—
After his visit to Ki Joko, Herjuno took notice of all the women he met, hoping to identify the Queen of the South Sea. She would need to be a strong, charismatic woman. The search revived his energy. He lit up whenever he spoke about the array of beautiful women he suspected might be the Queen. I didn’t pay much attention until one day we were at a reception commemorating the rollout of a new car model. The company throwing the reception belonged to one of Herjuno’s acquaintances.
We met a woman who wore sleek black trousers and a tight black leather jacket. Her frame was slim but powerful. She resembled a scorpion. Luxurious, shimmering, intimidating. Dark grey make-up swept up around her gorgeous eyes, making them stand out. When she spoke, her voice was as velvety as a Bloody Mary.
She greeted us confidently and beckoned us over to chat. She was a lawyer. That was as much detail as I heard because Herjuno quickly signalled me to leave the two of them alone. He obviously thought she was the modern-day incarnation of the Queen that Ki Joko had told him about. I excused myself and slipped off behind a table of canapes. A waiter passed in front of me with a tray of drinks. I chose a Cabernet Sauvignon and held the glass to my nose. Notes of raspberry mixed with sandalwood.
Almost an hour later, Herjuno came over.
‘That woman isn’t just any lawyer,’ he whispered. ‘She’s got her eye on what my company is up to.’
‘You mean your father-in-law’s company?’
‘She knows about what’s going on with the waste.’
A few months ago, a researcher had disclosed his findings to Herjuno. The marine zone near the waste disposal site of his father-in-law’s company was contaminated with hazardous compounds. Arsenic and cyanide polluted the water. Fish were growing tumours, dying. Residents nearby complained of itchy rashes all over their bodies. Pregnant women miscarried. The researcher was insisting on publishing his report in a prominent newspaper. After a lengthy set of back-and-forth discussions, he agreed not to go public with his findings in exchange for a considerable payoff. At least the money would guarantee his research projects for five years.
‘How did she find out?’
‘Rumours are circulating among environmentalists. Maybe the researcher didn’t keep his word. But there might be others out there looking into the issue too.’
‘How many billions do you have to give away to keep them all quiet?’
Herjuno shook his head. ‘That’s not the way it’s done.’
I found out later that a journalist was going to publish an article about the contaminated waters that week and that the news had reached the lawyer’s ears from the editor of a bi-weekly magazine. According to Herjuno, though, the woman he had just met promised to help him wage a media war.
She would use her influence to have several researchers and journalists create competing accounts. If possible, they would hold workshops at universities. The validity of the research could always be thrown into doubt and there were always powerful people available to distract the public.
I listened to Herjuno carefully. He had mentioned the waste issue before but I had no idea that it had become this complicated. Still, why was this woman concerned?
‘It’s not just my people who have interests here, Gus,’ my friend said. ‘Other parties will get hurt if this case blows up. And she’s representing those parties.’
I asked how much money she wanted. Herjuno looked at me with a knowing grin.
‘Jun?’
‘We haven’t reached an explicit agreement about compensation yet. But I promised to take her home tonight.’
It couldn’t be that simple. I worried that Herjuno was being naïve. And, after all, if she really was the Queen of the South Sea, wouldn’t she be pissed off about the contamination?
‘Relax, Gus.’ He put his arm around me. ‘What was it that the Queen of the South Sea wanted after she gave away that bountiful power of hers?’
‘A wedding proposal?’
I was joking, but my friend’s leering grin suggested more. He was convinced that the problem would be solved by an influential woman. He had found his queen. A queen who always appeared when fish were in their death throes.
—
Herjuno needed my help.
That’s what he told me when we met up the following day. We chose a café decorated in a retro style.
‘So what happened last night?’
Herjuno laughed gleefully, ‘Hey, don’t go jumping to conclusions!’
Even after so many years of a friendship, he still bullshitted me.
