by Nuril Basri
“Nah, babe. This time I’m serious.” His tone is solemn. “I’m going to start a top-up counter.”
“What? Top-up counter?” I want to laugh. This is incredible, actually. This makes sense, and is totally doable. I never imagined he’d think of something like this.
“Ya. Everybody has a phone. Everybody needs credit for their phone. No way I’ll lose money.”
I look at him uncertainly. Can Hans really pull this off? I’m so tempted to be involved, just to keep an eye on him. See? Here I go again, trying to oversee the little pig’s life.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No. I mean, good for you,” I say, trying to sound indifferent.
“You don’t sound super supportive.”
“Don’t you have a wife that can support you now?” I retort.
“Why do you have to say that?”
“Whatever,” I reply. This is so unfair of him. When we were together he could never get his shit straight. Now that we’re apart, suddenly he’s got a solid plan? It makes me mad.
“I’m doing all this for you, babe. I’m changing. For you,” he says, all hurt.
“Oh, come on. You’re not changing for me. You’re changing for that wife of yours,” I blurt out.
He looks at me like I’ve just stabbed him. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? “How can you say that?”
“Forget it. We should just concentrate on our own lives.”
“Why? Why are you saying this?”
“I’m in love with my husband now,” I say, trying to hurt him.
“Yeah, right. You don’t even know him, how are you supposed to love him? Do you really know who he is? What he’s really like?” Hans says. “You probably don’t even know his full name!”
“Of course I do. I live with him now! In his house. We’ve gotten close. We even sleep together!” I mutter.
“Ya, you’re close. You love him. So why are you here, now?” Hans asks me.
And to that I don’t have an answer. “Ah, forget it. It’s my business,” I say. I look away.
“Stop it. Stop lying to yourself. You still love me, don’t you?”
“You’re full of it. Sure, I used to love you. Not any more,” I say, savagely.
“Enough! Stop it, babe, don’t be like that,” he says. He slides closer. He touches my chin, turns my head so I am looking at him.
And just like that, I kiss him.
I still love him. I’m still so in love. Is that wrong?
After our kiss Hans asks me if I want a ride on his new bike. It really is a piece of junk. It looks like it’s about to fall apart; it should be pulled over by the police for being a road hazard. But Hans makes it better. It looks classy and antique with him at the handlebars. I agree. I’ll look like a princess (a plump one) dainty on his back (like a sack of rice, probably). Hehe.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To my shop,” he replies.
He revs and we putter off. His bike is as quick as a bicycle. I want to laugh, jump off, jog next to it and say: “I can’t wait, I’ll go on ahead.”
It takes a while—as long as a bus ride from Jakarta to Bandung, I think—for us to get to a kiosk in Tanah Abang, not far from my place. All along the road are vendors selling drinks, and handphone stalls and handphone stalls and handphone stalls. And the saddest one among these is Hans’ top-up counter.
“Who’s looking after it?” I ask.
“Astrid.”
“Who’s Astrid?”
“Astrid. You don’t know?”
I shake my head. He suddenly looks very awkward. He mimes a bloated belly. Oh, that I get. I feel horns grow out of my head. I rush up to the kiosk. Fists ready to punch that bitch until her middle bursts. Score her face, her back, until she bleeds. Hans grabs my wrist, holding me and my emotions back.
“Enough. What are you doing? She’s not even here,” he says, softly.
“That slut!”
Hans says: “Come on, forget about her. I mean, I’m not angry with you, or your husband.”
This makes me way, way angrier. But I swallow my anger. True. He should be angry. He should be jealous, I think. I march into that cramped little square kiosk to inspect its contents. There’s a counter. A stack of used top-up cards. An old phone, charging. A calendar hanging on the wall, and a clock—the clock doesn’t work. A notebook, filled with drawn lines.
“Once I make some money I’ll get a computer and a printer in here. So I can offer photo-printing services. Sell games
and music.”
I don’t really pay attention. In these conditions, I swear, Hans’ venture will last, what, two days? And no way am I loaning him any support. Compared to all the other phone shops, with their blinking lights and blasting speakers, Hans’ stall is a dark, haunted cave.
