The Birdwoman's Palate

by Laksmi Pamuntjak

  This is the last stanza: “They knew that state of which no man can speak; this pearl cannot be pierced; we are too weak.”

  Maybe it’s times like these when we really don’t need language. What’s the use of language if we already have this conference, this gathering—four people who are, for one brief moment, happy?

  34

  SUPER-EXPENSIVE WINE AND THE KITAB ADAB AL-AKL

  WORK PERFORMANCE EVALUATION

  Aruna Padmarani Rai

  December 2011–December 2012

  Aruna is intelligent and hardworking but daydreams a lot, as if her mind is somewhere else.

  She is quiet and sometimes comes across as passive. She also isn’t very fond of socializing.

  The few times she has displayed enthusiasm are when she has been given field assignments.

  She appears to be virulently anti-family and anti-marriage.

  Chances are, she hates men.

  Clearly, she thinks to herself, this is just a bad dream.

  Work-free days. Is this my life now?

  “Do you have a secret life?” Nadezhda asked me.

  I thought about my other friends. Those who probably did have secret lives would never confess to them; those who didn’t, like myself, would probably say yes.

  So I said yes.

  That was after we returned to Jakarta from Pontianak—ten days after I met with Irma and tendered my resignation from the avian flu project, and eight days after OneWorld called me in and told me to take some time to think things over before deciding whether I wanted to continue working for them or not.

  I was overwhelmed by shame. I stopped calling my friends. I stopped hanging out at Siria. I stopped reading anything that had to do with avian flu. For some reason I even began to feel lukewarm about Farish, who was still working at OneWorld. Or maybe because I was disappointed that he didn’t—or rather, didn’t need to—do something radical like I did.

  Twelve days after I resigned from OneWorld, I attempted to get myself a secret life.

  I began jogging three times a day. But on the days I didn’t go on morning runs, I ate french fries from the Burger King on the ground floor of my apartment building. I started a small indoor organic garden. I borrowed ten million rupiah from my mother and invested all of it in a stock recommended by a friend. I replaced Gulali’s dry cat food with the steamed salmon I would eat for dinner and nearly bankrupted myself. I had a flirtatious online chat session with three men at once, two of whom I’d just met through Facebook. I watched free porn on the web until a virus crashed my computer and I was forced to promise God that I’d never do such filthy things again.

  I wasn’t consistent, though.

  I wouldn’t always refuse when Farish asked if he could come over and spend the night. And I wouldn’t refuse when he asked me if I would suck his dick. But each time he left, I trained myself to think, This is the last time. Don’t feel like you owe him anything.

  Nadezhda laughed. “But he’s your secret,” she said. “Because of him, you have a secret life.”

  Then one day I experience something surprising. I’m swimming in a pool at a five-star hotel, having used Nadezhda’s membership card, when I fall in love with a little girl. She’s in the kiddie pool, learning to swim. Her mother is from the Philippines, and judging by his speech and accent, her father appears to be Italian.

  I watch as the girl skirts the edge of the pool, pausing every time she reaches one of the corners to peer into the pool’s depths as if assessing the danger of the situation. Every time she gets splashed with water, she shrieks—out of fright, but also out of joy. She’s adorable. I can’t turn away.

  The following week I attend a party with Nadezhda at her behest. “It’s a birthday party for a close friend of mine,” she says. “She’s turning forty. Come with me. We won’t stay long.”

  I try not to think about how I’ll fall into that category soon: a woman in her early forties.

  On the lawn outside the enormous house, a boy is sitting on a swing. He’s around four years old. The swing creaks and squeaks as it rises and falls, rises and falls. His shadow sweeps across the grass and bounces toward some banana trees at the foot of a concrete wall that juts into the sky, overshadowing the trees. He’s so cute. He has rosy cheeks, and his eyes are big and round. When his mother comes out and carries him back into the house, I think how lucky I’d be if I were his mother.

  Bono is worried because he thinks I’m clinically depressed.

  “I’m not clinically depressed.”

  “Nadezhda told me all about it. She says you feed Gulali fresh salmon every day and that you read trashy novels and never change your clothes.”

