In her room, there is a calendar on the wall, and each morning she tears off the previous day and unveils the new one. She has the sense that the days are precise and ordered, free from overlap or confusion. Her life now with Mas’s family, in the house on the hillside with a view of Sandakan town, is more than she dared to imagine. But even now she wonders what it would be like to leave here, finally, to travel to Tarakan, and keep the promise she made to her mother so many years ago.
In what remained of the buildings taken over by the Japanese during the war, the British had set up temporary offices and also an orphanage. Ani had stayed there for a month until Mas, a cousin to Ani’s mother, had found her. Before the war, Halim and Mas’s had been a family of six, now they were four. All of the children had been boys. The eldest had died early on. But if the war had ended sooner, Mas once said, a few weeks or a month, perhaps her youngest might have survived. She said this and half-smiled, her eyes pained, knowing that it was not useful to wish for a different present.
Ani had been ten years old when she came to live with them, a small, thin girl, and Halim used to joke that even her shadow was malnourished. It traipsed behind her, finally disappearing when she dove into the water to swim with Lohkman and her friends. One morning, she had woken to the call of the muezzin, a sound she had not heard since before the war. The lone voice travelled across the hillside, calling the faithful to prayer, his words lingering above the houses. She had lain awake remembering the long journey she made with her parents from the Dutch East Indies to Sandakan. They had walked barefoot along a mud track, where the flowers were taller than she was. She remembered her father’s hand against the back of her head, the sound of her mother’s feet always behind her. They ate mangoes from the nearby trees. In her memories, she fell asleep eating, the sweetness coating her tongue and lips, her limbs exhausted, warm air settling down on her.
Mas believes in spirits. They live in shapes and in the air; sometimes they are the souls of those who have not yet found their way to the land of the dead. Without them, she says, the world would be too bleak. But for Ani it is different. She knows that her parents are gone, that they do not remain in the air around her, they are not embodied by the sunlight or the curve of the Earth. She doesn’t dare say it aloud, and yet Mas knows.
So many in Sandakan cannot speak about the war at all. To them, it is something left at the wayside, best forgotten. Sometimes, that is why she prefers to be with Lohkman. He is eighteen, the same age as she is, and they have both completed their studies at the mission school. She feels at ease with him, because they believe the same things; what happened in the past is there, unaltered by spirits or wishes. It will never disappear.
Ani changed out of the sarong she had worn to the market and replaced it with a clean one, smoothing the material against her body. On the dresser was her mother’s jade pendant, carved in the shape of a bird. She had kept it safe all these years. Closing her eyes briefly, she ran one finger over the delicate stone. Tomorrow morning, she would see Matthew; they had arranged to meet near the harbour, after the night fishing was done. Since the end of the war, he had been living in Tawau with his mother, returning to Sandakan only a few weeks ago. When she looked up again, she barely recognized herself, a young woman in the mirror, the happiness that she possessed.
In the outdoor kitchen, Mas sighed and puttered, moving around the fire as if in conversation with it. Ani reached over Mas’s shoulder, stirring the mixture of coconut and warm water. The two boys ran circles around them, hollering, then screamed back inside the house. Mas waved her arm meditatively across the food to push the flies away. On the edge of the road, Halim was deep in conversation with a neighbour. People passed by, on bicycles, going to work or the market, and they lifted their hands towards Halim, sounding their bells in greeting.
When breakfast was done, Ani cleared the dishes, stacking them neatly on the sideboard. Halim was the first to leave, setting off for town, where he worked as a clerk for the Hong Kong Bank. A few minutes later, Mas hurried out of the house, the boys running to keep up with her, towards the school, where she taught the Form Three class.
Sandakan, after the war, was not so different from the way Ani imagined it would be. The harbour was crowded with boats again, with prahus and steamers; on windy nights, their hulls knocked together like a great wooden chime. When she was fourteen, the British North Borneo Company had organized a dance, setting up a phonograph on the new padang. Men and women twirled gracefully in one another’s arms, the pattern of the women’s dresses blurring together, colours fading as the field turned slowly to darkness. Each time they moved past her, she felt a breeze on her skin, ethereal and cool. She could look up and find her parents there beside her. Later, they would carry her back to the house on Jalan Satu. Minutes passed, and she stood at the edge of the field, her heart pounding, afraid to step onto the grass and break the spell.
On the hillside overlooking Sandakan, there had once been hundreds of crosses and markers to remember the dead. Later, these graves were cleared to make room for the new houses. People said that on the ocean floor there were Allied planes shot from the skies, lying side by side with Japanese battleships, the twisted metal still holding their crew. The sea would always keep them.
In the reopened school, she had learned how to chart the course of the rainy season. During the monsoons, the skies cloud over at a precise moment and the mangroves sink a little farther into the sea. The roads wash away. In the new Sandakan, steamers round the northern tip of Borneo, and new roads link the coast to the interior towns. Commercial flights land at the aerodrome, lifting off to Kota Kinabalu, to Singapore and Hong Kong. She would sit at her desk in the schoolroom, holding her worn textbooks for English and Mathematics, staring at the letters and numbers until her eyes grew tired and the meaning slid from her grasp. The words edged themselves into her thoughts, set their roots down inside her memory, trying to ease out the old words that still remained.
Well past midnight, she rose in the dark and dressed quickly, then walked down to the harbour, where she found Lohkman and his brother gathering nets into the boat.
They spoke for a few minutes about the night’s work, then they pushed the boat away from shore, climbing deftly in. Lohkman pulled the cord, the engine stuttered to life, and they slid over the glassy water. From the bay, she could see the town for what it was, a small opening in the jungle, the cloth of the Union Jack moving to and fro above the neat white buildings and the green padang. To her right, stilt houses crowded out from the land, a water village balanced on floating docks. On every side, the green repetition of the trees, the kendilong, closed in on them.
Lohkman came from a family of fishermen. During the war, his family’s boats had been confiscated and they had hidden in the jungle. When the war ended, only Lohkman, his brother, Tajuddin, and Tajuddin’s wife remained, and they had built a small dwelling in the water village.
Lohkman cut the engine and the boat drifted. His brother crouched at the stern of the boat, slowly murmuring a prayer. Tajuddin was in his thirties, and his hair, already white, stirred in the wind. Tajuddin extended his leg over the side, touched his bare foot to the water. “There is but one God,” he said, his voice dissipating on the wind. Still wearing his clothes, he let his body fall overboard.