There is a photo on the counter. Maybe he was going to put it up. Hans with a girl. Looking happy. Laughing, with swimming goggles hanging from his neck. I snatch it up.
“Where was this?” I ask.
Hans doesn’t want to answer. “Um, in…in Lombok.”
“Lombok? What were you doing in Lombok? And this is Astrid?” I point at the girl. Her skin is wet.
“Ya, that’s Astrid, we were in Lombok for our honeymoon.” Hans scratches his hair. I am choking on my tongue here. They honeymooned in Lombok. I’ve never been to Lombok! Hans took his wife scuba diving. He never took me anywhere. Two years together and the one time we did anything we went to Ancol. That’s not an ostrich’s jump from here. We never even went to Bandung together. Then he gets married with some pregnant girl and goes for a holiday in Lombok? Thinking this makes my blood boil. I want to rip this picture to shreds.
“Take me back to my place? Okay?” I say, as sweetly and calmly as I can.
“What’s the hurry? We just got here.”
“I forgot. I was going to tidy up today. Leaving for my honeymoon tomorrow,” I say.
He stops short. “What? You’re not joking?”
“I’d cancelled it, but seeing that you went on a honeymoon too, why shouldn’t I?” I snap. I’m bullshitting, of course. Fact is that Inu and I have zero holiday plans. But after I saw that photo, I want my honeymoon, after all. If Hans can go off with some girl, I should go off with some boy, too!
“Getting back at me, ya?” he says.
“No. I’m a newlywed, why not a honeymoon?”
Hans sees what I’m doing. I see the storm in his face, the jealousy held back, but he knows he has no right to get angry. Without another word he starts his shitty motorbike and takes me back to my room. Leaving his phone counter just like it was, not worried about thieves, or anything (because, really, there’s nothing there to steal).
*
I head straight back to Inu’s place and find him at home. Sitting on the sofa, in front of the television, laptop on his lap. We look at each other. He is surprised to find me home, and I am surprised he can afford a laptop. Since when has he had that thing? Weird! When I step inside he snaps his laptop shut. Oh, afraid I’ll see, eh? Probably ashamed I caught him watching porn.
“You’ve got internet here?” I ask.
He nods. Oh, definitely watching porn, then. Be gross if you want. None of my business.
“Oh, you’re back?” he says, like I caught him masturbating.
“I took leave. I want us to go on a honeymoon.”
Inu’s brow crinkles.
“I want a honeymoon,” I say, begging like a little kid.
“So sudden, Ms Ratu. Why? Where would you want to go?”
“Wherever, I don’t mind. As long as we have one. It’s not a marriage if we never go on a honeymoon, right?” I say all this in my most ingratiating voice. Sounds like puke in my ears.
“Thought you didn’t want to. You didn’t mention it at all,” he wonders.
“When a woman doesn’t say anything it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it. She’s just too shy,” I reply. Haha, that’s pretty true. Though much less true nowadays.
Now women have to come right out and ask if they want anything from men; shyness will get you nowhere. Men are so oblivious.
“When do you want this honeymoon, Ms Ratu?” he asks. I can’t tell if he’s happy or not.
“Let’s leave tonight. I’ve been hoping to go but had to get permission from the office first. I’m on leave until Monday. Enough time, right? I don’t think I’ll get leave again, for a while.”
“You should’ve said something. Where will we go?”
“Wherever. Paris? London?”
“Ceh, I can’t afford that,” he replies.
“Then we go to Lombok,” I say. Ah, no. That place has been soiled by their smiles. No way I’m going there.
“Lombok?” Inu asks.
“No, let’s go to Bali.” Then I remember my parents, gallivanting there and ugh. The last thing I want is to run into them being all lovey-dovey with each other. Gross!
“Your parents are in Bali,” Inu says.
“What? How do you know?”
“Sometimes your mother calls me to ask about you.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
“What for?” he asks, stupidly.
“Hishhh,” I hiss.
“You’re like a snake,” he teases.
I scream: “I want a honeymoon!”
“Let’s just go to Yogyakarta, okay?” he offers.
“Wherever! I don’t care!”
And then straight into the room to stuff clothes into a bag. Okay. Jogja is fine. Anywhere outside of Jakarta is fine. The last time I was in Jogja was back in middle school—like, a hundred years ago. I hope it’s changed. And anyway, I don’t really want this honeymoon. I just want photos, from outside the city. Photos of me and some guy that I can show Hans and see his stupid face. Haha!
Inu comes in. He pulls a big backpack from the cupboard. He piles shirts into his bag like heaps of garden rubbish. Then he carves a nest for his laptop inside all of that. I watch him cushion the laptop with utmost care. Like it’s made of jewels or something.
“Sorry, ya? I need to bring my laptop. Still have work to do,” he says.
I don’t believe him. Is he really addicted to porn that badly? Maniac. I slip my bath things into a case. He only packs a toothbrush. I clear my phone’s memory for photos, wipe grease off the lens. Enough space for dozens of photos.
“Something wrong with your phone, Ms Ratu?” he asks.
“No. Just checking. We need to take a lot of photos.”
“If that’s the case we can use my camera, it takes better pictures.”
“Ah, sure!” I say, happy.
Inu goes to the other room to fetch a camera bag. “You’ve got one of those big ones?” I ask. I’m surprised. I thought he meant some dinky little compact camera, the kind normal people use, not a monster like that. It takes up half his backpack.
“It’s a DSLR. Better quality. I only have this model. It’s the smallest.”
I pout and hiss. I know what a DSLR is. I’m surprised because I’m wondering why someone like him has something like this. Ah, surely because of the money he got from Mother. He used that for an expensive camera? What a narcissist!
I wait for him to pack away his super-duper advanced camera. When I see him trying to slip in a tripod too, that’s when I stop him.
“Don’t need that, do we? You going to pitch a tent with that?” I ask him.
“It’s a camera tripod. We can put the camera on it, take proper photos,” he says.
“Leave it. Can just ask other people to help us take the photos.”
He mutters and pulls the tripod out. I’ve been ready to go for, like, two hours already. It’s driving me nuts.
“Come on,” I whine.
“Ya, ya, I’m done.”
We wait outside the house and decide on a taxi to Senen train station. Inu gets the tickets. At around 8pm the train appears. We board, find our compartment, find our seats, and sit. We say nothing the whole time.
Ah, never would’ve thought my honeymoon would start in business class, like this. I take the window seat and prepare myself for boredom because the train ride will take hours—I don’t know how long. The other travellers get on. The car fills up. A conductor comes around, renting out pillows. What for? The pillows all run out, oddly. Do these passengers expect to sleep all the way there? Really? Hah. Turns out they do really sleep all the way. I’m not joking.
“You go to Yogyakarta often, Mr Inu?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says.
“Oh.”
That’s all. Nothing else to say. Why doesn’t he say anything? Ask me something, maybe. The places I’ve been to. Where I like to go. Anything. He’s like some kind of bad actor.
“Have you been to Jogja?” he asks. Finally!
At least he’s talking. So I won’t fall asleep. This bad actor knows how to improv a little, after all.
“Once, when I was in middle school, on a study tour,” I say.
His response? “Oh.” Exactly like I answered, a moment ago.
It really hurts. What is this? Oh. Oh. Doesn’t he have a follow-up question? Act interested, at least? So irritating. Why did God make a person like Inugrahadi and forget to make him a brain?
“How long do you think this journey will take?” I ask him. What my tone is saying is: “Oh God, I can’t wait for this to end!”
“We’ll get there around 4am,” he says, calm. He pushes his backpack between his legs and puts his feet on it. Then he slouches back and shuts his eyes. I can’t believe he is doing this.
“Hey. Are you going to sleep?”
His eyes open. “Ya. Why?”
“We might miss the station!” I say.
He chuckles. “Impossible. I’m taking a nap. Long way to go.”
“What about me?” I protest. I can’t just sleep the whole way.
“You should get some shut-eye, too, Ms Ratu. No need to ask me for permission for that.”
