How to Pick Up a Maid in Statue Square

by Rea Tarvydas

  The Tea Lady shoves her cart along to the next office.

  As the tea cools, skim the paper and pause on an article about a Star Ferry protestor on a hunger strike. You can appreciate a stand on the necessity of restoration works but why would anyone starve himself over a peeling, green bunker? Still tender from the hot glass of tea, your fingertips tingle when you press them against the ridges of your pants.

  It’s dark when you leave the office.

  The bars and restaurants in the entertainment district are overflowing. It’s the first week of December. The music that blares out sounds louder, more cheerful than usual. As if the owners know their patrons need something more at Christmas, something that reminds them of home. Home. Have your tenants prepared the garden for winter? You’ve emailed to remind them but haven’t heard back.

  Stop for a drink. Select the bar with a bright-green fronting and hanging baskets of red poinsettias. Pushing through the crowd, watch the bartender pull down an assortment of bottles before settling into a rhythm of measuring and pouring, filling a sizeable drink order. When he’s available, order a vodka martini. Bit of a Christmas splurge.

  Settle on a stool at the end of the long bar next to a burly man wearing a blue velvet vest. The man ignores you. Checking your Blackberry for messages, you find your in-box empty. It would be prudent to walk back to the flat and prepare for your regularly scheduled 1:00 AM conference call. That’s when the New York Stock Exchange opens, Hong Kong time. You’re lucky not to answer to anyone these days, particularly with these middle-of-the-night conference calls.

  One drink and straight home.

  Two women in red-silk cheongsams walk in and join two men in dark business suits. They pair off in a booth in the back. Red, black, red, black. Predictably unpredictable profits. Lately you’re worried about trends emerging in the stock markets, experiencing a persistent sense of impending doom.

  Your vodka martini arrives with a cranberry and orange garnish. As you sip, examine the crowd through the bar mirrors lining the walls of the long narrow room. A pudgy Englishman at the front of the bar breaks into song and waves his cigarette in the air, punctuating the chorus with a smouldering ember. His mates laugh and join in. Sounds like “The Fairytale of New York”. You regularly travel to New York on business and don’t care for it. London is a proper city, particularly at Christmas.

  Picture London’s cityscape and how beautiful the Parliament is at Christmastime. Pure white lights profile the stately buildings, reflecting them onto the Thames. You prefer their order and symmetry to the gaudy light shows on Oxford and Regent where Disney characters float above the streets. This is your first Christmas away from London and you booked a Christmas lunch at The Ritz-Carlton to compensate. If only you could find a stall with roasted chestnuts.

  A beautiful young woman wearing tight jeans inches past on high heels. She tilts into your shoulder and apologizes without smiling. Young people these days have no manners. Blue Vest closely watches her progress in the bar mirror. When a tray of glasses drops somewhere in the background, the bartender frowns into whatever drink he’s pouring.

  Ask the bartender how he remembers all the drink recipes.

  “They’re listed on my cellphone,” the bartender says without looking up.

  A noisy group of expatriate women are tucked in the corner booth. A table of six, martini glasses raised in celebration, speaking all at once. Englishwomen, professional types by the looks of it. Drain your martini. Try not to think about the professional Englishwoman to whom you used to be married.

  The music blares louder.

  Signal the bartender. “I’ll have a — ”

  “Gin tonic,” says the bartender. “Coming up.”

  “How did you know?”

  “An educated guess,” he says and pours two fingers of gin into a tall glass.

  Blue Vest sits there staring into his pint. Clearly he isn’t a conversationalist. No worries, there’s always the crowd. The bar is packed. The patrons inch through the long, narrow room. Moving in a slow circuit, in front of the bar and down to the booths in the rear and back again, they ease past, sizing one another up before spilling out onto the street.

  A flower seller slips through the doorway, his arms filled with a tangle of exotic blooms. You rarely bought flowers for your wife and wonder if that was part of the problem. One day last January, she called you an old man. You’re so predictable, she said at breakfast over the financial section. You never do anything out of the ordinary. Strange for, at the time, you’d seriously considered taking up photography as a hobby. You didn’t ask her what she meant. She left shortly thereafter.

  Order another gin tonic.

  A jade plant squats on the floor beside the bar. Sturdy branches with clumps of leaves curved like waxy fingertips. You wonder what substance would squirt out if its leaves were squished, or if they’re empty.

  An attractive Englishwoman from the noisy corner booth squeezes up to the bar. She flags the bartender immediately, calls out her order, her deeply tanned hand drumming while she waits. She appears substantial. You could do with someone substantial. You aren’t going to ask her to join you.

  You ask her to join you.

  She refuses.

  Professional Englishwomen.

  Has your wife received your change of address notification card from Hong Kong? You haven’t heard from her since she filed for divorce. Never do anything out of the ordinary.

  When you check your Blackberry for messages again, a petite woman carrying a designer shopping bag staggers past. “Excuse me,” she says and smiles. Her crimson-tipped hand lightly rests on your arm.

  “No worries, no worries.”

  “I like this bar,” she says. “Do you?”

  Clear your throat. Her accent is quite charming.

  The petite woman’s hand lingers. She remains standing close.

  “Used to be mine,” says Blue Vest. His voice is loud.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The bar,” says Blue Vest. “It used to be mine.”

  “What happened?”

  “A bar girl is what happened.” Blue Vest shoots the petite woman a dirty look like she’s the one responsible.

  “Excuse me,” she says. As she turns away, her face is pale, drawn. She finds a space down the bar and hangs her shopping bag on a hook under the ledge. Her small handbag rests in the bottom of the otherwise empty shopping bag.

  After Blue Vest drains his glass, he launches into a rambling story involving a bar girl, secret boyfriends and a large sum of money. Recounting his story seems to exhaust him and he slumps into his stool even more. The bartender automatically slides a full pint in his direction.

  You don’t know how to respond.

  You’ve heard about expatriate men involving themselves with bar girls. Stories abound. When you first arrived, a couple coworkers dragged you to a girlie bar and offered to engage the services of a girl on your behalf. You’re divorced, aren’t you? Go have fun, they said. You decided against it. Too many health risks.

  The music blares louder still.

  The crowd has stopped moving. It’s as if everyone has found his or her place for the evening. The singing Englishman with the cigarette stands up on the rungs of his barstool, leans forward, shouts for the bartender, and in doing so, knocks his drink over. Laughing, his mates haul him back into a seated position and apologize. The bartender smiles and nods as he wipes up the mess.

  The beautiful young woman, the one in tight jeans and high heels, flirts with an older man sporting a clean-shaven head. They’re propped up against one another in an intimate fashion. He’s seated and the beautiful woman stands between his legs, leans into his shoulder. When he caresses her waist and then lower still, she laughs an open-throated kind of laugh and kisses him.

  Avert your eyes.

  Blue Vest appears to be sleeping, suspended above his half-full pint, velvet stretched across his paunch. Farther down the bar, the petite woman is nursin
g what’s left of a cola. She fidgets with her collar, smoothes it over her carefully ironed blouse, red fingertips floating over white cotton.

  Think about her neat appearance. Think about her accent, about how different her voice sounds. Maybe you don’t want anyone who talks like the Englishwoman to whom you used to be married. The year prior your wife begged for a holiday to Majorca over Christmas. Just the two of us, she said. Lying by the pool, enjoying a glass of white wine. But Christmas is a time for tradition, you said. The matter was settled. You stayed home.

  The jade plant leans to one side, its shallow roots exposed. Cigarette butts are crushed into the parched soil. People don’t pay adequate care and attention to the greenery. Resolve to send another email to your tenants, remind them to attend to your front garden.

  A couple of the Englishwomen from the corner booth try to flag the bartender and fail to catch his attention. As they wait, you shift in their direction. Are they talking about you?

