Paper Boats

by Dee Lestari

  “If you buy in bulk, then you’ll get a good discount,” Keenan joked, chuckling. “But may I ask: What is it exactly about my paintings that interests you?”

  The man looked excited, as if he had been anticipating this question. “The theme of your paintings is unique. Unusual, genuine, unpretentious. Also, I think the way you paint is fresh. Original. Clean. Illustrative—and yet they don’t feel like illustrations. They feel more like monuments in and of themselves rather than complements to another work. And most importantly, your paintings have a strong spirit about them. I’ve been collecting paintings for a long time. And to me, a good painting causes the viewer to reflect. But your paintings don’t just do that—they invite the viewer into your world. To appreciate a painting in that way is an extraordinary experience. Very rarely does a painting possess all three of these elements.”

  Keenan swallowed. He didn’t know how to respond.

  “It’s very unfortunate, but I can only take two paintings today,” the man continued. “But rest assured, I’ll be adding many more to my collection in the future.” He walked over to the paintings he had chosen. “How much?”

  Keenan swallowed again. He glanced sideways at Uncle Wayan, his eyes pleading for help.

  A check for ten million rupiah lay on the table.

  “It’s not so hard, is it, setting a price on your own work? You’ll have to get used to it, but you’ll get smarter over time.” Uncle Wayan chuckled.

  Keenan shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. This is the first time I’ve actually witnessed someone buy one of my paintings.” Suddenly he took Uncle Wayan’s hand. He gripped it firmly and bowed his head. “Poyan, thank you so much for everything. I don’t know what to say or what I should do. But if it’s all right with you, I want to split half of the proceeds from this sale with the gallery.”

  Uncle Wayan shook his head. “No. None of that now. You’re a new painter, and you’re like my own son. You need that money for yourself. Don’t think about making money for the gallery just yet. I can earn a living from selling my own work. If I really do need your help, I’ll let you know. But not now. Okay?” His tone was firm.

  Keenan had no choice but to nod.

  “Luhde, get over here. What are you doing, spying on us from there?” Uncle Wayan called out to his niece. She had been standing behind a partition watching them for some time now.

  Slowly, Luhde emerged, a sheepish smile on her face. She came over to them.

  “Why spy on us like that?” Keenan asked. “It’s that art collector—you like him, don’t you?” he teased.

  “What? No!” Luhde protested in a panicked voice.

  “Keenan’s right, you know,” Uncle Wayan chimed in. “If you’re looking for a mate, you should look for someone like him. Handsome, successful, still in his prime. And an art lover, too!” He was beside himself with laughter. “Avoid people like us. Our pockets have asthma. They’re gasping for breath!”

  Luhde’s face turned even pinker. She didn’t agree with her uncle at all.

  New Year’s Eve 2000

  At everyone’s urging, Keenan finally agreed to buy a cell phone. Sitting on the shore at Jimbaran beach, he contemplated the small object in his hands. He still felt strange holding it. There weren’t many numbers stored in it. Only those of Uncle Wayan’s family in Bali and a few names he’d transferred from his address book.

  Keenan glanced at the time on the screen. Five minutes till the New Year. The voices behind him were growing more raucous, competing with the sound of the waves before him. He pressed some buttons, looking for that one name. And then, when it appeared on the screen, he froze. The words he would say popped into his mind: How are you doing, Little One?

  Suddenly, Keenan felt nervous. Maybe she had changed numbers. But for whatever reason, he felt an overpowering desire to . . . He pressed the green button. Connecting. Keenan stared at that one word, glowing on the screen. Would he be able to speak? Could he—No. Keenan shut his eyes. His thumb pressed the red button. Disconnecting.

  Most of Kugy’s family was gathered in front of the TV. The rest had made plans to ring in the New Year elsewhere. Kugy hadn’t received any invitations, but she couldn’t be bothered to go out, anyway. She was perfectly happy sitting on the sofa with her feet up, eating snacks and providing commentary on what was on the screen as she chuckled to herself.

