The Birdwoman's Palate

by Laksmi Pamuntjak

  We decide to sit in a dining area sheltered by a white tent near a large tree. A low stone wall surrounds the tree trunk. A peddler selling Medanese oranges has placed his wares on the wall as he takes a break by the side of the road. For a moment I’m transfixed by the shape and color of the oranges, which, in such abundance, look so beautiful against the stone and the green of the leaves—not to mention the green of the plastic chairs we’re sitting on.

  “Kari bihun or wonton noodles?” It’s Farish. His voice is back.

  “Bro, come on,” exclaims Bono. “Both, of course!” I’ve never seen him this ravenous, not even when we were in East Java. “A lot of Medanese friends tell me the wonton noodles are delicious. Even better than the famous noodles from that other roadside restaurant!”

  “Better than the kari bihun?” asks Farish.

  Bono waves his hand to attract a waiter’s attention. “Cik, cik, over here!”

  And the next thing we know he’s ordered for all of us: four bowls of chicken kari bihun, which is rice vermicelli in curry sauce, and four bowls of wonton noodles.

  What happens to us fifteen minutes later is a miracle.

  And it is at that moment, as I’m letting the gloriously soft strands of rice vermicelli wrap themselves around my tongue—strands which have absorbed the curry’s fragrance without letting the sauce overpower them—that I see Nadezhda’s eyes fill with tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I give her time to compose what she has to say. On an instinctive level I know what she’s going through. I’m no writer, but I can understand how the most profound moments for someone who wrestles every day with words and with the nuts and bolts of taste would happen precisely when he or she encounters something whose beauty surpasses description.

  “I’ve always loved quoting Brillat-Savarin—ever since I started writing about food,” she says, at long last. “You know that. But, to be honest, it was only two years ago when I sat down and really read that magnificent book of his, The Physiology of Taste, that I began to internalize what I’d been parroting. I devoured every subject, every chapter, every section of every chapter, page by page. And only now do I truly understand that when he says ‘the number of tastes is infinite,’ he’s really telling us how lucky we human beings are.”

  “So what are you saying?” asks Bono, already moving on to his bowl of wonton noodles. “That, from his perspective, the world has many tastes we don’t yet know about? As if it’s still holding out on its greatest treasures?”

  “Ye-e-e-s . . . ,” says Nadezhda. “But what I mean to say is this: which one of us could guess that a taste like this even existed? Take the vermicelli in this curry for instance. It’s a taste we should be familiar with, that shouldn’t be this astonishing. Nevertheless, we still have the capacity to be surprised. We’re like, oh my God, where has this taste been all my life? Where have I been all my life? My point is, who hasn’t eaten rice vermicelli, and who hasn’t tried curry? But both in this particular combination? These bihun noodles . . . they just . . . they just . . . melt in your mouth. This kari sauce, too. I know nothing sounds stupider, coming from my mouth especially, but how else can you say it?”

  At this point I half hope that the wonton noodles in front of us won’t be as good as our kari bihun. How could they possibly be? If all the pleasures of this world were to be found in one kitchen, where would be the justice in that?

  Turns out I’ve been let down. Let down by life, which insists, in this instance at least, on defying the laws of nature. Disappointed because at this hour, on this day, the god of ambrosia wants to slip into these pale-blue melamine bowls on the table as well, into the soupy wonton noodles that resemble a study in accents—the crisp brown skin of the meat, the green of the scallions, the fire of the sliced chili peppers, the pink of the pickled shallots.

  Unfortunately, miracles often produce hubris in both those who enjoy them (Bono) and those who are made happy by them (Farish). I say this because after Nadezhda and I pay the cashier, we return to the car to discover those two have disappeared. For several minutes, Nadezhda and I stand there by the car, confused.

