by Lestari, Dee
“Relax, Josh. The Sakola Alit is probably taking up all her attention. You know how that girl is. If there’s something she’s really involved in, she likes to be left alone.”
But Josh’s thoughts returned to that night in Gambir station. The look in Kugy’s and Keenan’s eyes and that inside joke about a “Neptune radar”—whatever that was. In his heart, Josh knew he was never wrong. His radar was never wrong.
It took eight sessions for Kugy to win the hearts of her students, who now numbered eleven. Only a few were fluent in Indonesian. Almost all of them persisted in using Sundanese—and Kugy couldn’t speak any Sundanese. But after two weeks, both sides began to learn from each other. Now, more of the children were willing to speak in Indonesian, and Kugy had picked up a few Sundanese terms—with the result that Kugy’s broken Sundanese became a great source of amusement.
Apart from becoming the butt of their jokes, Kugy finally found another way to get them to read. Initially, she had brought a stack of classic fairy tales with her, along with her enormous collection of Donald Duck comic books. But to her surprise, she found that the children had never even heard of Thumbelina, Snow White, Cinderella, the Tin Soldier, or any other classic fairy tale characters. Even Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse were only familiar to them as pictures they had seen on T-shirts. And she realized that her childhood and that of the children at the Sakola Alit were worlds apart.
In the end, Kugy came to an agreement with them: every time they succeeded in moving to the next reading level, Kugy would make up a fairy tale about them. The cast of characters would be drawn from the children themselves, complete with details from their everyday lives.
“Ms. Kugy! I want to be a general!” said one of the children, raising his hand and puffing out his chest when Kugy told the class of her plan.
In her heart, Kugy shouted for joy. The boy, Pilik, was the oldest, and the other students looked up to him. He was nine and still couldn’t read or write. During the first week, Pilik had thoroughly hazed Kugy. He interrupted her constantly, laughed loudly, and talked about Kugy in Sundanese. She didn’t understand, but she knew she was being made fun of.
Although she was annoyed, Kugy knew that the boy was actually very smart—a natural-born leader. So it was no surprise that Pilik greeted Kugy’s idea with the most excitement, with one stipulation: he had to be the main character—and he had to be a general.
“It’s a deal, General Pilik! Who else wants to join in?”
When the others saw Pilik’s enthusiasm, they immediately began raising their hands. And so it was that General Pilik and the Alit Brigade came into being—and also Hogi the Saintly Rooster, Palmo the Stubborn Goat, Gogog the Amazing Swimming Dog, and various other animal characters adapted from their pets and livestock. Every day after school, Kugy returned with them to their village to play. And every day, she wrote about their adventures in a notebook. They read slowly and haltingly, but still, the children always cheered and clapped encouragingly for each other as they took turns reading tales about themselves. From that day on, Pilik was her faithful friend. And Kugy was a hero to them all.
Late that afternoon, after all the students had gone home, Kugy sat in one of the shelters to write about the adventures of General Pilik and the Alit Brigade. She heard a rooster crow in the distance, loud and long and clear. “That Hogi . . . ,” mumbled Kugy. Immediately, she began drawing a handsome rooster, arrayed in glossy black feathers. She stopped. “Huh. It looks like a stegosaurus,” she muttered.
“Whatcha doing, Kugy?” a voice asked from behind her.
She jumped in surprise and turned to look. “Oh, it’s you, Ical. I thought it might be Mr. Somad checking on the shelters.” Kugy laughed. “I was trying my hand as an illustrator. But . . . total fail.”
“Yeah, Ami said that story method of yours is a great success,” said Ical with admiration in his voice. Then he glanced at what Kugy had drawn. “But don’t feel the need to add visuals as well.”
Kugy laughed. “That’s one area where I know my limits. Let’s keep this Jurassic chicken a secret between you, me, and God.”
“I have a friend who’s amazing at drawing. Maybe we can invite him to teach here once in a while.”
“A visual arts major? Does he go to the Bandung Institute of Technology?”
“No, he goes to our university. He’s majoring in economics and lives in the same boarding house as my friend Bimo.”
