by Mike Stoner
The old adage of there being no such thing as a free lunch troubles me a little, but sod it. I pick up a plate from a pile on the table and cut myself some Stilton, perfectly soft Brie, a slice of crusty white bread, avoid the king prawns, lobster and plates of ham, beef and chicken, take a spoonful of mixed salad and another of garlic mushrooms, a slice of some sort of white fish and then pour from a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape into a crystal wine glass. The lesson is going to be worth doing for the food alone.
I stand with the plate in one hand and the wine in the other and am wondering what to do next when a teenage girl and young boy come out of a door near the gamblers. They come straight over to me.
‘I am Fitri,’ says the girl, about fifteen and about to become beautiful.
‘I am Benny,’ says the boy, about ten and about to become chubbier as he grabs a plate and piles on most of the beef and five tiger prawns.
Their father says something to them in Chinese without looking away from the TV.
‘My father says we should go to the games room. Please, this way,’ says Fitri as she leads me and little brother towards the steps. At the top of the steps I swig a large mouthful of wine as I take in the pool, which is half covered by a roof and half open to the blue sky. It’s about twenty-five metres in length and surrounded by the rest of the building. There are five doors which go off from it into other parts of the house.
‘Bring your shorts next time,’ says Fitri, going on ahead down one side of the pool, ‘we can swim.’
Benny sucks the internal workings of a prawn into his mouth.
I follow them through a door at the far end of the pool and enter a large games room containing a full-size snooker table, dartboard, ping-pong table and jukebox. In the corner is a pile of beanbags, which is where Fitri leads us. She slumps onto one, Benny falls backwards into another, losing his remaining prawns over his shoulder. He picks them up off the floor and puts two onto his plate and one into his mouth. Fitri slaps him across the head.
‘My brother is a pig.’
‘My sister is a bitch.’
I place the wine and plate next to my beanbag and flop into it.
‘First English lesson: bitch is a bad word.’ I wriggle around until I’m stable and then pick up my wine. It tastes better than anything Sainsbury’s back home has to offer.
‘But she called me a pig,’ says Benny, as he pulls the remains of prawn number three from his mouth. He wipes his lips on his arm.
‘Well pig isn’t exactly polite, but sometimes it is suitable for little boys.’ I shove a handful of mushrooms into my mouth. ‘And for grown men.’
Benny laughs, opens his mouth wide, tilts his head back and slowly lowers the last crustacean into the chasm.
‘Oh great,’ says Fitri, ‘two idiot pigs.’ Then she laughs.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I think your English is already very good. Why is that?’
‘My father speaks very good English and he often takes us to Australia and sometimes America,’ Fitri says with a tone of superiority. ‘He goes there on business.’
‘And what is his business?’
‘He owns discos. Also he does import and export.’
‘What does he import and export?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’
‘He is very important,’ adds Benny.
‘I’m sure. So what should I be teaching you two expert students?’
The wine is very good. My glass is already nearly empty.
‘You are the teacher. What do you think?’ asks Fitri.
‘OK. Why don’t you just ask me questions about anything you want and I’ll try to answer. Any mistakes you make I’ll try to correct and explain.’
They both agree and we start a question-and-answer session.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ asks Fitri.
—Good start, says Laura, what are you going to say to that one?
—You’re my girlfriend.
—Oh am I? I thought I’m dead and you were trying to forget me.
—Don’t remind me.
The wine suddenly turns bitter in my stomach.
‘Well?’ interrupts Fitri.
‘Well?’ adds Benny.
‘Yes. No. I used to have.’
‘Was she beautiful?’
‘Very.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Very much.’
—Oh, get over me. You know you want to.
—I wish I could.
—What happened to New You? I thought he was supposed to be shot of me.
‘Why did you break?’
‘Break up. The proper way to say it is break up.’ My voice crackles. ‘Why did you break up?’
‘She left me.’ Barely audible.
—Liar. Face the truth. I’m dead, numbnuts.
