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  For Amanda

  Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings…

  —Psalm 17:8

  WHEN YOUR SISTER murders three hundred people, you can’t help but wonder why—especially if you were one of the intended victims—though I do forgive her, if you can believe it. I tried my best to deny the strength of family ties when everyone was still alive, but now I realize the truth of the cliché: Blood does run thick. Even if poison trumps all.

  It was caught on surveillance tape, so there’s no denying that Estella was the culprit. I haven’t seen the footage myself—can’t see at all in my present condition—but I can imagine it with great clarity. At the mouth of the corridor leading from the hotel ballroom to the adjoining kitchen, my sister appears. The angle of the camera makes it difficult to see her face, obscured by the enormous hair-sprayed chignon atop her head, but I’d recognize those calves anywhere—peasant’s legs, our mother always jokingly called them, disproportionately bulky for Estella’s otherwise slender frame. Graceful in stilettos, despite her country-bumpkin appendages, she glides out of one camera’s purview into another’s. My mind’s eye sees her in the kitchen now, speaking to one of the staff, who grants her immediate entry upon learning that she’s Irwan Sulinado’s granddaughter. Graciously, she offers a pretext (a mission to reassure a germophobic aunt, perhaps—any excuse would have served since, in Indonesia, the wealthy don’t need reasons). They allow her free passage, “Silakan, Ibu”—ma’am, as you please—and let her sail on, past flaming woks and stainless-steel bins of presliced meats and vegetables, fielding deferential nods from surprised and frazzled cooks. Only when they resume their duties does she strike, pulling a tiny vial from inside the high, stiff collar of her silk cheongsam and scattering its contents into the great steaming tureen of shark’s fin soup with a flick of a jade-bangled wrist.

  I’m making this whole scene up, of course, except for the cheongsam: a gorgeous gold-and-emerald affair covered in delicate coiling vines that she’d bought years ago on vacation in Shanghai. That’s where my mind beats out the security cameras; such fine embroidery would never have registered on tape. Similarly, I bet the recording didn’t catch the resolution in her step, the hardness in her jaw, the murderous glint in her eye that also went unnoticed by all the family members and friends in attendance that night—and, to my shame, me. I’ve replayed the evening dozens of times in my head, and I’m sure of it: There was nothing out of the ordinary about her except that she was in exceptionally good spirits, which I’d attributed to her downing two flutes of champagne before the traditional first course of peach-shaped birthday buns had made its way to the banquet tables.

  “Gwendolyn. Doll,” she’d whispered in my ear, giggling. She split a bun along its rose-tinted cleft, and dark lotus-seed paste oozed out.

  “I always get a kick out of these,” she confided. “Don’t you think they look like blushing butts filled with…”

  That set me giggling too. A fine way for two women in their early thirties to behave. Truth be told, I might have drunk my champagne too quickly as well.

  You’d understand why, after sharing a sisterly moment such as this, I’d be baffled that Estella would want to kill me, or any of us, or, for that matter, herself. I think that’s why I’m not as angry as I probably should be. If she’d poisoned us all and spared her own life, it would have been unforgivable. But no, she wanted us dead and she wanted herself dead, and now only I am alive. If you can call it that.

  It seems like ages ago that I learned I was the only survivor. It’s hard to keep track of time in my condition, so I can’t provide an exact hour or date, but it was after I’d woken up, gasping into emptiness, and screamed and screamed and nobody came. It was after the footsteps eventually arrived and, ignoring my cries for help, someone readjusted my body, tinkered with the beeping thing at my side, and departed. It was an eternity after that—an endless cycle of being awake and terrified, of calling out in vain to whoever shifted me and rustled around my prone body, punctuated by bouts of exhausted sleep. It was even after I’d stopped calling out at all. (They couldn’t hear me. I finally came to terms with that.)

  I found out what Estella had done only when two women came in and, while attending to me, began to talk to each other. I hadn’t heard voices for so long that my ears didn’t comprehend at first what they were saying. Gradually, words began to form out of the babble.

