Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  The autopsy report is a relief—he died from an overdose of herbal medication. The swellings on his body were a side effect.

  But our work doesn’t end there. I have to assist the boss in arranging the body’s return to Korea. The man had no relatives here. It’s not an easy task; there is a lot of paperwork.

  The whole month passes with me being so busy I’m barely able to breathe. It isn’t bad. I’m not trapped in the office. Every day involves running around, solving problems. I like meeting new people, especially young, good-looking policemen, though these tend to be the rank-and-file officers and I don’t interact with them often. The ones I get to meet are old and lumpy. All the work obliterates romance right out of my head. I don’t even have time for Facebook.

  One day, while drafting letters at work, Mother rings.

  “When are you coming home, Ratu? Miss you.”

  “I’m just wrapping up a case, Ma,” I tell her, taking a moment to stare at my dry, cracked fingernails.

  “Come home this week, sweetie. Bring Hans along. I want to see him again.”

  Oh my God. Mother. I feel like hanging up on her.

  “You two haven’t broken up, have you?” she suddenly asks.

  I stay silent.

  “Hellooo,” she warbles, teenager-like, into the telephone.

  “Ya, mmm…” I murmur. What should I say? Should I tell her we are no longer together? Should I tell her that Hans is dead—terrible ojek accident?

  “So, this week, yes?” she says. “I’m so bored at home. Lonely, Ratu, your mother’s getting old.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. I sigh, weighed down by a sense of inevitability. I hate Mother when she is like this. Why can’t she be like a normal mum? Sit at home, watching soaps or celebrity gossip programmes? Those kinds of shows are on 24 hours a day.

  Saying bye to her, I finally decide to send Hans a text.

  Test…

  What?

  He doesn’t take too long to respond this time. Thank goodness the number still works.

  Want another job?

  Sure.

  He replies, without much hesitation.

  This weekend. Same as before.

  Okay.

  There, settled. I just got my paycheck, too. Spending some cash to hire Hans will not be an issue.

  *

  I get Hans to meet me a little earlier. “We’ll leave around 4.30pm? The earlier we go, the earlier you get to go home.”

  Not that I care. I feel sorry for him, mostly.

  That Friday, leaving the office, I hear somebody whistle not far from the embassy entrance. It is a boy with hair like a mop, torn jeans, and a crumpled, shabby shirt, sitting on his motorcycle. I ignore him, looking around for Hans. The whistle comes again, louder, sharper. I look over, a little unsettled.

  That thug on the bike? It’s Hans! He looks so different.

  “Hey,” I say, uncertainly.

  “Come on. I need to stop by home, to change.”

  Wah. Now he’s asking me to wait as he gets ready? I got myself put together at the office because I didn’t want to be late.

  “Will this take long?” I ask, annoyed.

  “Just a second. It’s just around the corner,” he revs his motorcycle. Like it or not, I’m along for the ride. At first I assumed we were going to stop at his place, but he steers his bike to a stop in front of a cybercafé in Tanah Abang, just a few blocks from my office.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask. Saying nothing, he goes into the café. He doesn’t invite me in. Curiosity makes me get off the bike and follow him. I see him talking to the owner. He grabs something from behind the counter then disappears into the back.

  The café owner looks at me, expressionless. “What you looking for, miss?”

  I shake my head. “Waiting for Hans,” I explain. “Does he own this place?” I ask, joking.

  The guy smiles and returns to his computer screen. So the answer is probably “no”. But if he isn’t an owner, what is he doing changing clothes in a place like this?

  I want to ask another question, but Hans reappears. He has changed out of his ripped jeans and shirt, and put on a jacket. He looks pretty good.

  “Shall we?” he says, slipping on a pair of leather gloves. He hands me a helmet. Once again I ride clinging onto his back. This time I’m wearing something more comfortable. Nothing special, nothing tight. The jeans I wore the last time gave me blisters on the insides of my thighs.

  *

  Mother is surprised to see us so early. She has not even finished cooking. So I get Hans to sit with me on the veranda. We chat as Mother finishes up.

