Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  Lala snickers at me.

  “What do I do?” I ask myself, aloud.

  Lala hears this. “Next time, when you lie, say something more convincing,” she sniggers. Coming from her, I expected no less. She’s a consummate liar. Me? Straight as a ruler.

  “Can I borrow one of your boyfriends?” I blurt.

  “What? No way!”

  “But you have so many!” I say, pleading.

  “Sorry, my boys are not boyfriends-for-hire, okay? Go look for somebody you can buy.” She gets up and leaves me there alone. I mutter at her back and curse her in my heart. Hope she dies, choking on her cigarettes.

  It isn’t long before somebody’s face pops into my head. What would you do, in my situation? You’d go ask a close friend, somebody you can trust, wouldn’t you? Or one of your gay friends, the one who helps pick out your outfits and make-up—you’d get him to act macho in front of your parents. Maybe you’ll get an old classmate, one who used to have a crush on you in school, unrequitedly. Those are the kinds of guys you’d get, in films or novels.

  I don’t have friends like that. I don’t have anybody I can turn to. No options, except the one that involves a cash transaction. My only solution is to pay somebody to pretend to be my boyfriend.

  And the best candidate for this is… I am sure you can guess.

  Hey, I have a business proposal for you. Interested?

  It doesn’t take long for the screen to flash.

  Want me to be your personal driver?

  I smile. He replied. A good sign.

  Something like that. One day only.

  How much?

  500,000. But you need to act like you are my boyfriend.

  That goes unanswered for so long I nearly call him to tell him I’m just joking. But before I can dial his number, I get an answer.

  Deal.

  Okay. Will get in touch later.

  I smile and stare at the road past our veranda. Lala, out of her room again with a mug of steaming coffee, sees me smiling.

  “Suddenly smiling to yourself, that’s a sign of insanity, you know,” she says, in that irritating voice of hers.

  Eh, what’s wrong with this woman? What’s so crazy? I’m just taking advantage of the options I have. I mean, Hans is out of a job, isn’t he? He needs money. I need him. What’s wrong with that? I blink. Shit! What have I done? I hate that boy, damn parasite! Why did I even think of him just now? How can I ever make nice with him, pretend we are lovers? I can’t even bear the thought of touching him.

  The weekend arrives and I cannot stop it. Boss asks me to look into rabid dogs in Bali. He thinks Koreans visiting the island should be warned about them. I think this is idiotic. Come on, who wants to be told that their holiday destination is full of dogs with a deadly disease?

  He asks me to check with the Balinese health department for official numbers. But, what’s the internet for? So I Google it, and find info on the Balinese health department’s official website.

  I don’t gossip with the other staffers too much. My desk is separated from them. I have my own room. There are other secretaries working here at the embassy. We are all Indonesian, us secretaries. Our work is all quite similar: we are translators, intermediaries between Indonesian and Korean officials. But the rest are all prettier, their bosses don’t shout at them and in their jobs, they don’t come into contact with criminal elements. They only deal with trivial matters, like “culture” and “the economy”. They don’t have to deal with prisons and dead bodies.

  We are busy at the embassy. The bosses keep us occupied. We’re so busy we barely have time to chat with each other. And don’t you think I didn’t go looking for a boyfriend here. I tried and it didn’t work.

  For one, the Indonesian staffers are all much older than I am. They are all around our president’s age. And the Korean guys here don’t look like the Korean boys on television. They aren’t fun; they aren’t cute. The Korean guys here are all shouty and kind of rough. They are bullies. Who wants to date a bully?

  So the only company I keep are the heaps of unsolved case files in my room. My workspace is filled with police files. Piles and piles of them. And heaped print-outs of the laws of the Republic of Indonesia which I am meant to memorise, but haven’t, yet.

  As I compile news reports about dogs and translate them into English, I am at war with myself. Should I go ahead with my scheme? Should I call it off? I don’t mean to lie to my parents. But my mother will surely try to force me to marry some guy she has chosen for me. I will not marry some stranger.

  So, all right, fine, since my mother loves to play matchmaker, I better call Hans and tell him I’ll be hiring him.

