Teaser: an excerpt from my manuscript
Inspired by medieval and early modern books, I wrote a hidden middle chapter whose style is completely different than the rest of the book
Excerpts from Jackson’s journal
I have always had weak ankles. They bend and twist and sprain easily. They have collapsed on days when I was tired and when I was not. Their betrayal is unpredictable. In a way, they don’t feel part of my body, as if my neurons went as far as my shins but no further. When I tell them to land, they buckle. When I tell them to jump, they hesitate.
Today, I found myself on the ground again, but this time in more agonizing pain.
Maybe, I should go back to earlier.
Bertha asked me to set up a meeting with our outside counsel to figure out the legal consequences of a partnership between a Chinese entity and our Indonesian entity. We took a car to Kota Kasablanka. What should have been no more than a 20-minute walk was a 30-minute car ride. The traffic in Jakarta is imposing as it is constant. A city made for no more than 7 million people must accommodate a mountain of 30 million. Along the drive, I saw the posts from the failed monorail line still standing in the median like a carcass of previous attempts to modernize the city. The subway is supposed to finally open in a few months. A rail link to the airport as well. Perhaps public transportation will make everything more livable, but this is not today, it is not these days.
The meeting was absurd and continues the absurdity of this entire voyage. I find myself unable to understand Bertha’s thinking and especially Zhang’s. Is it logic? Is it reason? I always thought I was more empathetic than most, but I feel challenged to understand.
Bertha spent the entire time with the lawyer on her phone. I merely accompanied her because she was too busy to arrange the meeting herself. We are supposed to be peers. To avoid silence, I asked questions to steer things along. The conclusion was as expected. The idea is not advisable. At which point, Bertha finally looked up and asked the same questions. The lawyer repeated with exasperation. And we left.
The day got weirder from there. I left Bertha and took the company car to the immigration bureau. Julie called to let me know that they had suddenly asked us for interviews, and she would send me along with Putri from her team. Julie said that I just needed to sit through the session, say exactly what the company had said, and I would get my passport back. I spoke with Putri in Chinese to confirm the scope of each question and the answer I would give would make sense. The officer was visibly frustrated but couldn’t do anything about it. Putri told him that I was more comfortable speaking Chinese. I smiled.
This experience has made me regret coming. I regret not demanding more assurances earlier. But I hope, I truly hope, that this is the end of this saga. I am sure Pierre will be glad of it too.
It was the end of the day, after dinner when the sun sets, the weather cools, and the humidity dissipates that Chris sends a message to the group asking to play basketball. This is when I feel the closest to my colleagues and the company. It is when we talk as friends, when I learn the gossip about what is really happening. It is when I feel myself becoming Chinese…in thought as much as mannerisms.
Tom plays too. But Xiaokai, who works on the product team, is the best player. At 5’7”, he probably couldn’t have played ball in the US, but he has good handle and great control when he drives to the basket. It is always a good game when Xiaokai comes, but he jumps back and forth between the factory and the office, so it is never clear when he will come. He tells me the cook at the factory is better. Poor Zhou Shifu.
We were playing at the far half court when a collection of young guys asked to play full court. We borrowed a guard from their group and started the game. I still can’t shoot, but what I lack in offensive ability I make up in rebounding and blocks. I love the poom a ball makes when I slam it away from an unsuspecting player. It is the greatest satisfaction.
The young kids had someone 7 centimeters taller than me. He was big, built like a brick, and hard to push back, but he also is easy to pump fake, twist, and Dr. J a shot into the basket. But when you go up for a rebound, he widens his stance to block you out. And that is how it happened. My foot landed on his and bent sideways until I heard a thump. I had never heard the sound before.
I fell to the ground. Xiaokai and Tom helped me up and carried me to the bench. Chris went to get a bag of frozen peas from the nearby convenience store. The game abruptly ended, but we stayed talking as I waited until I felt I could put pressure and walk a little. An hour passed and I still couldn’t. Tom helped me back to my room. Zhou Shifu came with some fresh ice.
I called mom for advice. “When is it broken?” I asked. “When you can’t walk.” “But I can’t walk.” “It probably isn’t broken. You sound too good for it to be broken.” I laughed.
Others in the company began to text me to ask how I was doing. It seems my injury has gained me fame. Julie said to work from home. Zhang hoped that I got better soon.
I feel as if I am almost there. I am almost part of the team, of the company, of the culture. I am treated no differently. But then I think to the meeting with Bertha, to the Godotian conversation with the immigration officer. Maybe I have stretched as far as my mind can go and it isn’t enough?
The pain is still there. I feel it pulsating. It is late or early depending on your thinking. The morning call to prayer has started. It must be four now? The morning call used to keep me up but now it brings me peace. It is hard to not find it beautiful, to not understand the appeal of Islam. It fills your soul with a sense of community, a sense of belonging. It is not a religion that is hidden behind the interiors of a building but rather exists in the everyday. It even exists in its negative, like when I went to Pokenbir, the pork and beer restaurant hidden in the basement of a nearby mall.
Where is my home? I have been gone from the US too long. I have been gone from Mexico even longer. The language that Americans speak feels foreign now. MeToo is on the tongues of Americans but how can you hear it in Jakarta or even Beijing? The troubles over here feel far removed from the internal strife of America’s upper classes. I should sleep. I had hoped that writing would stir me to bed but it has just opened a line of thought that I cannot close. Where is home?