Paper Boats

by Dee Lestari

  For the umpteenth time, Keenan flipped restlessly through the pages of the notebook, back and forth. He had read all the pages—so many times that he knew them by heart. He had turned every single story into a painting. All that remained of the book was the last page, which was blank. And he’d been tackling that, too, for the past several months. The result? A blank canvas.

  Almost everyone had been saying the same thing: “Your subject matter has always come from within. How can you not know what to paint?” And he could only keep silent. How could he explain that everything he’d been painting was what Kugy had written down in an old notebook, and now that there were no more stories left, he had no inspiration?

  It wasn’t that Keenan hadn’t tried to imagine things outside Kugy’s book. He’d tried hundreds of times, but to no avail. He wasn’t the one to take part in those adventures. He hadn’t written those stories. And now it felt like all the praise that had been showered upon his paintings had forced him into a corner, bringing him to one conclusion—he was nothing without that book. It was a terrifying truth.

  It had been two years since he had come to Lodtunduh, two years since it had all started, right here in this bale. His heart trembled at the thought that everything might end here as well.

  “What’s wrong, son? You’ve taken a turn for the worse. You’re no better than when you first came.” Wayan chose his words as carefully as possible. Keenan looked like a glass figurine ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

  A cool breeze rushed past them and shook the bamboo kentungan. Now their sound cut him to the heart. All Keenan could do was bow his head and look down at the wooden floor beneath his feet.

  “You know you can tell me anything,” said Wayan. “But it’s all right if you don’t feel ready. I won’t force you to.”

  “Actually . . .” With great difficulty, Keenan tried to explain. “Poyan, there is something I want to talk to you about. But I don’t know where to start. I . . .” He blinked in confusion.

  “Not knowing is a good start. Everything begins with not knowing. Just go with the flow.” Gently, Wayan patted Keenan’s shoulder.

  “Everything’s gone, Poyan. Everything! Just like that! I can’t paint.”

  “You’re not alone. Everyone else on the island is grieving, too.”

  Keenan shook his head. “It’s not just that, Poyan. I haven’t been able to paint for a long time. It’s all over. It’s like something has died—in here!” Keenan pointed to his chest. “If I can’t paint anything, I’m useless to you all.” He was almost sobbing as he spoke.

  “Son, we think of you as family. Your presence here means something to us, whether you paint or not. Don’t burden yourself with such matters. Not once have I ever set any conditions on your living here. This is your home. And remember, all painters experience what you’re experiencing now, including me—for many years. But it doesn’t mean we should give up. Painting is the path I’ve chosen. It’s my soulmate. And isn’t it the path you’ve chosen, too?”

  Keenan’s head hung even lower. He felt even more crestfallen than before.

  Wayan spoke firmly. “Be patient, son. Your home is here. You don’t need to run anymore.”

  Keenan raised his head. He looked desperately at the man whom he had come to regard as his father, pleading for help. “I’ve finished the book, Poyan,” he whispered.

  Wayan was startled. Was he that dependent on it? After a few moments of silence, Wayan said, slowly, “Son, whether you like it or not, you have to pick up where the book left off. That, or you have to find a new star. It’s not easy, I know. For now you’ll just have to accept that you can’t paint anymore. The path will clear by itself.”

  Wayan understood Keenan’s pain all too well. He had experienced a similar wound decades ago. With great difficulty, he’d risen, staggering, to search for something to replace his heart’s star, his inspiration. And now he was standing firm once more, though he knew the star would never return.

  Adri had been feeling there was something wrong with his body since that morning. He had woken up feeling exhausted, and the exhaustion had persisted, even after eating breakfast and doing some light exercise to reinvigorate himself. Adri decided to go to the office, anyway. He didn’t want Lena to get suspicious and ask him about his health.

  He heard his secretary’s voice over the telephone intercom. “Mr. Adri. Mr. Ong from Malaysia is on the line.”

