Neither Sam nor Remi had any grand ideas about what, if anything, of value they’d find by investigating Orizaga’s adopted homeland. However, all the hoops they’d jumped through since Zanzibar seemed to be leading them in one direction. Blaylock’s quest, his journal, the maps, the codex, Orizaga himself, and now the lab report—all of it pointed toward an unknown location in Indonesia.
“IT WOULD HAVE MADE our lives so much easier if Orizaga had left an address,” Sam said. “It’s a bit inconsiderate, really.”
“I’m sure if he’d known we were coming, he would have,” Remi replied. “Did the woman at the last place say the house was red or green?”
“Green.”
Since arriving in Palembang the previous day, they’d visited six local museums or historians said to specialize in the pre-Dutch colonial period of the city’s history. So far, none of the curators had heard of Orizaga, and each one had suggested Sam and Remi go to the city’s administrative building and peruse centuries’ worth of microfiche newspapers for any mention of their friend.
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.
“What do you want to know?”
“How much time do you have?” Sam countered.
“Unlimited quantities.”
“Then tell us everything.”
“You’re going to be disappointed. He was an interesting man and he worked hard to help the locals, but he was just one of thousands of missionaries that came here over the last half millennium. He opened a Bible school, helped at local hospitals, and spent a lot of time in rural villages trying to save souls.”
“Have you ever heard of the Orizaga Codex?” Sam asked.
Marcott narrowed his eyes. “No, but, based on the name, I somehow think I should have. Am I about to be terribly embarrassed?”
“I don’t see why,” Remi said. She gave Marcott the short version of the codex’s history, leaving out the specifics about its content or origin.
Marcott smiled. “Fascinating. Did this codex ingratiate him with the Church or was it the opposite?”
“The opposite.”
“Then it was sympathetic to the Aztecs. I wish I had known all this about him. I might have devoted a whole chapter to him. There was one interesting story, but it didn’t really fit into the book so I left it out. He died in 1556, twenty-eight years after arriving here—or, at least, that’s when he was last seen.”
“I don’t understand,” Remi asked.
“The story goes that in November of that year, Orizaga announced to his followers and colleagues that he believed he’d discovered a sacred place in the jungle—he didn’t say where exactly—and that he was going to find the . . . What was it?” Marcott paused, tapping his index finger on his lower lip. “Oh, yes. He called it the seven caves or world of the seven caves. Something along those lines. He walked into the jungle and never came back. From what I understand, Orizaga was considered a bit of a nut.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Sam said. “So he walked into the jungle and just vanished?”
Marcott nodded. “Never seen again. I realize it sounds very dramatic, but even today disappearances aren’t uncommon. Five hundred years ago it was probably a daily event. The jungles here are unforgiving, even for someone as well traveled as Orizaga.” Marcott paused and smiled ruefully. “Talking about the man, I find myself really wishing I’d devoted at least a few pages in the book to his story. Oh, well.”
“I don’t suppose you still have your primary source material on him, do you?” asked Remi.
“No, I’m afraid not. But I can do better than that. I can take you to my source—providing he’s still alive, that is.”
THEY FOLLOWED MARCOTT in his twenty-year-old BMW to another residential area in Palembang’s Plaju district. Here the roads were dirt, the houses no larger than six hundred square feet, with corrugated tin roofs, unpainted plank-wood exteriors, and mosquito-netting windows. Beside almost every structure was a tiny vegetable garden and pens containing either chickens or goats.
Marcott pulled to a stop before one of the houses. Sam and Remi did the same and got out. Marcott said, “He doesn’t speak English and he’s in his nineties, so be prepared.”
“Who are we meeting?”
“Apologies. Dumadi Orizaga. Before he die
d, Javier had ten children with a local woman. Dumadi is a direct descendent of Orizaga.”
“I thought he was a Jesuit,” said Remi.
“He was, but at some point he renounced his vows—including celibacy, obviously.”
“Maybe because of his ordeal with the Church,” Sam offered.
They followed Marcott up the path to a screen door made of two-by-fours and threadbare mosquito netting. After Marcott’s fourth fist rap on the jamb, an old man in a white tank top shuffled into view. He was barely over five feet tall, and his face bore mostly Indonesian features with touches of Spanish thrown in.