  “… Estella Wirono. Granddaughter of the Chinese tycoon Irwan Sulinado. Put it in the shark’s fin soup. The footage was all over the news.”

  “How many were poisoned?”

  “Around three hundred.”

  “How many survivors?”

  “Only one.”

  “A shame,” the second voice said sorrowfully.

  Then they left me to my desolation.

  Estella’s apology—her dying words—made sense after that. The chaos of the evening flooded back to me: The shrieking of the first victims as they began to choke and twitch, to retch and collapse, followed by a different sort of cry—the belated realization that one’s life is about to end. The hotel ballroom spinning madly. Guests staggering to their feet, trailing tablecloths in clenched fists. Wineglasses and plates of Peking duck crashing to the black-and-gold-carpeted floor. Gerry Sukamto trying to control unwieldy fingers long enough to dial a number on his mobile phone. Leonard’s mother convulsing on her knees, attempting to pray. Our cousin Marina crawling feebly toward one of the exits, sobbing with fear, the front of her evening gown drenched in vomit. The tiny bodies littered around the children’s table, their nannies desperately trying to wake them up.

  I remember turning to my grandfather’s table and seeing the birthday boy lying limp in his chair. My stepgrandmother slumped in his lap, her powdered, chubby face crushed against his crotch.

  That was when I lost myself in my own shaking and heaving. My cheek hit the ground. And there Estella lay as well, twitching, watching me, us watching each other. She reached for me, her arm creeping across the carpet so slowly it was difficult to tell it was moving at all. I tried to say something—what, I don’t know—but it dribbled from the corner of my lips in a weak groan.

  Then she mouthed something. I didn’t understand. She mouthed it again: “Forgive me.”

  What for? I wondered, before slipping into oblivion.

  Now I know.

  And as I said, I do—forgive her, I mean. I love her too much to do otherwise. But I still want to know why she did it. It’s only natural. I have little else to wonder about these days.

  I didn’t anticipate ending like this. Who would? I’ve always known I would die someday, ideally after seventy, but before the point where I’d have to hire a nurse to spoon-feed me chicken congee and then clean my gums with a wet rag. The grim possibility of dying young also crossed my mind from time to time: a car accident, a plane crash, a terminal illness. But this—this hovering in blackness, this stretch of in-between, alive and dead and neither—this I never dreamed possible. Yet here I am.

  Perhaps it’s just as well that I have so much time on my hands, even though I have no way of measuring its passing. And perhaps it’s also right that I have no visitors and, hence, no distractions: Everyone who would have taken the trouble to look in on me regularly is dead.
It’s peaceful, though. A far cry from running Bagatelle, to be sure, but this way I can devote time to contemplating what Estella did, and coming to some understanding of it. In fact, the more I dwell on my circumstances, the more I realize the importance of the task before me—the task that only I am capable of carrying out. Who knew Estella more intimately than I? Who loved her more deeply? The answer to all this, if there is one, almost certainly lies with me. And call me crazy, but I’m positive it’s crouching in plain sight, waiting to be recognized for what it is.

  “THEY’VE PUT ME in charge of creating a photo slideshow for Opa’s birthday dinner.” The tone in which Estella delivered her announcement told me she wasn’t particularly enthused.

  “Photos from the past,” she went on. “Opa as a boy. Opa as a teenager. Opa and Oma getting married. Opa and Oma and the kids. Significant events. Funny candid shots. That sort of thing.”

  I shrugged. “It’s Opa’s eightieth. Very auspicious. We have a few weeks to go. Might as well pull out all the stops.”

  “Did you say ‘we’?” she asked with a smile.

  I corrected myself. “You all. I’d help, but Bagatelle can’t run itself.”

  “I know. I figured you’d be too busy. They know I don’t have much to occupy me at Mutiara, so I don’t have an excuse.”

  “You don’t want to do it. That’s a valid reason.”

