The Birdwoman's Palate

by Laksmi Pamuntjak

  The intriguingly named nasi tempong—or rather, this restaurant’s version of it—is advertised as rice served with tofu, tempeh, fried chicken, fried battered jambal fish, raw vegetables, fresh Thai basil, and a spicy shrimp-paste sambal. Bono’s a bit sore because when the dish arrives, the jambal fish is missing. Also, the sambal isn’t at all peanut-based, and though it’s spicy, it’s not enough to make us feel we’ve been slapped. As usual, Farish doesn’t care. Good, bad, it’s all the same to him. Nadezhda’s still snickering.

  My eyes search the restaurant. There’s nothing special about it. The waiter looks a little stressed at how earnest Bono and I seem about analyzing their dishes. Then I see him: a man in his sixties smoking in the corner. There’s a strange charisma about him. His posture is ramrod-straight, almost regal. He moves like a wise man. My heart is beating slightly faster. To clinch matters, he catches sight of me. There’s a spark of recognition. Stubbing out his cigarette, he approaches our table. He asks where we’re from, what we’re doing in Lombok, which hotel we’re staying at. We invite him to sit with us.

  My instincts are proven correct: he’s intelligent and his manners are warm. His sentences flow easily, though we’re a bit startled that he immediately begins talking about the teachings of Islam.

  “Now, I’m not an Islamic scholar,” he says, “and have no intention of becoming one. Islam doesn’t actually glorify religious scholarship that much. It’s not about the laws that are set by certain authorities, but rather that which is dictated by the human heart.”

  He orders another cup of coffee, most likely his umpteenth.

  “What’s more,” he adds, “societal values are always changing, and it’s inevitable that interpretation of how to apply such laws will change over time.”

  Then he asks if we’ve heard of Al-Ghazali and his book on the manners of eating—the Kitab Adab Al-Akl. We shake our heads.

  “The book,” he says, “talks almost entirely about the etiquette of receiving guests. Serving others food provides an opportunity to express friendship. Etymologically, the English word ‘companionship’ means ‘to share food with others.’ Did you know that?”

  No, we didn’t.

  It is Nadezhda who speaks first. “My father’s half Acehnese, and as far as I know our etiquette demands that we serve guests food. Not just tidbits either, but a whole meal, like something one would sit at a table to eat. If we don’t have anything suitable on hand, we’ll do our best anyway.”

  I remember Rania saying something similar.

  The man smiles. “Islam says the very same thing. To quote a well-known hadith: ‘He who sleeps with a full stomach while his neighbor goes hungry is not a believer. It is only proper that he invite his neighbor to eat with him.’

  “And there’s another hadith,” he continues, “that lists seven rules when it comes to eating. Rule number one: if you’re eating with your elders or people in positions of authority, you shouldn’t start eating first. Rule number two: in keeping with Persian tradition, you’re not allowed to eat with others in silence; you must make conversation. Rule number three: you’re not allowed to eat more than other people. Rule number four: you’re not allowed to force others to eat. Rule number five: there’s nothing wrong if someone washes his hands in a basin—if he’s just finished eating alone, he’s allowed to spit in it. Rule number six: you shouldn’t embarrass someone by watching them eat. Rule number seven: if a guest has something in his hands that is considered haram, you shouldn’t do anything about it.

  “However”—and here he breaks into a smile—“times have changed, and we only heed those we consider relevant.”

  He stands.

  “Oh,” he adds before heading off to his motorcycle, which is parked outside. His gaze falls on Bono. “If the less-than-halal is the fare that you seek, try the street near your hotel. The taxi drivers will know the place. My Christian friends say what they serve there is every bit as good as the famous version you’ll get at Bu Oka’s in Bali.”

  35

  CROCODILE

  A crocodile is chasing me. I run through the swamps, swim across a river, dodge trees and tall grass, crouch behind large rocks, and hide in an abandoned warehouse. And just when I think the crocodile has given up, I feel something slithering over my feet and am bitten by a snake!

