The Rainbow Troops

by Andrea Hirata

  "Off you go, your Majesty," Syahdan teased me as we hit our first slope.

  He panted, but with a wide smile, as he bowed down like a bootlicker. Syahdan happily accepted tasks, no matter what they were, even watering the flowers, as long as he got out of class. For him, the task of buying chalk was like a little vacation and a good opportunity for him to try to flirt with the young shop ladies he had crushes on. I wasn't interested in playing along with his game.

  We arrived at a low, moon-cake-shaped shrine with a black and white photo of a serious-faced lady covered with a sheet of glass at the center of it. Drops of red candle wax were scattered around it. This was the grave from our agreement. It was my turn to pedal the bicycle.

  I half-heartedly mounted the bicycle, and, with the first turn of the wheel, I was already angry with myself, cursing this task, the stinking store, and our stupid agreement. I grumbled because the bicycle's chain was too tight and it was hard to pedal. Other things I complained about: the law never siding with the poor; the saddle being too high; corrupt officials wandering around as free as wild chickens; Syahdan's body being so heavy even though it was so small; the world not being fair. Syahdan sat tight fully enjoying his back seat whistling the song Semalam di Malaysia—A Night in Malaysia. He paid no heed to my blubbering.

  We arrived at the fish market. The fish market was deliberately situated at the edge of the river so that all the waste could easily be disposed of. But it was on low land, and consequently, during high tide, the river would bring the organic trash back to the narrow alleys of the market. When the water receded, the trash got stuck in table legs, piles of cans, broken fences, kersen tree stumps and crisscrossed wooden posts. That market of ours was the result of sophisticated city planning, courtesy of the most hickish of Malay architects. It wasn't decadent, but it was an exploding mess.

  The purchase of a box of chalk was insignificant business, so the buyer of chalk had to wait until the owner of the shop finished dealing with men and women with their heads covered in sarongs—the Sarong people.

  A Miauw, the owner of Sinar Harapan Shop, was a terrifying character. He was fat and always wore a tank top, shorts and slippers. A little batik-covered debt book was always in his hand. There was a pencil tucked behind his meatball-like ear. A sempoa—an old, wooden abacus—sat on his table. The sound of the sempoa was intimidating.

  His shop was really more like a discount warehouse. Hundreds of kinds of merchandise were stacked up to the ceiling of the small, stuffy space. Besides the various fruits, vegetables and other foods in the rusty bins, the shop also sold prayer rugs, pickled kedondong fruit in old jars, typewriter ribbons and paint that came with a bonus calendar of women in bikinis. The long, glass shelves displayed cheap face-whitening creams, water purifying tablets, firecrackers, fireworks, BB gun bullets, rat poison and TV antennas. If you were in a rush to buy Butterfly brand diarrhea medicine, don't expect A Miauw to find it right away. He himself sometimes forgot where the medicine was stored. He was drowning in a whirlpool of merchandise.

  "Kiak-kiak!" A Miauw summoned his coolie, Bang Arsyad, telling him to come quickly.

  "Magai di Manggara masempo linna?" The Sarong people complained when they saw the price of oil lamp wicks. They said it was cheaper in Manggar.

  "Kito lui, Ba? Ngape de Manggar harge e lebe mura?" BangBang Arsyad passed the complaint on to A Miauw, the first question in Khek language, the second in Malay.

  I felt queasy in that smelly shop, but a bit entertained by the conversations. I had just witnessed the complexity of the cultural differences within our communities play out. Three men with completely different ethnic roots had communicated using each of their mother tongues, their words jumbled yet understood.

  Those given to suspicion would accuse A Miauw of intentionally engineering such a linguistic mishmash for his own benefit. But let me tell you a little bit about A Miauw's personality. He was indeed an arrogant snob with an unpleasant voice that made one cringe. His face gave the impression that he was perpetually looking for someone to browbeat. His unfriendly words were condescending, and his body stank like he ate too much garlic or something. He was a devout Confucian, however, and in doing business he was undeniably honest.