‘She died.’ I drain the last of the wine from my glass and smile at the two children in front of me. ‘She died,’ I whisper. I swallow. I blink blurriness from my eyes. There is something big and painful ballooning in my chest.
—Well said.
‘That is sad. Are you sad?’ Fitri curls her legs under herself on the beanbag.
‘Yes. Sorry. Where’s the toilet?’
It’s growing and pushing on my lungs. I need it out or I won’t be able to breathe.
‘Outside this room and two doors on the right.’
‘Thank you.’ I push myself up and out of the beanbag and lunge for the door. I am using every muscle in my stomach and chest and face to keep it in. My vision is tunnelled as I focus on door handles and my feet and the pool sparkles beside me and then I’m closing doors and fumbling locks and I turn and sit on the closed toilet and my head is in my hands. It bursts out. Sobs and tears and snot rise up through my throat and nose and eyes. I’m stunned there’s so much in there. I’m like a shaken can of lemonade just opened.
Finally, after I don’t know how long, and with stinging eyes and burning cheeks, it’s all out and I’m empty. I blow my nose, splash water on my face, look at my red eyes in the mirror, try to out-stare myself.
‘Stop it. You’re hidden. You don’t do this. You don’t throw that shit up at me. You don’t remind me or tell me or tease me. I’m not listening. I’m not interested.’
No answer. Good.
I throw another handful of water over my eyes, look at New Me and nod my head.
‘Sorted.’
And this weekend I’m going to get wasted, get stoned, do anything and everything I have to do to get my new self on the road to reckless completion.
I dry my face on a soft, laundered towel that smells of lavender, unlock the door and step out onto the poolside, where Charles is waiting for me with a lit cigarette in one hand and an unlit held out to me in the other.
‘Are you alright?’ he asks. ‘Please.’ He holds the cigarette closer to me.
‘Thank you.’ I take it and he lights it with a solid gold Zippo. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Fitri told me you didn’t look well and she’s worried she made you unhappy.’
‘It’s OK. It wasn’t her fault.’ I feel his eyes watch every movement of my face. ‘You know, memories jump out at you sometimes.’
‘Yes. I know.’ He drags on his cigarette and the examiner’s eyes soften as he looks down into the light blue of the pool.
‘This is a very nice house,’ I say, not knowing what else to say.
‘Thank you.’ His eyes focus on me again. ‘If you don’t want to keep teaching today, it is no problem. I understand.’
‘No. I can teach. This isn’t a very good first impression. I’m sorry.’ I draw heavily on the cigarette. I read the banner around the filter: Davidoff.
‘Don’t be sorry. Life likes to surprise us at the most inopportune of times.’
‘You have nice children.’ Nice, what a crap word.
‘Thank you. They are a little hard work at times. I worry about them, living here, in a house that looks more like a prison.’
‘
Why do you have such security?’
Charles smiles and nods.
‘I am a businessman who sometimes does business that creates enemies. Since the riots I don’t take risks anymore. I don’t trust people.’ He drops his cigarette and kicks it into the pool. I don’t think I will bring my swimming gear next time.
‘Riots?’ I feel I should know what he’s talking about.
‘You don’t know? You English, you are only interested in your royal family and the weather.’ He puts a hand on my elbow and starts leading me back along the pool. ‘It was 1998. Just two years ago. Economic and race riots. It was a very bad time for us Chinese living here. I will not put my family at risk again of these fucking people.’
‘What people?’
‘Maybe I tell you about it one day, but not now. I must return to my football. I hope Beckham will score and make me more money. You must return to your students.’ He starts walking away. ‘Perhaps we will talk another day. Please use my home like your home.’ He waves his hand in the air as I watch him disappear down the steps and into the main room. I flick my cigarette into the water.
‘That’s not nice,’ says Fitri standing by the door to the games room. ‘My father does that all the time and I get angry with him.’
‘I’m sorry. Come on. Time you asked me some more questions.’
I head back to the beanbags.
It’s dark in here, but I can still see her; I am surrounded by her in every way and moment I know her.
Supposedly faces blur when you try to recall them, you cannot ever remember them exactly as they are. Well, that’s rubbish. She is forever there, whole and clear, in the half-darkness of his insides, next to me.
She sleeps in this moment that appears slowly in the gloom, like a stage light slowly coming on, lighting the players. I can see her head, resting on the back of her hand. Her hair a black halo to her face.
I lie beside her, the glow from the bedside lamp lighting her mouth, her cheeks, her small, slightly pointed nose, her closed eyes. Around us night waits to fill the hole created by the light, but I’m not ready to flick the switch and let it in. Not yet. My book lies face down on my lap while I watch her. She breathes quietly through slightly parted lips, her eyelashes still with dreamless sleep. The top of one shoulder almost glowing with its paleness, while her hair is as dark as the ring of night that surrounds us.
The building creaks and clicks as it cools from the heat of the day. I put the book on the side. As gently as I can, I shuffle down under the covers until I lie facing her. I can feel the warmth of her body in the sheets and her breath on my face, little puffs of life that smell of mint and garlic. I touch her cheek and it is cool and soft. She doesn’t stir. I smile and battle the urge to wake her up so I can be with her, listen to her, watch the way her face moves as she talks. I turn and flick the switch and let the impatient dark fall over us. In the blackness she is burnt onto my retinas. I close my eyes but her image stays until I fall asleep, which takes time, as my impatience for morning keeps me awake.
MILLIONAIRE GURU
P ak counts out my first month’s wages onto the desk. 3,800,000 rupiah. A millionaire at last. But only a little over two hundred quid in real money.
‘Thank you, but shouldn’t there be more?’ I ask.
He looks up at me. His tongue licks the mole under his lip.
‘No. I think that is all. As agreed in your contract.’
‘I haven’t had my contract yet.’ My voice is calm, despite a little anger cooking in my chest. ‘But yes, it’s the right amount for teaching here. And what about Mr Charles’s children?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sorry. You have been once?’
‘Twice.’
‘And he is happy?’ He starts counting off some more notes from the pile in front of him.
‘I think so. I’ve only spoken to him once but the kids seem to like me.’
‘Good. It is good. Here you are. Tell Julie she can come now.’ He hands me more cash which I count to be two hundred thousand.
I leave the office without saying more and go to the staff room. Julie is drawing squiggles across a nearly completely squiggled-on piece of paper.
‘In you go,’ I say.
‘Great. Hope you double-checked yours. That Pak’s a cunt.’ She gets out of her chair with such speed it spins twice after she’s left it.
‘She’s got such a way with words.’
‘She’s losing it,’ says Kim, sitting at his desk, counting out small chewy sweets from a bag. ‘Gonna bribe these little fuckers today. One sweet for every time they use irregular past.’
‘She never had it to lose.’ Jussy-boy is adjusting a Tweety-Pie tie. ‘Bribes won’t work. I’ve offered them money just to make a noise, even a fart would be welcome.’
‘Justin, you’ve got low-level little kids. They’re never going to talk. You’ve got to get them moving, get them active to enjoy learning.’ Geoff is bent over the photocopier, trying to pull a jam out of the front. There’s a sweat patch in the middle of his back.
‘Whatever. Why do you insist on calling me Justin?’ He sips from a mug of black coffee.
‘Isn’t that the name your mum gave you?’
‘Yes it is, Geoffererey, but things evolve, Geoffererery.’
Kim and Jussy giggle into their drinks. I smile.
‘Nob,’ mutters Geoff as he slams the front of the copier shut and presses start. The machine whirrs, clicks and then triple beeps. It’s still jammed. ‘Bastard.’
I sit at my desk and look in the course book. The last lesson of the week: a brief history reading about the Beatles. The Beatles? Jesus, I’m sure there’ve been other groups since them.
‘So you ready for the jungle, Newbie?’ Kim gives the side of his desk a kick and fires himself and his chair across the staff room to me.
‘Now I’m paid I am.’
‘Early start tomorrow, but me and the gang are still thinking about hitting the town for a bit tonight. What do you reckon?’ He spins in the chair. His coffee sloshes on his shirt. ‘Fuuuuck.’
‘Why not? It’s payday and it’s the weekend. I’m up for it.’
‘Fucking that’s my boy. Give me five.’ Kim holds his hand in the air.
‘No. I don’t do that high-five stuff.’ I step away from the hand. ‘We should never have given you lot Jerry Springer and all that’—I twirl my closed fist in the air—‘whoa-whoa shit.’
‘High fives are pre-Jerry, man. And what do you mean? Jerry’s a fucking homeboy.’
‘No. He’s English,’ I say as I move some bits of paper around my desk.
‘No fucking way.’
‘Way.’
‘Way,’ says Julie as she comes back in. ‘Born in Highgate tube station during a bomb raid in the war. Everything you boys have got was British first.’
She slumps into her chair and flicks her wages across her face. ‘Tried to diddle me two thousand. Cunt.’
Geoff kicks the front of the photocopier.
‘I second that. He hasn’t even given us a working copier. Cunt.’ Geoff screws up whatever it was he trying to copy and throws it against the wall.
We all look at him.
‘What?’ he says. ‘Well, he is.’ With that he picks up an armful of books and heads to his class.
‘There goes your catchphrase, Jules,’ says Kim, while sucking coffee from his shirt.
‘Never liked the word anyway. Far too rude.’
I laugh with the others. My laughter is genuine and real, and I’m surprised by its appearance. Perhaps I’m finally getting over things, finally moving on. But somewhere, deep inside, there’s a hope I’m not. There’s a little whisper saying I don’t want to move on. I’m not ready to forget.
We watch and listen to more rock covers at Hotel Garuda. We drink beer. Kim rocks from side to side and finger-drums on the table, Jussy swivels his head in near three-sixty turns to eye up the female customers, winking and twiddling his tie like Oliver Hardy. Marty strokes his bear
d and holds his beer to the light every now and then, as if examining an antique. Unusually, Geoff is here tonight, sat forward with his chin on his hands, examining the guitarists’ fingers for missing notes and fluffs. Julie shuffles on her chair like she’s sat on a pile of thistles and looks as if she wants to be somewhere else. Naomi knocks legs against mine; this time I don’t mind. My head feels like it’s on the verge of floating. Beer and the heat work well together, drunkenness seems to thrive in these conditions.
More Bon Jovi, more Guns N’ Roses, the Final Countdown, even some Clapton. Orange hair twirls, guitarists kneel and wank guitar necks while a packed room smokes and claps and sings along. The music and noise fill my ears. I’m smiling.
The day rolls over into the next without the blink of an eye. Time passing isn’t noticed, or perhaps it never passes and this is its natural state—uncertain and unrestrained. The moments continue to pile up or lie down side-by-side or do whatever they do, but no one is counting. Not tonight.
‘I hate this song. Come on, let’s go.’ Julie stands and moves from foot to foot. She tips the last of her bottle of Bintang down her neck.
‘What’s the rush, Jules?’ shouts Kim over a slightly sped-up version of ‘Wonderful Tonight.’
‘This song’s shit. Come on, let’s go to Ghekko. I want some obat.’ She’s poking all of us in succession, as though trying to turn us on. ‘It’s the weekend. This is shit. Come on.’ She’s moving about like she’s about to wee herself.
‘I think the lady wants some rave,’ says Jussy, who is also standing, ‘and that’s not a bad idea.’
Naomi moves one up in the body parts contact game and puts her hand on my leg. ‘Yeah, come on. Let’s get stupid.’ Her voice stabs through the music into my ear.
—She already is stupid.
—Back again?
—Not leaving you alone with this man-eater.
—Nothing to worry about. I’m not interested.
—Right.
‘But what about the jungle?’ I ask. I want to get wasted, clear my head of impossible conversations and impossible people. But I also don’t want to screw up my first trip out of the city. New Me versus sensible Old Me. I’m getting annoyed he’s still hanging on in there.