The Birdwoman's Palate

by Laksmi Pamuntjak

Maybe by this time the fatigue has set in, but we don’t know it. For some reason we keep finding faults—the noodles are too dry; it tastes too bland; there are too many bean sprouts. We’re so disappointed that we don’t even have the appetite to go in search of the Pontianak specialty Lek Tau Suan, a sweet yellow soup made of shelled mung beans served with slices of deep-fried dough fritters. And this, despite our seeing lek tau suan vendors spread out all along the length of Jalan Gajah Mada a mere hour ago.

  “This must be what they call fatigue,” says Nadezhda, ever the philosopher. “There are times when one has to concede that one has reached the limits of pleasure and that one’s senses have shut themselves down.”

  “Nadz, please,” I say.

  “Let’s go home,” says Bono, sounding like a routed soldier. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  32

  WET

  Tomorrow’s another day. But what will happen to me the day after? And the day after that? After returning from Banda Aceh to Jakarta for a single night following that failed expedition? After not reporting to Irma or my boss at OneWorld, only to leave again the next day with a ticket already in my possession (paid for by the project I’ve abandoned without reporting to) with a band of big-city mischief-makers, for Pontianak, where I was no longer needed? After deliberately not responding to Irma’s texts? Aruna, let’s talk when you get back. Aruna, are you back? Aruna, are you okay?

  Not Run. A-RU-NA. How can Irma address me so formally after all this time?

  And let’s not think about Farish. How can I face the rest of my tomorrows without him? Take now, for example, as I try to figure out how to sneak out of my room—to leave Nadezhda by herself with her sharp senses and powerful radarlike intuition—in order to sleep with him. Yes, sleep with him. Like we did last night in that hotel room near the Jakarta airport, after returning from Banda Aceh and before this morning’s flight to Pontianak, my shrieks and moans shaking the heavens.

  It’s amazing how quickly two become one, a man and a woman, one cavity, one warmth, fluids mingling, loins melding. I imagine that only a mother who’s given birth to a son knows what it feels like to live in that circle—birth, destruction, resurrection—she who prepares her womb to be torn apart so that her child, her love, can detach himself from her in order to live. No wonder, then, if no love can surpass a mother’s love for her son or that a son pays his mother the greatest respect when he chooses for his mate the woman who most reminds him of her.

  But the man who entered me last night, incubating in my wetness, calling me his darling and saying I was beautiful, the man who parsed the scents of my body, all one million of them, with his nose and his ravenous tongue—won’t he detach himself from me, and detach himself for good? Since I don’t know how to ask someone to stay? Since I don’t know how to claim ownership of anyone?

  Last night, he said I was beautiful. Why on earth would he whisper such a lie?

  “I’m fat,” I said, hiding my flabby stomach under the covers.

  But he pulled them away. “Let me look at you,” he said. “You’re not fat. You’re beautiful.”

  Suddenly I burst into tears.

  I’m back in the present, back in Pontianak. Nadezhda mumbles next to me as she sits on her bed, like she always does when typing on her laptop. “Behind a stone, there lurks a prawn . . . like water on a taro leaf . . .”

  “Those are easy ones,” I say in an effort to redirect my thoughts. She really is writing an article about popular sayings and food.

  Nadezhda looks up from the screen. “You really know what they mean?”

  “Of course. The first means that someone has a hidden motive. The second means someone keeps changing his opinion.”

  I always feel ridiculously pleased when I see Nadezhda’s amazement at something I’ve said.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “Find a harder one. Or one that hardly gets used. Those two are so cliché. You might as well ask me what it means to ‘eat one’s share of salt.’ Or to ‘find a fallen durian.’”

  “Not bad, Run,” she says, genuinely impressed. But she wouldn’t be Nadezhda if she didn’t try to best me. “All right. Tell me what this one means. I bet even you won’t know: ‘The rhinoceros eats its child.’”

  “Huh?”

  “The rhinoceros—”

  “Okay, okay,” I say quickly. Damn it. “Does it have something to do with a person who isn’t right in the head?”

  “Nope. Nowhere close.”