  Amid the harmony of our community, the Chinese were the efficient traders. Those who actually produced the product hailed from places unknown to us—we only knew them through the made in tags on the back of pants. The Malays were the consumers and the poorer they grew, the more consumptive they became. Meanwhile, the Sarong people provided seasonal jobs to the Sawang, who hauled their purchases to their boats.

  The chalk transaction was routine and always the same. After I waited and waited and almost passed out from the smell, A Miauw would yell loudly and order someone to fetch a box of chalk. Then, from the rear of the shop, someone would shriek back, just like the Whiterumped Shama bird. I always assumed the sound came from a very little girl.

  A box of chalk was slid through a small slot the size of a pigeon cage door. Only a soft right hand could be seen passing the box through the slot. The face of the hand's owner was a mystery. She was hidden behind the wooden wall in the back that separated the stockroom from the rest of the shop. The mysterious hand's owner never spoke one word to me. She passed the box of chalk through and then pulled her hand back immediately, like one feeding meat to a leopard. It went on this way for years, the procedure always the same, unchanging.

  Every time her hand came out, I never saw a ring on her tiny, upwardly curved fingers, but a bracelet made of jade stones around her dignified wrist. I think had I been too bold, her fingers would have stabbed out my eyes with an invisible kuntau kung fu move, as quickly as crane pecking a fish with its beak. What kept me respectful was the jade stone bracelet she probably inherited from her grandfather, a kung fu master who stole it from the mouth of a dragon after slaying it in a great battle to win her grandmother's heart.

  But, do you know what, my friend? Embedded in the tips of those upwardly curved fingers were extraordinarily beautiful fingernails, well cared for and far more enchanting than her jade stone bracelet.

  I had never seen such beautiful nails on a Malay girl, let alone on a Sawang. The nails were so smooth that they appeared to be transparent. The tips of the nails were cut with breathtaking precision in the shape of a crescent moon, creating a sense of harmony throughout her five fingers.

  The surface of the skin around her nails was very neat because she had probably soaked it in an antique ceramic bowl filled with warm water and young ylang-ylang leaves. As they grew, the nails bowed down over the tips of her fingers, making them even more beautiful, like the bluish water quartz hidden at the bottom of the Mirang River. So different from the nails of Malay girls, which widened and jutted out ungracefully as they grew, like the prongs of a rake.

  I had been assigned the irritating task of buying chalk frequently, and my only incentive to carry it out was the chance to glance at those nails. Having gone there so often, I knew the mysterious young girl's nail cutting schedule: once every five weeks on Friday.

  I had never seen her face. She was uninterested in seeing mine. Every time I said kamsiah—thank you—after receiving the box of chalk, she never responded. Quiet as stone. For me, this mysterious young girl full of secrets was a manifestation of an alien from an unknown land. She was extremely consistent in keeping her distance from me. No saying hello, no time wasted on trivial matters. To her, I was as insignificant as the chalk itself.

  There were times when I felt curious to see what the owner of these heavenly nails looked like. Was she as lovely as her nails? Were the nails on her left hand as gorgeous as those on her right? Or did she only have one hand? Did she even have a face? But all of these thoughts were only in my heart. I had no intention of sneaking a peek at her face. The opportunity to look at her nails was more than enough to make me happy. My friend, I was not one of those boorish boys.

  Usually, after taking the box, A Miauw wrote in his debt b
ook, and Pak Harfan would pay the bill at the end of the month. We children didn't deal with financial matters. Every time we passed through, A Miauw didn't even look at us. He flicked at the sempoa loudly with his fingers, as if to remind us of our mounting debt.

  For A Miauw, we were unprofitable customers: in other words, we were just troubling him. If once in a while Syahdan approached him to borrow the bicycle pump, he'd lend it to us even as he exploded with complaints. He didn't like lending his pump to anyone—especially to us. I really hated seeing his tank top.

  The air grew hotter. Being in the center of the shop, I felt like a vegetable boiling in soup. I couldn't stand it anymore and was going to puke. Fortunately a Miauw barked a command to the mysterious girl to pass the box of chalk through the pigeon cage door. With a powerful glance, A Miauw signaled for me to take the box of chalk.