Marcott said something to Dumadi in Indonesian or one of its dialects. The old man smiled and nodded and pushed open the door. The three of them stepped inside. The interior of the home was divided into thirds: a twenty-by-twenty-foot sitting area with four plastic lawn chairs and a cardboard-box coffee table, and two side rooms, one a bedroom/bathroom, the other a kitchen. Dumadi gestured for everyone to sit.
Translating as he went, Marcott introduced Sam and Remi, then explained that they’d come to Palembang to learn more about Orizaga. Dumadi said something.
“He wants to know why you’re interested in him,” Marcott replied. “They’re very guarded about their family here, even after five hundred years. Ancestral veneration is a deeply ingrained tradition for Indonesians.”
Sam and Remi looked at each other. Never imagining they would find descendants of Orizaga, they hadn’t discussed how to explain their mission.
“Let’s tell him the truth,” Sam said. “If the codex belongs to anyone, it’s him.”
Remi nodded, reached into her carryall, and withdrew a manila envelope. She flipped through the photos and papers inside, then withdrew the scan of the codex. She handed it across to Dumadi.
Sam said to Marcott, “Tell him we think this belonged to Orizaga and that we believe it has something do with why he came here in the first place.”
Marcott translated. Staring at the scan in his hands, Dumadi nodded, but Sam and Remi could tell the old man had barely heard Marcott. The silence dragged out. Finally Marcott said something else to Dumadi, who laid the scan on the cardboard box, climbed to his feet, and shuffled off into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later carrying a frame. He stopped before Remi and handed it to her.
Drawn in stylized calligraphy, with filigreed edges and intricate swirls and flourishes, the original was far removed from the photo, but for Sam and Remi there was no mistaking what they were seeing: the picto-map from Orizaga’s codex.
Dumadi pointed at the framed photo, then at the scan, and said something to Marcott, who translated: “He doesn’t recognize the bottom portion, but the top portion’s been passed down through his family for centuries.”
“Why?” asked Sam.
Marcott asked, listened to Dumadi’s response, then said, “It’s the Orizaga family coat of arms.”
“Does he know what it means?”
“No.”
“No one ever talked about what it might mean?”
“No,” Marcott replied. “He says it’s always been part of the family. He assumes it was important to Orizaga, and that’s good enough for him.”
Sam flipped through Remi’s manila envelope and withdrew Wendy’s version of the Quetzalcoatl bird from the Chicomoztoc illustration. He handed it to Dumadi. “Does that mean anything to him?”
Marcott asked, listened. He smiled and replied, “Which part, the ugly snake or the bird?”
“The bird.”
Dumadi sat back down with a groan, then replied.
“It has no particular meaning to him,” Marcott said. “It’s just a bird. He’s seen them in zoos.”
“Here?” Remi asked.
“He doesn’t remember where, exactly. He saw one when he was a child. His father called it a helmet bird because of the bulge on the back of its head.”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then said, “What is it? What’s it called?”
“A maleo. Dumadi says he recalls they’re much prettier than your drawing. Medium sized, black back, white breast, yellow skin around the eyes, and an orangish beak. Sort of like a colorful chicken.”
Dumadi said something to Marcott, who translated: “He wants to know if this drawing has anything to do with Orizaga.”
“It does,” said Sam.
“It reminds him of a story about Orizaga. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please,” Remi replied.
“Like most of their family stories, the details may have changed over time, but the gist of it is this: Near the end of his life, Orizaga was known by most of the people in Palembang, and they were fond of him. They were also sure he was possessed by a mischievous spirit.”
“Why?” asked Sam.
Marcott listened. “It’s similar to what I told you back at my home. He wandered the jungles a lot, talking about caves and gods, and that he’d come here to find the home of the gods . . .You get the idea. No one was afraid of Orizaga; they suspected this mischievous spirit was having fun with a poor old man.
“The day Orizaga disappeared, he announced to everyone that he was again setting out to find his ‘god caves’ and that he would know the place when he found a ‘hatchery of great birds.’”
CHAPTER 40
JAKARTA, INDONESIA
“HOW SURE ARE YOU ABOUT THIS, SELMA? ” SAID SAM.