Kugy felt like she’d been skewered through the heart.
“I’ll try to get in touch with him through Bimo. Who wouldn’t feel sorry at the sight of that drawing?” said Ical, amused.
Kugy was smiling, too, but it was a smile that had gone sour. She knew who Ical meant. She had tried her hardest to flee, to avoid him and immerse herself in this new world. But suddenly, there he was, being invited to take part in it. If that were to happen, Kugy didn’t know where else to run.
CHAPTER 13
WANDA’S BIG PLAN
May 2000
Kugy couldn’t escape this time. She was going back to Jakarta, and because she was getting a ride in Fuad, who could now handle out-of-town excursions, she couldn’t refuse when Noni suggested stopping by the Warsita Gallery.
“What’s the point of going?” Kugy protested. “To buy a painting? We can’t afford it. To see Keenan’s paintings? We’ve seen them already. Why go?”
“It’s called support, dear,” said Noni. “We have to show Keenan we’re behind him. This is a big day! It’s the first time his paintings are being shown in a gallery—and an important one to boot! Most painters his age don’t get this kind of chance. We’re his friends and we should be proud.”
Though her face didn’t show it, Kugy knew in her heart that Noni was right. But she didn’t want to deal with what she would see. It would be too painful.
“We’re just going to drop by for a little while, right? We’ll look at the paintings he has on display and then get going?”
Eko cleared his throat. “Well, you see . . . the gallery’s holding an afternoon high tea to debut their newest acquisitions, including Keenan’s art. There’ll be painters, journalists, collectors, curators . . .”
Kugy turned pale. “You guys are so mean! Why didn’t you tell me? I look like a fugitive on the run!”
Eko turned his head and looked at Kugy. “You’re the most confident person I know and you never care what people think. You’re really scared of an event like this? It’s nothing big. Wanda said they only invited around fifty people.”
“Fifty?” Kugy was practically shrieking. “I’m definitely waiting in the car!”
“Don’t be silly. You look fine—”
“I do not!” Kugy said. “You two go in, I’ll wait in the car. Period.”
Unfortunately for Kugy, it was not to be. When Fuad pulled into the gallery parking lot, they were greeted by Wanda and Keenan, who had also just arrived.
“Hi, guys,” Wanda said. “Thanks for stopping by.” This time, she was dressed entirely in silver, with the purse, shoes, and nails to match. Her makeup was flawless. She looked like a singer about to go onstage.
Kugy quickly glanced at her own outfit and felt a pang of regret. If only she’d known they would be dropping by the Warsita Gallery on the way home, she would have put more effort into her appearance. But this was not to be, either. She would just have to resign herself to the fact that she was wearing a T-shirt she had gotten for free from organizing a Fun Bike event. Never mind that the design on the front was faded. Never mind that Josh had officially designated it a potential car-washing rag and was ready to steal it from her closet at any moment.
Keenan immediately went over to her. “Kugy!” he said brightly. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Me, neither,” said Kugy with a forced smile. She wished she were an ant so she could escape—from Wanda, who looked like some glamorous artiste about to give a performance, from Keenan, who looked so handsome in his collared shirt, from the sight of Wand
a’s fingers wrapped around Keenan’s arm, from Noni and Eko, who were beaming with pride at the success of their matchmaking project. But this was also not to be.
In the corner of the gallery was a large table bearing all kinds of teas and other beverages, and replete with little cakes arranged prettily on silver trays. Kugy set up camp there, drinking cup after cup of tea and filling her stomach with cake.
“They shouldn’t let you eat for free. The organizers will lose money.”
Kugy turned around to find Keenan standing beside her. “This is the starving college student’s modus operandi,” answered Kugy with some difficulty, her mouth full.
Keenan gazed warmly at her. “I’m glad you came.”
Kugy couldn’t help but smile. A freshness flowed through her whenever she saw that look in his eyes. “I saw your paintings. They’re amazing. If you ask me, they’re the best ones here.” Kugy spoke earnestly. “But then again, I don’t know much about art. It’s probably just a matter of personal preference . . . and well, you are my friend,” she added with a smile.