  “The woman’s a liar. Of course I change my clothes.”

  “Come to Siria tonight. I’ve invited some good friends of mine. They’re all excellent wine drinkers and have some of the most refined palates in the country. We’ll be at a special table in the back, in a private room. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  The other women—two socialites—and I watch as the four men swirl the wine in their glasses. They raise the glasses to their noses and breathe in the aroma before each taking a generous sip. Bono is in his chef’s uniform, but the other three are wearing expensive-looking jackets with silk handkerchiefs protruding from their breast pockets. They converse consistently and fluently in English. Four empty wine glasses have been placed before them.

  Man Number One, a banker who used to work for a well-known investment firm in New York, has just raised the stakes to five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! That’s how confident he is about being able to guess the provenance and vintage of the three wines that Bono has specially procured for the evening.

  They sniff the wine in their glasses again. Then they take another swig, a bigger one than before, fully savoring the flavors before letting some of the liquid flow down their throats. Without swallowing the rest of it, they breathe in through their lips and allow themselves to become one with the fragrance permeating their mouths. I watch them hold their breaths before releasing the air through their nostrils. Only then do they allow the wine to glide beneath their tongues before they gulp it down. They nod their heads and roll their eyes thoughtfully. They smack their lips.

  Silence.

  About six minutes later Man Number Two, a businessman in the mining sector, squints and says, “Definitely a Bordeaux.”

  The others nod.

  “The dominant grape is clearly Cabernet Sauvignon,” he continues. “And there’s definitely some Merlot and Cabernet Franc in there as well.”

  “Given its vitality and boldness,” declares Man Number One, “I bet it’s a superior second growth—as good as a first growth in terms of quality. And it’s an excellent vintage. That goes without saying.”

  Impatient to have his say, Man Number Three, the handsomest, squirms in his seat. According to the socialite on my right, he owns several boutique hotels in Bali, Jakarta, and, soon, Raja Ampat.

  He speaks. “The color is on the lighter side, the tannins are firm but not too forward, and the aroma is intense. This must be an old Bordeaux.”

  “I detect spices and a hint of tobacco,” says Number One, glancing at Bono, who just sits there and smiles.

  “I bet it’s a Medoc,” says Number Two. “It’s not that full-bodied, so it can’t be from Saint-Emilion, or Graves, or Pomerol. So which estate is it from?”

  “Can’t be Margaux,” says Number Three, taking another swig. “Pauillac, perhaps?”

  “Definitely not a Margaux,” affirms Number One. “The bouquet’s not bold enough.”

  “But it can’t be a Pauillac either,” Number Two snaps. “A Pauillac is entirely different in character. This wine is smoother, more elegant, a little bashful, even.”

  “I agree,” says Number One. “It’s very feminine.”

  “But it’s so fragrant,” says Number Two. “Like fall. Dry leaves . . . earth . . . ripening apples . . .”

  “I’m positive it’s
a Pauillac,” says Number Three.

  “Maybe it is a Margaux,” says Number One, uncertainty creeping into his expression. “A Margaux would have the same elements. Strong notes of earth and wet leaves after a rainfall. Notes of chocolate, clove, and nutmeg, with hints of sweet fruit, like cherry or plum.”

  Suddenly, Bono cuts in. “All right, so what’s the verdict?”

  After a few more minutes of intense concentration, they each have their answer.

  Number One: Margaux. Chateau Pierre Lichine. Vintage: unknown.

  Number Two: Saint-Julien. A 2000 Chateau Talbot, because 2000 was a good year for Bordeaux.

  Number Three: Pauillac. Chateau Mouton Rothschild, more than twenty-five years old. It could also be from Napa, more specifically, an Opus One—a joint venture between Robert Mondavi and Baron Philippe de Rothschild.

  With pride, Bono produces the bottle in question. “Gentlemen,” he says theatrically. “May I present to you a 1989 Chateau Gruaud Larose from Saint-Julien.”

  There’s a collective gasp from the three men. They race for the bottle.

  “No way!” says Number One. “How long have you had this, Bon? It’s from 1989? Oh my God!”