  “Okay, I give up.”

  “It means that a parent has disowned a child to protect his or her reputation.”

  I burst into laughter. “What the . . . you’re the rhinoceros!”

  Nadezhda laughs. “Talk about analogies that miss the mark. Does a rhinoceros really have a reputation to protect? I mean, it lives in mud.”

  We giggle maniacally for a while as we continue to talk about the contents of Nadezhda’s column. We also talk about sayings that involve chickens (“Like a chicken eating grass” for someone who’s barely making ends meet), geese (“You don’t need to teach a goose to swim,” which means you don’t have to teach a smart person what to do), and other birds (“Like a bird is he; the body is caged, but the eyes soar free”—such is the fate of a cooped-up child). For a few brief moments I can forget about tomorrow.

  Then, all of a sudden, I hear myself blurt, “If you ever come across a saying that means a thin man could never love a fat woman, let me know.”

  Even I’m astonished when those words tumble out of my mouth.

  In Jakarta, after Farish and I did it several times (and I started to be brave enough to open my eyes while he was having his way with me), I realized it was morning. The sun penetrated the curtains, sprinkling our bare legs with flecks of light. Seized by the embarrassment of us being so together, so naked, in that strange bed, I pulled the covers over my exposed breasts.

  He stretched. And when his eyes opened, he smiled. “What is it?”

  “It’s almost six thirty,” I said. “We have to be at the airport in a little while.”

  “Okay,” he said, reaching for me.

  Brushing his hand away, I grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table, desperate to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth.

  “Hey. C’mere.”

  “We have to get ready,” I said.

  I couldn’t even bear to let him look at me. Not in my disheveled state. A single second of clarity was all it would take for him to realize that what had happened between us was madness, that it should be aborted as quickly as possible. Besides I was frightened, sure that my words—my sworn morning-time foes, and the foes of all solitary souls—would betray me the moment I was forced to return to earth.

  “Okay,” he said.

  And for a split second, I worried he would think I was rejecting him.

  “Are you sure you still want to come along? To Pontianak?” I asked.

  “Of course!”

  “Any word from Darius and Diva?”

  I had my back to him, but I could still feel his smile. The night before, a few minutes before he kissed me in the cab—those critical minutes that caused me not to go back to my apartment after all, that brought us to that hotel instead—we had been laughing together over those two names: Darius and Diva. “Like a pair of failed Broadway musical producers,” he’d said. “Like two twins who do low-grade stand-up comedy,” I’d said. I guess it’s true. Great minds think alike.

  “Don’t worry, darling. If they want to contact me, fine. If not, that’s fine, too. I’m a free man after all.”

  Did he have to call me ‘darling’?

  “The culinary tour we’re doing isn’t . . .”

  But it wasn’t the time to explain. Or demand explanations. What was the point of always feeling, at every moment, that people were saying anything but the truth? What was the point in disbelieving the tangible and real? What was the point in making one’s self miserable?

  All right, I thought, willing myself to stop. With d
ifficulty, I turned to face him. We locked eyes. Bowing his head, he kissed my hand. And my eyes grew wet once more.

  “Aruna,” he said. “I’m not a jerk.”

  Now, in Pontianak, in this room I’m sharing with Nadezhda, that scene plays again and again in my mind. Including the moment when he pulled me on top of him and kept me there for a long time. But what if he isn’t really in love? But what if it’s just temporary? But, but, but.

  Then I recall what my grandmother once told my father, whose own favorite word was “but”: “If you start out by being dissatisfied with what you have, imagine what will happen when you lose it.”

  33

  THE CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS

  When I was ten I wrote a short story about an old woman who was very lonely and had no husband or children.

  One day she went to the market and bought a sheep. Days passed, then weeks, then years, and that sheep was her only friend. Every time she finished knitting something from the sheep’s wool, she would daydream—of a field, of a house, of the children she wished she had. And whenever she began to do this, the sheep would shake its head and say: “It’s just a dream.” And that’s what the sheep continued to say until the old woman died.

  The story was inspired by a French children’s book that my mother once read to me. The sheep was called Patapon.