Keenan smiled back. “You don’t need to understand art to like it. Just listen to your heart.”
Kugy took a deep breath. “You’re right. Listen to your heart,” she said slowly.
“Mr. Itok thinks we’ve broken up.”
Kugy had just taken a sip of tea and it almost came spraying out of her mouth. She laughed uneasily. “Mr. Itok is the only person in this whole wide world who knows about us being a couple. Even we don’t know about it.”
“Now he thinks Wanda and I are going out.”
Kugy continued laughing, but her laughter grew flatter and flatter, until it petered out entirely. “Who knows?” she said. “Maybe Mr. Itok is psychic. Maybe he can predict the future . . .” Kugy swallowed. “You . . . aren’t interested in Wanda, are you?”
In lieu of answering, Keenan looked over at Wanda, who was standing at the far end of the room, deep in conversation. Kugy followed Keenan’s gaze, and they both watched her.
“If I were a guy, I’d be stupid not to like Wanda,” murmured Kugy.
“There are stupid guys,” Keenan murmured back.
Kugy felt the blood pounding in her veins. Her heart leapt. “So . . . you—”
Keenan’s gaze shifted. “My family’s here. Sorry, I have to go.”
Kugy had no choice but to nod and swallow what she was about to say. Keenan hurried to the entrance. She had seen Keenan’s family in photos, but this was the first time she was seeing them in person. His mother, a Dutch woman, looked more beautiful than she had in the pictures. She was dressed all in white, her long hair in a bun. His father was tall, like Keenan, and looked handsome in his navy-blue jacket and jeans. With them was a teenage boy with curly hair. His face was like Keenan’s, but darker. “Jeroen,” Kugy whispered to herself.
At that moment, somebody joined Keenan’s family, greeting each of them with a pretty smile. Wanda. Kugy frowned.
She felt someone tugging at her arm. “It’s Keenan’s mom and dad. Here, I’ll introduce you,” said Eko, who had appeared at her side, along with Noni. “Auntie Lena! Uncle Adri! Jeroen! How are you?” They approached the group.
“Hi, Eko,” said Lena, hugging her nephew. “Hi, Noni.”
“Auntie, this is Kugy,” Eko said. “She’s a friend of Noni’s.”
Lena turned to Keenan. “Oh, so this is Kugy.”
Eko, Noni, Kugy, and Wanda exchanged puzzled glances at her peculiar tone.
“Keenan’s told us a lot about you, Kugy. He says you like to write stories.”
Kugy grinned, partly out of embarrassment, partly out of happiness. “Yes, ma’am . . .”
“Keenan is very impressed with your stories.”
Kugy cleared her throat. “Ehm. I’m glad he’s a fan. Unfortunately, he’s my only one.” She laughed.
Everyone else laughed, too—except for Wanda. “Please, let me show you around,” she said to Keenan’s parents. Tugging at Keenan’s arm, she forced the whole group to follow along. Kugy couldn’t help but stare at Wanda’s silver nails. They were fastened around Keenan’s arm like an iron chain.
They came to a stop in front of Keenan’s four paintings, which were hanging on a panel, beautifully framed and presented. The halogen lighting gave them a certain sheen. Lena gasped and her eyes filled with tears. But her husband only stood there, saying nothing.
In an instant, Lena was hugging Keenan. “Ik ben zo trots op jou,” she whispered to him in Dutch. “I’m so proud of you, vent.”
“What else is there? Where to now?” Keenan’s father asked Wanda.
Wanda regarded him in confusion. “There’s . . . nothing else. Please, feel free to look around. Perhaps you two would like a drink? We have tea, wine—”
“Sorry,” said Keenan’s father. “I can’t stay long. Lena, we’ll leave in fifteen minutes, all right?”
“Mom can come home with me later,” snapped Keenan. “If you need to leave, please go ahead.”
Tension filled the air, infecting everyone.
“Jeroen, are you coming with me?” asked his father.
Jeroen looked confused. “I . . . I want to walk around with Eko first, Dad.”
The awkwardness of the situation was relieved when a waiter appeared, offering food and drinks. Eko, Noni, Kugy, and Jeroen immediately engrossed themselves in the act of chewing.