  See? Simple, isn’t it? I will be hiring him. I will be paying him. I will be his boss, and he my hireling. Way better than some girl who’s given up, who’s willing to pay through the nose for a shred of affection. I will be a BOSS. No emotions involved.

  All day I sit in front of the computer, feigning a fierce fascination for rabid Balinese dogs. Of course I am playing Facebook games. Who really wants to work on a Friday? Come on. Even my boss leaves at 4pm, the minute I hand in my report.

  At 5pm, I send Hans a text.

  Get me from Plaza Indonesia, south entrance. 6.30. Don’t be late.

  He replies instantly.

  I want a down payment first.

  Ya, ya. Whatever.

  I have some time to get ready. I don’t really know what to wear. Most clothes tend to look the same on me anyway. Once, I put on a dress, one that I thought looked pretty cool, pretty amazing—I’d ordered it out of a Sophie Martin catalogue—and Lala said I looked like a faded ondel-ondel doll. Even though Lala is a mouthy bitch, her opinions are useful, sometimes. I don’t want to look like a faded ondel-ondel doll, even though I’m only playing pretend with Hans.

  So I put on some jeans, a tank top and a jacket. A special jacket. With a pair of special shoes. Sandals? I don’t want to look tubby. Everything I put on is extra-tight. It ends up choking me, a little. Never mind. This is special. I try letting my hair down, but my hair spreads out, like a fan broom. So I hold it together with a cutesy hairband, bought from the Naughty accessory store.

  Putting on some bright-red lipstick, spraying on some Kenzo Flower perfume—I am ready. This is just a perfectly ordinary Saturday evening. I am going home to Bogor. It is what I usually do on Saturdays. The only difference is that tonight I will be bringing along my boyfriend to meet my parents. We will pretend to be a couple. As simple as that. No more complicated than folding an origami crane.

  At 6.20pm, I am waiting in front of Plaza Indonesia’s south entrance. Waiting for Hans. Like most other weekend evenings, Plaza Indonesia is busy, full of people. The scent of expensive perfume fills the air. Pretty young things with beautiful skin saunter through the mall’s main doors. I feel like an awkward teenager. Why am I so nervous about meeting this damn guy? Don’t I meet scarier people on a daily basis: police officers, criminal suspects, corpses, coroners?

  Looking at my shockproof Baby-G for the time, something suddenly occurs to me. Hans is coming to get me. But what is he coming to get me with? Does he have a car? Oh nooooo! Why didn’t it occur to me to ask him, to make sure? That jobless bum will probably ask me to get on a bus with him. Damn it! Think about the money I’ll have to fork out for the taxi fare, all the way to Bogor. Hrrrgh.

  I try calling Hans, to double-check. The line rings once before he answers.

  “Don’t worry, I’m almost there,” he says.

  “Ceh, who says I’m worried?” I say.

  “To your right,” he says. So I turn to look and I see Hans walking towards me.

  God, he looks like a Korean heartthrob. One look, and I know everybody else is stealing glances at him. Fine, he is a little over-groomed. He doesn’t impress me. He must’ve used a whole bottle’s worth of wax for his hair. I rush towards him, asking:

  “You brought your car, right? I’m not taking a bus.”

  Peopl
e are staring at us.

  “I don’t have a car, babe,” he says.

  Shit. I turn red instantly. “Don’t call me ‘babe’. What the hell? People are watching!”

  “What? Didn’t you say…”

  “Not here,” I hiss. Him and his damn Boys Before Flowers look. He looks like a lost celebrity and I an incompetent manager who’s mixed up her scheduling.

  “Come on, quick!” I pull him by the hand and get him into the queue of people waiting for taxis. “We’ll take a cab, okay?” I say. Damn it. Taking a taxi from Jakarta all the way to Bogor. I’ll have to fast the rest of the month.

  “I’ve got a ride,” he says. “I’m your driver tonight, aren’t I, babe?”

  The people in the queue look wonderingly at me. This knock-off Jun Pyo has just called me “babe” again—me, a fat, faded ondel-ondel doll. Forget these strangers. It feels unreal to me. I want to reach up, grab him by the throat, shut him up.