  Suddenly Kugy sat up. “Did my cell phone ring?”

  “No. It’s just the TV,” said Kevin.

  “Where is my cell phone?” Kugy began rummaging around under the sofa cushions. “Kev, stand up for a bit.” Kugy gave her older brother a shove. “I think you’re sitting on it.”

  “No way!” Kevin exclaimed, eyes still glued to the screen. “My butt is very sensitive. I’d be able to tell if there was something wedged underneath it.”

  But Kugy didn’t give up. She kept shoving at Kevin, searching the nooks and crannies of the sofa.

  “Kugy, come on!” Kevin complained. “Stop poking around like that. You’re such a pain!”

  “Ha! What’s this?” Kugy said holding up her phone. “So much for sensitivity! You should go on a diet. Maybe your butt will be able to feel something then!” Immediately, Kugy checked to see who had called.

  She frowned. She didn’t recognize the number. And yet, she continued to stare at it. There was something about that number. Kugy sent a text message: Who is this?

  An hour passed. There was no reply.

  Lena opened the door and looked out into the family room to see her husband still sitting in front of the TV.

  “Adri, aren’t you coming to bed? It’s already two in the morning,” she said, yawning.

  The man glanced up and saw his wife in her dressing gown, a sleepy expression on her face. “In a little while. There’s something good on TV. I’ll come in once it’s over.” He spoke in an expressionless tone.

  Lena peered at the screen. Though doubtful about her husband’s definition of “good,” she decided not to press the matter and went back into the bedroom.

  After his wife left, Adri returned to gazing blankly at the TV, as he had been doing for the past few hours. He was watching another show in his head—memories, questions, thoughts—all centered around one person: Keenan.

  Keenan, where are you? Where are you spending the New Year? Are you lonely? Hungry? Cold? Only in his heart could he address his son and ask him those questions. Only when he was alone. Only in Keenan’s absence.

  With all his might, Adri tried to contain himself—to the point where it became unbearable. And a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  CHAPTER 25

  A GIFT FROM THE HEART

  January 2001

  It was less than a week since Kugy had moved into her new boarding house. She was still adjusting to the look and feel of her new surroundings, but because it was closer to campus, she didn’t have to spend as much time traveling to and fro. It fit in perfectly with her plan to graduate as quickly as possible.

  She still hadn’t finished organizing all her things, and she spent her late afternoons by herself, tidying up. She was beginning to enjoy this solitude. Today was no different.

  “Yoo-hoo!” called someone in an earsplitting screech. “Anyone home? Can I come in?”

  Kugy put down her books and hurried to the door. Eko?

  She was right. There he was in the doorway, wearing that distinctive grin of his. “Hey, Mother Alien!”

  “Eko! How did you know I was here?”

  “I asked around,” he answered lightly. “I was thinking about you and wanted to see you. I miss you.”

  Kugy let out a sigh even as a bright smile spread across her face. “I miss you, too.”

  “Come here, you!” In one swift motion, Eko put his arm around Kugy’s neck and ruffled her hair. They both laughed. “Do you need help with anything? You must have some unpacking to do.”

  “Yeah! Help me put away my books! And buy me dinner, too!”

  Eko purse
d his lips. “You monkey. This is why everyone’s fed up with you.”

  Kugy doubled over in laughter. “Too late! You’re trapped!”

  Before long, they were squatting on the floor among Kugy’s scattered possessions.

  “Does Noni know you’re here?” Kugy asked suddenly.

  “No. But I’ll tell her later,” Eko answered. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing . . .” Kugy stopped what she was doing, trying to decide whether she should finish her sentence.

  “Yes?” Eko asked.

  “All this time I thought you were keeping your distance, too. I really do want us to be able to talk about things and be as close as we were before. But I understand you’re between a rock and a hard place. You’re Noni’s boyfriend after all, and like it or not, you have to take her feelings into account.” Kugy spoke softly. “But, honestly, I miss you two so much.”

