings. The phone rings, the head nurse turns his face away, speaking in a low voice, and Ansel continues along the corridor.

At the far end of the ward, he can see Alistair in the last bed. A nurse is checking his
IV
lines. Alistair’s eyes are closed, and he gives the impression not of sleeping but of being deeply absorbed, preoccupied by his own thoughts. Ansel scans the monitor, then picks up the chart from the foot of the bed. He runs a finger over the lines as he reads, and the movement reminds him of his own father, of how once, when he was a child, he had stood at his father’s side in this same
ICU
. They had walked from bed to bed and his father had told him to be very still, that he should not be there, but he wanted Ansel to see how things were. The hush and gravity of the ward made Ansel want to run outside, swing a bat, stomp up and down on the pavement. His anxiety must have shown. His father bent down, hands on Ansel’s shoulders, holding his gaze. “Sooner or later,” he said, gently, “we all end up in the care of another.”

Ansel hears the sound of a chair scraping. He had not seen her, a woman near his own age, so close to the curtains that her outline seems to disappear into the folds.

She nods slightly when he introduces himself. “I’m family,” she says. “Al is my brother. I only arrived last night.”

“There’s a private room in this ward. A place to rest and be alone, if you need it. He’s stable now.”

“It’s okay. I just want to be near.”

He returns the chart to its holding place. Through the windows behind her, he can see down to the bay where the water gleams. The fierce light of the sun comes in, shining off the glass walls of the ward. They listen to the heart-rate monitor, the slow measured blips of electronic sound. Alistair, his face partly obscured by an oxygen mask, is still.

“Are you the doctor that got him into Kafka?”

“Pardon?”

“Kafka. Al phoned up one night and said, when I came, I should bring along some books. He says Kafka had tuberculosis.” She reaches towards the windowsill, holds up a tattered paperback. “So I went to the library and found this.”

“Oh, yes,” Ansel says, and then nods. “I think it was me.”

“He was always a big reader, even when we were kids. I used to tease him about it. He was my older brother, and I thought he was showing off.” Her voice sounds exhausted, but she continues speaking, filling the silence between them. “Always with his nose in a book and it didn’t matter what, novels, comic books, even the magazines our mother kept around the apartment when she was still there. Al was full of surprises. Not everyone would want to be sent off with Kafka.”

“I don’t think that I would.”

She smiles briefly before glancing away. “What would you have instead? A piece of music, maybe.”

“No.” He gathers his thoughts. “Someone beside me. No radio, no television. Just the sound of the world going by.”

She puts the book down. Dr. Singh, the attending physician, appears in the doorway. His eyes skim the folder in his hand and then he steps into the room. Al’s sister stands up. He can see the resemblance between siblings, the way Al might have looked before terminal illness set in. Her eyes are red from weeping.

Ansel listens while Singh speaks. He is kind when he details the prognosis, but he holds nothing back. When Singh leaves, Al’s sister comes to stand beside Ansel. The light falls against her hair, casting her face in shadow. They watch Singh through the plate-glass walls, the multiple reflections of his white coat.

“If there’s other family to contact, we should do it soon.”

“No, I’m the last.”

The room floats in silence, and then she says, “I’d been trying to get Al to come to Victoria, to stay with me and my kids. A few years ago, I almost had him convinced, but then he got the diagnosis, the
HIV
. He changed his mind.” She pauses after each sentence, as if to gather strength for the next. “We’ve always been close. Things never came easy for him, he was sixteen when he left home. He was reckless with himself. I knew I couldn’t save him if he didn’t want to be saved. And even then,” she crosses her arms in front of herself, “sometimes one thing doesn’t go right, and then another, and then it all snowballs. But he put all the blame on his own shoulders, he tried to be the one to carry the weight, and it hurt him in the end.

“Some things I only realize in hindsight. How someone caught me at a time I didn’t even realize I was slipping. And then, those times when I failed to reach out. Failed to see that someone I cared for was losing their footing.”

“But you’re here now,” Ansel says. “When he wakes up, you’ll be here.”

Outside, in the hallway, time continues. They can hear the voices of nurses, of visitors in a nearby room. An elderly man is wheeled out on a gurney, his wife holding his hand as he glides past.

Ansel says, “Would you tell him I’ll come back this evening?”

“I will.”

“Do you need anything?”

He cannot read her expression. She seems lost in her own thoughts, trying to turn over a line, a word, that she cannot quite comprehend. What was it Alistair had said, so many months ago? No more questions, no more doubts.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I am.”

Behind the words, he sees loss as if it were a tremor of light around her. Ansel walks towards the doorway, is about to leave the room when she returns to the window. Her back is to him, dark hair against her shoulders, and she gazes out over the shining city.

At home, after nightfall, the house is unbearably quiet. In the kitchen, he switches the radio on, listens as a physicist describes the latest images transmitted back by the Hubble Telescope. Ansel has seen them on the Internet: a nebula six light-years wide, impossibly strange and glorious. The shape, with its swirling tentacles of dust clouds, is somehow familiar. To him, it resembles a deep-sea creature let loose in space. Or one could imagine it minuscule, a dot in a Petri dish, now magnified large.

He tries to imagine Gail in the kitchen, preparing a meal as the radio plays. She stands with one hand resting on the counter, her eyes closed, listening intently.

On that night when she returned from Amsterdam, he had been waiting for her at the airport, watching the unending line of travellers emerging through the double doors, pushing their baggage ahead of them as they crushed into the waiting crowd.

For a long time she did not see him. At last Ansel reached her. “There you are,” she said.

“Here I am.”

The crowd parted around them as if they were an island in a flowing river.