  Adri picked up the phone. Two minutes into the conversation, his right hand, which was holding the receiver, began to tremble. In a matter of seconds, the trembling turned to shaking. Adri was stunned. He pressed a button and put the call on speaker. He could no longer hold the phone.

  “Sorry, Mr. Ong, it looks like I’m going to have to call you back. I—” Something swept through his entire body, sapping him of strength. In the blink of an eye, Adri collapsed. His body lay stretched out on the floor, stiff. He didn’t move.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE NINJA OF LOVE

  December 2002

  Keenan tried this time. He really, really tried. He had decided he would not succumb to artist’s block. He put the notebook away in his room and reminded himself that an artist’s soul was free—able to come and go as it pleased, dependent on nothing and no one. He wanted to free himself of that book. The time had come.

  Keenan painted and painted.

  Luhde faithfully remained at his side. “I’ll clean your brushes,” she said, taking away the ones whose bristles had become stiff with paint. It was a task she was accustomed to doing. She had been helping the painters in the family since she was little.

  “Thanks, Luhde,” Keenan answered and paused to watch her. “You’re an angel.” The sentence sprang from his mouth before he could stop it. It was a pure expression of what he felt in his heart.

  Luhde looked up. “I’m happy to see you’re painting again,” she said earnestly.

  Keenan smiled. “I’m painting for you.”

  Luhde ducked her head and her cheeks turned red. “Yes, but you’re also painting for yourself,” she said almost whispering. Still, she couldn’t help but smile.

  Keenan put down the brush. Something compelled him to approach her, to sit down and gaze into her face. “Titiang tresne teken Luhde. I love you, Luhde.” He spoke deliberately and with great respect.

  Luhde had been cleaning the brushes, but now she stopped. She felt as if her heart had stopped beating as well. Two years she had waited. Two years she had hoped. Two years she had drawn near to him, pouring out everything she could give him. Now for the first time, Keenan was telling her, directly and plainly, how he felt.

  Luhde gazed into Keenan’s eyes. She felt happy, moved, and embarrassed all at once.

  The sight of such beauty before him took his breath away, and something urged him to come closer still and bestow a tender kiss on Luhde’s lips.

  There was a new hot topic of conversation at AdVocaDo. It was being discussed everywhere, by everyone, all the time: Kugy. Not only did people see her as a prodigy—she also had a nickname: the Ninja of Love. Who would have guessed a girl like her, fresh out of university and sporting a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles watch, could leave so many women heartbroken—all the women who had set their sights on Remi?

  The intimacy that had grown between Remi and Kugy over the past two months had become too obvious to dismiss. Remi gave her a ride home almost every day. They went out to dinner together at least two or three times a week. The whole office had grown used to seeing Kugy in the passenger seat of Remi’s car.

  Meanwhile, the Ninja of Love didn’t seem too concerned about it. She wasn’t even aware she was attracting attention. Kugy’s pile of tasks kept her busy, and she didn’t have time to think about how unexpectedly her career had taken off. To her, Remi was such an enjoyable traveling companion that she didn’t feel she was in any sort of competition. Getting close to Remi hadn’t been on her agenda. It had all come naturally—just like that. And she was too used to not caring
what other people thought to worry about what they were saying.

  Her coworkers had made plans to go clubbing. She’d been reluctant, but they had convinced her to come along. So there she was, in a crowd, in the dark, heart-pounding music blasting away. There were a lot of familiar faces, many she had met at the gathering two months ago. There was also a group of women she recognized: she’d dubbed them the Toilet Sorority.

  Kugy was able to hold out for longer this time because she had eaten dinner before coming. But two hours had passed and she began to feel uneasy. Just because she had a full stomach didn’t mean she felt comfortable. Almost everyone had found something to occupy their attention, and Kugy found herself the odd one out, unable to connect with anyone. Slowly she began to inch away, intending, in stages, to make herself scarce.

  Suddenly, she bumped into someone’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Kugy said. She took a step in another direction, but someone else blocked her path. Kugy tried to back away, and again bumped into someone else. At last she realized she was being surrounded.

