Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  “Want something to drink?” I ask.

  “No. Thanks. I can’t stay.” He sounds strange.

  “Eh? Why not?” I ask.

  “I just need to tell you something.”

  My heart threatens to spontaneously combust. Oh God almighty and all-loving, is this it? The day I have been waiting for? Oh God, will he propose to me today? I can’t feel the earth beneath me. Seriously. I will float away.

  Sure, this isn’t as romantic as all that. Chickens pecking all around the yard. A vegetable peddler yelling, offering his wares. And here I am, just finished eating a whole cake by my lonesomeness. Now he is here to propose. Screw romance! I just want to marry him. That’s all I want.

  “What. What do you need to tell me?” I ask, quietly.

  “Ah, I…”

  I’ve never seen him so tongue-tied. This must be as important and as serious a matter for him too. His whole life will change. It’s only natural he looks so scared. Seeing him like this makes me shiver. I feel my lips quiver.

  “Y-yes? What’s wrong with you?” I say to him, softly.

  “I don’t know how to say this…” he says, in genuine panic. I smile, despite it all. It’s funny! Maybe when we are old I will remind him of this moment, tell it to our grandchildren. It will embarrass him. “When your grandpa proposed to me, he stammered like a scared little boy, hahahaha!”

  “What is it? Is it important?” I ask him.

  “It is! It’s about my future. And your future, too.”

  Inside I feel my heart melting. Is that possible? A twenty-nine-year-old woman’s heart melting, just like a teenager’s? I mean, this feeling of being borne away in mellow warmth—this is something only young people should feel. The young ones, with their heads in the clouds, not yet in the real world, squealing at Valentine’s Day cards. Barely befitting a woman like me, nearly thirty. Ah! Whatever! I don’t care. This is how I feel. “My future. And your future, too.” Oh God. Oh God.

  I fake girlish naivety: “What about your future and my future?”

  Hans looks at me. A long, heavy look. What is he weighing?

  “I want to get married,” he says.

  I start a little. Even though I knew it was coming, I didn’t expect those words, not in that way. No matter. I know what he means. It means that he is asking. Proposing. And knowing that, I break into a smile. I want to hold him, to squeeze him.

  “You’re okay?” he asks, uncertain.

  I nod, nod, nod. “I want to get married, too.”

  When he hears me say this, I see the tension in him unknot immediately.

  “That is good,” he says, relieved.

  “Good,” I repeat, nodding. I continue nodding.

  We say nothing. He keeps an eye on me as he pulls out a cigarette and lights up. I glance into his sling bag, where I can see the small box. When will he give it to me? Maybe he’s forgotten—he got so nervous, proposing, he has completely forgotten.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing.

  Hans looks at his bag, then at me, confused. “This?” He pulls the small box out. It is a small, velvet box. Bright red. A box with a ring in it.

  “May I?” I ask him, my palm open. He puts the box in

  my hand.

  How thick can Hans be? It’s like he doesn’t care. I was hoping he’d offer it to me, down on one knee, like in a movie. But he just passes it over, like it’s nothing. Whatever. No matter. I open the box, and… Yes. There it is. The glinting circle of a ring. No stone. Plain and pure. Gold in colour. Only gold-plated, perhaps. I don’t care.

  Now my eyes feel like they’re burning. I am on the verge of crying. Hans just sits there. What’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he know he has to put it on my finger? I put it on, myself.

  “What’s wrong?” Hans asks, when he sees me tearing up, staring at the ring on my finger.

  I shake my head.

  “Why are you crying?”

  I blink. More tears spill out.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sad?”

  I nod.

  “Just forget about it. It’s nothing. It is just a wedding. Nothing needs to change. We can be the way we were before. Just like nothing happened.”

  Oh, so that’s the way Hans thinks? Just a few months ago, he was deathly afraid of the slightest commitment. And now it is nothing to him? Maybe it is really nothing to him. That’s his business. This is mine. My dream, and Mother’s dream for the last few years. I won’t have to deal with all those people talking and whispering about me anymore. I’m done.

