Chapter One - Richard Lewis

"It is common for Westerners to analyze our politics according to the shadow
puppets. But sometimes a clown is just a clown and a thief is just a thief. And
sometimes," Dr. Subandrio said, putting his finger on the face of the smooth-faced
general, "the cunning peasant would be king."
Reed said nothing. His wrist throbbed.
Subandrio slipped another photograph out of the folder. The one of Naniek. The
Minister smiled faintly. "I used to call her Miss Kancil when she was little, after our
clever little mouse deer, always outwitting the tiger."
Reed leaned forward. "Where is she?"
The smile vanished. Subandrio's eyes turned flat and cold.
"Forgive me," Reed said. "I have lost my manners. I am looking for her. That is
why I am in Djakarta, why I went to Halim."
"Why are you looking for her?"
"I love her."
The doctor's gaze sharpened, a slicing scalpel.
I am following my heart," Reed said. "Not my head."
"Your Auntie will not be happy."
"Probably not."
Subandrio looked out at the smoke. "The clever mouse deer is on her way to Bali.
The trains are still running, their unions are PKI. There is not much I can do now. I am
going to be busy with other matters myself, I'm afraid. I'm counting on you to help her.
May at least one life be saved from the cunning peasant."
"I can't be doing that if I'm locked up here."
"You are free to go. These men will see you out."
The bicyclist led him through a metal door that opened onto a third story porch. A
of afternoon sunlight poked through tumbling grey clouds, glinting off the towering gold
flame of the National Monument. Here and there pillars of black smoke rose skyward.
On a street corner a crowd marched, carrying hastily painted banners that demanded the
PKI be crushed, Aidit be crucified, Gerwani whores be hung.
Steps at the end of the porch descended the building's second floor. The bicyclist
opened a door and said, "You should know where you are. Goodbye."
Reed shuffled down the hall, frowning in confusion, which soon cleared when he
reached a familiar door. Christ, Auntie's Guest Apartment. He tried the door knob. It
turned, the door opened.
Wendell and a man Reed didn't recognize looked up from the sofa, their faces
wreathed in cigarette smoke, the ashtray full of butts.
"As I live and breathe," Wendell said. "It's our prodigal son."
"I was rolled up by the BPI," Reed said. "My wrist is broken."
Half an hour later, Reed was at the Embassy's clinic, his left wrist being plastered.
A junior officer about Reed's size donated two changes of clothes that smelled of
mothballs and shoes a size too big. He was given an apartment in the Embassy's guest
quarters. On the walls hung framed photos of the Statue of Liberty and the snow-covered
Rockies.
Auntie and Wendell paid him a late afternoon visit. Auntie had brought a thermos
of chicken noodle soup. Delicious, but still Reed forced himself to eat. He said he'd been
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