  “You’re the one they call Kugy, aren’t you?” one of them asked.

  Kugy looked at the woman’s face and recognized her as a member of the Toilet Sorority. “Yes, I’m Kugy,” she said with a wary nod.

  “The one who’s interning at AdVocaDo, right?” someone else asked.

  Kugy nodded.

  “Where’s Remi? How come he’s not here with you?” asked a third woman.

  “I—I don’t know,” Kugy answered. Where was this interrogation going?

  “Have you been going out with Remi long?” The voice that asked this was sharp and shrill.

  “We’re not going out,” said Kugy, shaking her head.

  “If you are, that’s okay. You shouldn’t feel shy about it. Congrats!” The words were accompanied by a smile. A very unpleasant one.

  “Yeah, how’d you pull it off? Who’s your witch doctor, missy? What special charm did he give you?” The woman laughed at her own joke.

  “Hey, girls,” someone else chimed in. “Look at her watch! That’s her charm! You should all go buy one. They probably sell them at some stall in Pasar Baru. You get a Spiderman one, you a Superman one, and you a Barbie one. Any one will do, as long as it’s tacky and made out of plastic!”

  “Vogue tells me they’re all the rage, you know!” They all cackled.

  Kugy didn’t find this funny. Not at all. She wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, but they blocked her steps left and right, and she found herself unable to move.

  Suddenly an arm penetrated the circle, grabbed Kugy’s hand, and pulled her out.

  It was Remi with his usual charismatic smile. He looked at the group politely.

  “Sorry, can I borrow Kugy for a minute?” Then as if he’d done it hundreds of times, Remi put his arm around her waist in one smooth motion and pressed her body close to his. “Let’s go home,” he said lightly. He brushed back her bangs.

  The women gaped—Kugy included. She was dumbfounded. But she didn’t let them see how surprised she was. She smiled sweetly at Remi and squeezed the hand encircling her waist. “Let’s go,” she said with a small nod. Then she looked in the direction of the Toilet Sorority. “See you,” she said in the friendliest tone she could manage.

  Once they were outside, they burst into laughter.

  “That girl who was standing next to me—did you see her face? She looked like a house gecko that lost its tail!” Kugy clutched at her stomach, her body shaking with laughter. “What a show we put on! Brilliant, just brilliant!”

  Remi looked at his watch. “It’s one a.m. How about some late-night rice porridge?”

  “Sure,” Kugy said cheerfully. And they walked toward the parking lot. It was only when they reached his car that Kugy realized Remi’s arm was still around her waist.

  The bowl of porridge, practically overflowing at first, was now empty. All that remained was a thin film at the bottom, and Kugy was even scraping that into her mouth with gusto.

  “If I sold porridge,” Remi told Kugy after watching her for a while, “I’d make you my brand ambassador. You’d receive a 10 percent commission of all sales and eat as much as you wanted, anytime, for free. All you would need to do is eat exactly like you’re doing now in front of customers. You’d make their mouths water like nobody’s business. And they’d order seconds, even if they were full.”

  “Spoken like a true ad man,” said Kugy. Suddenly curious, she asked, “When did you get interested in advertising?”

  “Since graduating from university. I started out as an intern like you before becoming a junior art director. Then I was made project leader for a really big client, and they loved my idea. The ad was a success, too. I got an award that year, and I’ve been winning prizes ever since. Then I resigned from that company and struck out on my own. Luckily all my old clients followed me. And that’s how AdVocaDo came to be what it is today.”

  Kugy nodded. She’d seen the row of plaques on Remi’s office wall. Everyone had told her that Remi had once had a reputation in the ad world for being a prodigy.

  “But do you really want to be in this line of work forever?” Kugy asked. “Don’t you have any other passions?”

