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Billy Kwan is thinking of Satan himself, an extreme case of the apocalyptic scenario in
the novel, but all of Koch’s Australian protagonists find themselves in an Asian landscape
teeming with unruly spirits and minor demons. Guy Hamilton is intrigued by the indigenous
quarter where they seem to be emerging from the underworld: ‘He liked Pasar Baru, even in
this time of increasing violence. From the cave entrances of shops, shopkeepers smiled and
muttered invitations, like emissaries of damnation’ (YLD, 232). Cookie sees them in the
faces—European and Indonesian—looking down on Billy’s body in the Hotel Indonesia
arcade, and notices how some ‘wore inexplicable smiles. So there really are devils in human
form, I thought’ (YLD, 250). The earth, normally the realm of men, animals and plants, has
been invaded by these demons who should have their own place in the Triple World. Even
inanimate objects are vitalised with spirits under these conditions of adharma. At the
gruesome mutilation and execution of the generals at Crocodile Hole, the most graphic
description of the work of bloodthirsty Goddess Kali, Cookie says of the landing lights of the
airport: the ‘blue lights watch, like evil spirits’ (YLD, 270).
Cookie is one of the exceptional characters in Koch’s novels in that he is not cited for
suffering the dehumanising effects of the masks, at least not beyond an undeveloped depressive
character and a drinking problem. In his dual role as the father confessor and narrator of The
Year of Living Dangerously, Cookie understands and wears the masks better than any other.
He learns hidden truths from the others, supplementing the information he has from his own
experience and Billy Kwan’s files. He then assumes the function of the dalang, who provides
the wayang kulit’s two-tiered narrative. Talking of the Wayang Bar, the journalists’ refuge
from the theatre of confrontation on the outside, Cookie says in his djanturan voice that under
konfrontasi all Westerners had entered a realm of insanity where their personalities were worn
like the masks of ancient Greek drama. ‘We carried our white faces through the streets like
ridiculous badges’, he says, and after the stories were filed
we retreated gratefully to the Wayang, a foreigner’s bar in a foreigner’s hotel,
out of reach of all but the most wealthy and powerful Indonesians. Off-stage,
in these cool hours, we could be ourselves, no longer men in white masks
(YLD, 9).
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