  Nadezhda finally tells me her woes.

  “I’ve fallen in love with someone.”

  I can feel my heart pounding. Suddenly I feel guilty for reading her diary.

  “Who?”

  She’s quiet for a moment. My imagination goes wild. Is it Chrysander the Greek? Or Aravind the Indian?

  “Just . . . someone,” she says with some effort, for I know she really wants to say it—the name of the man she loves.

  “Just tell me,” I say. “It’s me. You can tell me anything.”

  “He’s Irish,” she says. “He’s a writer and art critic.”

  “Hmm,” I say, though it makes perfect sense. “Where’d you meet him?”

  “At an art festival in Berlin. I watched him in an onstage discussion with a famous historian. In fact, I attended the event specifically because he’s someone I worship. I’ve been reading his writing for years and was always taken with the beauty of his language. He was always sharp, witty, elegant. After it was over I introduced myself and gave him my card. Before long, he e-mailed me. After e-mailing back and forth for a while, we agreed to meet in Vienna. And that’s how it all started.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “Very much.” Her eyes fill with tears.

  “So why aren’t you two together?”

  Nadezhda raises her head and looks at me as if I’m stupid and know nothing about the world.

  “You really don’t know?”

  Suddenly I do know. I reach for her arm and pull her close.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “So . . . what are you guys going to do? Do you have a plan?”

  “He has three kids,” she says. Now she’s really crying.

  Though I don’t know what it’s like to sleep with someone who’s married and has kids, it still disturbs me deeply to hear about it. He’s had sex with his wife multiple times—often enough to produce three children. He must be reasonably happy and attracted to her. So why does he still feel something’s missing in his life? Why fuck other women?

  “He must have slept with other women before,” I say. “You can’t be the first, or the only one. He’s probably been sleeping with a bunch of other women while he’s been seeing you. I mean, you live far away, on a completely different continent, fourteen hours away by plane.”

  Nadezhda’s sobs grow louder. “If you met him, you’d know he isn’t a creep,” she says haltingly. “He’s so—oh, how do I put it in words? So . . . soulful.”

  “That’s the most dangerous kind of man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Men like that fall in love too easily.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  I can’t explain what I’m thinking at the moment. Something I read once in a very wise novel that brought me to tears.

  I let Nadezhda lie on her bed, face buried in a pillow.

  Half an hour later, realizing that she wants to be alone in her anguish, I leave the room and knock on Farish’s door. When he opens it I immediately put my arms around him.

  The next morning, when Nadezhda is already showered and dressed, I decide that the moment has come.

  “You know,” I say cautiously, “a guy like that will always be restless. And he’ll always have doubts about life. He’ll search and he’ll search. He’s easily moved. He’s melancholy. Who knows whether he’s searching for sadness, or beauty, or both. He wants to fall in love. Or he’s fallen in love with the concept of falling in love. If the source of his inspiration starts to lose its luster, he’ll search for someone he thinks understands him, someone else who’s searching for what he’s searching for, someone who loves ideas, who lives for the journey, who’s
captivated by words. I feel like that’s what’s happened between you and . . . what’s his name?”

  “Gabriel.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  “How many times have you seen each other?”

  “Eleven times. Maybe twelve.”

  “Where?”

  “Lots of places. All over Europe.”

  “So . . . he’s never come to Jakarta?”

  “Not yet. He needs a good excuse to come to Asia, let alone Jakarta. He’s a columnist for a magazine, and he has to get permission from his editor. And his wife.”

  I take a deep breath. “I know it’ll be hard for you, but you have to break off this relationship. The sooner the better.”

  “But I always go to Europe.”

  “You don’t realize it, but you’re the one who’s doing all the work, buying plane tickets, taking long flights, paying for hotels—unless he’s helping with the costs. Meanwhile, all he has to do is fly in from . . . where does he live?”

  “London.”

  “There, see? He has it good, using his family as an excuse—the same family he’s abusing.”

  “I always refuse when he offers to pay. I don’t want to feel like a mistress.”

  “Don’t you see? You’re already a mistress. Come on. You deserve better than this.”

  I let our conversation sink in. Suddenly she takes my hand in hers and holds it very tightly.

  “Yesterday, Bono told me he’s in love with me,” she says.

  This time my heart almost falls out of my chest. “He’s probably just kidding around. You know him. You can never tell whether he’s being serious.”

  Nadezhda says nothing, and I know immediately that she’s not joking.

  “That’s the problem, honey,” she says at last. “People I’m not in love with are always falling in love with me, and everyone I fall in love with belongs to someone else.”

  I’m reminded of what I read in Nadezhda’s diary. It’s the same story: her and Aravind, her and Gabriel. Both are writers she admires. Both send her letters and set her adrift with words—elegant words, achingly true words, words that turn you to jelly.

  But there’s another heartbreak involved here; and it grieves me, too. It’s the broken heart of someone I equally cherish whose love has been spurned.

  Then I think of my relationship with Farish and how he’s changed. How I’ve changed.

  Could it be that I’m the lucky one?

  For the first time ever, Bono goes out to eat alone.

  “He’s going to the ‘secret’ restaurant that guy was raving about,” says Farish. “The one that’s supposed to be way better than Bu Oka’s restaurant in Ubud.”

  “Impossible,” declares Nadezhda. “No one can compete with Bu Oka.”

  “There’s no sign, apparently,” Farish continues. “And the location’s unclear. Tucked away in some alley. It’ll take some maneuvering in order to get there.”

  When Bono returns he acts as if nothing has happened. He shows us photos on his iPad. It’s a tiny, cramped eatery with a shady tree out in front. There are four long tables with six benches each, a specially allocated area for displaying the restaurant’s wares, and an open-air kitchen in the back. I see a few motorcycles parked outside the restaurant and a dog chilling out on the terrace.

  Even more odd are the photos of the food. They show skewers of satay with pork chunks so red they look like they’ve been painted, and pork that’s being cooked in the same manner as Ayam Singgang. There’s a jumbled heap of fried pig skins and satay of a more civilized color—akin to sate buntel—made of ground meat. There’s beef curry, spicy shredded chicken, tempeh in sambal sauce. I see no evidence of a suckling pig that rivals poor, besmirched Bu Oka’s.

  “Was it good?” I ask.

  Bono is quiet for a moment before he replies. “How do I explain? It doesn’t taste like what you get at Bu Oka’s. That’s all.”

  I smile. Then I remember Nadezhda’s dilemma and I’m sad again.

  About an hour later we stop at a restaurant specializing in Central Javanese cuisine. Definitely Javanese. Just look at the menu: Nasi Semur Daging, Nasi Rawon, Nasi Pecel, Mi Bakso, Es Dawet, Wedang Jahe, and so on. We place our orders.

  “What are we doing here?” asks Nadezhda when our dishes arrive. Her mood has changed.

  “People say the food is good,” says Bono.

  It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to Nadezhda since she rejected his love.

  It’s the first time Nadezhda doesn’t respond to Bono with a bunch of rhetoric. She looks down and begins tucking into her Soto Ayam.

  We’re outside a small store, waiting for the tofu vendor to fry up our order, when my phone vibrates. It’s a text message.

  It’s Irma. I’m taken by surprise.

  Aruna, are you in Lombok?

  How did she find out? Then I remember: I told Priya I was going to Lombok to eat myself to death. Shit. I have to respond.

  Yes, I am. How are you?

  When are you coming back?

  Tomorrow.

  Did you see?

  See what?

  In the newspaper? Or on TV in the news?

  Haven’t picked up a newspaper in the past two days. Haven’t watched TV either.

  I wait. She doesn’t text again.

  Should I be nervous? One thing I know for sure: I want nothing more to do with an organization that’s screwed me over so royally.

  Tahu Lombok—literally, “Lombok tofu”—is as soft as silk and melts in one’s mouth, like the smoothest of custards. The tofu squares are put into a box, and we share, using toothpicks as forks. The store behind the tofu vendor sells more food: abon, honey, and salted duck eggs, both baked and boiled. There are various kinds of dodol, too: pineapple, jackfruit, and durian.

  So intrigued are we with the tofu that our driver takes us to a modest house nearby where people make the stuff. When we peer into a small, dark room in the back, we find a young woman working there. She is keeping watch over tofu slices lined up in rows on tall shelves constructed from seven wooden stakes fastened crosswise to each other.

  In front of the shelves are two baskets filled with fresh tofu. The pieces are put into plastic bags, and in two more days they’ll be ready to be sold at Cakranegara Market.

  Shortly afterward, we’re brought to another house belonging to a family of tempeh-makers. From the way the couple and their teenage children welcome us, you’d think we were old friends. On the veranda, they point out with some pride, the fruits of their labor spread out on straw mats.

  “It’s the same process they use everywhere to make tempeh,” says the man of the house as he serves us tea.

  The soybeans are rinsed, soaked, shelled, and steamed until tender, then poured into a large, shallow basket and fanned until cool. Next, they are molded and placed inside plastic wrappers, after which the plastic is pierced with a long, pointy straw or a fork to make small holes. So the tempeh can breathe, like a living creature.

  Afterward we head to the district of Ampenan, where we come across a part of the old city that strikes a pang to the marrow. Buildings whose beauty, like other Dutch colonial buildings we’ve seen, remains undimmed by the layers of mildew and dust. Windows and doors of pale blue and salad green. Streets shaded by palm trees.

  It’s midday and the roads are deserted, as if they’ve never seen cars or people. This part of the city seems to stand alone, untouched by modernity.

  “There are a lot of Peranakan Chinese on this street,” our driver says. “And there are lots of Arabs on the others. They’re all store owners. There’s the Bodhi Dharma Monastery, which is two hundred years old, on that side, over there. Then there’s the coastal Buginese district—the fishermen’s district. And there’s also a Malay district with places that sell grilled fish and instant noodles—warung-type food.”

  But just about a hundred yards from where our car has stopped is an arched ga
teway, decisively cutting off the older district from the rest of the city, with an enormous intersection connecting five roads. A five-way intersection: hence the name, Simpang Lima. Aglow with the present.

  Something in Nadezhda seems to give way. She asks if we can go back to the hotel.

  Once we’re back in our room, I turn on the TV. Nadezhda immediately flops down on her bed and busies herself on her phone. God knows what she’s doing. Maybe she’s chatting with the married jerk she’s in love with, who won’t shell out a single cent to see her in Jakarta, who isn’t interested in where she lives or her culture or her family, and who probably secretly doesn’t care.

  I ignore her, this friend of mine who falls in love at the drop of a hat. I’ve already told her what I think.

  It takes about fifteen minutes before the Metro TV channel begins showing the latest news. A corruption scandal involving a member of parliament. The murder of an army general’s son. A plane crash near Makassar that’s killed 216 people, including the pilot, copilot, and crew. I watch until the program is over, all the while paying close attention to the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. Nothing at all about avian flu.

  Two hours later we head to the place specializing in Taliwang cuisine. It’s the one the guy at that first restaurant mumbled at us. The layout reminds me of a Sundanese restaurant, with tables in low bamboo shelters strewn around a garden. I don’t pay too much attention to my surroundings because I feel like something’s not quite right. What was Irma talking about? But I’m too proud to text her. I ask Bono and Farish to scan news sites on their phones. Still nothing related to avian flu.

  When we get back to the room, I decide to text Irma after all.

  Irma, what news were you talking about?

  Twenty minutes pass before Irma replies.

  Can I call you?

  Sure.

  Three minutes later Irma calls.