  “So you’re working at a cybercafé, now?” I ask, prying.

  “Nah, it’s just my place.”

  My eyebrows knit. “You rent a room there or something?”

  “No, I just use the internet.”

  Use the internet? You had a change of clothes there. Weird. “You found a new job yet? Or are you still trawling Facebook for your next victim?”

  “That’s one of the reasons, sure. But actually I rarely look at people’s profiles. Mostly I play poker on Facebook. It’s not bad, because you can exchange the chips for cash,” he replies. “And not every girl is willing to buy me dinner.”

  “You have a girlfriend?” I ask. He shakes his head, flashes me a smile. He must be lying. A handsome boy like him, still single? Please.

  “Why do you have to hire somebody to pretend to be your boyfriend?” he asks.

  “Shhh!” I hiss. I look around to make sure nobody is listening. “I’m just trying to stop my mother from matchmaking me. It’s a real pain.”

  “Why? Are the candidates all ugly?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just not interested.”

  “You want to be single the rest of your life?”

  I stare at him, eyes wide. “Haish…of course not. I just want to end up with somebody I actually know.”

  “What if they ask you to get married? Are you going to pay me to marry you?”

  “Well, if I have to? Honestly, why not?”

  “You think you can solve everything with money?” he says, needling me. It touches a nerve.

  I hit back: “Make fun of me all you want. But don’t tell me you don’t like money.” It makes him laugh aloud.

  The evening goes smoothly for the both of us. The topic of Bali’s rabid dogs comes up again. Every time Hans says something, Father leans closer to him. Looks like he is finally taking a shine to Hans. But I cannot shake the feeling that Father does not approve of our relationship, our pretend relationship, I mean.

  With dinner and talk all done, Hans asks to be excused, to head home. I walk him to the gate. Again I slip cash to him—into the pocket of his jacket. He does not refuse. But he gives me a long strange look.

  “Bye, ride safely,” I tell him, waving. Hans smiles, revs the engine and zooms away. I take my time walking back to

  the house.

  Mother hurries out of the kitchen and says: “Your film star boyfriend’s gone home, has he?”

  I pout. “Ma, he’s not a film star. You saw how he was dressed today. All ordinary.”

  Seeing my expression she just shakes her head and laughs softly to herself.

  Everything goes smoothly. Mother stops bugging me. She stops calling to talk about love or marriage. Stops trying to matchmake me with unknown men. And I stop trawling Facebook for boys. Why go through the effort? Hans is just a phone call away. I can probably depend on his services, so long as he doesn’t find another job. Hope he stays unemployed for a while—then he’ll have to depend on me. Haha!

  The next few weeks I don’t go home to Bogor. The office is keeping me occupied. This week is the first time I have some breathing space. Yesterday I had only a single assignment: helping a Korean woman apply for her driving licence. We chat a little. She asks me about Indonesian street signs and symbols—so confusing, she says. I ask her about K-pop. I am pretty sure I bore her.

  The day
before, I visit the Indonesian Interpol headquarters. Boss had me bringing them a box of premium ginseng—a token of thanks. The director was busy so I left the box at the front desk. Hopefully that ginseng gets to him untouched.

  It is Saturday. Bored at home, I decide to go for a walk. I visit the cybercafé Hans brought me to the other day. I am not hoping to meet him. But there he is, shaggy, grimy, like he hasn’t showered for days.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks, surprised.

  “Came to use the internet,” I say. I sit next to him, turn on my computer. I sneak a peek at his screen. He really is playing poker on Facebook.

  While I load Facebook, I say: “You look terrible. Go home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” he says, like it is nothing. “I live here.”

  I look at him bug-eyed. “What about your parents?”

  He does not respond, keeps quiet, then blurts out: “Ah, damn it!” He slams his mouse onto the table. Maybe he lost? I don’t know. I don’t get poker.

  I page through Facebook, say hi to my friends who are online. I post a status update and hope people will comment. I comment on my friends’ posts. I swap out my profile photo a few times. I submerge myself in social media—it looks like Hans does not want to be disturbed.