‘Nothing too much,’ he went on. ‘Not yet.’ My friend paused. Then he looked at me seriously. ‘She invited me to a hotel later tonight. She’s going to give me the names of a bunch of influential media people who can help my position.’
‘And you won’t be talking in a restaurant, will you?’
Herjuno laughed so long and hard that his ears flushed. I didn’t need to hear his explanation. I imagined the scorpion woman twisting and turning. She could probably lure any man she wanted into bed. It sounded like she was already mingling public duties and private pleasures. How befitting of the Queen of the South Sea.
‘I told my wife there was a meeting at Puncak.’
‘Jun, she would see right through that. It’s her father’s company.’
‘She doesn’t have a clue about work stuff.’ Herjuno said. ‘If she asks you, just tell her that there’s a crucial meeting on. With important clients. They only invited me. All good?’
I sipped my coffee. It wouldn’t be the first time I had lied on Herjuno’s behalf.
‘Anyway, this is a rescue mission. If I don’t do it, my in-laws’ company, and their reputation, will be at stake.’ Herjuno made excuses.
Herjuno’s wife was really straitlaced, even if not exactly boring. She wouldn’t be suspicious. All she thought about was their kid. She’d never been interested in taking part in social functions with other CEO wives clutching their thousand-dollar handbags. She only left home to take their daughter to preschool or shop at the supermarket. Once a month, she would go to see the symphony orchestra, the ballet or the theatre. She didn’t like cafés or clubs. Even her phone rarely rang; she had few friends.
‘It’s Friday night by the Javanese calendar,’ Herjuno said.
‘So?’
‘I’m going to make love to her,’ he said. ‘And say the mantra.’
Bow down to the Heavenly Father.
I was afraid all of a sudden.
‘The woman might have other plans, Herjuno.’
If there was any truth to the legend, Herjuno was dealing with no ordinary woman.
‘That’s why I asked for your help.’
So Herjuno had dragged me into a dangerous stream. I might drown along with him.
—
That night, we left for the hotel separately. I set out first and waited for them in the hotel lobby, holding a newspaper up before my face like a film character and feeling ridiculous. Herjuno appeared two hours later with his gorgeous lawyer friend. He had paid for room number 324 for me, not far from his room, 320. I peeked at them from behind the newspaper. We pretended not to see each other. Herjuno had an arm wrapped around her waist. She was wearing a short, tight dress, black and dazzling. I looked at Herjuno and thought of a child impatient to play with a scorpion: he knows it’s poisonous, yet that only adds to the excitement. I was there to stand guard.
I went up to my room and worked on my laptop. Time inched towards midnight.
Fed up with working, I switched on the television. A thriller about a group of teenagers chased by a psychopath was on. After a narrow series of escapes, one kid took a bath, relaxing after all the tension. The mistake the victim always makes is breathing a sigh of relief. The boy didn’t realise the killer was nearby and drawing closer, axe in hand. He was wearing a mask. His black gloves drew the curtain away and brought the axe down. The wretched kid screamed. An ear-splitting scream. The axe fell again and again.
The bathtub became a sea of red. The killer had won the day.
The teenager in the movie fell face-first into the water, dead. But the scream lingered, piercing the walls. My heart raced.
The scream was real. It was Herjuno.
I was caught off guard. I’m no hero but I was frightened for my best friend; that woman, the scorpion, had stung him.
I ran to his room. None of the other guests did the same. Maybe they thought the sounds were only the cries of a couple making love.
I knocked at the door, calling Herjuno. I still hoped he was joking. But the cries got louder. The door was locked from the inside. My hands were sweaty. I pounded on the door. Should I break it down?
Before I could decide, it clicked open. I barged in to find my friend kneeling on the floor, clutching one hand with the other. There were crimson splotches on his unbuttoned white shirt. Something awful had happened and he had used what was left of his strength to open the door.
‘Jun!’
His left hand was covering his right. Blood was flowing, soaking into the carpet.