  When Hans said: “We can be the way we were before”, that was romantic. At least he realises that marriage will change things drastically, in both of our lives.

  Hans says: “Enough with that. Give it back.”

  This is weird. I return the ring to him. Maybe he wants to wait until the wedding ceremony, in front of everybody, to give it to me. Okay, I’ll return the ring to him. I am happy enough, already. I can think of nothing but to do whatever he asks, oh my husband. Hehe. I grab him. I hug him tight. I am so happy. He doesn’t resist.

  Finally, I let him go. “When are you getting married?”

  he asks.

  “When do you want?” I ask back.

  “I’ll be married by the end of the week. Everything has been arranged already,” he replies.

  What? My eyes are wide. Everything arranged? By the end of the week? What? What is this?

  “What is this? What do you mean ‘everything’s arranged’? We need to get the wedding dresses, send out the invitations, at the very least we’ll need to put up a pavilion or rent a hall,” I say.

  “That’s all been handled,” he says. “All of it. They even got this ring. I didn’t have to pay for a thing.”

  “What?”

  “Everything was handled by my father-in-law.”

  “Your father-in-law?” I say, uncomprehending. My brows knit. Father? What? When? Father’s arranged everything for me? I didn’t even think he approved of me being with Hans. What is going on? “My father handled everything?”

  “Your father?” Hans asks, his turn to be confused. “When are you getting married, actually?” he asks again. I’ve fallen silent.

  “It’s up to you, isn’t it?” I say.

  “Up to me?”

  “Ya. Who am I getting married to, if not you? What have we been talking about this whole time?” My heart is drumming out of control now. Things are not right. Not right at all. “You even have the ring…” I say.

  His face knots up again. Colour drains from it. His cigarette hangs from his lip, then falls.

  “That ring is…isn’t for you.”

  I stare. I stare and I start to understand.

  “I’m not…you’re not…”

  “Stop!” I shout at him.

  I don’t give myself the chance to cry. I run. Leave him there on the veranda. I run into the house, into my room. I lock the door. I say nothing. In that silence, my tears spell out the words he was going to say: “You’re not the one I’m marrying.”

  Fuck!

  I stay in my room all evening and throughout the night. I leave the light off. I do not fall asleep until dawn. I cry. And then I get angry and then I cry some more. I don’t want to live. It’s useless. I’m not hungry. Not thirsty. What’s the point of taking a shower? What’s the point of anything? I only want to cry until my eyes are dry.

  Mother comes in when the sun rises. She says nothing. Then she asks me to get up.

  “You need to eat.”

  I do not answer. She pulls my blanket off, pulls away my pillows. There I am, exposed on the bed. She drags me by the hand. Father is sitting at the table. The food looks good. I am actually hungry, very hungry, but have no appetite. Mother piles everything onto my plate. I just sit there, like a statue. She sits next to me, puts a spoonful into my mouth. I eat. She keeps doing it until my plate is empty. Food in my belly awakens me.

  “Call yourself a city girl. But you’re so soft,” Father says,
suddenly.

  I snort and start to cry. It is not a graceful cry—big, dramatic tears rolling down. It is a howl and a scream like a rampaging hog. Mother comes over to me and strokes my hair.

  “From the beginning I warned you, right? Don’t go with that good-for-nothing.”

  How did they find out? I didn’t tell them anything.

  “I’ll kill him,” Father says.

  “Don’t say that,” Mother says. “Killing somebody. You think it’s as easy as slaughtering chicken?”

  “Why are you crying? You got nothing, being with him.”

  I am still crying.

  “Tomorrow I’ll find somebody who’ll marry you. Don’t worry.”

  I run to my room. Lock the door. Father is so single-minded. He thinks I cry because I’m afraid I’ll never get married.

  *

  For two days, I sleep. When I wake up I realise it’s Monday and there’s a ton of work waiting for me and I’m late. Mr Hong will be frantic, he’ll be hissing and screaming at my colleagues. I don’t know where I get the strength to go back. I stop crying. I’m a city girl. I can’t be soft. I’m a grown woman; why should I wallow in self-pity, left by a lout like Hans? That asshole. Telling me he’s getting married. To somebody else! What did our two years together even mean? He couldn’t even explain why he had to get married. To hell with him. He can go die. I don’t care. I’ve got so much to do. Korean people in Indonesia will still get into the weirdest shit and they all will need my help.