He and Remi were sitting on their bed in their suite at the Four Seasons. The day before, shortly after leaving Dumadi’s house and parting company with Robert Marcott, they’d boarded a Batavia Air charter at Palembang’s Sultan Mahmud Badaruddin II Airport for the two-hundred-fifty-mile hop across the Java Sea to Jakarta. The Four Seasons seemed a decent place for a base of operations.
Selma said over the speakerphone, “I confronted him. He admitted it.”
“That crafty SOB. I wonder if he’s even got grandkids in London going to college.”
“Or if he’s truly dying,” Remi added.
“Both are true. I checked. He’s still a con man, in my book.”
Of the many unanswered questions and curiosities surrounding Sam and Remi’s adventure, one had been plaguing Selma in particular: How had Rivera and his boss, President Garza, known the Fargos would be in Madagascar? What had prompted the note-and-notify bribe? Selma believed there were only two possibilities: Cynthia Ashworth, keeper of Constance Ashworth’s letters, or Morton, proprietor of the Blaylock Museum and Curiosity Shop. These had been Sam and Remi’s greatest sources for research material. Somewhere along the line, had Rivera and Garza tapped these sources as well?
Cloaked in her best “bad cop” impression, Selma started with Morton, claiming she knew he’d sold Blaylock material to others and that if Morton didn’t come clean she was going to take him to court. Morton broke down within two minutes, Selma said.
“He didn’t know Rivera’s name or how he’d come to know about the museum, but about five years ago he and a few of his goons showed up, asking questions about Blaylock and the Shenandoah. Morton says he didn’t particularly trust Rivera, and he suspected they’d get rough with him if he didn’t cooperate, so that night he moved all the important material out of the museum’s storeroom and hid it in his home. Sure enough, the next morning he arrived at the museum to find it had been ransacked.
“Rivera showed up a few hours later, pleasant as can be. During the night Morton had scrounged up some of Blaylock’s papers—pages from his journal, the original manuscript of the biography, random drawings and maps—”
“The Moreau Madagascar map,” Remi predicted.
“Yes. He’d seen the tiny writing on it and tore away that section and gave the bigger piece to Rivera. Morton says that seemed to satisfy Rivera. They completed the transaction, and Rivera left. Morton, being the clever fellow he is, figured Rivera wasn’t quite done, so he moved the Blaylock material again, out of his home to another location.”
“And that night his house was burglarized,” S
am said.
“Right. Morton made it a point to stay out all night with friends. The ruse worked, he said. Rivera never returned.”
“And then we show up five years later, asking the same questions.”
“Why didn’t he pull the same trick on us?”
“He said he liked you. And he wanted to retire and take care of his grandkids. When you offered sixty thousand instead of twenty, he decided to throw it all in and hold nothing back.”
“Then we don’t know what Rivera knows, do we?” asked Remi.
“No,” Sam replied. “By dumb luck, Morton sold him enough to send him down some paths and make some progress, but not enough to finish it. Now with us in the picture, Rivera and Garza can tag along to the end. We have to expect they’re going to show up—if they haven’t already.”
“Which brings me to my next point,” said Selma. “We finished decoding the rest of Blaylock’s letters to Constance. Care to guess the date of his last letter?”
“No,” replied Sam.
“Even the year?”
“Selma.”
“Eighteen eighty-three.”
Remi replied, “That means he was out here chasing his treasure for eleven years. My God.”
“What about the letters in between?” Sam asked.
“There were only a few a year after Blaylock captured the Shenandoah II. As was his habit, the plain text part of the letters was mostly travelogue . . . the rakish man of adventure. In the letters, he duplicates almost all the tall tales from Morton’s biography. They were window dressing. One of his coded messages to Constance suggests he was convinced Dudley and the others had discovered his lie about the Shenandoah II and were after him.”
“Were they?”
“Not as far as I can tell. And if they did know, they probably wouldn’t have cared. The Shenandoah II was gone. She was no longer a threat. Blaylock had done his job.”
“Back to his last letter,” Sam prompted.
“Right. It’s dated August 3, 1883, and was posted from Bagamoyo. I’ll quote the relevant part directly: