Jalan Jalan

by Mike Stoner

  ‘You guys have a good night?’ I ask, ignoring her but also enjoying the thought of her sexy little body. I then fight the bitter sickness that fizzes in my stomach. I can’t ever have that body again.

  ‘Yeah. Jussy ended up with some whore from Top Club and went off to some hotel. Julie did some E and danced like a frenetic chimp all night, while Marty sat and watched her. Naomi and me got a taxi back at about three.’

  ‘Jesus. Is that a normal night?’

  ‘Yep. Pretty much. Julie’s become a bit of a drug fiend recently and Jussy-boy loves these Indo women. I do too, but wasn’t in the mood.’

  I nearly ask if anything happened with him and Naomi, but it’s not my business and I’m not interested. Kim’s opened up enough already. I don’t want to get any closer to him. I’m not ready for good friends.

  I smile when I suddenly think of my old friends back in England reading books, going to the cinema, drinking Bacardi-and-Cokes and even, in extreme rebellious moments, smoking the occasional spliff. If they saw New Me now, hanging out with these guys, all of whom seem to be motivated by hidden demons, they wouldn’t recognise me. Just how I want it to be.

  —Is it?

  —Yes it bloody is.

  ‘We better go, man. Only half an hour ‘til the next class.’

  We pay for our coffees, say bye to the chess players and duck out from beneath the canopy and its shade into bright white daylight. The sun lays its weight on us as soon as we’re under it. The stench of the piles of rubbish that lie up side streets and on corners is ripe. Exhaust fumes stick to the inside of my nose. We zigzag through the traffic to get across the road and go into the school. Albert is at the front desk. The sweat patches on his shirt are bigger and wetter than ever. We nod at each other.

  ‘Pak’s little ass-licker,’ says Kim as we make our way to the staff-room.

  ‘I did wonder.’

  Fifteen minutes later I’m in class looking at twelve students aged between about seventeen and thirty. They are male and female, mostly Chinese-Indonesian. This is a level seven class, second to top because they’ve completed all of English World’s homemade course books. Their English is pretty good when they actually speak. This is my second time with them; the first was long and quiet and painful, but today I have an extra face sitting before me.

  ‘Johnny, isn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. How are you?’ asks the leather-jacket-clad Jimmy Dean from my first night. He is sitting slouched in his chair, which is up on two legs and leaning back against the wall.

  ‘I’m OK. Good to see you.’ I stand behind my desk and open my course book. ‘How are the rest of you?’

  Silence. I look at today’s chapter: Exercise 1 – Reading – Swimming With Dolphins.

  Jesus, another long day ahead.

  ‘Right. What’s this?’ I draw a rough likeness of a dolphin on the whiteboard.

  Silence.

  I turn back to the board and sigh.

  —Stick with it, numbnuts.

  I close my eyes and rub my chest.

  —Laura Laura Laura. Not now please.

  —Teaching is easy. Make ‘em smile.’

  —How can I make ‘em smile when you’re talking to me? Please be quiet. Stay down there with him like you’re supposed to.

  ‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you ever kissed a girl, sir?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, sorry, Johnny, yes I have.’ I turn and come back into the room. Every pair of eyes is on me, suddenly interested and paying attention, something that hasn’t happened so far. Johnny is still leaning back in his chair, twirling a toothpick or something in his mouth to perfect the image.

  ‘For how long?’ he asks.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How long did you kiss her for?’

  ‘I kissed her more than once, Johnny, and more than one girl.’

  He falls forward, his chair banging down onto all four legs.

  ‘Really?’

  I look at him to see if he’s trying to wind me up. His face is dead set and eyes wide. He’s being serious.

  ‘Yes, really. Now, this is a dolphin.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few.’

  ‘Three? Four?’

  ‘Maybe more. Why?’ I put my board pen on the desk and sit down. ‘Have you kissed a girl?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ His complexion reddens and he twirls his toothpick between his fingers.

  ‘How many?’ I ask.

  ‘Many. Many.’

  ‘You liar,’ says the girl next to him, Jennifer, if I remember right.

