Chapter One - Richard Lewis

"Don't take it so personally. People here change their names all the time, if they're
sick or have bad luck—"
"So it's bad luck you have a father who gave you your name? Who worked hard to
send you to school and give you the best start in life? This is bad luck?"
Putu rose with a long and aggrieved sigh. "You are turning everything around."
He snatched the folder from Nol's hand and stalked off.
Nol's lunch sat in his stomach like a fermented brick. "Johnny Putu," he muttered.
What was the world coming to?
That afternoon, Nol went next door to make sure that Tina knew she was invited
along on the pilgrimage. She'd be good company for Mother.
Tina wasn't in, but sitting on the bottom step of the porch was Mak. For once she
was fully dressed, in sarong and blouse, and even wore sandals on her feet, as if she'd
made a long and weary journey to get here. Two pieces of songket textiles were draped
across her lap. Nol had no idea she still had some left.
"What are you doing here, Mak?"
"I'm waiting for the American to sell her some songket."
The bungalow's doors and front room windows were open. Rather trusting of
Tina, considering her laptop was right there on the table. Balinese wouldn't steal—well,
not most Balinese—but you couldn't say the same about the Javanese working in the
nearby fields. Easy enough for them to jump over the wall and grab what they could. She
should have at least closed and latched the side windows. He entered the front room to do
that for her, but his attention was caught by a folder open on the table. Tucked into a
plastic sleeve was a copy of a newspaper page. The communist Harian Rakyat, no less,
the text in old-fashioned typesetting.
The page was from the letters section. One of the letters was titled "Water rights,
land reform, and Marx."
Written by Madé Catra.
Once Nol's shock eased, he tried to read the letter, but was rebuffed by the dense
theoretical language. Apparently Karl Marx had once mentioned Bali as an example of
water rights and power, and it seemed to Nol that his father was arguing against that
interpretation, which was a great relief, for if his father was arguing against Marx, then he
certainly was no Marxist.
Nol almost missed the tiny print in parentheses at the bottom of the letter: (I
would like to thank Comrade Luhde Srikandi for her crucial insights.)
Nol read that again, and a third time. The name still remained. Luhde Srikandi.
Comrade.
What was going on here?
He wandered out to the porch and sat down by his great-aunt, who was waiting
with the relentless patience of the aged, staring at nothing.
"Mak," he said.
She didn't hear him.
"Mak," he said. "Who was Luhde Srikandi?"
She blinked and focused her shrunken eyes on him.
"Do you know anything about her? Luhde Srikandi?"
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