  “You know what?” said Eko. He looked her in the eye. “I’m happy you moved—not to mention relieved. Now that you’re living farther away, I don’t have to choose sides anymore and you and I can be close again. I can visit you from time to time without getting dragged into your conflict with Noni. I miss you a lot, too.”

  Eko continued. “Right now, Noni’s heart is still in the process of healing. I don’t know how long it’ll take. And though she’s my girlfriend, and though I’ve been hanging out with you since we were teenagers, I don’t want to get mixed up in what’s going on between you two. I believe you’ll find your own way to resolve your problems. The most important thing for me is to remain close to both of you—like how it’s always been. Noni’s my girl, and you’re my friend. Whatever happens between you doesn’t change how much you both mean to me.” Eko spoke decisively.

  Kugy was moved. “Thanks, Eko,” she said, almost whispering. “In all my life I never would have thought I’d get so mushy in front of you. But you coming here today and saying what you just said—it’s the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me this whole year.”

  Eko smiled, but it vanished quickly. “Hey, the year’s only ten days old! Of course this is the most beautiful thing that’s happened to you this year, you moron! What’s more, I’ve even helped you tidy up, and you have the nerve to order me to buy you dinner? You heathen, you!”

  They both burst into laughter.

  “The year’s only ten days old and I’ve already succeeded in tricking you twice!” Kugy clutched at her sides. “This doesn’t bode well for you.”

  “Yup. And once again, the nightmare begins.” Eko stood up. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat!”

  “Hey, my room isn’t clean yet,” Kugy protested.

  “Why don’t you and your mushy feelings clean it up then?” Eko chuckled. “Hey, do you have enough cash for us to hail an angkot?”

  “Didn’t you drive Fuad?”

  “Yeah. But right when we pulled up in front of the boarding house, he stalled. So I’ll leave him out front, if that’s okay with you. Then when I’m ready to head home later, you can help by giving him a little push. Sound good?”

  Kugy glared at Eko. “Hey, why am I beginning to feel like the unlucky one here?”

  February 2001

  Keenan had officially turned over a new leaf. There was a different rhythm to his life in Bali now. All day long, everything he did revolved around creating art and attending rituals at the temple. If he wasn’t busy painting, he was helping Uncle Wayan’s family with the accoutrements, music, and performances required for all sorts of rites, from the ngagah rituals to the ngaben ceremonies.

  Keenan felt comfortable donning a Balinese udeng and sarong wherever he went nowadays. He had made friends with the locals his age, and occasionally went with them to watch traditional Balinese cockfights, mingling without the nervousness he once felt.

  But it was Uncle Wayan who was the happiest to have this new family member among them. He looked upon Keenan as his own son—the child he had always wanted and whom he could take pride in. As it turned out, Keenan was gifted not only in painting—he could sculpt as well. He quickly learned the basic forms of traditional Balinese carving, like the patra kuta mesir, the taluh kakul, and the pungelan. His abilities even surpassed those of other young artists in the area who received their training in Uncle Wayan’s studios.

  Whenever people praised Keenan’s paintings, Uncle Wayan felt the proudest of all. He always introduced Keenan in Balinese by saying, “Niki putran titiange ane lanang, I Wayan Keenan”—“This is my eldest son, Keenan”—adding a title reserved for an oldest son. Keenan was always at a loss for words.

  If he wasn’t out, he spent all his time in the bale, painting or just chatting with Luhde, who faithfully kept him company.

  “You need to start learning Balinese,” Luhde told him gravely.

  “Sure. Teach me something,” Keenan said.

  “Repeat after me.” Luhde cleared her throat. “Cang bojok . . .”

  “Cang bojok . . .”

  “Care bojog.”

  Keenan repeated after her. “Cang bojok care bojog.”

  “Very good.” Luhde nodded, suppressing a smile.

  “What does it mean?” asked Keenan.

  “It means ‘I’m as ugly as a monkey!’” she exclaimed before collapsing into fits of laughter.

  It was Keenan’s turn to nod. “I see,” he said in mock-seriousness.