“Hish!” I say, angry.
“There goes the naga,” he whispers, eyes closed.
Rude! I turn to the window. Maybe there’s something out there to keep me occupied. But I see nothing, only a sea of dark. The countryside swallowed by the night. What to do? Maybe I should try to sleep. I push away Inu’s body so I have enough space to be comfortable, to stretch out. I’m not used to sleeping upright. Now I regret not taking a pillow. I wait to see whether the conductor will come back. I guess not. I can’t do anything to help the situation. I hug myself and try to relax. It is very hard. Several times I jolt awake, finding my head lolling over to the side, leaning on Inu’s shoulder. Immediately I shrink away. Ugh. He might think I’m warming up to him. I shift to the opposite side. But this happens several times. Why is my head so attracted to his shoulder? Sleep, wake, sleep, wake, sleep, wake. It goes on for hours.
I feel a nudge. My eyes smart. I feel another nudge on my head. I realise I’m leaning on Inu’s chest. I jump up. Oh, damn it, he’s the one who’s been nudging me!
“Wake up, we’re almost there,” he says.
I snap at him: “Stop poking me, I’m awake!”
“No need to get angry, Ms Ratu. Wipe your drool first,” he sniggers.
“Eh, who’s drooling?”
“There, see,” he points to his T-shirt, and I see a damp spot where my mouth was. Damn it! My own mouth betrayed me!
“That’s not mine, Mr Inu,” I say. My face is as red as Revlon lipstick.
“Ya, ya, must be the naga princess’ spit, this one. Hish, hish,” he replies, without looking.
Argh! Damn him. Damn his damn face! Not long afterwards the conductor comes around again, collecting the fees and pillows. Pokes those still sleeping awake. The train comes to a stop. We let others alight first. I am aching everywhere, a crumpled wreck from sleeping in that uncomfortable position. And leaning on Inu makes it worse. Makes my whole body hurt. Ceh! On the platform I breathe in strange Javanese air and suddenly my eyelids cannot keep themselves open.
/>
“Where to, now?” I ask, looking at my watch. It is just after four.
“Look for a place to stay,” he says.
Weirdly enough, in Jogja we find a trishaw driver at four in the morning. The driver is not bad looking. Inu asks him to take us to somewhere affordable. That really lets me down. The handsome driver does as Inu asks. Oh, this is all wrong. This is our honeymoon. We’re supposed to stay at a five-star resort or something. Instead we are going to a hovel.
We stay in an aggressively average lodging house. The room is nearly identical to the room I rent in Jakarta. No air-conditioning. Is this really a hotel? There are strange smells in the air at dawn. What if it’s an offering house for ancestral spirits and we’re the human offerings?
I kick Inu around 11am. He lies unconscious beside me, wearing a singlet, sleeping on his hands—I’ve used all our pillows to build my wall dividing us. I see his underarm hair. His mouth is shut. I’ve never seen a man sleep with his mouth shut before.
He didn’t wake when I kicked him, so I go ahead and shower. Quickly sorting out my business in the bathroom. And even when I’m done Inu is still horizontal. I poke him again. I prod at his pelvis with my finger. I see him almost smile, though his eyes are still shut.
“Tickles,” he says and shifts. I keep poking him, amused at his attempts to avoid it. “Stop it…stop.”
“Wake up already. I’m hungry. Let’s go out,” I insist. What kind of guy is so ticklish?
Finally Inu sits up and rummages through his backpack for his toothbrush. I comb my hair out in front of a stand-fan.
“Toothpaste,” he says with a yawn. Five minutes later he is out of the bathroom and looking refreshed. It’s so weird. Three minutes later, he’s got deodorant on his armpits and declares himself all ready. Why are men so quick at getting ready? It can’t be hygienic.
We walk a distance from the lodging house. It isn’t far from Beringharjo market. But we are stumped about what to do, what to eat. In the end we decide on kopyok noodles; not purely noodles, actually, more of a soto, a mix of yellow noodles and rice cubes in chicken broth and assorted spices. We also have iced dawet, which seems just like cendol to me.