  “Why don’t you use your own photo?” Hans asks, out of nowhere. He was peeking at my screen!

  “This is a picture of a cake, not a person,” I say, showing him my new profile photo—a picture of a cake shaped like Elmo from Sesame Street.

  “Same thing. Why hide?”

  “If I used a photo of myself, you’d never have agreed to meet me, right?”

  He keeps quiet, looks away before answering: “Who says?”

  “Good-looking boys never want to go out with girls like me. Not just the good-looking boys! Even the ugly ones would hesitate. You know that?” I snap. “Men are like that. Zero self-awareness.”

  Ah, don’t know why I’m getting so worked up. Is this a warning sign? Will I start hating all men and commit to radical feminism? Maybe I’m turning into a lesbian.

  Hans says nothing. He turns off his computer and stands. “Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”

  I pay my fee and follow Hans out. He takes me for a walk around Tanah Abang, in the direction of my rental. It isn’t far, though I took a bike-taxi to get here. I am only wearing shorts and slippers. Thankfully I’m not the kind of girl who melts in the sun. If Hans asked me to go climb Mount Rinjani right now, I could do it.

  At first I assume Hans wants to eat at Plaza Indonesia again, but he takes me to an ordinary roadside stall. The place is abuzz with flies. I don’t really mind, as long as the food is tasty. We eat without talking. When we’re done, I get up to pay. It strikes me—I play the masculine role here. I am the gentleman, paying for everything. Hans is the blushing, pampered beauty.

  Ah, whatever. He’s unemployed, isn’t he?

  “Want to come over?” I say. And before you jump to conclusions, my aim here is to mess with Lala. Nothing else, I swear.

  “Sure,” he says, smiling.

  Idly, we walk and talk. As soon as we get to the house, I invite him to sit with me on the sofa, by the veranda. Lala is probably in her room, with whoever she has in there.

  Once settled on the sofa, I laugh aloud. I mime Hans and I fooling around. “Come on…no don’t…stop pleaaaase… Hehehe.” If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought me some floozy play-struggling, play-fighting off her lover’s kisses. Hans isn’t really doing anything, of course. Just snickering at my whole performance.

  Moments later, the door to Lala’s room is ajar. Her head juts out, like a snail out of its shell. I scoot over, onto Hans’ lap. I put my head on his shoulder, my fingers stroking his cheek. I don’t see it myself, but I know—Lala’s jaw must be hanging wide open right now, wide enough for a hundred houseflies.

  “Ahem,” she says, all sweet and feigning politeness. “You have a guest, Ratu?”

  “Eh, ya! Oops! Are we disturbing you? Sorry! This is Hans.”

  Lala shakes his hand. She stares at him a long while. Trying to seduce him, I guess. But then her boyfriend comes out and calls her back in. She lets go of Hans’ hand and flashes me a look of hostile envy. Hahaha!

  Hans and I hang out together until maghrib, before I send him on his way. As he gets up I take out a wad of cash—100,000 rupiah—from my purse, and hand it to him. He stares at the money. Then he stares at me.

  “Take it,” I tell him.

  He slips it into his pocket uncertainly. “Thanks. See you around.”

  He gives me a sour smile, then turns to leave. What’s with that disappointed face? Whatever did I do wrong?

  *

  This is the beginning of the days that follow. I begin texting Hans at all hours of the day. Mostly I am curious as to what he gets up to. I have downtime, sometimes, unlike the secretaries in the visa-and-passport departments. It isn’t every day that there’s a Korean national arrested for criminal activity in Indonesia or requiring assistance in dealing with the police. I thought Hans would have just ignored me—why respond, if it isn’t about paid gigs? I thought wrong. He replies to every single one of my messages. He even initiates conversations. I might suddenly get a text, saying:

  Damn. I’m out of poker chips!

  or:

  I had a 14-kill killchain in Point Blank!

  Not that I understand. Poker and computer games are mysteries to me. Sometimes I text him—bitching about work or the boss. If Hans does not reply, I will call and he will tell me he is out of credit. Then I will buy him a top-up card. All this becomes routine. Whenever he does not reply, I know he has run out.

