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Sam traced his finger along the map, occasionally ducking his head so he could see the nearby street signs through the windshield. He folded the map and handed it back to Remi with a confident smile.
“I know where I went wrong.”
“In general or with the directions?”
“Funny lady.”
Sam put the car in gear, waited for a gap in traffic, then veered out and accelerated.
TWENTY MINUTES OF WINDING down backstreets brought them to an industrial park filled with warehouses. Behind this they were surprised to find a quiet, tree-lined residential cul-de-sac. The houses were small and old but well kept. At the end of the circle Sam pulled to a stop before what could have passed for a ranch-style house in Anytown, USA: kelly green with brown shutters and a white picket fence half hidden by red-flowering vines.
They walked up the path, mounted the porch steps, and knocked on the front door. They heard the click of footfalls on wood. The door opened to reveal a mid-fifties white man in crisp khaki pants and a button-down white shirt.
“Yes, good afternoon,” he said with an Oxford accent.
“We’re looking for Sukasari House,” Remi said.
“You have found it, madam. How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for someone—a monk—who may or may not have lived in this area in the sixteenth century.”
“Oh, well, is that all? I thought you’d come to try to sell me a vacuum or some pots and pans,” the man said with a wry smile. “Please, come in.” He stepped back to let them into the foyer. “My name is Robert Marcott.”
“Sam and Remi Fargo.”
“Follow me. I’ll make some tea and then tell you everything I know about Indonesia in the fifteenth century.”
“Pardon me for saying this,” Remi said, “but you don’t seem surprised by our question.”
“I’m not. Here, come sit down. I’ll explain.”
He ushered them into a study enclosed by floor-to-ceiling book-cases. The floor was covered with a Persian rug; on top of it were a few rattan furniture pieces around a coffee table. Sam and Remi sat on the sofa.
“I’ll be just a moment,” Marcott said, then disappeared through a side door. They heard the clinking of china, then a pot whistling. He came back in with a tea service, filled their cups, then sat down across from them.
“Who pointed you in my direction?” Marcott asked.
“A woman named Ratsami—”
“Lovely woman. Knows nothing about Sumatran history prior to the twentieth century.”
“She was under the impression this was a museum.”
“A bit of a language gap, I’m afraid: historian versus museum. While the official language here is Indonesian, dialects abound. I gave up trying to correct people. Ten years ago I wrote a book on Christianity in Indonesia. Evidently, it turned me into a museum.” Marcott got up, walked to a nearby shelf, retrieved a book, and handed it to Remi.
“God in Java,” she read.
“It could be worse. Almost was. My publisher wanted to call it Jesus in Java.”
Sam chuckled. “You chose wisely.”
“I would have been inundated with people wanting to know the religious significance of coffee. It would have been a nightmare. At any rate, I came here to research the book, fell in love with the place, and stayed. That was fifteen years ago. You’re looking for a monk, you said?”
“Yes, a man named Javier Orizaga, a Jesuit. He would have arrived here in the late 1520s, probably—”
“Ah, Orizaga. Fifteen twenty-eight,” Marcott said. “He lived about two miles east of here, in fact. Of course, the hut is no longer there. I think it’s a burger restaurant now.”
“What can you tell us about him?” asked Remi.