Certainty by Madeleine Thien Page B

passes it. Something on the ground catches his feet, and he stumbles forward. There is a smell of vomit, of decay. When he puts his hands down, trying to steady himself, they are in water, something wet. His heart collapses inside his chest. He has lost count. Terrified of making a mistake, he retraces his steps. He finds his way back to the road, beyond the trees where the moon is once again visible.
    Far away, the three embers glimmer in the dark. His legs, trembling, give way and he crouches on the ground. His entire body is shaking now, and he wishes that his mother would return, that she would light the last candle-end. A tiny flame glowing inside the hut to bring him home.
    He does not want to disappoint his father, but he cannot step back into the trees. Breathing heavily, he lifts the sack onto his shoulder and stands. He walks in the direction of the hut.
    As he draws near, he begins to hear their voices, softer than usual. A few seconds later, he is close enough to make out their words, but he stays hidden in the dense brush beside the road. They are speaking in broken Malay, sometimes changing to Japanese. He stops and kneels on the ground, almost behind the hut, hugging the sack to his chest.
    The Japanese lieutenant is standing beside his father. Matthew recognizes him immediately, a man taller than all the rest, who, when he comes to the hut, brings meat and cigarettes. The lieutenant is speaking. He says that Australian soldiers have landed in the west of Borneo.
    In his hands, his father is holding another jar, also filled with money.
    “It’s over,” the lieutenant continues. “I don’t have a choice any more.”
    His father’s voice is quiet, strained. “And the others who worked with me. I went into town. The offices are abandoned.”
    “The others?” The lieutenant pauses, exhales a plume of smoke. He says, angrily, “What do you think happened to the others?”
    The second Japanese soldier walks a few paces back, glancing into the open door of the hut. Matthew quiets his breathing, wills his body to become a part of the darkness. The moon traces the faintest light on the ground.
    His father turns to face the soldier. “Come,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “Take this money.”
    The soldier laughs. “You see, we know you. That’s just what I expected you to say.”
    “I thought you would have tried to leave Sandakan.” The lieutenant’s voice is casual. “I thought you understood; the most dangerous time is when war is over.” He drops his cigarette-end on the ground and puts it out with his boot. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a box, opens it, and offers it to Matthew’s father. Two more cigarettes are lit.
    The ember of his father’s cigarette wavers in the air, and for a moment his father gazes into the trees as if searching for something, an opening, a way to escape. His eyes rest on the patch of ground directly in front of Matthew. His father lifts his eyes, and Matthew knows that he has been seen. He wants to stand up and go to him. He begins to push himself up from the ground, but the expression on his father’s face, surprise, but something more, grief, incomprehension, stops him. His father closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they seem to burrow into Matthew’s body, holding him still. The lieutenant says quietly, “Where are your wife and son?”
    His father does not answer at once. “My wife is with her brother,” he says finally. “I do not know where my son is.”
    Time passes, and his father holds the lieutenant’s gaze.
    The lieutenant looks towards the hut. He walks to the doorway, steps in, and disappears.
    “Please,” his father says. “Take this money.”
    The lieutenant re-emerges. He approaches Matthew’s father, taking the jar thoughtfully in his hands. His eyes drift over the trees. Matthew’s legs, frozen in a kneeling position, begin to tingle, and a wave of sickness causes him to bow his head, eyes watering. The