  “What the hell are you doing? Stop calling me ‘babe’!” I snarl at him. “Embarrassing!”

  Suddenly he hooks his arm around mine and leads me away from the taxi line. He steers me to the illegal parking spots that surround Plaza Indonesia. Around the mall, there aren’t any proper parking spots for motorbikes. They want shoppers to come in cars or taxis or limousines. Oh, I also heard that if you turn up wearing cheap-looking sandals, you’ll be turned away by security.

  Hans pulls out a motorbike from the dirty scrum at the parking area. His motorbike looks pretty nice. A Kawasaki Ninja. Not one of the newer ones. He offers me a helmet.

  This is crazy. Riding a motorbike all the way to Bogor. You want my butt to be sore and red, like a baboon? “Seriously?” I ask him, as he pays the illegal parking attendant.

  “Just get on,” he tells me. He gestures for me to put my helmet on, points me to the seat behind him. “Just get on.” He revs his bike and we speed away.

  It isn’t long before we stop at a petrol kiosk. “Full tank,” he tells the clerk. He fills his bike up with Pertamax. That’s nearly 10,000 per litre and his tank is, what, 15 litres, maybe? And I’ll have to pay for it.

  “Down payment,” Hans says, grinning. The nerve! Petrol should be included in what I’m paying him!

  “Right. Let’s go,” I say, when I get my change.

  “So, where to, babe? Some party with your friends?” he

  says, flirty.

  “Are you kidding me? To my parents’ place in Bogor. Hurry up, it’s going to be night-time soon!” I am clipping my helmet on, clambering onto his back seat.

  “Wait. You’re joking, right?” he asks.

  “I’m serious. I’m bringing you to meet my parents. You are going to be my boyfriend. Just for tonight.”

  “What? I didn’t know I was going to have to meet your parents—this will cost double,” he says, business-like.

  “Hey, asshole, you already made a deal with me. Now you know. Next time, when somebody offers you a job, ask for the details first. Come on! Before Mother starts calling me.”

  “All the way to Bogor. Huh,” he mutters. “You’re really getting me to be your driver.”

  Hans rushes the rest of the way. He speeds like a demon. I scream. Hanging on, I am like a sack of sand balancing, nearly falling. It takes us less than two hours. When I get off the motorbike seat, I sway, feeling nauseous.

  Out of the helmet my hair juts in weird bunches, like clumps of cotton. Hans adjusts his shirt and hair. He mourns his messed-up coiffure, the waxed crest flattened by his helmet.

  “What am I supposed to say?” he asks.

  “You say nothing. Let me do all the talking.”

  My house is no villa, even though it is up in the Bogor hills. A small house, with a large central living area and a veranda furnished with old-fashioned chairs. We are a middle-income family: not rich, not poor.

  When we walk in, we see food for a small party, served on the dining table. Mother is a firm believer in that Dutch philosophy that love begins in the stomach. If the stomach is satisfied, affection is sure to follow. Maybe she thinks that if she feeds my ‘boyfriend’ well enough, he will want to become part of the family.

  Mother’s eyes are as round as saucers. She watches us scoop rice and ladle sauces. She cannot stop staring at Hans.

  “He an actor?” she whispers, uncertain.

  “No, Maaa,” I whisper back.

  Father does not say much. He doesn’t seem to be interested in Hans at all. He has never really been around. Father is like a tree root. Looks dead, but still sucks moisture.

  Hans eats, slowly and politely. I know he must be starving, driving all that way, but gorging wouldn’t be his style.

  “So, where did you two meet?” Mother asks.

  Hans shoots me a look. “On Facebook, Ma,” I say. Hans nods in agreement.

  “Been together long?” Mother asks Hans again. Again, he looks at me.

  “Not really, it’s only been about two weeks. Right, baby?” I say, simpering.

  Hans nods, mid-chew: “Mmh-mmh.”

  My mother, slightly disappointed, says: “Oh.”

  “What do you do?” Father says, suddenly.

  I feel Hans stiffen at the question. It isn’t easy for him to answer. It causes me a pang of guilt, too. I made him lose his job, after all.