  Now, don’t assume things about our relationship. He can be very charming, when he wants to—but this doesn’t mean I am falling for him. I still think he is a good-for-nothing parasite. But him leeching off me, this is not that hard to bear. He keeps me company. As long as it is my money supporting him it’s not a big deal, I’m still the boss here.

  Initially he doesn’t tell me about his other girlfriends. Out of consideration for me, I know. But that’s what I want to know. I interrogate him. Who? Doing what? Where? Most of the girls he meets are simpering, emotional, possessive types. Full of drama. We laugh at their drama together. He makes a pretty good living, leeching off these girls. So much so he can choose his victims. If he doesn’t like her, he leaves her. I wonder why he still hangs out with me. The other girls he meets are all so pretty. I stalk their Facebook pages.

  One weekend Hans wants to teach me online gaming at the cybercafé. I’m not really interested, but I go along anyway.

  “You’ll like Point Blank. Don’t you deal with cops? It’s a shoot-’em-up game,” he says.

  Idiot. I am not a cop. Just a secretary and occasional PI (sometimes the boss will have me go out in disguise, to scope out some group). Do I look like a muscly prison warden in his eyes? So that weekend I put on a knee-length, flare-skirted dress, the one I bought from Michael Kors some time ago. It makes me look like a meringue but I do not care. I want to look feminine. Hans doesn’t seem to notice. He gets me to sit beside him, turns on the computer. He starts teaching me how to shoot. Just as I’m getting the hang of it, a girl appears at the cybercafé counter.

  “Where’s Hans?” she asks, stamping her feet.

  I look at Hans. “She’s looking for you?”

  “Shit! She knows!” he whispers.

  “Hans isn’t here, see for yourself,” the guy at the counter says. She searches the aisles, her head turning this way and that. Hans tries to hide behind me.

  “Hans!” she says, pointing. “Babe, it’s you, isn’t it?” The speed at which she moves is frightening.

  I fidget in my seat. She looks like she could pull out a gun.

  “Why didn’t you call me back? I’ve been worried!” she screams right at my ear, my eardrums rattling. “I looked all over for you, babe. Miss you so much.” She stamps her feet, again. Maybe in a past l
ife she was a horse.

  What did Hans do? I want to know so I look at him. He says nothing. He stands up suddenly and turns towards the counter. Pays for our time.

  “Come on, babe,” he says, looking at both of us.

  The girl starts towards him, smiling, a queen of blooming flowers.

  “Not you,” Hans snaps. He gestures at me. “Come on!”

  What? I point at myself, surprised. Serious? Me?

  “Babe, hurry up! What are you doing, still playing games? We’ll play again some other time,” he says.

  Oh! A light goes on in my head. I turn off my computer and hop over to him. I squeeze past the girl. She is stunned, as if shocked by electricity. Hans grabs my hand and pulls me out of the cybercafé. We do not get far. The girl is fast. She comes after us, tears on her cheeks.

  “Babe, what’s wrong with you?” she says, seizing him by the sleeve, ripping his shirt.

  “Sorry. I’ve got a girlfriend now. Stay away from me,” Hans tells her. I don’t say anything. I just play with my hair and do my best bitch-please-he’s-mine act. Too bad my hair is like a straw broom so it’s not that great an act. Whatever.

  “Impossible,” she screams.

  Ah. See? The girl can’t take rejection.

  “No way are you in love with this fat-ass!”

  “Hey, who you calling fat-ass?” I shout back. It’s not like I need you to tell me, you bitch!

  “Enough! Just ignore this woman,” Hans says, taking me away. As we leave I turn back and stick my tongue out at her. Take that!

  You know what she does? She takes off a shoe and throws it at me. I get mad. Damn bitch! I rush her. Hans yanks me back, roughly. He yells. I feel myself fall and tumble across the street. A Bajaj motorcycle zooms through the space where I was just a split second ago. When I realise what almost happened, I stare at Hans. He stares back. We break into laughter. Amid the dozens of onlookers now crowding around us, I spot the girl, that crazy girl, mouthing: “Serves you right!”