It’s time to go home.
All right, sayang. But give me one more kiss first.
Anyway she is a very ugly woman. How can you stand her on your bike?
Are you still thinking about Vic and spoiling our afternoon?
Would you like me not to be jealous that you spend your time away from me with another woman?
I hope you will only think about you and me, sayang.
Will you be jealous if I drive around with a bule man?
If you drive around with a bule man I will kill him. Aryanti, she is going to help us. We will be married and we can have this warung, to help us get out from my mother’s house.
So it was settled, just like that. We would be married. He did not even ask, but said it like that, as if we had been talking about it all afternoon.
I don’t want to live with your eldest brother, I said. I am afraid of him.
My mother will not let him bother you.
I’ll tell my mother tonight. Father will back me up. He likes you.
Thanks to Allah somebody in your family does.
When I got home I told my mother simply that I was going to marry Fajar. We would have the ring ceremony in a few months, when he had paid the ring, and some more on the bike. I would not listen to any more objections.
It was hard to believe how quickly it all happened after that trip to the mountains. I should have been happy, but instead I felt uneasy, and when I went to sleep that night I heard it again, and all night long so that my sleep was disturbed – the two jinn fighting like crows over a stick. The next morning I woke and went downstairs to find that Fajar was already standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and waiting for me.
Chapter Nine
Fajar
One thing Aryanti does not know, nor Vic either, is that there are many naughty girls in Jakarta. They will wear their jilbab every day, and keep their faces very sweet and pure, but once inside a room with a man it is a different story. There are also the Christian girls and the Chinese. And Budi and I have fucked many of them. Sometimes they will ask you for money, but sometimes they just want to be naughty, and all you have to do is provide a room.
Budi is lucky, because there is only himself and his uncle, so we can bring girls to his house sometimes, when we find them. We find them on Facebook from the internet cafe, and meet them in Jakarta Raya, which is not so far away, and then take them back to Budi’s. If anybody sees us driving them we can say they are customers. Once we even found two sisters, who liked to change horses in midstream.
The only thing to be very worried about is Budi’s uncle because he is Imam, and believes that all such adultery should be punished severely. If he catches us we are completely flogged and dead, because he is like a father to Budi and he can command the worshippers of his mosque to carry out any beating he orders, and he would tell my eldest brother to beat me also. But we are careful to know where he is going and how long he will stay out.
A few weeks before Ramadan, we took two girls to a place where Budi’s friend was working as a security guard, for the Mission lady’s family. That woman was in charge of helping poor Indonesian girls to go to school, and was supposed to be a very good woman. But I didn’t understand why she could use a company that would only pay one million per month for a man to stand at her house twelve hours a day, six days a week, with only two packets of coffee to drink every day.
On Sundays she took her whole family out to church and then lunch, and would usually stay out all day. Budi’s friend often invited us over on these days to swim in their pool. He locked the front door and, in case of their early return, he planned for us to escape over the back fence and to tell them he had been inside praying.
The day that we brought the two girls there, he was very angry at first, because there were too many people walking in the front door, in view of the whole street. But then he calmed down and we went swimming, the girls in their underwear, and we had some vodka from the cabinet, being careful to replace it with water. We fucked both girls one time each before calling a taxi and dropping them in Blok M and going home.
The problem was that one of these girls had scratched me with her long fingernails and I did not know. When I went later to Vic’s house, there were three scratches in a perfect row, on my side, above my hip. The worst thing is that she found them by kissing along the line of my shoulders and down my side until she suddenly stopped and there was silence.
What the hell is this?
I could not see the scratches until she held up a mirror for me.
Oh, I said. It is very hot in my house. Probably I did it while sleeping.
What are you talking about? she said. Do you think I am an idiot? Hold up your hands.
I did as she asked, spreading my hands out in front of her. She ran her fingers along the tops of my fingernails, which were very short, except for the one on the small finger of my right hand. You have one long nail, she said. Not three. Do you expect me to believe that you have scratched yourself in three perfect straight lines, an equal distance apart? In your sleep?
Sayang, I do not know how the scratch came to be there, I said. Trust me.
She walked over to the table and lit one of my cigarettes, which was a surprise for me. I had not seen her smoke before.
What do you mean, ‘trust me’? What the fuck does that mean? I want to know who scratched you on the arse!
I did not like the ugly words she was using. I could feel the panic rising up in my chest and quickly turning to anger, as I realised she would not believe me. I tried to calm myself before I spoke again.
Vic, you are a rich woman, I reasoned. You sleep every night in your air conditioning, but my house is very hot and full of mosquitoes.
She did not reply straight away, but looked at me and blew a puff of smoke straight in my face.
So it’s my fault, because I am rich, that some whore of a woman has scratched you.
Without warning, the anger rose up again and I found myself snatching the cigarette from her hand and grinding it into the ashtray. Then, the ashtray was shattering onto the floor and I was screaming at her, with the blood roaring in my ears. Her eyes widened and she stood up quickly and began to speak, but I was already at the door.