Herjuno fainted. When his hand fell away, I saw that his middle finger was missing.
I raised my head and saw the face of the woman who had maimed him.
A woman wreathed with flowers. Her luxurious dress billowed in waves. The Queen. A gust of wind flung the balcony door open and leaves swirled into the room.
My eyes smarted from the dust. I could just make out the sound of breaking surf. What struck me most wasn’t her glittering appearance but her familiar face. Not the face of a dramatic, influential woman, but the face of an ordinary woman I’d gazed at across the dinner table.
Dewi, Herjuno’s wife.
She fixed me with her stare. I realised, then, that she was holding a chain. A frightening creature was bound to it. A giant scorpion.
I backed towards the door, in terror, but unable to look away. Then, the Queen turned, and she and the scorpion flew through the window and disappeared.
—
That fateful night stole not only Herjuno’s middle finger but also his sanity. He is now under intensive supervision by a psychiatrist. He babbles on about the Queen of the South Sea. They think he had a breakdown because his wife ran off with his daughter, leaving him only a letter. Dewi’s signature was stamped on it. In the letter, she wrote of how devastated she was to learn that her husband was having an affair and asked that he not try to find her. Very sentimental. The paper contained no trace of the Queen of the South Sea, no indication of her disguise as Dewi all this time.
It is getting to the point where Herjuno might be locked up in an asylum. Nobody believes his story.
Only I know the truth.
But I say nothing. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I think it’s because I don’t want to be labelled crazy too. Sometimes I think it’s because I sympathise with Dewi or the Queen. I’m not certain whose side I’m on any more.
I’ve had time to wonder why Herjuno’s life has been spared. Why only his middle finger was sacrificed and not his soul. If someone goes missing on the beach at Parangtritis, people believe that the Queen has taken a victim. To become one of her ghostly warriors, perhaps. I’ve come to the conclusion that Herjuno didn’t mean enough to the Queen of the South Sea to receive that blessing of eternal life.
Sometimes, voices from ancient times echo in my ears.
Gung pra peri perayangan ejim sarawi
Sang Sinom Prabu Rara yekti gedhe dhewe.
Vampire
Read Saras backwards and you will find me.
We come from the same place, cramped, dark, wet, red. But she doesn’t want me because she thinks I suckle at the breast of a she-wolf.
—
I never imagined I would become a secretary. When I was little, when people asked me what I wanted to be I said, ‘a doctor’ just like thousands of other kids. But my mum noticed how diligent and orderly I was. I loved making catalogues of my school subjects, a budget for how I would spend my allowance, grocery lists. I was crazy about categorising. In my room I separated my music cassettes into different boxes according to genre. I could even tell you what clothes I would wear two weeks from Friday. Mum mocked me, ‘You’re better suited to being a secretary than a doctor.’
After high school I went to a secretarial academy. I did it in part to maximise my potential and in part because to be a doctor you have to like biology and the only thing I liked about biology was taxonomy. In the end, I realised that my decision to study at Tarakanita Secretarial Academy was the right one; I graduated with top marks.
—
I live in the caves of darkest night, enveloped in grey mist. I know neither morning nor dew. I dare not challenge the light; I’m not like anyone else. I am obsessed with red. Red pooling in continuous flow, reminiscent of fresh fish.
I thirst for blood.
I am a black butterfly with wings of velvet. I dart into corridors, drawn by the vortex of the night. She doesn’t know my pain, my moans, my passion. She closes all the windows to drive away my ungainly thirst.
I started work in a consulting company. I always ironed my work jacket and skirt as smooth as could be. They matched the office’s cool mahogany floors and walls, which were a shade of chocolate milk. Brown is a classic colour; it always looks elegant. Want to look more professional? Wear brown or black. Funny, I used to think dark colours stood for evil and bright colours for good.
Sometimes I seek rats, dogs, anything at all. I am too weak to open my eyes. I can’t bear it, I’m so thirsty. If only I could exchange my soul for blood.