  “Hey, Pa, did you all know that in Bali, they’ve vaccinated about 150,000 dogs? For rabies. That’s really a lot, right?” I say, trying to steer the conversation away. “There were 40,000 reported dog attacks in 2010. The vaccines are currently costing about 25 billion rupiah. That rabies situation is really out of control, right? If you two ever want to holiday in Bali, you need to be careful.”

  “What do you do?” Father asks, again.

  “I… I own a cybercafé business,” Hans says. There is a scared look on his face.

  Father says nothing else. When we finish eating he leaves the table to watch TV. As I deal with the dishes, Mother stares at me sharply.

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?” she snaps.

  “What?” I say. My heart is pounding. Have I been found out?

  “That Hans, he’s an artiste, isn’t he?” she asks.

  I breathe in relief. “No, Mama.”

  “Yes, he is! I’m sure! You’ve used some spell on him, haven’t you?”

  “Mama!” I exclaim. My own mother, accusing me of sorcery. Nobody would fall in love with me otherwise, is that it? Hell, if I really were using black magic, I’d use it on Nicholas Saputra. Why waste a spell on a loser like Hans?

  My mother snorts and disappears into the kitchen. I head back to Hans to scold him.

  “Cybercafé?” I ask him. What the hell?

  “Well, what was I supposed to say? If I told him I work in an office job, your father would’ve asked: which office? What would I have said then?”

  Well, he has a point.

  But, a cybercafé business? What kind of business is that? So I’m supposed to be dating a cybercafé owner? What kind of cybercafé owner dresses up like some Korean actor?

  From the corner of my eye, I catch my mother coming out of the kitchen, towards the living room. She is keeping a close eye on us. I need to use this opportunity.

  “Quick. Kiss me,” I tell Hans.

  “What?”

  “Hmmh,” I step to him and I kiss him. A peck on the cheek. Then I laugh—a giggle, like a girl messing around with her boy. I slap his arm, playfully, a girl in the throes of passion (even though I feel gross and ugly doing it). I want us to look like a real couple.

  That kiss? It costs me 200,000. Hans asks for it, extra, because the kiss wasn’t part of our deal. Damn it. It was only a peck on the cheek. Didn’t even last two seconds.

  Hans doesn’t spend the night at my parents’ place, obviously. He leaves at around 11pm. I don’t know what happens to him on the road. Maybe he gets in an accident, falls into a ravine. Whatever. He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.

  After showing him out (and sl
ipping cash into his bag), I go back into the house. The first thing Mother says to me? “Have you two talked about marriage?”

  My stomach dips into itself and I stagger. “Not yet, Ma. We’ve only been together two weeks.”

  “Oh,” she says, wide grin. “I thought he was an actor.”

  “No, Ma.” I leave it there, though I want to scream at her. He is just some unemployed bum!

  I don’t understand why mother is so sure Hans is some kind of actor. He is handsome, but not that handsome. I mean, there are lots of handsome people in the world, but not all of them are on television, right?

  “Look, Ma, I can find somebody myself, so please stop trying to play matchmaker.”

  She considers. “Before you get really serious with him, no harm in me finding you other candidates.”

  “We’re serious, Ma. Just leave us alone. You’ll mess things up for us.”

  She gets up. “He’s definitely an artiste,” she says, before heading for the kitchen and the dishes.

  I stamp my foot, frustrated. Artiste? What kind of artiste? A Dangdut musical artiste? Hah!

  *

  After that whole affair I don’t see Hans for a while. A few days afterwards, the boss and I have to deal with a serious case. A Korean man has been found dead in his apartment. I have to accompany the boss to the scene, to interview witnesses and the investigating officer. We also have to examine the body, to determine whether the victim’s death was violent.

  It is an elderly Korean man. At the morgue, we see bruises all over his body. The boss inspects these bruises closely and I watch from a distance. I hate dealing with bodies, especially Korean bodies. They don’t wrap their dead up in a funeral shroud like Indonesians do. The bruising does not make things better.

  This case makes my boss nervous. If it really is murder, that would mean long, complicated proceedings. A whole lot of work for me—liaising with the police as translator, dealing with the documentation.