  “Feli always warned me,” Nadezhda fumes. “Medan is the rottenest place on earth!” I don’t know who Feli is, nor do I care, but before I ask, Nadezhda quotes her: “‘Drivers in Medan are a mess. Their brains don’t function. Either that, or they’re crooks. They promise to pick you up, and they arrive late. Or they don’t show up at all. They promise they’ll wait here, and they wait there. They promise you one price and demand another.’”

  I’m always irritated by such generalizations. Nadezhda herself likes to say that she hates “essentialism.” But I let her continue grumbling like an old woman.

  Then I see them: two eateries across the road, side by side. One serves rice porridge, and the other is resplendent, with illustrated bowls of chicken noodles on a banner beneath its signboard. I remember that the restaurant is on Bono’s list.

  I grab Nadezhda’s arm. “Come on,” I say, “I know where those two rascals are.”

  And sure enough, the moment we enter, I see them slurping on their chicken noodles. There are no other customers in the clean, air-conditioned restaurant. They grin sheepishly when seeing us, like two kids who’ve been caught playing hooky to pig out all day.

  I make a point of not saying anything. I just sit down next to Bono and watch him eat.

  “This place can’t be as good as the restaurant across the street,” I say finally. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Ha!” Bono says, giving me a hug by way of apology. “Eating things that aren’t really good is also part of doing research. Only in this way can we continually sharpen our palates.”

  “Yes, but there’s no way you came here hoping that the quality of the food would be lower than that incredible restaurant where we just ate.”

  “Of course. What do you take me for?” he says, still grinning stupidly. “I mean, how could I be wrong? Me! I’m never wrong. Frankly, when I first saw those wonton noodles at that restaurant, I was doggone certain they couldn’t be all that good, no matter how delicious the broth. You could have told as much from the giant photos out front! The noodles were the curly yellow kind. And so thick! You know me. I always believe that the thinner the noodle, the more easily it absorbs broth and seasoning. So, when we got here and I saw that the curly noodles they use are thinner, I got carried away. But I suppose this kind of thing could be misleading.”

  “You’ve never liked curly noodles,” says Nadezhda. “I knew it. You were biased from the start.”

  “Yes, but I have my reasons. People always tend to focus too much on the kind of noodles, rather than assessing how the dish tastes as a whole. But curly noodles, for instance, can also be very good. I mean, look at the majority of noodles in Jakarta’s Chinatown. They’re awesome.”

  It’s my turn to smile. If ever there were a reason for Bono’s downfall, it would be this. After all, he’s Bono. From the way a dish looks, he can imagine how it will taste, from when the food is still in his mouth to when the food has reached the back of his mouth and the food’s aroma and taste have begun to envelope his nose and taste buds in their entirety. Sometimes he can even anticipate how he will feel after the fact, when he’s ruminating about said food. To him, admitting he’s wrong is as bad as confessing he’s impotent.

  But I’m completely unprepared for the toothy smile Farish suddenly throws my way.

  “I think this tastes good, too,” he says. “The only reason I can’t finish it is because I’m full.”

  And my heart goes all soft and gooey, just like that.

  18

  CONSPIRACY

  Shortly afterward we find our driver. Turns out, he dozed off after eating lunch at a nearby warung. We immediately agree that we should drive around for a bit, to take advantage of the fact that we have a car. The hospital we’re headed to is some distance away from the city center, and I worry that if we hurry over we won’t have time to g
et a full impression of Medan.

  After summoning my courage, I poke Farish’s arm again. He looks at me.

  “Hey, where’s that file?”

  I’m all coy. I mean, of course I am. We were able to spend almost three and a half hours talking to each other last night without once touching on the subject of work, and now . . . and now, work calls. And here we are.

  He rummages around in his bag for a few minutes, as if only now reminded of its existence. Then he produces a transparent folder full of documents.

  “How serious is this case?” I ask.

  His eyes pierce mine in that way again—they don’t belong to the Farish I know, but to someone who, heaven forbid, cares—and for a moment I feel wobbly. The memory of being on the veranda of Mr. Zachri’s house returns once more, rolling over me like a wave.