  “Too late.” She sighed. “Tante Margaret asked if I would, and I said yes. It’s fine. I really shouldn’t complain. It’s not that big a deal. Maybe it’ll be fun, digging through old photos and all that.”

  “What else are you helping out with? I thought Tante Margaret was supposed to be in charge of organizing the whole thing.”

  Tante Margaret wasn’t the oldest of our grandparents’ children, but that didn’t stop her from being the bossiest. Estella laughed. “Yes, she’s in charge, all right. She’s delegated everything: mostly to me and the cousins, though Ma’s pitching in too. Christina and Christopher are ordering the cake and party favors; Ma and I have arranged the venue and catering; Benedict, Jennifer, and Theresa are tackling the seating chart—Tante Margaret figured that three brains should be able to prevent social mismatches and hurt feelings. Marina’s taken care of the invitations, as I’m sure you’ve seen—engraved glass slabs in velvet boxes; what was she thinking? Even lazy Ricky’s playing a part; Om Benny’s agreed to fly him out from the US for the occasion. And now I’m supposed to see to entertainment. So far, it’s the slideshow and an emcee. Maybe a singer or a band…”

  Just listening to all this made me immensely bored. I stifled a yawn. “So send Tante Margaret a text message and tell her you’ve done enough.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Apparently, Tante Betty really wanted to do the slideshow, but Tante Margaret was worried she’d make a mess of it like she does everything else. So to spare Tante Betty’s feelings, she said that I had my heart set on it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “As the older generation, you’d think they’d be more mature.”

  “You know how it is with Tante Betty. She’s been touchy about everything since Opa handed Om Benny the reins.”

  “The decision was made five years ago,” I observed. “You’d think she’d make her peace with it.”

  Estella shrugged. “Frankly, I’m still not sure if she understands why Opa chose Om Benny and not her.”

  Our aunt may have been the eldest child, but her knack for screwing everything up had made our uncle—the capable eldest son—the most logical heir to Opa’s throne. The choice had been a wise one. With Om Benny at the helm, Sulinado Group was doing better than ever. Our family conglomerate had bounced back with astonishing vigor from the monetary crisis that hit the country in late 1997. Synthetic textiles were what we were best known for, but our holdings in natural fabric manufacturing, agriculture, and natural resource extraction were now performing handsomely. Last year, we broke into Forbes Asia’s Top Sixty Richest Families in Indonesia list at number fifty-seven.

  This was all in spite of Tante Betty. Her track record of failed projects was enough to make anyone’s hair stand on end: the cotton plantation, the oil refinery disaster, the debacle with the meatpacking plant…

  Our coffees arrived. “It’s just a slideshow,” murmured Estella, sipping her cappuccino with a frown. “What a ridiculous thing to lie about.”

  “What’s the alternative?” I chuckled. “Telling Tante Betty the truth? Has honesty ever been our family’s way?”

  Ever so slightly, Estella’s shoulders slumped. I always forgot: Our family’s aversion to directness pained her more than it did me. As if to distract herself, she let her gaze drift to our surroundings, starting overhead with the high vaulted ceilings, their surfaces frescoed in blue sky, leafy branches, and yellow songbirds in midflight, and hung with chandeliers of rose crystal. From there, her eyes traveled down the walls—an honest vanilla hue—and across the pale parquet floor to the rest of the dining room: the ornately carved chairs upholstered in mossy velvet, the glass tables laid with cream-colored cloths and blue hydrangeas in squat crystal vases. There were barely any other diners. Prenoon brunches were a habit we’d picked up during our undergrad days in the US, and though the restaurant opened at 11 a.m. on weekends, few civilized members of our set ever ventured out before midday. I noticed Estella scanning for familiar faces nonetheless.

  “No one we know,” I said to save her the trouble, and she breathed an infinitesimal sigh of relief. Estella was so conscious of familial responsibilities and social protocol, she found it difficult to relax completely around anyone of our acquaintance.

  “The renovations look good,” she murmured, bringing her attention back to where we were sitting, by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the iconic Hotel Indonesia roundabout outside. “Elegant. Tasteful. Not like before.”

