Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  “Wait! I want to sit up front,” I say. I don’t wait for his response; I get into the front passenger seat. As soon as we pull away from the apartments, I break out laughing again.

  “You told me you had a photography session?” I ask him, mockingly. I feel like poking his face and cackling. I was right—this handsome, vain boy is really just some cheap parasite. Oh my God, just yesterday he was giving me shit, like I was some fat spinster nobody wanted. And now? He’s driving me to the office. My chauffeur.

  Hahahaha! Look who’s the loser here!

  “What’s with those shades? Worried your fans will recognise you?” I ask him. He is red-faced.

  “Okay, sorry,” he says quietly.

  “Sorry? But why? Whatever did you do wrong?” I sneer.

  He stammers a little. “Sorry…for yesterday,” he says, forcing the words out.

  “Yesterday?” I reply, feigning forgetfulness. “Sorry ya, whenever I meet people who don’t matter, I erase them from my memory immediately. Especially the kind of person who thinks he matters, who pretends to be a model.” I pause for dramatic effect. “When, actually, he is just a driver!”

  I know my words hurt, they are nasty. But what he did to me yesterday was nastier. He called me a fatso show-off who didn’t know when she was getting a good thing. Plus, he didn’t even see me as a human being. I was just a cash dispenser to him.

  I don’t say anything else. I have got what I wanted. One–all. I put on my sunglasses and turn to look out the window. I ignore him all the way to the office. Goodbye, Hans. After this, we’re better pretending we never met. All this was just inconsequential kismet.

  *

  As soon as I arrive in the office, I give Boss the doctor’s note about Hyun Ji’s eyes. He reads it, nodding, and asks for the payment slip. Not even a “thank you”.

  “Translate the letters that just arrived, then get me today’s paper, please?” he says. I nod and leave.

  After I get him his newspaper, I sit at my desk. There is a pile of letters. They come from every corner of Indonesia. Most are from different police districts—they concern the status of Korean detainees in local detention centres. My job is to get these letters translated, then contact the stations, following up on the aforementioned detainees, checking on how those cases are going. Can’t say I’m interested in all that, now. Let me check Facebook first.

  Scrolling through my feed, my phone rings. It is Mother. Ah, great timing, she always knows when to call: it’s when I am busy!

  “Ratu, that man who came that day? He came again. Seems like he has important business with you,” she says.

  Apparently, in the last few months, some guy has been turning up in front of our house. Like he’s looking for somebody. Mother thinks he is looking for me, because even though he sees that both Mother and Father are home, he never comes over to say hello.

  “Why is he looking for me? I don’t owe anybody anything, Ma.”

  Actually Mother’s story is pretty suspicious. Ever since she caught the I-want-a-son-in-law bug, she keeps talking about this guy or that guy who’s been asking about me. I think all these are just stories Mother is making up. She keeps talking about serendipitous romance. You know, a stranger sheltering with you under an awning, in the rain, and it turns out he’s some rich bachelor, looking to start a family. Fairytales like that.

  “Who knows? Might be an old friend of yours. Maybe your senior from school. Or your future husband?” See, I knew she’d say something like that.

  “Eh, maybe he’s a terrorist, Ma, planning to plant a bomb right at our front gate,” I say. “I don’t have a single guy friend from school, much less a senior. Impossible!”

  “You don’t understand, this man is really handsome, he would really suit you. Impossible that such a handsome man is a terrorist,” Mother replies.

  “Maaa, please. I’ve got a lot of work. Call you back later, okay?”

  “Work work work. That’s all you know to do. When will you ever meet the man for you, if all you chase is money?”

  “Mama, you don’t need to worry about me, okay? I’ll find a man on my own.”

  “Where?”

  “Facebook. Okay, Ma. Call you back later, bye!” I put my phone down, resume scrolling through Facebook.

  Eventually I get sick of reading my friends’ status updates. Everybody’s lives seem full of smiles and happiness. Ah, forget it. I’ll look for a man later. Time to get to work. I’m just twenty-seven. I have loads of time.

  *

  There is an important letter for the boss this week from the district headquarters of Serang Banten police. They have just arrested a Korean national. Boss gets me to arrange a meeting with the Serang Banten police chief. We will be travelling there to check on the detainee’s condition and the details of his case. Does he have any allergies? Is he being treated humanely? Things like that.

  We start our trip two days later. As usual, I tag along as an interpreter. Sometimes (actually, most of the time), the police officers we meet don’t speak any English. The funny thing: when I get into the boss’ car, it isn’t his usual driver. It is Hans.

  I give him a casual glance as I get into the front passenger’s seat, next to him. Boss settles in, behind us.

  “Where is the usual driver, Uncle?” I ask him, calling him by that polite honorific on purpose. I pretend Hans and I

  are strangers.

  “He’s sick, miss,” he says, quietly.

  I nod and put on my seatbelt. Ah, this will be a long ride, Jakarta to Serang Banten. I will torture him all the way. Just need to wait until the boss falls asleep.

  Taking my most formal tone, I ask him: “Have you been a driver long, Uncle?”

  “Just started.”

  “Oh really? Since when?” I say, feigning curiosity.

  “Three months,” he answers, every word an effort. He’s probably swearing at me inside.

  “Ooh,” I say, nodding. “Why become a driver? It doesn’t seem to suit you. You look like a model.”

  Hans is dead silent. He doesn’t dare say anything, except for a low grunt.

  “You are supporting your wife and children?” I ask. Didn’t he tease me once, about being a housewife?

  “I’m not married, miss,” he says, formally.

  I grin, sly. I pat him on the thigh, like a woman flirting, looking to seduce. “I’m single, too. If there’s time we should go out together, no? Don’t worry, everything will be on me. You like that, don’t you?”

  Hahahaha! That has got to touch a nerve!

  “Sure,” he says, playing along. “If you need my number, miss…”

  I cut him off: “Thanks but no thanks. I was just joking. You’d be too ashamed to be seen out with me. I’m a fatso, after all.”

  There! Let him have it! Cook his heart in boiling water!

  I stop taunting him. Hurting people for extended periods gets boring. I may be plain, but I’m not evil. I stuff my ears with earphones and listen to music on my phone. I pretend to fall asleep. Hans says nothing. He keeps his eyes on the road, all the way to our destination.

  It takes a few hours. I act mostly as an intermediary, explaining the situation to both sides. Then I leave the boss to talk to his fellow countryman, while I sit and chat with the investigating officer.

  It seems this Korean guy was arrested while on drugs. Nothing the embassy can do to help. Serves him right. Go to somebody else’s country, just to cause trouble? Shameful.

  On the way home, Hans doesn’t talk, or even look at me. His face is frozen, sour. He keeps speeding—the boss has to shout at him.

  *

  The next day, I finally get in touch with the investigating officer handling that missing-passport case in Bali. Just as I am about to grumble about how tardy the police have been in giving us information, the officers tell me that they’ve caught the thief though the passport itself is still missing. Wah, not bad, Indonesian police! I thought they were only good for issuing speeding tickets.<
br />
  I tell the boss this piece of good news. He receives it indifferently. He doesn’t seem to be happy with my work at all. He orders me to finish up here then go get Hyun Ji from school. His daughter’s eyes are hurting again, it seems.

  I grin to myself. More opportunity to emotionally abuse Hans! This time, I plan to give him a cash tip—to buy cigarettes, or lunch. He will be so insulted. These pretty boys have such massive egos. I try to visualise his reaction when I wave a wad of cash in his face: “Here, 10,000. Go treat yourself to some nasi padang after this, ya?”

  I take a taxi to Hyun Ji’s school. She is already waiting for me at the guardhouse. So we wait for her family driver to arrive, and we talk.

  “Your eyes are hurting again? Have you been using the eye drops?”

  “I have,” she answers.

  The Nissan MPV appears. My chest leaps in anticipation. But as it pulls up, I see that it isn’t Hans in the driver’s seat.

  “Where’s the other driver?” I ask Hyun Ji, as we clamber in.

  “He quit,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

  “Quit?”