I was secretary to the marketing manager. My desk, always neat and tidy, was just outside my boss’s door. His name was Irwan. He was young, handsome, rich, intelligent. Of course, he had one flaw: a wife. This was a problem for him because he had to work desperately to cover up his many affairs. (At least, that’s what I heard on my first day.) It was a problem for me too because I had to keep my distance; the intense familiarity of our daily interactions might give him the wrong impression. I’d heard of office romances but I’d never had the desire to take part in one.
Irwan came from a wealthy family, which was probably why he abused his power in small ways. He asked me to draft proposal letters for a side project of his that had nothing to do with work. Once I had to leave the office just to pay his credit card bills. I knew I had the right to protest, but, for the time being, I kept quiet.
—
‘Do you have plans after work?’
I lifted my head. Irwan was wearing a red tie, which peeked from his conservative suit jacket. There was something terribly wrong about that tie. Maybe its colour was too bright. It didn’t match the atmosphere at all. The office was full of dull colours.
Red is sultry. Red coagulates and sticks like chewing gum. Red demands realisation, real-I-sation, it cannot be put off, cannot be flushed down into a sewer.
‘Saras?’
‘No, no plans.’
‘Then come and have a coffee with me.’
When you work for someone, you get used to imperative sentences.
I was trying to guess at the meaning behind that coffee. What he meant was coffee in a cup and saucer in an air-conditioned space, not coffee served up black in a glass at a roadside stall with grounds floating in it. What he meant was to share in a ritual that belonged to a specific class and had a specific purpose – to establish a relationship, or maybe to do some networking. Very attractive for career development, but I wasn’t interested in getting closer to a married man.
Hypocrite.
I wondered if there might be consequences if I refused.
She wants him, but doesn’t want to be the one to shoulder the blame.
‘I’ve been tasked with an extra assignment,’ he said. ‘The managing director needs a special report finished by tomorrow. I hope you can help.’
Irwan seemed to notice my hesitation. He stressed that t
he invitation was a professional one. After thinking it over, I accepted.
I am the sibling who shares warmth with you in that narrow, red space. I know how in high school you read a cheap porn novel about a secretary who went into her boss’s office not wearing any underwear. You are crass, crazed, crimson. Come on, crack! Don’t you dream of satisfying the animal wildness under that sophisticated skirt of yours?
So we went to a cafe that played fifties jazz. Tucked away in the dim light, we sat on a red velvet sofa so big I sunk into it. Without the coffee, I might have become drowsy. Why did Irwan choose a place like this to discuss an office project?
A brothel –
A butterfly like me prefers the dim, the dusky, the delusion, the dream. A festive house in a forest filled with wolves. You will never understand until you step inside.
We talked for two hours. Espresso gave way to cappuccino. For half an hour, he discussed the special report. Ella Fitzgerald and her golden voice were a seductive distraction but I listened attentively and took notes, being the highly trained professional that I am. Then he asked, ‘Do you still live with your parents?’
I was stunned by the question. I told him I lived alone. Said that my parents lived outside the city and that I was an only child. He told me that he was, too.
Then began the dangerous ritual of clichés about an unhappy marriage. That his wife was busy pursuing her own ambitions, that they had no child to bind them.
I had to put an end to this. He was looking for prey.
I am too. Is anyone willing to surrender a soul?
‘I have to go,’ I said.
It wasn’t all that late, yet Irwan wanted to escort me home. I said it wasn’t necessary but he insisted.
‘Okay, as far as the front gate.’
The man knows you live alone.
You and I are lonely creatures. I absorb life that is in the throes of death because red is almost finished, fatal, a full stop.
He asked to use the bathroom, so I let him in.
Enter. Scale the fence, O prowlers. Let us leap, do not skulk. Look what you can taste in the orchard. I followed because I too am a thief, a pilferer of life and death, and I will make you a ghost.
Apple and Knife Page 6