Extract: Night of a Thousand Hells by Intan Paramaditha, trans. by Stephen Epstein, Tiffany Tsao

Read an extract from the forthcoming feminist gothic novel, Night of a Thousand Hells, by Intan Paramaditha. Translated by Stephen Epstein and Tiffany Tsao, and blending Indonesian folklore, Islamic mysticism, horror, and political reckoning, this is the first book translated from Indonesian that has been longlisted for a National Book Award. Set across Indonesia, the US, and Australia, the novel follows three sisters, the youngest of whom becomes a suicide bomber. The surviving sisters must then face hidden truths in their family history.

The Traveller

Heir of the Tiger

I am the offspring of neither mother nor father. I am the heir of my grandmother, a shapeshifter. When we were young, Victoria predicted our fortunes — where were each of us bound? North, south, east, west? Three sisters, three points of  the compass, three spears cast in three directions: caretaker, traveller, bride. But as an adult, I realised that travel wasn’t only my wish. It’s what Nana wanted for herself, before her dreams ran aground. 

She had nailed herself down at home, presiding matriarch and centre of gravity for her children and grandchildren as they scattered. And she contented herself with riding the bus to market in fine clothes. But part of her did roam far: Nana in sepia, standing hands on hips next to a woman on a bicycle, a photo taken in a studio long ago. It had been left in the house after she died, and I took it, transported it over land and sea.

I emerge from West 4th Street Station, passing a newsstand on the right and a small basketball court on the left. It was here, years ago, amid a crowd watching a game that I received the message that Nana had passed on. I didn’t buy a ticket home, traitor that I was — me, the favourite grandchild, missing her  grandmother’s funeral. I had no money, true, but there was another reason: my train was in motion. I wasn’t going to stop, not even for Nana’s death. And I was certain that Victoria was on board too. I imagined her in the prettiest dress from her youth, sitting and joking with other travelling ladies to the accompaniment of jazz or kroncong. Though the train stops at every station, no one gets off. They’re having too good of a time.

I rush past a convenience store opening for the day; a slumbering bar, dreaming of clinking glasses and music and chatter; a café, awake, alert, the aroma of coffee suffusing the morning air. My shoes click against the asphalt like time running out: tick tick tick, then faster, and faster still, leaving behind those unwilling to follow or unable to run. 

Victoria spent her final years confined to a wheelchair. My mother’s turn came next, bedridden, dependent on Mutiara, who was equally trapped, bearing her own curse: caretaker, housecleaner, gravedigger. As for Annisa, she got married, became a wife and mother, roles that seem to have led her down another path — one inconceivable to us all. 

I’m sure I have my own curse to live. But here, at least, I live my grandmother’s dream.

I wander in the shoes of a third world woman, usurping the place of predecessors — men, all of them, civilisation’s supposed rightful heirs. Here I write the life story of my grandmother, a weretiger. A weretiger, burning bright. Or at least that’s what I was doing until last week, when Annisa jumped off a cliff and dragged me with her into the abyss. All these years on the run, and now I have to stop; I’ve been crammed into a dark, stuffy coffin, entombed in sorrow and shame. You want to leave your mark on the world, Maya? Well, the future starts now. Your little sister will follow you. And oh, by the way, we regret to inform you, she’s not alone; round her ankle hangs a chain of corpses, dangling daintily like charms.

In the park across the street, pink cherry blossoms are starting to fall. Maybe I’ll just let my life collapse, take my cue from their transience. But, faintly, I hear my grandmother’s voice: Be strong, persevere, write — as you have always done. A storm has come, but you, my grandchild, shall be safe on your boat with your books.

So, I write. I write, resisting time, resisting fate. I write against my little sister who has forced her own story on me in the here and now. To write is to sail a boat towards eternity. This is my dream, don’t steal it. It’s all I have.

The morning sun streamed through the chapel window, bathing the faces of the girls sitting in the front pew — brown-skinned angels, radiant, ignorant of wrath or woe. Eight o’clock and no sign of Rohana. Sister Superior motioned to Mevrouw van Aerden, seated at the organ, and the girls began to sing. As Dinar’s lips moved, her eyes darted about. Where could Rohana be? 

Ave maria
Gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena

Dinar remembered crying when her parents sent her away to study at the Normal School in Padang Panjang. She told them she wanted to stay in Palembang, 'to look after Papa and Mama,' she said. Though she knew her parents hardly needed looking after. Her father, a district chief, strong and healthy, had more than enough wealth to spare. And her mother managed the family with a troop of servants, a gardener, and a driver at her command.

Dinar’s father turned to his wife, loath to part with his only daughter. 'Maybe she’s right,' he said. 'Maybe she shouldn’t go so far away.'