  “Ya. Last night. Said that there was some psycho girl bothering him. Maybe she’s obsessed. Damn stalker bitch.”

  I freeze. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s one of my friends. They are all crazy. Ah, forget it. I’ll find another one, a more handsome one. This one’s just a temp.”

  Ah, that psycho bitch must be me. Oh God, what have I done?

  Hyun Ji needs to throw away her old contact lenses. This girl! She is still using them even though the ophthalmologist told her not to. Maybe she thought he was just joking. I scare her a little—I tell her that her corneas will get scratched and she’ll miss the upcoming Big Bang concert in Indonesia.

  All the way, she whines and wriggles and pulls at my arm. But I’m elsewhere, thinking about Hans. He quit his job because of me. Did I go too far? I feel like an ugly witch who has just sucked blood from a cute little fawn. Earlier, I was so excited at the thought of getting my revenge. Now I feel terrible. I was only joking. Why did he have to take it so personally?

  “It’s true. That’s what the doctor just said. You need to start wearing glasses,” I tell Hyun Ji.

  “No way! I don’t want to look nerdy!”

  “Glasses won’t make you look nerdy. You’ll look better, like a Power Ranger.” I poke her.

  “Oh my God. I should just wear a helmet,” she says, mortified, covering her face with a pillow.

  *

  I cannot stop thinking about Hans, even though I have a ton of work this afternoon. There are letters to get done, faxes to send and so on. Performing these tasks, I war with my feelings. Should I call him, and apologise? Or simply ask: “Hey, I heard you quit?” I still have his phone number.

  I hate this feeling of guilt. Weighing it in my head, I finally decide to apologise. That will be the end of it.

  As soon as I clock out, I work up the nerve to send Hans a text. If he replies, I will say that I’m sorry. If he doesn’t? That means he’s too angry with me. I will still say sorry. This matter has to be dealt with immediately. I may be a fatso, but I am a good person.

  Dinner? On me.

  That’s what I text him. Playing it cool.

  A moment later, my phone chimes. Yes, he’s replied!

  Hahaha! Funny.

  I’m serious. Whatever you want, wherever you want. Interested?

  That goes unanswered for a while. I think he is done with me. But after a couple of minutes my phone chimes again.

  What time?

  Now.

  Okay. Meet at Sushi Tei in ten minutes.

  Damn! Sushi Tei? That’s an expensive place. Wah, this guy really knows how to leech off people. But, in the spirit of reconciliation, I have to go along with it.

  I wait for him at Sushi Tei for about ten minutes. It’s in Plaza Indonesia, too. When Hans appears his expression is soft; no sign of the anger I saw yesterday. He sits facing me without so much as a hello and immediately starts ordering. I can’t bring myself to stop him. I just watch.

  “How come you asked me out?” he snaps. “Not ashamed to be seen having dinner with a lowly driver?”

  “You’re not a driver anymore, are you?”

  He doesn’t answer, but starts flipping through the menu again.

  “You quit because of me?” I ask, all seriousness.

  “As if. Who do you think you are?”

  Ah, damn this boy. Here I am, extending the olive branch. But he’s still looking to get back at me. We sit in silence. I stare at my menu. He looks at the people passing by, outside.

  The food comes soon after. We eat without talking. I expected him to be angry—but not like this.

  “Hurry up, I want to go home,” I say, mid-chew.

  “Me too. Got lots of dates with girls who are actually pretty,” he says, scowling. “I’m pretty handsome, after all.”

  “Cih!” I spit. I stuff a piece of salmon sushi into my mouth. Asking this boy out was a huge mistake.

  Finished, we cannot wait to leave the restaurant. But Hans does not leave. He follows me.

  “I’ll forgive you,” he says, serious now. “On one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Buy me some clothes.”

  “What?” I shout. Passers-by jump and slide away from us. I ignore them. “Buy them yourself! Are you broke?”

  Hans pouts. “Ya, I’m broke. I’m jobless now, remember?”

  “Who asked you to quit your job?” I say. “Call yourself a man, but thin-skinned like some girl! A little teasing and you run off sulking!”