  I moved quickly through the garlic sacks, plugging my nose. I hurried so the torture-filled task would soon be over with. But just a few steps toward the pigeon cage door, a cool breeze blew into my ear, lingering only a brief moment. I didn't realize my destiny had crept up on me in the decrepit shop, circling, then mercilessly grabbing hold of me. Without knowing it, the coming seconds would determine the man I would become in the years ahead; right at that moment, I heard the young girl yell loudly, "Haiyaaaaa!"

  Along with that yell, I heard dozens of pieces of chalk falling down to the tile floor.

  Apparently the girl with the gorgeous nails had been careless. She dropped the box of chalk before I had a chance to take it. The chalk scattered all over the floor.

  "Ah," I complained.

  I had to get down and crawl to pick up the pieces of chalk, one by one from the gaps between sacks of wet, raw candlenuts that emitted a dizzying smell. I needed Syah dan's help, but I saw that he was talking animatedly to daughter of the hok lo pan cake seller as if he had just sold 15 cows. I didn't want to interrupt his phony moments.

  So I had no choice, I painstakingly picked up each piece of chalk. Some of it had fallen under an open door with a curtain of small seashells neatly strung together hanging in front of it. I knew behind that curtain the young girl was also picking up pieces of chalk because I heard her grumbling, "Haiyaaa ... haiyaaa ..."

  When I arrived at the pieces of chalk under the curtain, my heart said that she'd surely close the door so not to give me the chance to see her face. But what came next was completely out of the blue, and it happened so quickly. All of a sudden, the mysterious young girl unexpectedly drew back the curtain, nearly causing our startled faces to collide, leaving them less than an inch away from each other.

  We were staring at each other closely ... it was suddenly very quiet. We looked into each other's eyes with a feeling I cannot describe with words. Her hands loosened around the pieces of chalk she had gathered, sending them back down to the ground. My own hands gripped the chalk even tighter, and it felt like I was holding tubes of popsicles.

  At that moment it seemed as if all the hands on all the clocks in the entire world stood still. All moving things froze as if God had captured their movement with a giant camera from the sky. The camera flash was blinding. I saw stars. I was stunned; I felt like flying, dying, fainting. I knew that A Miauw was yelling at me but I didn't hear it, and I knew that the shop was becoming smellier in its stuffy air, but my senses had already died. My heart stopped beating for a few seconds before starting up again with an irregular rhythm, like an SOS distress code. I guessed the young girl with the heavenly nails standing stunned before my nose felt the same way.

  "Siun! Siun! Segere ...!"shouted a Sawang coolie telling me to get out of the way quickly, but it sounded far away, echoing as if it were yelled in a deep cave. My tongue was immobilized; my mouth was locked, gaping to be exact. I couldn't utter a single word, couldn't move. That little girl absolutely paralyzed me. The look in her eyes squeezed my heart.

  I was fascinated looking at her exquisite, oval-shaped face. She looked very much like Michelle Yeoh, the Malaysian movie star. Her clothes were fitted and fancy like she was going to attend a wedding ceremony, with a motif of small portlandica flowers. It was the moment of truth, as years of secrecy unexpectedly came to an end: The owner of the heavenly nails was indeed a very beautiful girl with an indescribable charisma.

  The incident made her cheeks flush and her eyes were on the brink of tears. Beside the millions of feelings erupting inside both of us, she also felt awfully embarrassed. She got up and slammed the door. She paid no heed to the chalk, or to me, still lost in space and time.

  The slam of the door woke me from an intoxicating spell. I was swaying, my head dizzy, my vision flashing. I fell to my shaking knees and tried to catch my breath. Blood tingled throughout my clammy body. I had just been hit forcefully by my very first love at very first sight—a most incredible feeling that only some are fortunate enough to experience.

  I attempted to get up and, turning around, beheld people all around me—A Miauw pointing all over, Sarong people leaving the shop—each one of them moving in slow, beautiful motion. The Sawang coolies lugging jengkol sacks somehow turned into models sauntering down the catwalk in elegant gowns.

  The stinky shop that had made me dizzy suddenly smelled as aromatic as musk oil. The dark, small and unattractive Syahdan became handsome. A Miauw immediately transformed into a very courteous shop owner who treated all of us customers fairly and equally, a bandit turned monk.