  ‘No I’m not. Many.’ He shifts in his seat. He’s lying, so I try to help him out.

  ‘I kissed about five,’ I under-exaggerate.

  ‘Was it good?’ he asks, leaning forward.

  ‘It was ok, some better than others. Now shall we get on with the lesson?’

  ‘We don’t kiss here,’ says a woman on the opposite side of the room to Johnny. She is about thirty, the oldest in the class and one of only two ethnic Indonesians. ‘Not often.’

  ‘I saw my mother and father kiss once,’ joins in Yenny, a small girl in the middle, ‘but they didn’t know I see.’

  At least they’re talking. I close the course book.

  ‘Only once? Don’t your parents kiss in front of you?’

  ‘Never. It is bad to kiss in front of people,’ says Yenny.

  ‘In England it’s OK. Many people kiss in public.’

  ‘Really. What sort of kissing?’ Johnny is leaning right across his desk now. The students who haven’t said anything yet are sitting more upright and adjusting their backsides.

  ‘Well, you know, all sorts.’

  ‘With, with, this,’ Johnny sticks his tongue out as if showing it to a doctor.

  ‘Tongue. It’s a tongue. Yes, sometimes.’

  ‘In public?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to go to England.’

  The class laugh.

  ‘What about holding hands in the street here?’ I ask. ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘No. Not really. Some people do it now, but many people don’t like it,’ answers Jennifer.

  ‘It must be difficult for boyfriends and girlfriends’.

  ‘Do you not think your country is too free?’ This is a new voice, Franz, the other ethnic Indonesian. He is about seventeen and serious.

  ‘Shut up, stupid,’ says Johnny, ‘if you can kiss when you want, what is wrong with that?’ The class laugh, except Franz and the older woman.

  ‘Johnny, please don’t be like that here. Don’t call people stupid,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry sir, but these Muslim ideas are…’

  ‘Johnny, shh.’ I’m just starting to see the mix of religious backgrounds these students come from: Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, possibly others. As I have none, which according to Kim is an inconceivable idea in Medan, I don’t want a heated religious debate in my class.

  ‘Too free, no. There are many things in England, Europe and the US that stop us from being free. Also sometimes I don’t want to see young teenagers kissing and touching each other in the middle of a street or on a bus.’

  ‘They touch each other?’ Johnny is virtually climbing onto his desk.

  ‘I think it is disgusting,’ says Franz.

  ‘I think it is nice,’ says Jennifer, ‘to show you love someone when you want. To be allowed to love someone so all can see.’

  Other girls in the class nod. Some of the boys’ eyes seem to have glazed over and I wonder where I have sent their fantasies; probably snogging on the top deck of a double-decker with Cameron Diaz while cruising around London.

  ‘Well, anyway.’ I stand up. ‘We’re here to learn English, not discuss my sex life. What’s this?’ I tap the dolphin on the board.

  ‘A shark, sir?’ This is a girl whose name I can’t remember, sitting on the end.

  ‘Yes, thank you. A shark, sort of. Now do sharks,
or dolphins, live in the sea?’

  I can’t believe I’m actually about to teach this stupid lesson, but the class, or most of them, are with me now. I’ve just given them the slightest insight into another world and they’ve woken up. Now I want to impart all my knowledge of dolphins, aka sharks, and a bit of the present perfect tense while I have them.

  —Well done. You’ve just corrupted a whole generation. They’ll all be holding hands and getting beaten by their parents in a week.

  I ignore her.

  ‘No.’ says Yenny.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say.

  ‘Dolphins do not live in the sea.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ says Johnny. ‘Want a kiss after class?’

  Yenny blushes and moves her books around her desk.

  —Told you, says Laura.

  —I miss you, I tell her.

  Each present is wrapped in different paper.

  ‘This one first.’ She holds up one of the four gifts which sit on the bed between us. She hands it to me and pulls her legs up under her, her dressing gown rising up over her thighs. My eyes wander from the present to her exposed skin and my mind wanders a little further.

  ‘That one first.’ She pulls her gown over her legs, only a little. ‘You can have this later.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I squeeze, prod and sniff the gift. It has a familiar weight to it.

