The Greening (18 page)

I paced about the room, the composure and ease of a few minutes earlier displaced by anxiety. I felt trapped in this room that I might have enjoyed had I been in the right frame of mind. I ran my fingers impatiently along a row of books: there would be some gems here, I had no doubt.

And then I spotted it. A volume bound in burgundy leather with distinctive silver clasps. For a moment I thought I must have imagined it. But no; there it was, easily recognizable among the rest. I took a deep breath as I placed my hand on the spine and gently eased the book from the shelf. I was holding a second copy of
Anna Leigh’s Journal
.

This copy bore no inscription on the flyleaf. But in every other detail – so far as a rapid examination could reveal – it seemed identical. My heart was beating fast. Was the mysterious Anna known to Ismene Vale? Perhaps I might be able to trace her after all.

At that moment the library door opened and the maid reappeared. “Miss Vale has just arrived. She asks if you will join her in the drawing room,” she said.

I followed the maid across the hallway towards open double doors. I smelt a faint, indefinable fragrance – a hint of gardenia, and perhaps rose, and something else that I could not place. As I entered the room I felt as though I were stepping into a pool of light. The room was full of objects and surfaces that reflected the autumn sunshine. French windows opened onto a lush mass of green, gold, orange and red that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.

Ismene Vale came towards me. She was smaller and looked younger than I had expected from her television appearances. She was about five foot two and in her sixties, a rounded, comfortable figure with a sharp perceptiveness about her. She had a direct gaze and I had the sense that she missed very little. Her hair was grey, short and neat, her eyes grey-blue. There was a great warmth about her. She wore a matching skirt and top, with a brightly coloured floral scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her hand was small and soft but her grip was firm.

She greeted me, I fancied, rather like an old friend with whom she shared some special secret. The silliest of images flashed into my mind – a memory of secret campaigns I had organized at school, to outwit and confound the teachers. She seemed genuinely delighted to meet me – part of her gift, I thought. She asked the maid to bring us tea and led me across to the French windows, where we each took a comfortable armchair.

She asked, “Does that book interest you?”

I suddenly realized that I was still holding
Anna Leigh’s Journal
.

I said, “It’s the most extraordinary thing, because I have a copy of this.”

It was Ismene Vale’s turn to be surprised. “That is extraordinary.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to help myself.”

“But you didn’t,” she replied. “Books have a way of finding us. Clearly, that book intended finding you.”

It was such an odd and unexpected remark – and at the same time so in tune with my own feelings about the journal – that I was caught off balance. It was as though she could read my thoughts. I told her how I had come upon my copy and that the two seemed identical, except for the message on the flyleaf of mine.

“But who is she?” I asked. “Who is Anna?”

“There I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she replied.

“Is it a confidence?” I asked.

“No – I actually don’t know anything about her, except her name. The journal was given to me by a friend, my former publisher. She met the writer when she gave a talk at a literary festival in Winchester – it would be several years ago now.”

“So your friend knows who she is? Who is your friend?”

“Frieda Bonhart.” I recognized the name. “I’m afraid not,” said Ismene Vale. “The woman gave Frieda the manuscript and asked her to read it and give her opinion. Frieda agreed to do so. But when she took up the manuscript, after returning to London, she discovered that there was no name and address or telephone number. This would have been odd in any circumstances, but in this case it was astonishing, because the manuscript was handwritten.
All Frieda knew about the woman was that she had introduced herself as Anna Leigh.

“Frieda became very much engaged with Anna’s striving to understand Julian’s message of love and hope and to make sense of it in the context of her own life. She felt very drawn to Julian. She obtained a copy of Julian’s book and was deeply moved by her message of all-encompassing love. Frieda thought the manuscript should be preserved – she always thought Anna would come back for it – and had this copy printed. I had no idea there was a second and I can’t imagine how it would have found its way to the bookshop. Frieda’s health started to deteriorate and she gave this copy to me, in the hope that I could do something with it some day. She felt a responsibility towards the manuscript and gratitude towards the author for introducing her to Julian, whose book gave Frieda great comfort, particularly as her illness progressed. I put the journal on my bookshelf and it has remained there until now. I knew that one day someone, the right person, would be curious and take it.”

