Chapter One - Richard Lewis

"What was found is in safe keeping for the time being," the police chief said. How
long a time he did not say, nor mention the bones' possible fate, another fine equivocation
that left room to maneuver.
Mantera acknowledged this with a dip of his head before continuing his speech,
his tone rising not too high nor dipping too low, a lulling rhythm to his words, defining in
circles those bones and those shattered skulls by what they were not, and not by what
they actually were. He dipped into village history and spoke of its founders and of its
heroes, including those who stabbed themselves with their keris blades instead of
surrendering to the invading Dutch army. Mantera spoke of those heroes as the heroes of
all who were present, and there rose in Nol's breast a sense of pride, of common bond
between him and those heroes of old, including one of his ancestors, a bond that neatly
skipped over the events of 1965.
"Each of our fates is as varied as life itself," Mantera said, "and for those of us
who feel we have in the past lost family members, let us remember our heroes, let us be
one with them."
And this then was reburying of the bones, in the remembrance of the heroes let
the bones be forgotten. Nol felt himself nodding with the others, ready to give his assent.
The white woman rose her feet and said, in fluent Indonesian, "But surely the
bones should be identified. So that some of those who feel they have lost loved ones will
know what has happened to them? That is all, simply to know. There is so much peace in
finally knowing."
Mantera smiled, a thin stretching of lips. "Excuse me, madam," he said in
English, "but may we know who you are?"
"My name is Tina," she replied, still speaking Indonesian. "Forgive my bluntness,
but I believe what you are really wondering is what right do I have to speak here. I speak
as a sister to a girl who disappeared when she was twelve. I know what it means to not
know what has happened to a loved one."
"I am sorry for your misfortune," Mantera said, "but such misfortunes as fall our
village are ours to take care of. Thank you—"
"There is a saying in English," this Tina woman said quickly. "About the
elephant in the room that everybody is ignoring. And there's an elephant in this room.
The massacres of 1965. One of the worst in modern times. Over fifty thousand Balinese
killed. We all know this. I am not speaking here of courts or tribunals. I am only speaking
of the simple right to know. To know who these victims were. Grief can never be healed,
but we can give their families some peace."
Nol found himself nodding, but Dharma cut a sharp glare at him that stilled his
head.
"Arrogant American," somebody else muttered.
But others beyond the window were accepting the interloper's words with a louder
buzz of appreciation.
From his seat at the end of the head table, Dharma slowly stood. It wasn't an
ordinary standing, but a dramatic actor's majestic arising with the arms spread just so, the
back imperiously straight, the serious mien, the stalwart bald head crowned with a strip of
white hair.
"Honored guest, you speak of 1965. Forgive me, but I do not think you were born
then, you are too young, your skin too fine and untroubled. But I was a young man during
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