  I get ready to go. Shower, do my hair as pretty as I can. I say goodbye to Mother. She is surprised.

  “What?” I say. I’ve covered up the dark lines under my eyes pretty well, haven’t I?

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “Work.”

  “You sure?”

  “Ya,” I answer, a little deflated.

  “It’s almost noon. Jakarta’s so far away.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve texted my boss.” I bend to kiss her hand, walk to the bus terminal and get on the first bus I find. Sitting alone next to the window, I feel fine. I feel adult. Worthy. Everything is good. I am a city girl: strong, confident. I will pull through. On my own. I am a superwoman.

  Soon I am in Jakarta. As I get off the bus I feel like a drunk. Like throwing up. I try to control myself. Strangely, my legs don’t carry me to the office. I head towards the 7-Eleven behind Grand Indonesia. It isn’t far from the office. I buy a super-expensive ice cream. It is shaped like a fancy glass. Might be Ben & Jerry’s, I’m not sure. It is really expensive. Whatever, as long as it’s chocolate.

  I wander back to Plaza Indonesia. In front of the Grand Hyatt is a fountain, with water cascading down pillars. Behind the pool is a wall, with the words PLAZA INDONESIA in giant block letters. There are always snack peddlers and coffee stalls here, at evening time. The wall is where people sit. The sky is overcast. I sit there and uncap my ice cream to eat it, scoop by scoop. It is bitter, it doesn’t taste good. So bitter. Eating this ice cream is torture. Why are you so bitter?

  I start to cry. Stupid ice cream! I swallow another scoop, and sob. The people walking by look at me strangely, perplexed by this girl weeping in the middle of Jakarta, swallowing scoop after scoop of ice cream. Then there is rain. I become quiet. I stir my ice cream; it is getting watery, mixed with falling rain. People run, looking for cover. I just sit, and sob, and try to eat my ice cream which is now liquid.

  When I realise how drenched I am, I decide to go to the office. The security guard at the front desk stares at me, at the water dripping from my clothes. I ignore the janitors. They’ve just mopped the floor. They give me dirty looks. Now they have to mop up my rain-wet trail.

  The lift takes me to the thirtieth floor. I must be in such a state. The boss was looking for something at my desk. He looks at me like I’m a crazy person. I am nearly crying, again.

  “Wah, raining, ya? Go home, make sure you don’t fall sick,” he says, in Indonesian.

  I get teary in front of him. “Gomawo,” I mouth, and turn to leave. I go home to my rental.

  I walk in the rain. Back home, I go straight to my room. Strip naked. Lock the door. Wrap myself in my blanket on the bed. Crying, crying, crying. It’s true. I am a twenty-nine-year-old woman with the heart of a seventeen-year-old girl—and my heart is broken. Because my boyfriend left me for somebody else. What can I do, but cry, and cry some more? I was right, after all. Fairytales don’t happen to fat girls like me.

  *

  It takes me two weeks to get over things. The heartache and disappointment. But I only take a day’s leave from work. The day after that episode with the ice cream and the rain, I’m back. I’m a rational girl. I will not be overcome by emotions. Being sad is fine. But so many cases need my attention. I can deal with them and be sad at the same time even if the boss or some cops catch me looking sour.

  Really, I can’t believe Hans would leave me just like that. He’s gone off and gotten married. Breaking up is one thing. But leaving me to immediately marry somebody else? That’s a different thing altogether. I think I’ll be okay. There aren’t that many suicides because of heartbreak, are there?

  Or so I believe until, one day, I spot Hans outside my building, waiting for me. Here my heart goes again. My face heats up. What is this asshole up to? I walk past him, not looking. Whatever, you good-for-nothing.

  “Wait, Ratu, please wait.” I pretend I don’t hear him. What does he want, coming here? Does he want to rub it in? Oh no, no thank you. I don’t want to know him.