  Several days ago, before we left Aceh for Jakarta, and long before we left Jakarta for Pontianak, Farish and I made a pact to forget about avian flu politics until the completion of our trip as set out by our ticketed itinerary. But opening a laptop sets oneself up for failure. And I just can’t resist Google.

  In the past week, two out of three patients in England have been confirmed as suffering from a new virus similar to SARS. The most recent case, which involves two siblings, proves that the deadly virus spreads through human-to-human contact. Of the eleven confirmed cases of novel coronavirus (nCoV) infection worldwide, five have resulted in death. The majority of the infected victims were residents of or visitors to the Middle East. The public has known about nCoV since September 2012, when the World Health Organization released a statement concerning a Qatarese man who contracted the virus during a visit to Saudi Arabia.

  Interestingly enough, the following statistics had been added as a footnote to the article above:

  Of the eleven nCoV cases, which were confirmed by laboratory results, five have occurred in Saudi Arabia, with three deaths; two in Jordan, where both patients have died; three in England, where all three are undergoing treatment; and one—the Qatarese man—in Germany, who has recovered and needs no further treatment.

  Truly, the world is never just “the world.” And victims are never just “victims.” And so here is a disease that knows no boundaries, treats everyone in the world as equals, and yet people are still trying to emphasize that this is “Me” and that is “You.”

  “Run?” says Nadezhda presently, just as I’ve slipped under the covers and switched off my bedside lamp.

  “Yes?”

  “A lot of people don’t pay attention to physical appearance if they feel like they’re compatible with someone.” Her tone is serious. “To them, the person they feel compatible with is the person they think is attractive.”

  My heart races.

  “So?” I say, still trying to play dumb.

  “So that’s the answer to your question.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “And by the way,” she says, “it’s not a problem for me if you want to sleep with him tonight.”

  I’ve overslept. On the desk there’s a note from Nadezhda: I’m in the lobby with all my bags. If you don’t come down and check out in the next thirty minutes, Bono and I are going out to get some Kwee Cap.

  Starting last night, kwee cap has become Nadezhda’s new pengkang. It’s kwee cap, do or die. To be honest, though, once I do some Internet research on the dish I previously assumed was a portmanteau of kwetiau and kecap (aka noodles and sweet soy sauce, or HEAVEN ON EARTH!), I’m not particularly enthusiastic about tracking it down. Like Bono, I’ve always liked my noodles on the skinny side, and my pasta the same—spaghetti, spaghettini, vermicelli, capellini, the thin strands you find in bowls of chicken noodles in Jakarta’s Chinatown. As such, I’m much more interested in Bakmi Kepiting, the crabmeat noodles Pontianak is so famous for, even if one can find it easily enough in Jakarta. The flatter varieties of noodles and pasta, such as fettuccine, bucatini, or kwetiau, I enjoy only when the sauce is sufficiently flavorful and bold and has been absorbed into the noodles themselves. In this dubious-looking kwee cap dish, though, bloated sheets of kwetiau languish in a heavy broth-based soup. I feel full just looking at it.

  I do manage to get to the lobby in less than half an hour. My opinion immediately gets skewered, like the apple William Tell shot off his son’s head.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” snaps Nadezhda. “The kwetiau’s function is to neutralize the incredibly greasy broth! And the soybeans in the soup add some crunch, don’t they, not to mention the crispy prawn crackers. You seriously don’t want to give it a chance?”

  I don’t blame her for being mad. It’s almost 10:00 a.m., and kwee cap, like kwetiau and bihun bebek in Medan, is a breakfast dish, often sold out by now. But in her own words: incredibly greasy. She knows this, so why the need to defend the culinary merits of a dish so obviously unhealthy? Isn’t it enough that we’ve spent days accumulating belly fat without exercising at all? (Though I don’t see the slightest hint of any on Nadezhda.)

  Farish seems to be sending me a coded message from where he’s sitting: Eednay elphay?