  “From the most recent report I received via e-mail early this morning, it seems like it’s under control.” As he speaks he points to the report, trying to sound all businesslike. “But it might be good to interview the patient and hospital staff anyway and take a look at the place where the patient lives.”

  His tone gives the impression of something going slack—like a pact he’s made that he no longer has faith in. How often do I see a similar fatigue in my colleagues’ faces at the Ministry, at DOCIR, at OneWorld. How difficult it is to live life and continue to have faith.

  I quickly read over the report. The suspected avian flu victim—initials: J. T.; age: thirty-five; a resident of Seribu Dolok; subdistrict: Silimakuta; regency: Simalungun—was rushed to the large referral hospital in Medan four days ago. At one point his temperature reached a high of almost 104 degrees Fahrenheit, with a blood pressure reading of 110/80.

  The head of Avian Flu Eradication and Control at the hospital (Prof. Dr. H. L. S.) said the patient’s condition stabilized after he underwent treatment in an isolation room. Beforehand, not too far from the victim’s house, a dead chicken was found. When workers from Simalungun’s Department of Cultivation conducted an examination, they found the chicken was indeed infected with avian flu.

  “Finally,” I say. “Some good news.”

  “I hear the hospital we’re headed to isn’t bad at all,” says Farish, though his voice is still tired. “It’s a general hospital. But the facilities are okay, procedure is strict, and the doctors are professional.”

  “It also has efficient channels of communication with other hospitals,” I say. “Meaning whenever patients are sick, they immediately take them to the referral hospital rather than letting them stay overnight in a crummy one. It’s great.”

  “But there’s still one problem.”

  “And that is?”

  “The details of this case are exactly the same as those of another case six years back. The location is the same. The symptoms are the same. Only the initials of the patient’s name are different. The patients’ ages are the same, too.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand on end.

  “Which means,” Farish says, lowering his voice, “there are four possibilities. One: the cause of the virus is the same, which means the local Department of Cultivation didn’t do their job properly or thoroughly enough. Two: someone is falsifying the reports. Three: someone accidentally gave us the wrong report. Four: by extraordinary coincidence, the two cases are practically the same.”

  It seems the car ride will never end. Meanwhile, I receive news from Talisa back at the office in Jakarta. This time nobody from the local office of the Ministry will be accompanying us.

  “They’re short-staffed,” says Talisa, her voice sounding funny. Maybe it’s because she unsuspectingly picked up when I dialed her extension at the desk she keeps at the Ministry, and now it’s too late to avoid my call. “After all, now that the patient is showing signs of recovery, this isn’t technically an avian flu case anymore.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “Since when what?”

  “Since when is a positive case of avian flu not considered an avian flu case? Even if it’s being dealt with, what does it matter?”

  Talisa’s voice sounds increasingly nervous.

  Suddenly I hear her whisper, “I can’t talk long . . .”

  I stiffen.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Talisa continues, still whispering, “but it looks like you guys are going to be asked to return soon.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but word is they’re going to send another team in a little bit.”

  “Says who?”

  “That’s just what I’ve heard.”

  “What does Irma say? I haven’t heard from her at all.”

  Talisa sounds as if she’s swallowing, a very strange noise indeed.

  “Really?” she says. “Irma hasn’t told you anything?”

  “Lis,” I say, beginning to panic. “We’ve been friends for a long time. What is going on?”

  “A lot has been happening in the office these past three days,” whispers Talisa. “Confidential meetings with outside parties, people from Proto Medis and a bunch of people who look like they’re from B. S. Incorporated, and reporters who’ve sneaked in that we’re ignoring. They say all they want is an interview. Some of them just sit here from morning to night. There are people here from the CEC, too. And the National Audit Board. It’s madness.”

  “How about Irma? How’s she responding to all this?”

  But Talisa doesn’t seem to hear my question. Or she pretends not to.

  “You know about the document, right?” she whispers.