  “Linen in London, corduroy in the tropics.”

  “Oh, he’s harmless, isn’t he? Leave him alone.”

  Are you going to stop at the convenience store and buy something sweet? You’re partial to glazed coconut tarts. If you’re lucky, you find a little sliver of maraschino cherry and you enjoy the bright-red, sugary crescent, even if it sticks in your teeth.

  No. This evening you walk past the harshly lit store and climb the stairs to your colonial-style flat, empty-handed. The flat is stuffy. You could open the windows but don’t; there are mosquitoes and other insects. Instead you press the button for the air-conditioning and switch on the hall lights.

  Professional Englishwomen. Check your appearance in the hall mirror. Not bad. You’re tanned from outdoor tennis but appear older than forty-six, probably from your never-ending schedule of late-night conference calls with New York.

  Mix a largish gin tonic.

  Your Blackberry rings at 1:00 AM sharp. As you talk banking with your US counterparts, you squish your blistered fingertips and nothing emerges. Peel the dead skin away until blood wells, drips down your fingers onto your trousers.

  REPHRASING KATE

  OFF TO ONE side, kneeling on the cool steps of the open-air hotel lobby in Bali, a woman twists bamboo leaves into little rectangular baskets. Her head bends over her working hands, her posture erect; the creamy soles of her feet curve up behind her in an inverted S. Kate watches from a distance and, curiosity piqued, approaches. “What are you making?”

  “Baskets, Missus. For offerings.” The weaver smiles slightly. Her face seems vaguely threatening yet her eyes are gentle and filled with a diffuse light. “Tomorrow, we thank the gods for machines.”

  “Machines?”

  “Machines. Cars, telephones, computers. All machines.” She carefully folds several long leaves and snips the excess away with a pair of hand-forged shears. Sharp-edged bamboo confetti flickers to the ground.

  “May I?” asks Kate.

  The weaver presents a completed basket for inspection.

  Kate examines the intricate woven structure. The corners are faultless and the finishing cuts even, given its small size. It’s a remarkable sample. “How long does it take?”

  “How long?” The weaver appears confused, places a half-finished basket under her arm and holds her hands a few inches apart in an approximation.

  I am forever rephrasing, thinks Kate. Making myself understood. “How many minutes?”

  “Not long, Missus.”

  Kate wonders if she will wake to offerings on her bedside table in the morning. She is, after all, a computer waiting for physical information to analyze. To compensate she fills her days with activities. Runs assorted errands connected with her current decoration project. Dinner with Alan if he is in the city, alone if he is travelling.

  She is on her own a great deal and has taken to talking to herself in the too-quiet flat. “Another glass of wine, Kate?” She nods in agreement before pouring a second glass and, more often than not, a third. Patterns of three.

  “Do you like making these baskets?”

  “Of course. I am blessed. Many people has no jobs after the bombings,” says the weaver politely, even formally. Her eyes darken. The whole time her hands are braiding and folding bamboo.

  The two women size up one another. Then a volley of animal screeching erupts in the distance and breaks the tension. “Sacred monkeys, very naughty. They steal.” The weaver disapprovingly shakes her head and waves in the direction of a deep ravine.

  Gazing down at the heavy canopy of trees, Kate thinks it unlikely that the monkeys would steal from her because she is invisible. She has no career, unless trailing behind her husband constitutes as one. Two international moves in three years. She speculates about emerging technologies. Who would hire her after three years out of the oil and gas industry?

  “You like dance?” the weaver asks, suddenly returning to her earlier friendlier tone. “I make arrangement. Dinner dance at restaurant. Tomorrow-night-dinner. Very nice to you.” Without waiting for Kate’s response, the weaver rises and disappears into the back office.

  Kate is alone in the lobby. The small hotel consists of a gathering of traditional, thatched guesthouses situated high on a hill above the Monkey Forest. The grounds climb up and down; stone pathways and staircases disappear between the wooden houses.