  I grin. Bless him. I’m well aware that my solidarity with him and his eating preferences grows stronger every day. I know that, as a Muslim, he’s trying as hard as possible to avoid eating pork. Yet he always joins us when we eat dishes he knows contain pork lard—those more subtle about it, like the chai kue we ate last night and the “chicken” noodles in Medan, but also the more straightforward ones, like the food at that killer porridge place in Singkawang and the restaurant opposite the thugs’ lair in Medan.

  However, there must be something about lovemaking—something that sparks a sense of solidarity and lays bare one’s deepest secrets, yes, but that also demands certain sacrifices be made as a result of that alliance. Does Nadezhda feel like I should bend to her wishes? Because she’s being so gracious about a situation I myself feel ambiguous about?

  In the end, after we check out and leave our bags with the concierge, we circle the Chinatown area in our car, slowing down whenever we see a restaurant or cart that looks like it might sell kwee cap. But no luck.

  All along the way I search for signs of swallows. My bird-watching friends say they’re one of Pontianak’s distinctive features. “A lot of ethnic Chinese in the city center breed swallows in their homes,” said one of these friends. “They eat the nests and sell them as well. Check the roofs of the shophouses—there are sure to be lots of swallow ‘apartments’ there. A lot of the birds are free to come and go as they please since they always return.”

  However, like my deranged friends, who are searching for kwee cap like ants searching for sugar (that last expression, another gift from Nadezhda, the Queen of Popular Sayings!), I don’t see a single swallow. Then I remember my friend also saying the best times to look are when the sun is about to rise and just before sunset.

  Our driver takes us to a tiny street. He’s positive there are kwee cap sellers there who stay open until eleven. “’Cause they’re no good, I bet,” Nadezhda grumbles ungratefully. Finally we decide to get out of the car and walk down the street. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen—and still no kwee cap. Guess kwee cap and we just weren’t meant to be. Clever creature, that kwee cap, knowing it should stay away. If only everyone could be as smart.

  And yet, the cold war between Nadezhda and me continues.

  Our hunger and the blazing sun leave us washed up in front of a store that sells . . . it’s not entirely clear. But above the door are the
words “Sheelook Aquarium.” Next to it is an unnamed restaurant with a darkened interior—as if the lights haven’t been turned on yet. Or maybe this area’s experiencing a partial blackout. What does catch our eye is this: “Mi Kepiting” in big letters on the window of a small stall outside the aquarium store. Crab noodles.

  “Well, we did want to try that mi kepiting restaurant on Jalan Gajah Mada,” says Bono, ever the slave to his sacred lists. “It’s the most famous one. And it’s pretty close by.”

  “Enough, already,” says Nadezhda, in a tone of defeat. “Let’s just eat here. We can see how these compare with those incredible noodles of yours later.”

  A teacher of mine once said, “It’s when we don’t expect anything that we receive.”

  So is it really possible for someone who doesn’t take words all that seriously, who’s guilty of proclaiming at least nine different foods to be “the best in the world” even as she genuinely values sage advice about how we can’t, and shouldn’t, compare apples with oranges, tea with coffee, sugar with salt—to mean it when she says this is it, the best of the best?

  Sure, it’s possible. And I’m not the only one feeling that way when our bowls of mi kepiting are set on the table. It’s a humble dish, modest at a glance and unburdened by reputation—a dish which, upon close scrutiny, you know will be delicious, with its yellow noodles coated in brown sauce and all its other droolworthy attributes (the keket fishcakes, some boiled, some fried; the fishballs, prawns, and crab claws; the three to four chunks of meat; the two crunchy sheets of deep-fried wonton). It’s a dish that sweeps all speech from our mouths the second it makes contact with our tongues.

  And with these small undercurrents of happiness, I’m reminded again of something my grandmother said once—a Minangkabau woman who spent her whole life steeped in the pictographic Arabic and Minangkabau writing of her culture—“There’s a poem called ‘Manteq at-Tair,’ or ‘The Conference of the Birds,’ written in the twelfth century by the Persian Sufi poet Farid ud-Din Attar. I first read it as a girl, but only now do I realize what the last stanza of that long poem means, that there are things so beautiful and so impossible to fathom that no human being, not even a poet, can penetrate them.”