Certainty by Madeleine Thien Read Free Book Online Page A

become a man who could be at home in any place in the world.
    When the British surrender began, his father had gone methodically through the drawers, discarding the remnants of their previous lives, evidence of his work for the British North Borneo Company. When he came to the postcards, he ripped them up; at first, one at a time, then in handfuls, the pieces scattering on the carpet. His face was expressionless. Only after he left the house did Matthew’s mother kneel down, sweeping the pieces up with her hands, leaving no evidence.
    The face that Matthew remembers now, more than fifty years later, is indistinct. He sees his father as if through a layer of dust, a tall man walking, his back held straight, towards the road. When he turns to look at Matthew, his eyes are empty, the light hollowed out. He tells Matthew that it is too late, that understanding cannot save him, the home, the town that lies in ruins.
Go back the way you came
, he says.
You cannot know, cannot imagine, all that has led up to this moment.
    The last time they climbed up this far, to the end of Leila Road, they had heard rifle shots shattering the air. He and Ani had run into the jungle, crouching together in the mud. More shots were fired, and then they heard a troop of men approaching. Soon, a group of prisoners appeared on the road, half naked, dirt clinging to their skin, their bodies cavernous. They walked on legs that were like cherry stems, threatening to break. Japanese soldiers surrounded the prisoners, a fence of brown uniforms, of guns and bayonets. Some of the men were ill; it was clear they would not survive much longer. They stumbled uphill, away from Sandakan and the camp, following the road to where it ended, becoming only mud and jungle. They continued, into the trees.
    Matthew closed his eyes. Eventually, he felt Ani taking hold of his hand, pulling him up. The road was deserted once more, and she led him to a small river where they could wash the mud from their clothes. She had walked in wearing her sarong, hiding her face under the water, and he could not see her expression. He had watched her hair rising to the surface, floating like a sheet of silk.
    Later, they heard that the British and Australian prisoners had been sent on a long march through the jungle to Ranau, a town more than 250 kilometres away. Those who could not walk had been killed, at the outset or during the journey, and their bodies left unburied.
    Now, from the crater where they sat, he and Ani could see smoke, thick and dark, rising from the airfield and the prisoner-of-war camps. Flames suddenly became visible, flickering above the trees. Without speaking, they got to their feet, hearing a truck, an engine idling somewhere nearby. Half-running, half-walking, they went back along Leila Road in the direction of Ani’s hut.
    It was on the hillside, one in a row of similar structures, built from discarded wood and topped with a tin roof, now rusted. Inside, it was empty except for a few items of clothing folded neatly on the ground. Everything else had been sold or traded. They lay back on the mud floor, flies hovering around them, but he was too tired to brush them away. Rain began, millions of tiny hammers on the roof.
    “I brought these for you.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the two slightly crushed cigarettes. He knew they could be used to buy food on the black market, that cigarettes had become more valuable than the Japanese imperial money that everyone carried.
    She smiled, holding them up, turning them round and round, then she laid them on her stomach. He saw the first tear trickle out of one of her eyes, slide into her hair, and disappear.
    For a moment he was stunned silent. Then he said, hesitantly, “When the British return, the shops will open again, and we’ll go down to the market to buy rice, and also flowers to decorate the table.”
    Ani nodded, listening, and he went on. He said that the mission school would reopen, and they