  “What document?” I ask, my pulse quickening. “You mean the secret terms of reference document? The unofficial one that everyone is talking about?”

  Once, when Priya, a bunch of other friends from R&D, and I were eating lunch in the DOCIR cafeteria, some DOCIR employees came and joined us. I didn’t know all of them. There was someone from the Bureau of Law and Organization, the Bureau of Logistics, and the inspector general’s office. They seemed to be mad about something and whispered to each other about a confidential document 139 pages long that had been compiled around mid-2008. Its contents: “a funding proposal for equipment to construct facilities in support of the supply committee for the human vaccine project.” Which is as bogus as bogus gets, but has a ring of plausibility. It was rumored that all the pages were initialed by a high-ranking executive at Proto Medis.

  Now, several months later, I’m hearing that DOCIR hid the documents when the Finance Audit Board paid a visit.

  “And that’s the problem,” Talisa confirms. “Now, last I heard, the documents have fallen into the hands of a bunch of reporters.”

  “For real?” I say. “From what newspaper? What magazine?”

  “Dunno,” says Talisa. “One thing’s for sure. Irma’s in a bind. As DOCIR’s unofficial PR person, she’s responsible for all communication with the media.”

  I feel faint. The question is on the tip of my tongue: Will Irma be made the scapegoat? But I’m afraid to voice it for fear it’ll become reality.

  “I’ll try to contact her,” I say at last.

  Dead silence. I can almost hear Talisa holding her breath.

  “Listen,” she says after a few moments, “maybe it’s best to let Irma contact you.”

  What the fuck is she hiding from me?

  Through the car window, Medan goes by as if in a dream. The bad and the good intertwine, then separate, then are joined once more: the castles of the nouveau riche, garish beyond all measure; the campaign ads for the upcoming gubernatorial elections, rabble-rousing and yet the subject of censure and derision by the rabble themselves; the signs marking district branches of the thuggish Pancasila Youth, whose orange-and-black-striped uniforms seem to be popping up everywhere; the serene boulevards bequeathed to us by Europe, which continues to leave its mark on its former colonial possessions.

  At last, Irma contacts me, but not through WhatsApp or BlackBerry Messenger. I’m guessing she doesn’t want t
o feel pressured to respond immediately, since both apps show whether the recipient has read a message or not. I’m also guessing she doesn’t want me monitoring her, since both apps also show whether a person is typing.

  Hi Aruna. Are you in Medan yet? That’s her text message. Not Run, or Runi. But Aruna.

  Hi! Medan’s amazing! Esp. the areas w lots of Dutch colonial bldgs!

  For some reason I refrain from talking about food, though it’s a dynamic we have that’s long been in place. I don’t want her to think I’m having fun on company time.

  Yes. There’s city hall, the water tower, the Titi Gantung Bridge . . .

  That’s another thing about Irma: unlike your usual government functionary, she’s a history buff. Every time we go to Chinatown in Jakarta in search of food, she always takes me walking through the streets around Fatahillah Square. She’s even taken me to the Wayang Museum, the Museum of Fine Arts and Ceramics, the Fatahillah Museum, the Kedai Seni Djakarte—an art café whose art and caféness are of equally minimal quality—and breathtaking old buildings that are now, sadly, dilapidated, half debris, some with their roofs blown off.

  Then another text message from her appears, like an afterthought or a guilty missive: The buildings near Jalan Kumango. Very lovely indeed.

  A moment passes. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

  I’m not sure whether I should wait for her to touch on the problems at DOCIR first. I’ve just begun to type something when suddenly I receive a message: I’ve read your last report about the patient in Palembang . . .

  My heart races. Do the dots indicate that she hasn’t finished typing and that she’s going to continue, or do they indicate the typer’s wariness about the recipient? Once again, I wait.

  Six minutes later, I receive another message: I’ve just met with the head of DOCIR. I’m so sorry, Run, but they’ve requested that your team discontinue the investigation for now.