Certainty by Madeleine Thien Page A

the Japanese administration buildings, the wind carrying it towards the water, where it hangs, suspended, in the twilight. There is a bonfire, soldiers gathered around. Fragments, pieces of paper, float in the air above them.
    Even after the heavy rain, the road is dusty once more. He continues walking, and the bicycle wheel rolls quietly beside him.
    The hut comes into sight, his father standing in the doorway. Matthew is suddenly aware of the dust on his skin, the layer of dirt on his clothes. He hesitates, not wanting to disturb his father’s thoughts, not wanting to be seen, and the wheel, steadied by his hand, glides to a standstill beside him.
    His father is looking in the other direction, down the road. Then he turns, sees Matthew, and motions him forward with his hand. “Come, Matthew,” he says. “There is something I need you to do.”
    Matthew lays the bicycle wheel against the side of the hut, then follows his father inside. His mother is nowhere to be seen; she must still be visiting her brother on the far side of the plantation. His father pushes the cabinet aside and brings out the radio, but he doesn’t switch it on. Instead, while Matthew watches, his father kneels down again. When he straightens, he is holding a large glass jar filled with coins and bills.
    “Look at me.” His father’s eyes are clear, his shoulders relaxed. “This is British currency,” he says, placing one hand lightly on Matthew’s arm. “This will be valuable again after the war is over. Do you understand?”
    Matthew nods.
    “I want you to go into the plantation. You must be very careful and you must make sure that no one sees you. No one at all. Not the Japanese, not the workers, nor any children hanging about.” His father puts his cigarette to his lips, draws, then exhales, studying Matthew. “Count out the rows. At the thirtieth row, go to the thirtieth tree. I want you to bury this jar in that exact place. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, father.”
    “Good.” His father stands up. He puts the jar into an old rice sack. “Take it now. Make sure that you are not seen.”
    Matthew nods, his stomach tightening.
    “Now,” his father repeats, his voice firm. “Go quickly.”
    Matthew takes hold of the sack. He is surprised by its weight, but he swings it carefully over his shoulder.
    “When you return,” his father says, almost as an afterthought, “stay inside the hut. Keep the door closed and wait for your mother. Everything will turn out for the best.”
    The last of the day’s light is gone, but already he can see the moon, low in the sky. Matthew shifts the weight on his shoulders. He walks forward a few steps, then glances back. His father is outside, leaning against the hut, head bowed, and he reaches into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He wipes his face and hands, then straightens his body and steps slowly, resolutely, away from the wall.
    Matthew begins to run. When he reaches the edge of the plantation, he is breathing fast. Behind him, a truck rumbles along the road, and when he stops and turns he sees that the truck has come to rest in front of the hut and two Japanese soldiers are climbing out. His father goes to meet them. Matthew stands motionless. The leaves of the rubber trees shift in the wind and a light breeze cools his sweating body. He lowers his arm, lets the sack rest on the ground. The sounds twist around him, a bird or an animal crying, and from somewhere nearby, the acrid smell of smoke.
    In the distance, he sees three distinct flares as cigarettes are lit; the embers are visible, though small as fireflies. Beside him, the plantation seems immense, unfathomable without the light from the kerosene lamps. He has never gone into it alone, and never when the lamps were unlit.
    He walks into the plantation and the light of the moon dims. Beneath the canopy of trees, the darkness seems to press against his eyes, a blindfold, a weight. He walks on and on, touching each tree as he