In the car on the way home, she had asked him to detour towards the peninsula, to the cliffs on the west side where the city ended and the ocean began. It was a clear night, and sitting on the hood of the car she had pointed out the glow of a lighthouse on the tip of the northern bank. The air smelled of brine and the cold.

She seemed exhausted from the flight, distracted, and yet she had not wanted to go home. They talked at first about Harry Jaarsma, then she told him about travelling north to the province of Friesland, about someone she had met there, a man named Sipke Vermeulen. She said that he had known her father. “There was a place we visited,” she said. “To arrive there, we drove across a piece of land that, fifty years ago, lay beneath the sea. Maybe one day, we can go back together and I’ll be able to show you.”

Neither of them had wanted to leave, and so they had remained there, despite the lateness of the hour, wrapped in their winter coats. She told him about William Sullivan’s diary. Something about it had moved her, the numbers now transformed into sentences. She said that Kathleen had wanted to open a window from her father’s life onto her own.

“Remember when we were kids,” she said, “and the world consisted of the streets we knew, the streets we’d walked on. I always wanted to keep going, to roam as far as I could and make everything a part of me.”

For a moment, he cannot move. His grief takes hold again, the pain worse than it has been in many months. He goes upstairs to their bedroom. Gail’s clothes lie neatly folded on the bed, on the floor, and he gathers them into plastic bags. Each one is familiar, it has a scent and a memory. He lays her sweaters in a box, covers them with her winter coat. When the last piece of clothing is put away, he feels a spreading numbness, a distant calm. He sits down on the bed, then lies back.

The skylight above frames the evening sky. He remembers how, when he was a child, he and his sister would climb onto the roof of the garage. They would stretch out on the warm tiles, gazing up at the heavens. His sister told him to hold still. Could he see the clouds moving? He must have been only six or seven years old, and he remembers, even now, how the ground seemed to lose its substance. He felt the Earth making its rotation and he saw himself as a tiny thing, a breath, carried along with it. When he sat up, the sky retreated, giving way to the tips of the highest trees. Giving way to the house, the familiar details.

Now, he feels that same vertigo, a sense that he is falling. He gets to his feet, imagining her near. Love, this heaviness, this weight, holds him steady.

The rain begins, but Matthew remains outside for a little while longer. In the park, there are boys playing soccer, a blur of green and red jerseys looping across the grass. They clap their hands, calling to one another, put on a burst of speed to keep the ball in play. He sees a young man coming towards him. He wears a suit and an overcoat, as if he has just come from work, and he makes his way across the wet grass to a child who stands waiting, knapsack over one shoulder. Together they watch the game. The father stands awkwardly, trying to shield them both from the rain with a folded newspaper. The child looks straight ahead, but slowly, imperceptibly, he shifts his body sideways so that he is resting against his father’s legs.

He tries to remember himself at that age, so small and serious. He sees the mission school as it was in the late 1930s,
atap
roofs in Sandakan town, the little boats anchored in the harbour. When he went back for the last time, people still could not talk about the war. If he mentioned it, they would shake their heads, their eyes would grow distant. “Terrible times,” they said. Opening and closing the memory in the same breath. “But it was long ago, wasn’t it? Those days are behind us.”

“Yes,” he had said, nodding, agreeing.

Days later, when the plane touched down in Jakarta, he’d felt as if he had awoken in a country that had no markers, no guides. There, with Ani, the past was no longer just a memory, a fog, it had the face and shape of a boy. Wideh had stood with his hand resting on his mother’s knee, the gesture reminding Matthew of one he himself had made long ago. He saw in Wideh’s face the resemblance to both Ani and himself, a gathering together of what had once been lost.

His son had been shy at first, gazing at the grass by Matthew’s feet. But when Wideh lifted his face and pointed out the kites above them, some part of him seemed to unfold, delight emanating from him. Between mother and child, another language existed. He could not bring himself to disturb Wideh’s happiness, he could not let the truth be spoken, tell him that his father had returned only to disappear and leave them again. He saw that this part of his life must always remain broken.

He went home to Canada. When he opened the door of the house, all the lights were off. Upstairs, in the doorway to her bedroom, he listened to the even sigh of his daughter’s breath, and then he found Clara, already asleep, the lamp still on, a book open on the pillow beside her. When she woke, he would find the way to tell her. She would not look away, she would know what the future could be.

He had remembered this last night, when Ansel came to the house and they’d sat together on the front porch, in the unusually mild night. As Clara had requested, Ansel had brought with him a copy of Gail’s documentary, which had just been finished. Clara set the
CD
into the player and then there was the sound of an airplane lifting off. Newsreels announced the start of the war. Harry Jaarsma, the cryptographer, was introduced, and then Sullivan’s two children.

It was a little more than a year ago now, Matthew remembered, that he had walked with his daughter near this field. Gail had just returned from the Netherlands. He thought she looked well and told her so.

At first, she had seemed anxious, unable to settle. It reminded Matthew of when she was a child, the bursts of energy that left both him and Clara amazed. Gail would race around the house like a being possessed, then collapse on the living room floor, gazing up, dreaming. He asked about her work in Amsterdam, and as she spoke she seemed to calm, telling him about William Sullivan and the diary he had kept some fifty years ago during the war. How, when she read the pages, her own emotions had unsettled her, the intensity of them, the compassion she felt for all that he had set aside.

After so many years, Matthew thought, silence had become a habit for him, a way of being in the world. As his daughter spoke, fragments drifted through his mind. His mother’s hand gripping his, as they ran into the jungle. The sound of a bicycle skimming along a dirt road. How he had loved his father all his life without ever truly knowing him.