“You go ahead, Adri,” Lena said to her husband. “I’ll come later with Keenan. I want to look around a little longer.”
“How will you get home? Does Keenan have transportation?”
“We’ll take my car,” Wanda answered quickly.
Kugy stopped chewing altogether.
“Fine. Up to you,” said Keenan’s father. And before long, he left.
Although Keenan tried to act normal, everyone could feel the shift in his mood—as if a dark cloud were hanging over him and wouldn’t go away. And it didn’t go away for the rest of the afternoon.
After driving Keenan, his mother, and his brother home, Wanda lingered. She and Keenan sat on the front veranda under the pergola. Mandevilla vines laden with white blossoms formed a roof over their heads. Next to them were two glasses of water, still untouched.
“Your dad doesn’t approve of you painting, does he?” asked Wanda, breaking the silence.
Keenan shook his head. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do, ever since I was little. But Dad seems to be allergic to anything related to art. I don’t know why. Mom used to be a painter, too. But when she got married, she stopped. Dad didn’t want me to continue living in Amsterdam because he was afraid I’d become an artist. He thought that if I got a degree in economics, my interest in painting would go away. But instead—”
“You met me,” finished Wanda.
Keenan let out a bitter sigh. “And when he found out my work was good enough for a gallery like yours, he must have been shocked. He probably feels threatened.”
“Does he run his own business?”
“Yeah, a trading company. Imports and exports. He built it all up from nothing. How did you know?”
“My dad’s the same. And I’m an only child. I know the pressure.” Wanda smiled. “Luckily, I like Dad’s line of work. And I’m very serious about working in the art business. But still, I have to work hard to show Dad and Auntie Rani that I’m capable of helping run Warsita.” Gently, Wanda placed her hand on Keenan’s. “We’re very alike, you know,” she said, almost whispering. “Can I ask you something? What is it you want most?”
Keenan turned and gazed deep into Wanda’s eyes. “To be myself,” he said firmly. “I know I have a comfortable life. And I’m lucky to be at such a good university. But I’m not afraid to leave all this behind—if the right opportunity came along. The only reason I put up with it all is because I’m still financially dependent on Dad. I can’t support myself yet.”
“If you keep painting, you will be able to support yourself. I have faith in your abilities. It’s only a matter of tim
e.”
Keenan smiled briefly. “Yeah. Meaning I have to wait for someone to buy my paintings, right?”
“Absolutely,” said Wanda, nodding. Then she fell silent and gazed off into the distance. But the wheels in her head were turning at full speed.
After she returned from Keenan’s house, Wanda lay in bed all night staring at the ceiling. She thought and thought, until finally, she came up with a plan, which she would carry out as quickly as possible. She couldn’t wait for morning to come.
By 9:30, Wanda was already at the gallery, scanning the long list of their collectors and patrons and marking off certain names. Then she set her slender fingers dancing on the telephone buttons, dialing the names one by one.
“Mr. Halim? Hi, it’s Wanda. Have you received our newest catalog? If you look at the section in the back, you’ll see some work by a new painter. His name is Keenan. Have you taken a look? Well, yes, of course he’s still new, but he has excellent prospects . . .”
“How are you, Mrs. Lien? This is Wanda from Warsita. Have you found anything that suits you from our new catalog? Personally, I’d recommend one of our new artists, Keenan. You’ll find him in the back. No, he hasn’t held any exhibitions yet, but . . .”
Wanda kept at it the whole day, calling every person on her list until, finally, she gave up. Not a single one was interested in investing in Keenan’s paintings. They all gave the same reason: Keenan was still too young and unknown.
Wanda studied her list again. All the people she had called were longtime players in the art game, and were used to collecting work by well-known painters. Only now did Wanda realize what challenges her father had been talking about. He was right. The Warsita Gallery wasn’t a good fit for Keenan’s paintings, at least not at this stage. Wanda bit her lip, and the wheels in her head began turning once more. She had to change her strategy.
Once more her fingers danced across the buttons on the phone, but this time she didn’t look at her list. She was calling her friends.