  “No. Way,” says Number Two, stroking the bottle like I might stroke Gulali. “Isn’t this a ‘super second’? One of the best second-growth Bordeaux in the world?”

  Because none of them have guessed correctly, the bets are canceled. They all smile in relief.

  Before they finish the bottle, Bono begins pouring the second wine into glasses, where the three men can’t see him. And the process begins again and is repeated for the third wine.

  I’ve always been jealous of people like this—people whose jobs involve gathering in fine-dining establishments enjoying hellishly expensive wine, while most people have to sell flip-flops to have enough to eat. But this time, for the first time, I’m impressed by these upper-class palates. Life isn’t fair, but I have to admit that all the luxury they live in hasn’t been in vain.

  When I’m offered some wine from one of the super-expensive bottles—the second, a Burgundy, and the third, a Brunello di Montalcino—I feel as if my feet have been rooted to the earth. Its flavor is so deep, so grounded. I swoon.

  Of this I’m sure: only lovemaking, or things analogous to it, could make me feel this way.

  I wasn’t the least bit drunk last night. This morning I even feel refreshed. Then, inexplicably, I miss Farish. But he has to go to work. So I have to make do with Gulali, the stockpile of salmon in my fridge, and a bunch of pirated DVDs.

  In the evening I call him. “Let’s go to Mataram,” I say. “After all, it was supposed to be our last stop on that project.”

  Farish says nothing.

  “I promise not to do any avian flu investigating while we’re there,” I say.

  After almost a minute of silence, he replies, “I can only take two days off from work.”

  That night, after we make love multiple times, I fall in love with him again.

  Who does Lombok belong to? Lombok—the island of the Babad Lombok and Nagarakertagama, the island of Muslims and Hindus, of Christians and animists. It’s the island of the Sasaknese and Balinese peoples, of Peranakan Chinese and of Indonesian Arabs. The island of the Sumbanese and the Javanese, too. The island of the religions Wetu Telu and Boda.

  Lombok is an island of cassava and corn, of cloves and cinnamon. Of coconut and tobacco, banana and vanilla. But it’s also an island of tofu- and tempeh-makers and of dried shrimp and salted shark-meat producers. Of jackfruit dodol and salted-egg eaters and of Ayam Taliwang and suckling pig aficionados. It’s an island of turi trees, so profuse and loved you see them everywhere alongside the rice paddies to prevent soil erosion.

  That said, the driver who takes us from the airport to our hotel in Mataram doesn’t seem too taken with any of it.

  “Everyone knows water is scarce in Lombok,” he says. “It’s most dire in the south and central parts of the island, but actually, all of West Nusa Tenggara is experiencing a water crisis. Deforestation’s to blame, and illegal logging, not to mention the unusually long dry season. It’s affecting agriculture. And everyday life, too. The wells in my village are beginning to run dry.”

  Around two hours later we’re at a restaurant highly praised by a friend. The food is served buffet-style. Behind the glass window are enormous tureens brimming with meat and vegetable dishes of all kinds; almost all of them look unhealthy. Not a single person there seems friendly—not the restaurant owner, not the waitstaff, not the customers. They all eye us with suspicion.

  On my plate are some slices of tempeh in sambal sauce, sautéed green beans smothered in coconut milk, grilled chicken, sautéed mustard greens, and a dry, fluffy heap of serundeng—grated coconut seasoned and toasted in a wok. Someone sets a bowl of chicken curry in the center of the table for all of us to share. I look up. It’s Bono, of course, eyes always bigger than his stomach, attempting to make it all better. I still don’t touch it.

  I’m happy he agreed to come along with Farish and me, but this food! Oh son of a bitch, what a disappointment. It tastes like the blandest of home cooking—nothing to justify a special trip. The worrying thought crosses my mind that Lombok’s reputation for food has been exaggerated.