“I don’t think I understand… the right person?”

“Do you believe in serendipity? Apparent coincidences that occur when the time is right?”

“I’ve never thought about it – at least, not until I read the journal.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Some things are meant to happen. And some people are ready to take the opportunities that come their way. You are one of those people, Joanna.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You, Joanna, are what I call a truth dentist. By that, I mean someone who is determined to extract the truth of the stories she reports, who will not be fobbed off, who will not let go. It’s all there, in the quality of your work. You notice the details.”

I was astonished. Ismene Vale, whom I had admired since I was twelve, was saying nice things about my work. Was she teasing or mocking me? Was she flattering me, in the hope of a generous write-up? No, neither made sense.

“I’ve spent my life attempting to be in the right place at the right time,” she said. “That’s important in your work, too, isn’t it? Great
journalism happens when the reporter knows where to be, before the story happens. A great journalist would have known that a young teacher of unblemished reputation, who was very much loved by ordinary people, was likely to be executed for political reasons. A great journalist would have been on the spot, ready to cover the story – and perhaps one was. But it takes more than great journalism to interpret the meaning of the story. It takes the persistence to be a truth dentist and the courage to pull one’s own teeth. It takes the determination to keep going when you’re the only one who can see the point of the story. I think Julian was a great journalist.”

I said, “I’d be intrigued to know what happened to Anna. But I don’t understand why she would have given her personal journal to a publisher. As a manuscript it’s pretty raw. I’m not sure one could even describe it as work-in-progress.”

“It seems clear that she intended to use some of the material to write a play.”

“But why hand over the whole journal? If, as you say, it was handwritten, then presumably it was the original copy, perhaps the sole copy. And why didn’t she put her name on it? You know, I’d love to meet Frieda Bonhart and discuss this with her.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. Frieda has Alzheimer’s. She’s really very ill and sees no one these days, except a nephew who manages her personal affairs and runs her publishing house. I discussed the matter with her when she gave me the journal. She said she recalled that the woman, who was in her mid-thirties, had seemed rather upset. But with the buzz and bustle of people who gathered around her after her talk, she had paid no attention.”

“I’d love to know what happened to Anna and I intend to find out.”

“I have a feeling that you’ll find it worthwhile.”

“Oh, and what about the song?” I explained how astonished I had been to find the song written in Welsh. Ismene Vale was intrigued. I said, “It’s a strange song. I speak Welsh.” I recited the words in English. “The spirit of the woods cries out to the spirit of the mountains, ‘The spring stirs within me and I long for the sun.
The leaves open and fill the sky.’ The spirit of the woods cries in pain, ‘Where is the spring? I am old and weary with longing for warmth. I am old and weary with longing for the spring.’”

Ismene Vale said, “Those words remind me of songs I have heard in other cultures; very old songs. When one hears them, one feels as though they have come from the very heart of the earth.” She was silent for a few moments, looking out across her garden.

Then she said, “It is a mystery, isn’t it? For both of us now. Anna has crossed our paths. Her life has influenced my life. I feel she has more to teach me. Perhaps you will find that is true for you, too. Perhaps you will tell the rest of her story.”

“The only clues are the plays she talks about.”

“Frieda tried to trace Anna through her plays, after waiting a few months for her to get in touch, but she drew a blank. But with your professional resources, I expect you’d have a better chance.”

Like looking for a needle in a haystack, I thought. I said, “There are other clues. She refers to an academic career in Cambridge.”

“Not at the university. I’m afraid that has drawn a blank as well. Perhaps she disguised some of the details of her life, to protect her privacy in the event of publication.”