At this, her mother spit out the betel nut she was chewing. 'Dinar, how can you be so ungrateful? Do you know how rare it is for a girl get an education? Most of them just wait for marriage to change their lives. The lucky ones marry rich and get their families out of debt, but what about those that don’t?'

Who can argue with one’s mother? Dinar set off on a ship to Padang and stayed in the girls’ dormitory at the school. The Dutch women who taught them emphasised the importance of discipline. Determined to prove that natives weren’t lazy, Dinar always rose at half past four: morning prayers, study, sports, bathing, chapel, and then, with the others, classes. Developing these habits was no easy matter, but she wasn’t alone. She had her dearest friend.

Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum 

The door opened and the entire chapel turned to look. It was Rohana, out of breath, plaits in disarray. Sister Superior cast a frown her way but motioned for Mevrouw van Aerden to continue playing. Rohana crept in, searching for a seat at the back, and Dinar suppressed a smile. She had woken Rohana up that morning, but Rohana must have gone back to sleep. Taking a seat, Rohana caught her breath before scanning the pews for her best friend. She greeted Dinar with a wink.

Every morning I come here, to this library, to reimagine my grandmother’s life and turn it into fiction. I had always dreamed of doing so but have never been this daring. Prior to this, my life was haphazard, decided by chance. Or, as Mutiara calls it, luck. Because didn’t she work hard, whereas I was just the lucky one?

I got a scholarship to America to do my master’s degree. And in my first year, I noticed several of my fellow Indonesians were already applying for doctoral programs. I asked them why the rush, shouldn’t you enjoy life, take your time? Don’t you want to stay overseas longer, they asked. I was stunned. They had a point.

I was willing to go anywhere but home. I didn’t want to be either of my sisters. Not Mutiara, working an office job just to make money, or Annisa, following a predictable path — birth, school, marriage, kids. Outfitted with a photo of my grandmother with a girl on a bicycle, I too applied for PhD programs — in History. My research topic: girls’ schools in the Dutch East Indies. A dozen rejections later, I was prepared to give up and go home, to accept that my research topic wasn’t any good, but one university put me on the waiting list and eventually accepted me. More school. How nice for you, said Mutiara. For her I was just putting off getting a job, drawing out the days before I finally grew up and came into my own.

While writing my dissertation, I wondered more and more about my grandmother’s life at the Normal School. What became of her friends — native women marked out to receive an education when so many others went without? Who might Nana have loved before she married my grandfather? Gradually, I built up a story around Victoria. And over the years, the story grew as the time spent on my dissertation dwindled away. Traitorous me. I set aside my dissertation, just for the time being. A week became a month, a month became a year. Something else was calling. Now here I am, writing a book that will capture Nana’s past hopes and dreams. And possibly her present ones too, for I believe she lives on. I want to know: is she still on the train? Is she still enjoying herself? Or has she disembarked and run roaring into the forest, hunting for prey?

Eight o’clock is best. Even half an hour later, and my favourite seat will have been claimed by another. It’s my near daily ritual: I exit the subway and hurry to the stairs, joining the crush of people filing out of the dim underground into the light. I walk briskly all the way to the library, with its lofty ceilings and patterned black and white marble floors — the shrine where I honour my Nana’s memory.

The eighth floor is my stop. As I exit the elevator, I can see every level and their rows of carrels, separated by columns and glass, a fusion of doll house and prison cell. Passing aisles of bookshelves, I head to a reading room — carpeted floor, mahogany tables, towering glass cabinets, ancient tomes, busts of dead white men: patriarchal symbols of knowledge to be smashed by brown women, descendants of concubines, midwives, servants — we want the world, and we want it now.

Here the results of the morning’s competition are decided. The first arrivals are rewarded with the long table facing the window, and views of the public park and fountain while they work. Draping my black leather jacket over a chair, I set my backpack on the floor. I close my eyes for a moment, seeking strength from something outside of myself — something abstract, like God. This is the first time I’m returning to the story since Annisa’s death.

Steady now, Maya, whispers Nana. Sunbeams illuminate the specks of dust on my laptop monitor. Against the blue sky stretching over a row of buildings across the park, I replay that day at Tanjung Karang, at Victoria’s House, where Nana invented a game, a hunt for a key dangling from a pair of tiny red shoes. Whoever finds the key will go on an adventure, she said. We searched without success. Afterwards, I realised she was getting us to clean – just some light exploitation – and years later I left anyway, without needing any key at all. Still, if it weren’t for that quest, I probably wouldn’t have discovered the true key —Nana’s photos. And now here I am, on a journey across the world to bring Victoria to life. In my story, her name is Dinar. 

Victoria, Dinar, this is a tribute from your granddaughter. With all my love.

Night of a Thousand Hells by Intan Paramaditha, translated by Stephen Epstein and Tiffany Tsao, is out on 8 October from Europa Editions.