I stood there for a moment and shouted:
Do not call me ever again!
Then, I was on the street. The outside world was blurry and hot, after the cool whiteness of her bedroom. I lit a cigarette and the smoke tore at my throat and soaked into my lungs, which were already pulling in too much air. I went to find Budi, to drink beer, and tell him the story, but when I got to his house he was not there, and, instead, I decided to go home. As I pulled the front door shut I saw them all there waiting silently for me. My mother, Rhamat, Agus (my second eldest brother), Chitra and also Rhamat’s wife. They all stood up and Agus pushed me into a chair. They must have chosen him to speak, because they knew I hated Rhamat and would not listen to him.
You will finish with the bule, he said simply. You will not drive her anymore, or receive her phone calls. You will keep the shop but you will not receive any more money from her.
I began to protest, but my mother silenced me with a wave of her hand. I am her youngest son, and the one who reminds her of our father. I could see that it was hard for her to say the next thing:
You will obey this, Fajar, or you will leave this house and this family.
I could see that they were serious; I was hot with shame to think what they knew about me and Vic, and I looked at Chitra, who was standing with her shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Agus placed his hand on her shoulder.
You will not show your temper to Chitra. She is right to protect the honour of this family, and your honour also, he said.
I left for the warung after being made to apologise to all of them and to promise not to see Vic again. It seemed that everyone was sticking their nose into my business in one day – first Vic and now everybody else. Why could they not just let me be a man and
run my own life? I knew better than to fight this time.
There were very few customers that evening, but I was glad, because I wanted to be alone, and try to find a way out of all this mess. But, for the first time since I had opened the shop, Aryanti came by. I did not even feel surprised because everything was happening that day. At first, I was going to ask her to leave, but then an idea came into my head, about how I could keep Vic without anybody from my family interfering.
Stay and talk for a while, I told her.
I did not hear from Vic that night, and I guessed she was still angry with me. I was very worried that this would be the finish, if I did not act carefully. When I saw her two days later, being driven to the shopping centre by an ojek, I did not wave to her. I also did not call her or even turn on my phone. Then, after five nights, I turned it back on and waited for the call, which came after midnight. I went to her house, as she had asked me to do.
At the door, she looked me over thoughtfully from head to toe before waving me inside and pouring each of us one of her famous gins.
You are one scary bastard when you are angry, she said. You can buy me a new ashtray. I don’t like people breaking my things.
Then she held my face in her hands and looked straight into my eyes.
I won’t get angry, she said, and I won’t ask you for any money back. I just want to know if you have a girlfriend. Please tell me the truth. Fajar, do you have a girlfriend?
I did not waver, but stared back into the deep blueness and answered: No.
I was bursting to have her then, and tore at her dress, and was on her like a stallion, pushing her down and stabbing into her from behind. She did not know that I was her master, but I did. She would not control me, or have me follow any rules. Nor my mother, nor Agus, nor anybody else. I came hot and fast, almost straight away, and then she was on top of me. We wrestled with each other in naked fury. Breathless. Exploding. Until the call to prayer came many hours later, to tell us it was morning.
Chapter Ten
Vic
19 October
After six months at the school, my boss asked me to stay on for another programme. I told him yes, but that I couldn’t stay in the noisy boarding house any more. The house they have given me in Tangerang is beautiful. It is cool with old gold candelabras on the wall and carved wooden furniture and a huge antique mirror with a large crack down the middle of it. There are no windows in the back of the house, but you can open the skylight and look at the stars, and sometimes get the fragrance of night jasmine mixed in with the petrol fumes. Fajar and I arrived by bike, with the whole neighborhood looking on. Inside the house were three servants, watching with intense curiosity as I unpacked.
When they were all back again in the morning, grinning and cackling as they watched me make breakfast, I said to Fajar: You’ll have to tell them to get out; I can’t stand this – this is a rented property not some kind of free entertainment for the local cleaners.
They didn’t like being asked to leave, as the house had been vacant for some time and they had been using it as a meeting place. The one remaining woman, who is actually employed to work there, let me know by spilling bleach all over my laundry the next day. I didn’t mention the bleach, acted as if it had never happened, but my laundry basket remained empty for a week and finally she could not restrain herself.
Where you laundry? I wash for you – you give me money.
Oh, no thank you, I said. Never mind.
If only I could wash my own things and clean my own house and put a big new lock on the door that says ‘mind your own business and leave me alone’. I already knew I would pay the woman far too much money to do increasingly less and less housework and let her friends in to look at my things while I am out. I pay another woman to actually wash and iron for me and Fajar picks the clothes up and drops them off, thereby becoming the target of the villagers’ hatred.
When you walk down the street here the people stand and stare at you – you can feel the eyes boring into your back – and they talk too. When you turn around to confront them they are impassive and just ask you what you want. These are small groups of people from up-country who get paid very little and they also don’t really get trained and they don’t have any way (or desire) to get out. They have tiny rooms that are more like closets, and because of this they live most of their lives outside the house, standing around together, watching the street.