  I feel trapped. And whatever others may say about ayam Taliwang, Lombok’s signature chicken dish, I don’t love it. The spice mixture the chicken is coated in is tempting, no doubt, made of dried red chilies, tomatoes, Bombay onions, garlic, palm sugar, salt, shrimp paste, and kencur. But with all the versions of ayam Taliwang I’ve tried, in Jakarta at least, all that lingers is the spiciness. The same goes for Kangkung Plecing, which is often so hot I can’t even taste what should be a refreshing combination of water spinach, grated coconut, and peanut. Oh, and that stupid Beberuk. Don’t even get me started. It’s crazy how spicy the stuff is. But I banish these thoughts. Anything that allows me to spend time with Farish shouldn’t be refused. And now that my two closest friends know about us, I feel much more relaxed.

  Then, just for the hell of it, we ask the guy at the table next to ours where we can find the tastiest ayam Taliwang in Lombok. Without even lifting his head, he gives us the name of a restaurant specializing in Taliwang cuisine. According to Farish it’s not too far away.

  “Let’s go there later,” says Bono. “Or tomorrow.”

  No one protests because we really don’t have that much time, and the idea is to pig out.

  Even Nadezhda doesn’t say much. She’s been looking a bit glum since we met up at the airport in Jakarta. Sometimes I forget that she’s never wanting for things to do. Maybe she’s beginning to get bored with these trips.

  Outside, the streets are dark and desolate. Like Banda Aceh, Mataram goes to bed early. To get to this restaurant, we traveled down dark roads practically devoid of any illumination. It’s a far cry from our ride from the airport to the hotel, which spoiled us with endless stretches of picturesque rice paddies and fields, the landscape looking like something out of a child’s drawing: sun, clouds, birds, houses, fields. That’s the part of this story I’ll remember and take home with me.

  I receive a WhatsApp message from Priya: How backwater is it? Worse than Banda Aceh?

  She used to work for two people on the Aceh-Nias Rehabilitation and Reconstruction Board. She feels like she knows Aceh well.

  Almost.

  Oh dear. Anyway, did you eat anything yet?

  Yup. Meh.

  Are you still following up on the avian flu stuff?

  What’s with Priya? Why is she asking something she already knows the answer to? I don’t respond for a while, a bit ashamed about having to say no. Then I think, Why should I feel ashamed to admit my failure to someone whose job seems to involve constantly changing jobs? And why shouldn’t I tell another food lover that I’m here on a culinary expedition? So I tell it like it is, and just like that, as if we’re talking about the weather, she changes the subject and begins to discuss all the
places she ate at when she was in Banda Aceh. Places that slipped under my radar when I was doing research. Silly girl.

  I suddenly lose my appetite and become anxious again because Priya’s touched on the subject of avian flu. I stop texting.

  The night is still young, and Bono asks our driver to head to an area with lots of restaurants.

  The driver looks at Bono like he’s a creature from outer space, and says, “There aren’t any areas with lots of restaurants. They’re scattered all over town.”

  Suddenly Bono asks him to stop the car. Startled, the driver hits the brakes, and the car behind us almost rear-ends us.

  “Are you crazy?” shrieks Nadezhda. “What is it?”

  Bono points to a restaurant by the side of the road. “Look at the name!” he says frantically.

  We all look up. On a bright-red signboard in bright-yellow letters: “Nasi Tempong. Super-Spicy Sambal. Duck, Braised Beef, Catfish, Chicken, Fish.”

  “Nasi Tempong! Tempong rice!” Bono shrieks excitedly, looking almost deranged. “How crazy funny is that? Come on, we have to try it.”

  “What’s crazy funny?” asks Nadezhda, whose knowledge of street slang is fairly minimal. I quickly whisper in her ear what “tempong” means—a portmanteau of tembak or “shoot” and bokong or “ass” (i.e., anal intercourse). Instead of being shocked, she giggles. Of course.

  I giggle, too. “Slut,” I say teasingly.

  Farish, who sometimes still tries to act holier than thou, attempts to provide some balance. “‘Tempong’ is just a variation of tempeleng,” he says. “It means ‘to slap.’ Eating nasi tempong feels like being slapped because its sambal packs a punch.”

  We all ignore him.

  We get out of the car and march toward the restaurant. The driver watches in bemusement—“Who are these people,” he’s probably asking himself, “hopping from one restaurant to another? Who does that?”