  “Ah, whatever. That is my condition. Otherwise I won’t forgive you, you horrible woman. Hope you regret this for the rest of your life!”

  I stop. This damn parasite! What I really want to do is give him a slap, then leave. Screw feeling guilty. But three steps away from him and I hesitate. Damn it. This thing needs some sort of closure. Fine! He wants some clothes? I’ll get him clothes. Think of this as alms for the poor.

  “Okay,” I say, annoyed. “A shirt.” Hans smiles wide.

  He leads me to Zara. Damn, damn, damn, triple damn! I myself have never bought anything from Zara. He strides straight in among the displays—I am left hanging by the entrance. Afterwards he walks over to the counter with a shirt. It costs nearly 300,000 rupiah. Reluctantly, I pay up.

  We leave. Hans has a grin and a Zara paper bag. I contemplate my poor purse, purged of its contents.

  “Thanks,” he says, teeth showing. “If you need anything next time, give me a ring, okay?”

  “Enough! Enough of this. I owe you nothing after this,” I say, roughly. I have been scrounged off twice by this boy. Even once is one time too many. But I was forced to, for the sake of an apology, and to assuage my guilt.

  Back at my place, I raid my cupboard for a packet of biscuits. Okay, I just had sushi, but now I feel like junk food. I sit on the sofa by the balcony and stare into the night air. My rental room is on the second floor.

  It is a big, two-storey lodging house, with several rooms. Many of the rooms are empty. Before I moved in I heard stories about this house being haunted. When I actually started living here, I found out that the haunted house rumour mainly stems from the fact that one of the rooms is a storeroom: piles of clothes; old mattresses; one or two bolsters that, at a glance, look like corpses wrapped in funeral shroud.

  That rumour, plus the fussy landlord, is why not many people want to live here. My landlord lives on the ground floor. He forbids us from bringing guests to the house. We ignore him. We pay the rent, don’t we?

  I turn and catch a boy slipping out of Lala’s room. Lala rents the room opposite mine. She’s not super good-looking—she looks like Christine Hakim, minus a shower and make-up—but a lot of men go for her, oddly enough.

  “Bye!” Lala says, hanging from her door. She watches him walk away for a while then joins me on the sofa. She pulls out a cig
arette from the packet she has with her and lights up.

  “You keep changing boyfriends. Is that healthy?” I say. I crunch on another biscuit.

  “Better that than staying single until I die. I’m not going to be a spinster, like you,” she replies, puffing smoke rings into space. Ugh, cheap slut!

  At least I have dignity. “I’m looking for a proper fiancé. Just you wait, I’ll bring him around one day,” I say.

  “Oh, really? Good luck,” she says, sarcastically.

  Lala likes to think herself a free spirit. Very aggravating, impossible to take seriously. I hope she dies asphyxiated by her own smoke someday.

  Thing is, I was hoping one day she’d say to me: “Hey, I know this guy who’s handsome, rich and single. I’ll introduce you to him?” But Lala is a miser. Of the many boys she’s had over, she has never introduced a single one. She hoards them all for herself. Stingy shrew.

  My phone rings. Ah, my dear mother.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  Instead of saying hello, Mother gets right into it: “Found your true love on Facebook?”

  “No, Ma.” Does she think finding a boyfriend is like picking a shell on a beach? Ugh!

  “I told you, over and over…” Oh Em Gee, she’s doing it again! She’s going to launch into a lecture: the importance of dieting, of caring for one’s skin, of watching manners so I don’t come off too rough and masculine.

  Quickly, just to stop her, I say: “Mama, I’ve found him. I’ve got a boyfriend now.”

  “La? Didn’t you just say you hadn’t found one yet?”

  “Umm, I’m just not sure whether I want to introduce him to you yet.”

  “Why not? This weekend, bring him over to the house. I’ll be waiting.” I can practically hear the joy in her voice.

  “But we’re not ready, Mama…”

  “Or do you want us to go visit you at your place?”

  “No! No need! Okay I’ll come home!” Why is Mother so mental? “I’ll call you later, okay? Boyfriend is calling me. Bye!” I end the call in a hurry. Damn it! What the hell did I just do?