  He chases after me. I can’t escape—it’s these high heels I’ve taken to wearing the past year, trying to be a chic office lady. It would attract too much attention to take them off and run. People will think I’m being chased by a robber. And even though I hate Hans’ guts, I don’t want to see him beaten up. I hurry. We are in a narrow alley when Hans catches up. I ignore him completely.

  “I want to explain everything…” he begins.

  I want to keep my mouth shut, but cannot help it. “So you’re a newlywed, ya? I didn’t even get an invite to your wedding,” I spit.

  “I was trapped. Forced into it,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say. This is his sorry excuse? What is this, some prime-time soap?

  “I was forced to marry her because she got pregnant.”

  I stop. I freeze. I start walking again.

  “Good for you. Men should learn to take responsibility,” I tell him.

  “It’s not like that, really, it’s…”

  “Sorry, I don’t want to hear about it. It’s your business.” I cut him short as I get to my rental. I unlock the gate. I slip in and slide the gate shut behind me. I walk into the house, not once turning back. I go up to the second floor. Then I look out, from the balcony. He is there, waiting at the gate. Frustration on his face. Not long afterwards, he leaves. Maybe he is afraid somebody might steal his motorcycle. He did leave it there, on the street. He loves his motorcycle more than me.

  I go to my room. I feel like crying, but I’ve done all that. Enough. Crying will change nothing. Sure, one or two drops sneak out. What was he thinking, coming here, telling me that? He had to get married because his girlfriend got knocked up? When did he have time for her, this other girl? Just how did he get her pregnant? I didn’t think he could do it. He was with me—and at the same time, he went off with some other girl and knocked her up. Bastard. Bastard! I hate him. Sickening. Evil. I was dating a cheating prick.

  On Saturday, I am back in Bogor. I take the bus, I have nobody to take me. Being reminded of the things we did together makes me feel awful. So from now on I’ll just pretend we never met.

  Nothing changes at home. My parents are chill. Treat me as if I haven’t been living with a gloomy cloud above my head. Not that I want their sympathy, but I wouldn’t say no to some special treatment. A little pampering, perhaps? It would help heal depression. Nothing unusual happens—until dinnertime.

  “Who’s that?” I whisper to Mother. Not
really a whisper; everybody at the table can hear me. There’s an extra person at the dinner table. Not my imagination. I might’ve been driven a bit bonkers by recent events, but I don’t think it’s reached the point where I’m hallucinating dinner guests. Sure, I sometimes dream up the boys from 2PM in my room—giggle with them, stroke their six-packs—but that’s not insanity. A perfectly normal girl’s healthy fantasy.

  “His name is Inugrahadi. That’s the boy I told you about, always hanging around in front of the house,” Mother tells me.

  I open my mouth. Shut it again. Look at Mother’s impassive face. So this made-up person really exists? What is he doing here? Having dinner with us? Isn’t he a stranger? What are my parents thinking?

  I look at him. He is quiet. Maybe he’s as dumbfounded as I am, I don’t know. But he seems calm. Weird. When he leaves I’ve got to check the house. This stranger may have left some weird gifts around. A hand grenade, maybe. Or will he steal my undies from the clothing line? Don’t trust strangers! What if he really is a stranger? You never know with Mother.

  I look at this boy again. Conventional-looking—conventional hairstyle, conventional clothing. Standard-issue. Nothing interesting about him. He starts eating. Just like that! Hello!

  “This is insane,” I hiss.

  My appetite is gone. I get up, go around the table, yank him up by his arm. He stuffs food into his mouth as I drag him outside.

  “Who are you?” I ask, using my sternest excuse-me-officer tone. He tries to finish chewing. Weirdo!

  Finally he says: “Inu.” He offers his hand, and grins. Something green is stuck in his teeth. I try not to laugh.

  I point at his teeth and cover my own mouth. Still trying not to laugh. He doesn’t get it. Just smiles wider, until his gums show. I try to concentrate. This is serious.

  “No need for pleasantries, Mr Inu,” I say, ignoring his hand.