“I’ll make some enquiries, see if I can turn up any clues. In the meantime – this is rather embarrassing – I haven’t been briefed and I’m afraid I don’t know what it is that we’re to discuss.”

Ismene Vale turned her head to look out onto the garden and was silent for a minute or so. Then, her head still turned away, she said, “Have you ever seen a performance of Javanese shadow play?”

I vaguely remembered seeing on television some kind of Javanese performance in which strange, spidery-limbed puppets cast shadows to enact a story.

She turned to look at me. Her expression was serious and troubled. “It’s part of Javanese mythic culture, the story of the puppet master who controls people’s lives. To understand the culture and politics of Indonesia you have to understand the meaning of the puppet master.”

I felt my heart miss a beat. Could the story I was to cover be connected with the East Timor arms story?

She continued, “An omnipotent god comes to earth. He rules the lives of others with an iron hand, and no one can stand against him. It is a story about total control. The shadow play came originally from Hindu tradition, but it has a particular resonance in Indonesia.”

“I first went there as a young woman, during the 1950s. I began my career as an anthropologist. When I was twenty-one, I went to Jakarta for six months to study. I spent a lot of time in the islands, learning about the ethnic groups who live there.

“I fell in love.” Her eyes had a faraway look, and I knew I must remain quiet now and allow her to tell her story. “Munir was a university lecturer in Jakarta. He was older than I, by nine years. I knew from the first moment that I had found the friend for whom I had always been searching. I hope you have or will have that kind of love. There is no greater blessing in this life.”

I thought of Patrick and the way he had frightened me when the affair ended. I still felt deeply hurt and betrayed.

“We waited five years before we married. Munir was concerned about the difference in our ages and cultures. He did not want to deprive me of opportunities for a better life elsewhere. He wanted me to be sure of what I wanted. I continued to travel. My work took me to communities in Africa and South America. I began to write articles in professional publications.

“After we married, we set up home in Jakarta. It was towards the end of my time there that I wrote my first book,
Voices
, with material I had gathered during my travels. Munir and I had seven years of happiness together. Then things began to change. In the months running up to Suharto’s coup and the overthrow of President Sukarno, Munir was arrested.”

I cast my mind back to what I knew of Indonesian politics; the political ferment of the 1960s, when President Suharto seized power and killed a million of his own people suspected of being Communists. I thought of the old man’s iron grip on the country since then, supported by the West, with aid and trade.

“He was held for six weeks and released. Ten days later he was arrested again. Munir and I were idealists. We wanted to help people, through education, towards better lives, but we were not politically active. Nevertheless, he was accused of being a supporter of the PKI, the Communist Party. It was a terrible time. Things happened very quickly. While I was trying to get Munir released, I was arrested and imprisoned, without charge. I was three months pregnant when I went into prison. Ten days later I lost my child. I was held for a further seven weeks. My family and human rights campaigners over here secured my freedom, but I had to leave the country without seeing Munir. I did not see him again. The Indonesians would not allow me to go back. Munir was held without charge or trial, and after fifteen years he became ill and died in prison.” Her story was astonishing. I felt sure there was nothing on record about any of it.

“No, I haven’t spoken of it before,” she said, as though reading my thoughts. “I am telling you all of this for a reason.”

A cloud had passed across the sun. I felt as though everything around us, all of nature, had become quiet and attentive to her story.

“The puppet master is driven by fear. He must control the lives of all those around him because he is afraid of what will happen if he allows them to be free. The puppet master is Herod, Stalin, Hitler and Suharto. He is the president of every multinational company that wants to rule our lives. He is the one who must always have more of everything, because nothing is ever enough.

“He is, you see, so very empty. Beneath the greed there is an unfilled space and an unsatisfied longing for love. But he cannot love himself, so how can he love others? You know, I believe that if we only knew the effect, the full, true effect of our hurtful actions we would change our behaviour.” I did not agree, but continued to listen.