  I pretended to be astonished. “What, you didn’t like it? The purple leather? The Versace-print carpet? What’s wrong with a bit of Vegas charm?”

  Estella chuckled, which made me happy. I liked to see her laugh. “I don’t know what Eva was thinking,” she said. “And now she’s wasted eight months on redecorating, poor thing. Not to mention the money all this must have cost.”

  “No one asked her to start her own business. She should have gotten it right the first time.”

  “Not everyone’s as shrewd as you, Doll.”

  “They should be. What’s the point of being Chinese in this country if you don’t live up to the stereotypes?”

  Another snicker from Estella. I was on a roll.

  I did have some sympathy for Eva, and not just because she was a former high school classmate and our cousin Christopher’s ex-girlfriend. The interior decorator had initially quoted her three months and half the price. Eight months was a long time to be closed—especially when you were paying sky-high rent for prime glass-front property. The privilege of looking down one’s nose at the dementedly happy bronze boy and girl atop the Welcome Monument didn’t come cheap. But the restaurant scene in Jakarta was so cutthroat that Eva couldn’t have afforded not to renovate Eva’s. (Yes, the restaurant was named after her—not that anyone was surprised.) The past few years had seen the luxury dining scene flare up like a rash, spreading through the capital at an alarming rate. Designer burger bars, edgy coffeehouses, and nouveau-style dumpling spots had popped up all over, not to mention chic restaurants specializing in street-vendor fare sans poor sanitation and at ten times the price. All were impeccably designed; all were staffed to the hilt with young, well-mannered, well-groomed waiters and waitresses; and all, to a certain extent, were interchangeable. Owning a restaurant was an expensive headache; to break even, you really had to stand out, keep it fresh, change the menu, change the chef, make the credit card discounts attractive, sponsor events, replace the décor and the furnishings at the slightest hint of wear or tear. Hence, the recent renovation of Eva’s. But any period of closure beyond four months was too long. Customers were like goats. The
y wandered off to graze elsewhere and forgot you ever existed. Eva’s face-lift had done wonders, but was it enough to make up for lost time?

  I doubted it.

  “Enough about the family. And Eva,” said Estella just as the waiter arrived with our lobster eggs Benedict. “Tell me what’s new with Bagatelle.”

  “Not much since we met last Sunday.”

  “Don’t be modest. There must be something exciting happening. Always is, isn’t there?”

  I couldn’t help but beam. She was right. Bagatelle constantly had something new going on. It was part of the joy of starting one’s own business, and Estella’s eagerness for updates over our weekly brunch tête-à-têtes never failed to gratify me, especially since the rest of our family tried to pretend Bagatelle didn’t exist.

  I told her about the progress our scientists had made on the newest version of our serum—a minor breakthrough, but a step forward nonetheless. And I described our two most promising ideas for next year’s autumn/winter lines. She listened as she did every Sunday—intently, brow furrowed, staring straight ahead, chewing and swallowing with relish as if my words heightened the pleasure of eating.

  “Marvelous,” she murmured when she had exhausted my store of news. “I’m so proud of you, Doll. Bagatelle’s doing remarkable things.”

  “What’s new with Mutiara?” I asked in return, a split second too late. I must have looked sheepish because she flashed me a reassuring smile.

  “It’s okay, Doll. We both know nothing much happens there.”

  True. The family had never intended for it to be an exciting holding. In fact, they’d never had any real ambitions for it at all. Sulinado Group had acquired it almost incidentally in early 1998, in the middle of the monetary crisis, when we should have been lying low like everybody else. Things were bleak across Asia, but in Indonesia, they were especially grim: The rupiah plummeted, and massive loan defaults tore the economy to shreds; the extended bloodbath on the Jakarta Stock Exchange was eventually followed by an actual bloodbath in May. Demonstrations were held; protesters were shot. Jakarta’s Chinatown was set ablaze, and Suharto finally stepped down.