  ‘Open.’

  I tear a little strip of paper off and see a small hand inside. A gripping hand. I rip the rest off and he lies across my palm in his khaki camouflage and fuzzy hair: an Action Man.

  I look at her and she is smiling, like she’s just been given the perfect present, not me.

  ‘It’s the right one, isn’t it? Isn’t it? From about 1976. I checked.’ She rocks backwards and forwards with her arms around her stomach. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘How, where did you get this?’ I hold him up to my face and run my finger across his head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, but you like it, don’t you.’ This isn’t a question but a statement. She knows damn well I like it.

  ‘Yes, I like it.’ I’m ten again. He feels so right in my hands. I want to send him on a mission across the floor immediately. Have him climb some stairs and parachute off the banisters. Make him ride the cat and shoot some plastic cowboys.

  ‘I used to have six of these, real Action Men, with life-like hair and gripping hands, not like the crap these days.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You’ve already told me.’

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Good. At least there’s one perfect man in this room.’

  I blow her a raspberry.

  ‘Do that again, bum-wipe, I dare you.’

  I blow another one and she wraps her lips over my tongue and pushes hers into my mouth. I lean into her but she pulls away.

  ‘Uh-uh. Not yet.’

  She hands me the next present. This is rectangular and thin. I can tell it’s a book, and again it feels familiar. I sod the anticipation and pull the paper off in one go.

  ‘Asterix the Gaul.’

  ‘Check the date.’

  I do. 1969. First English edition.

  ‘I’m speechless.’ I am. She knows what I want better than I do.

  ‘You’ve got the set now.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve got me these.’ I scan my eyes over my two new prize possessions lying on the bed. ‘These perfect presents. I’m a very happy little boy.’

  I lean across and give her a hug, slide my hands inside her dressing gown where it’s warm. I kiss her neck. My hands move to the top of her thighs. She pushes me away.

  ‘Two more to open. Then I might let you.’

  The next present is also rectangular.

  ‘What is this, Book Week?’ I free it from the paper. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not a first edition. Couldn’t quite stretch to that. Twenty p from a charity shop’

  ‘The Time Machine.’

  ‘By you-know-who. You don’t sound excited?’ She pokes me in the belly. ‘Sound excited.’

  ‘You know I hate science fiction. My dad’s craziness for it killed mine.’

  ‘I know. But I love all that stuff. So read it, Bucko. Open your mind to all those mad ideas.’

  ‘Mm. One day.’ I put the book on the floor. ‘Asterix first though.’

  ‘Bad boy. But I’ll let you off as it’s your birthday.’ She ruffles my hair. ‘OK, last one.’

  The fourth present is bottle-shaped. I open it. It’s a bottle: Glen-fiddich.

  ‘Ah, whisky. Your favourite drink,’ I say.

  ‘And yours.’ She grabs the bottle off me. ‘But I thought I could have a treat too as I’ve been so good to you.’ She tears the seal off the bottle and pulls the stopper out with her teeth. ‘And after a couple of shots of this,’ she slurs with it still between her lips, ‘I might be even better to you.’ The stopper is spat across the room. She takes two gulps from the bottle, then hands it to me.

  ‘Happy birthday, you old fart.’

  ‘It’s a bit early for booze, isn’t…’

  ‘Shut up.’ She slips her dressing gown off her shoulders and arms and sits in front of me naked. ‘We’re not going anywhere today.’

  ‘Well, OK then.’ I take a big swig, pull my T-shirt over my head while she wriggles my pants down my legs. We sit naked opposite each other, looking at the other’s body. Hers leaves me tongue-tied.

  I’m pushed onto my back and she straddles my thighs.

  ‘Ow. Action Man. Under my bum.’ I raise my backside.

  She pulls him out and looks him in the eye.