  But Luhde immediately stopped laughing.

  “You’re terrible at making fun of people.” Keenan chuckled. “That’s why you should stick to writing. I heard you want to be a famous writer.”

  Luhde smiled. “Yes. It’ll be like you and your friend. I’ll write the stories and you can make the paintings.”

  Everything seemed to freeze. Keenan was speechless.

  Unaware of this change, Luhde prattled on, “Everyone in my family has their own specialty. Banyu is good at sculpting. Agung is good at painting. All my older siblings are fantastic dancers. It’s just me who’s the odd one out. But according to Poyan, words actually can be painted—and sculpted, and even danced. So I can paint—I can paint words as beautiful as any painting. And I can sculpt words as lovely as any sculpture. And I can make words dance as gracefully as any dancer.”

  “I agree with Poyan. You do have that ability. It comes effortlessly to you. I’m often amazed by what you have to say. And . . . you often remind me of someone.”

  “Memories are nothing but ghosts in the corners of our minds. They will always remain ghosts if we don’t deal with them. They will never become reality.”

  Keenan was startled by Luhde’s words. And Luhde was, too—for the words seemed to leap from her lips before she could stop them.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so forward,” Luhde said hastily, “but . . . if I may ask, who wrote that book?” She spoke with great caution. “The thing is, I’ve noticed that you can’t paint if you don’t have the book nearby.”

  “A friend of mine from university.”

  “Your friend must be clever, and gentle in spirit,” Luhde commented.

  Keenan didn’t respond.

  “So your friend. Is she a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be very close.”

  “We were, yes.”

  “Could you introduce me to her sometime?”

  Keenan looked up, and his gaze met Luhde’s. “I can’t make any promises.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not sure if I’ll ever see her again.”

  There were still many questions tucked away inside Luhde’s mind—questions she had been accumulating and storing for some time now. But Keenan’s bitter tone prevented her from asking them. Maybe she didn’t need to know—just understand. Because, without saying anything, Keenan had told her a lot—with his paintings, with his movements, with his silence. He had told her more than he knew.

  As they left the doctor’s office, Lena read over the test results once again. The doctor had just given his analysis and her husband had been presente
d with a long list of prescriptions, as well as all sorts of advice.

  “How could it come to this? We always bring home-cooked meals to your office. You’re as physically active as ever. I don’t understand it.” Lena shook her head. “Is there something I don’t know about?”

  Adri started the engine. “What do you mean?”

  “The doctor said it might be because of stress. Do you feel stressed about something that you haven’t told me about?”

  “Oh, stress schmess. Nowadays they say everything is caused by stress.” Her husband turned away as he spoke. “It’s nothing.”

  For the entire ride, in the back of his mind, Adri was aware of something. Although he could choose not to be open with his doctor, and even his wife, he couldn’t lie to himself. There was one matter that was always on his mind, that was slowly gnawing away at him from the inside. Keenan.

  March 2001

  Luhde was brewing cinnamon coffee for the whole family. This was part of her regular routine, and she did it every afternoon. But she almost spilled the thermos of hot water when Keenan came up from behind her and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Hey, it’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?” Keenan exclaimed.

  Luhde turned around. Her face brightened. “How did you know? Who told you?”

  “Banyu.” Keenan smiled playfully. “You’re going to be eighteen, huh? You won’t be a kid anymore. What do you want? Lipstick? Perfume?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” she said as she pressed her hands to her cheeks in embarrassment.

  “Why not? I mean, girls your age are usually starting to wear makeup. Or do you want something to wear? We can go to Kuta to find something.”

  Luhde shook her head even more vigorously. “No, not that!” Her hands were now covering her face.

  “Okay, okay. So what do you want? How about a book?”

  Luhde was quiet. She was thinking. Slowly, she lowered her hands. “I know,” she said as a hint of a smile appeared on her face—a smile that transformed her. She looked beautiful. And grown up. “There is something—something you’ve put all your heart into making.” Luhde’s voice rang pure and clear.