  Remi shook his head. “This is my world. I’ve always been good at helping people sell things, ever since I was young. My parents, my siblings—whenever they tried their hands at something business related, they’d ask my opinion, and I’d give them ideas. They always worked. It was the same at school and university—whenever I helped out with events, they did well. And I got a lot of satisfaction from it.”

  “Wow.” Kugy shook her head in amazement. “You are very, very lucky. You love your job and you’re good at it. A lot of people must envy you.”

  “Maybe.” Remi shrugged. “All I know is there’s only one kind of person I envy.”

  “Who?”

  “Painters.”

  Kugy was startled. “Painters? Why?”

  “I love paintings. They make me so happy.” Remi’s eyes were shining. “A painter’s soul can bring a whole new world into existence. They speak through images, color, composition.” He let out a long sigh. “If I could be born again, that’s what I’d want to be.”

  Kugy was quiet. A painter . . .

  “How about you? If you could be born again, what would you be?”

  Kugy answered without hesitation. “A whale.”

  Luhde woke up earlier than usual. She didn’t know why. Suddenly she had found herself sitting up in bed feeling uneasy.

  Slowly, she got up and left her room. There was no one in sight. But she heard a sound coming from the direction of the bale.

  She stopped when she saw what was going on. Keenan was tearing up a painting—the same one he had finished just a few days ago.

  “Keenan!” Luhde exclaimed, running toward him. “What are you doing?”

  Keenan froze, still clutching the halves in his hands.

  “Why are you tearing up the painting?” she asked.

  “Because it’s no good,” he answered flatly.

  “But that’s the first painting you’ve finished in a long time,” Luhde wailed in confusion. “You said it was good at the time. What was wrong with it?”

  “I can’t paint like I used to,” he said softly.

  “Says who?” she protested, crying. “You shouldn’t talk like that! You have to give yourself a chance! Why did you have to ruin it?” She yanked the torn canvas from his hands. “Why did you have to ruin it?” she sobbed again.

  “Because this painting—” Keenan faltered. He couldn’t explain. How could he say it without breaking Luhde’s heart? That this painting didn’t have the same soul or strength? That this painting couldn’t stir or give voice to his inner being the way his previous paintings had?

  And Luhde couldn’t speak, either. She didn’t understand, and part of her refused to accept it. This was the first time Keenan had painted for her. And that same painting had now been torn in two.
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  “It’s still too early. You’ll catch a cold. Go back to your room.” That’s all Keenan could say. Then he turned away from her and gazed at the empty courtyard. It was far easier to look at that than Luhde’s tearful face.

  “I want to stay here,” Luhde whispered. Carefully, she approached the man she so loved. Embracing him gently from behind, she buried her face in his back, and wept.

  Lena sat beside the hospital bed, lost in thought. Adri had just spent the last two days in critical condition and today he was beginning to regain consciousness. Every now and then he would open his eyes, even though his body was still stiff as a board. This stroke was much more severe than the first one. Moreover, the doctors were doubtful he would fully recover. It would take a miracle, they said. Even months of physiotherapy would only be able to restore 70 to 80 percent of his abilities. The fact Adri was still alive was already amazing. Hopefully, they told her, there was another miracle to come.

  At times like this, Lena realized just how lonely she was. Jeroen was still in school. The only people in the room were her and her husband, who lay unconscious without making a sound.

  Lena rose to her feet and stroked her husband’s hair. She whispered in his ear, asking him the burning questions that had remained unanswered: “What is really the matter? What have you been hiding? How can I help?”

  Lena stood like that for a long time, stroking his hair gently and whispering, until at last she caught something out of the corner of her eye. Adri’s eyelids opened.

  Lena gazed into his eyes and smiled. She squeezed his hand. It felt cold and hard. “Hi,” she said gently.

  His eyes blinked. Saying something. Pleading.

  Lena stroked her husband’s face. “I’m here. You’ll get better. You’re going to be okay.”

  His eyes blinked faster. More urgently. Trying to convey a message. But not a single sound came out of his mouth.

  Lena tried to read his restless gaze. “What do you want me to do, Adri?”