  ‘So, Mr Action Man, my boyfriend here likes you because of your gripping hands. Well, you may well have a firm grip, Mr Soldier, but I think mine is better.’ She slides him to safety under the bed and grabs hold of me to prove a point. Her grip is better. Much better. I close my eyes and the day is perfect and for once time doesn’t fly, because she is so slow with me and I’m so slow with her and every moment, every touch, every sensation, word and promise is individually gift-wrapped and put in a box marked Best Presents Ever. A box which slides around in one of the many rooms in my soul and sometimes knocks into the walls, reminding me it’s still there.

  INSPECTION

  AND APPROVAL

  I stand in front of a two-metre-high wall. A camera, mounted next to a large, solid metal gate, is pointed down at me. I check the address against the piece of paper that Pak gave me. It’s the right place. I go the gate and press the intercom, put my mouth next to the speaker and look at the camera.

  ‘I’m the English teacher.’

  The gate slides open just enough to let me through. I enter and nearly do the same as Julie, turn around and walk back out. In front of me is a large Chinese man with some sort of gun slung over his shoulder. I have no idea what sort of a gun, only that it is big and long and it makes my sphincter contract.

  Stay calm, New Me. New Me is ‘don’t give a shit’, remember. New Me is after strange and exciting experiences, and this is one. Just smile and walk to the house.

  I smile and walk to the house. I say a house, it’s more of a mansion. All the ground-floor windows are shuttered up. There are another three men with similar weapons hanging off their shoulders, playing cards on the bonnet of a shining black Range Rover. Another armed man is walking around the side of the house looking up at the top of the wall as he goes. In front of the house is a large wired enclosure with three Alsatians imprisoned in it. They attack the mesh with teeth and slobber as soon as I pass. I step away to the right.

  Stay calm. These things don’t worry you. Nothing worries you. OK?

  Got it. Nothing worries me.

  One of the guards opens the polished solid-wood front door and shows me in. Once I’m in he goes back out, closing the door behind him. I stay where I am and take in the room before me. The house is all open plan and marble-tiled floors. Straight ahead is the kitchen area. Three Asian women with Jackie Onassis hairstyles, dressed in ‘60s miniskirts and breast-h
ugging roll-neck tops, are preparing ornate plates of food. Next to the kitchen area is a table which could seat sixteen at a sit-down meal, but which is now covered with a buffet of dishes I can’t make out from here by the door. The smell of garlic and chicken and saffron and a dozen herbs whose names I’ve never known fills the air.

  On the opposite side of the room, four near-middle-aged Chinese men sit in front of a large TV screen watching Manchester United, maybe, versus a team in blue. On the coffee table between the men is a pile of money. As I watch, one of the men throws another five notes onto the pile. He yells something at a blond player on the screen, who from here looks like the ever-present Mr Beckham.

  At the end of the room there is no internal wall, just three wide marble steps up into an outside area. Reflections and light ripples dance on the far outside wall, telling me there is probably a pool just up those steps.

  ‘Ah, the new teacher.’ This is one of the men at the TV. ‘Fitri, Benny,’ he shouts, ‘your new teacher is here.’

  He comes over to me, but keeps an eye over his shoulder at the football.

  ‘Good to meet you. I am Charles.’ He offers me his hand and takes his eyes away from the game to inspect me. He doesn’t let go of my hand, but instead holds it tight while he looks deep into my eyes. Unblinking dark, narrow eyes search mine as though he’s trying to find something. The intensity hurts. I try not to blink as some sort of defiance to his ocular rape of me, but don’t manage it. The intimate examination lasts only two or three seconds, but I haven’t been breathing. As he lets go of my hand I suck in air.

  He is about forty-five, my height, neatly side-combed hair, thin lines around his eyes—probably from all the examinations he carries out—and despite his red and white Hawaiian shirt, no sense of humour about him whatsoever.

  ‘Come.’ He leads me to the buffet and waves his hand over the food. ‘Eat what you want. Drink the wine, it is flown in from France, the cheese too.’ He slices a piece of Brie and takes a bite. ‘The other food is also from Europe and Australia and the States. All good. Please eat what you want.’ He is already walking back to his seat. ‘The children come soon.’

  He lowers himself slowly into his chair by the TV, where, sitting upright and regal, he returns his attention to Mr Beckham and friends.