  Not bothering with the half-empty chalk box, I turned to leave the shop and felt weightless. My steps were so light, like I was a holy man who could walk on water. I approached Pak Harfan's decrepit bicycle, which suddenly resembled a brand new bike—complete with a basket. A strange feeling of happiness settled on me, like I had never known before. It far exceeded the happiness I felt when my mother gave me a 2band transistor radio for complying with my circumcision.

  As I prepared to return home, I glanced back inside the shop and caught sight of the young girl with the heavenly nails sneaking a peek at me from behind the curtain. She was hiding herself, but not her feelings. I was flying again through the stars, dancing on a cloud. Oh God, right there, among the stinky candlenut sacks, cans of kerosene and sacks of jengkol beans, I found love.

  I flashed Syahdan the best smile I had, receiving only a puzzled look in response. I then hoisted up his small body and set him on the bicycle. I had become a man with un limited strength, and I was more than willing to cart Syahdan on the back of the bike to anywhere in the world. My friend, if you really want to know, that is what they call being madly in love.

  On our way home, I intentionally violated our earlier deal. After the Chinese grave, I didn't ask Syahdan to take my place because I was exuberant. All the cosmic positive energy had given me this magical power. Love often turns things upside down.

  It seems everything is fair when one is in love. That the law never sides with the poor is untrue; corrupt people roamed about like wild chickens because the law was still busy. Wait and see, they will be put behind bars sooner or later. The bicycle saddle being too high was my own fault for coming from a short family. Syahdan being heavy, despite being so small, was something to be grateful for because it meant he was healthy. The world is not fair, but that's only temporary, one must be patient. I regretted always cursing the government, especially the President and the Ministry of Education. Deep in my heart, I apologized for all the disrespectful remarks that had come out of my uneducated mouth. I also apologized to all the human beings I had ever disappointed.

  After school, Syahdan and I were summoned by Bu Mus to be held accountable for the shortage of chalk. There I stood, still as a statue, not wanting to lie, to answer, or even to deny any accusations. I was prepared with a full heart to accept the punishment, no matter how severe, including retrieving the bucket that Trapani dropped yesterday into the well of horror. The only things on my mind were the girl with heavenly nails and the magical moment when I was blitzed by love. Let anything happen—a cruel punishment would
only sweeten my romantic feelings. I was willing to enter the well of death for my sweetheart; I would perish floating in the well of demons a first love hero.

  While being interrogated by Bu Mus, Syahdan shrugged his small shoulders and crossed his index finger over his forehead—the equivalent to twirling your finger beside your temple, signaling that I had become crazy and thereby blaming everything on me. The punishment was as I anticipated. I entered the well to retrieve the bucket, but miraculously, the satanic well was now charming. Ah, love!

  Chapter 18

  Masterpiece

  THE AUGUST 17th Independence Day Carnival was an event with the potential to raise a school's dignity. Prizes were awarded for Best Costume; Most Creative Participant; Best Decorated Vehicle; Best Parade; Most Harmonic Participant; and the most prestigious of all, Best Art Performance.

  Bu Mus and Pak Harfan had actually been pessimistic about the carnival because of our ages-old problem: funding. We were so poor that we never had enough money for a good carnival performance. We were so ashamed because our parade was so lowly and remained the same each year. However, this time, we had a glimmer of hope: Mahar.

  The PN School typically snatched 1st to 3rd place in all categories. Occasionally, state schools from the regency's capital, Tanjong Pandan, took some third place rankings. Village schools like ours were never awarded any prizes because we were just there for show, nothing more than cheerleaders.

  The state schools could afford to rent traditional costumes that made their performances charming. The PN School was even more impressive. Their parade was the longest, their position the most strategic, and their formation the biggest. Their front line consisted of brand new, basketed, colorfully decorated bicycles. The riders also were adorned in cute outfits. The bikes' bells rung loudly and simultaneously. It was truly festive.

  Their second line was made up of cars decorated as boats and airplanes. On them rode small girls in Cinderella gowns and crowns.