It has been several months and I have still not met the landlord of this beautiful house, as he has been on an extended trip to Hawaii, which sounds about as far away from here as you can get. But I sent him messages – mostly to do with other strangers appearing, occasionally, in the house without knocking. They must have their own key, and I don’t know why they come here, or how often when I am out.
He has never replied.
24 October
Speak of the devil. The landlord has finally come back after months away. He knocked on the door at around nine yesterday evening. He was drunk – I noticed straight away – and there was the inevitable sandy moustache, balding pate, and huge pores on his nose to let the alcohol out. He was holding a half-empty glass of something and ice and a huge friendly grin.
I’m busy at the moment, I said, but he pushed past me.
Oh, you’re not too busy to have a drink with me, surely?
He almost crashed into Fajar, who was standing outside the bedroom, barefoot and shirtless.
Well, I do have someone here but perhaps he would like a drink too.
Fajar declined the offer and began to put on his shirt and jacket.
I went to pour my neighbour and landlord a gin, but he produced a tiny bottle of airline scotch from his trouser pocket and added it to his glass.
Just some ice, he said, and a little soda. I never leave home without them. This is such a terrible country. The amount of times I’ve been stuck at some function and they’ve got Coke and Fanta on the table! You’ve got to get through a whole night of shaking hands and terrible speeches on nothing at all!
He switched topic as Fajar left by the front door.
I can see your reasons for being here are not altruistic.
I did not smile.
Should they be?
His own face froze mid-grin.
Ah – be careful, I could hear him thinking. She’s a bitch!
I knew this man. I could tell immediately that he had never had sex with a woman and was afraid of us. He has an Indonesian boyfriend, of course, but he is middle class, and for some reason this means it is not as scandalous as my own liaison. I did not question his motives for being in Jakarta, but he decided to tell me anyway. He belongs to some charity associated with Indonesian art. He is a painter and a businessman, whatever that means. I have met a lot of ‘businessmen’ in South-East Asia. This could mean he is living on inherited money, or that he has set up a small restaurant, which he sometimes oversees. It could mean that he dabbles in import-export. The most important thing for me is that I don’t want to know. When he finally went home and I cleaned up a little, I noticed that he had left a couple of airline scotches amongst the couch cushions, like an alcoholic chicken who has left an egg behind.
29 October
Now that Ramadan is finished, and so also all the frenzied, guilty sex that went with it, I am getting more than bored with Jakarta.
It has been almost two months since the big fight with Fajar, and I have somehow managed to forget about the scratches and the ashtray shattering on the floor. I am restless, though. The plan is to finish the next programme, leave Fajar and go home. I have not wanted to abandon him in Jakarta with nothing, but I know also that I can’t take him home to Australia, even if he agreed to come. His family would never speak to him again, and I won’t be responsible for that.
On Sunday, I went walking through the filthy streets on my way to a charity exhibition. I had only accepted the invitation because I was desperate for anything to do. I walked past more pale blue towers going up, more plac
es to buy donuts and gold watches that will tick and tick and tick in the heavy opulent air. On Sunday afternoons you see the well-heeled families of Jakarta eating dim sum and ravioli in the vast, expensive eateries sitting at the tables while the maid stands up next to them, holding the baby.
The outdoor food market had the desolate feeling of an abandoned circus: tattered food wagons pulled around in a ring. I got some grey fried rice there and, almost before I sat down, two boys came at me with guitars and a plastic cup. They couldn’t play or sing. They strummed and mumbled their way through half a song, eyes cast down at the wooden bench. You do not pay them for entertainment, you pay them to go away. As soon as they were gone, another duo appeared from nowhere. They were almost the same boys – identical embarrassed looks, frayed jeans, faded T-shirts and long skinny fingers. They couldn’t play either. When they were replaced by the third set of boys, I gave up and walked away, leaving the rice. There is always someone standing behind someone you are helping – no end to the requests for what you have, which in my case, was finite, I reminded myself as I left the last two boys with an empty can. I’d have to fill up on pinwheel sandwiches and natty little snacks at the hotel.
Walking past the tiny caravans selling cigarettes, I resisted the urge to buy a packet. Ever since the argument when Fajar had broken my ashtray, I had wanted another cigarette. I felt a yearning, which was all that habit ever was: craving and being satisfied, craving and being satisfied, a daily rhythm, rocking like a cradle.
I have not stopped craving you, Fajar, with your bull fighter’s splendour – energy packed in and springing from all corners bang bang bang going off like a firecracker. You dive and swim and shimmy; you are green like the fingers of the banana, like the eyes of a green god, you are green like the water that glistens. You are brown skin melting like chocolate onto my paleness. You are the moth crashing in the shadows. You are falling like a panther from the jungle sky, stalking through the cinnamon-scented malls where the rich people stroll. You are the burst of green calling through the traffic. I have not stopped craving you, Fajar, and I cannot leave.
Ramadan Sky Page 9