  Car wheels grind gravel. Wondering if her driver has finally arrived, Kate strides over and peers down a steep flight of stairs to the driveway below. She spots several suitcases and overhears male voices speaking in Indonesian. Then a uniformed driver pushes the wrought-iron gate open and a man enters.

  He is tall and his head is shaved. Carrying a large computer case across his chest, his step is precise, light, and he climbs easily. Halfway up the stairs, he glances up at Kate and grins. Kate fights the urge to grin back.

  He arrives on the landing.

  “Decker,” he says. An American voice.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’m Decker.” A striped shirt glares beneath a business jacket.

  Kate introduces herself.

  The weaver emerges from the back office and warmly greets Decker. Again, her face is vaguely menacing and that’s when Kate notices that something is missing from her smile. The points of her eyeteeth are ground flat. The weaver bows deeply then captures Decker’s hand between her palms.

  Decker speaks to her in Indonesian.

  The weaver responds in English. “Yes, Mister Decker, is ready. You lose weight? I order black rice pudding for you, tomorrow-morning-breakfast.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m eating too well.” Laughing, Decker runs his hands over his firm stomach. Long, slender fingers and manicured fingernails. Kate thinks his touch would be surprisingly light for a man his size. Catching her eye he says, “She makes me speak English every single time. What can I do?”

  The weaver moues. “I practice English.”

  “Your English is good. It’s my Indonesian that sucks,” says Decker.

  “Your Indonesian very good to you.”

  “How’s the design course going?” Decker asks the weaver.

  “I build website. Mr. Decker, please. You look?”

  “Yeah, sure, show me tomorrow.”

  The weaver appears pleased as she works on various registration forms.

  “Where you from?” asks Decker in Kate’s direction.

  “Hong Kong. You?”

  “Same, same.” Decker removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. A fishtail curves across one forearm, its iridescent orange scales shimmering with sweat. A crab scuttles across his other forearm and dives for cover beneath striped cotton.

  “Who you here with?” asks Kate automatically.

  “The big company that shall not be named,” says Decker. Impatiently he pats his suit jacket pockets, searching for and finding a rumpled package of Marlboro’s and a large metallic Zippo lighter.

  Ignored, thinks Kate and turns away so she doesn’t say something rude. Some days
she can’t believe she’s the same person who mapped deposits and fault trends deep beneath the surface. Who recommended major projects. These days she’s off-shored to the table with the wives. Kate grips her handbag tight until the handles pinch her fingers and reminds herself that she is a white woman in Asia. Sexually redundant.

  Her driver finally arrives.

  Decker turns to Kate. “A car? It’s a fifteen minute walk into Ubud,” he says, a hard edge in his voice roughened further by a steady stream of cigarette smoke. “Just cut through the Monkey Forest.”

  “Stop the car,” says Kate when she spots the large signpost that announces the Monkey Forest. After instructing her driver to deliver her packages to the hotel, she enters the gateway and walks into a wooded twilight. The jungle closes over her and Kate watches the long slow sway of treetops high above her. No wind permeates the canopy.

  Signs identifying various species of birds and trees are nailed to the occasional tree. Kate ignores them and moves downhill where a few tourists congregate around a hulking banyan tree. Hurrying, she avoids banana peels, rotten lettuces, and other unrecognizable food debris smeared into the pavement. A few monkeys squat along the stone walls. Arriving at the banyan, Kate stops and watches several small silver-haired ones perched above.

  A larger monkey with an oozing gash on his flattened nose swivels his head in Kate’s direction and stares, unblinking, at her for a long time. His eyes are full of some emotion Kate cannot make out. The monkey bares his teeth and hisses loudly, spit flying. Immediately the other males jump, rebounding off branches, and then drop to the ground. On the pathway they scatter, circling one another, and a series of attacks and retaliations erupt. Off to one side, a baby monkey cries until one of the larger ones snatches his hand and drags him into the safety of the underbrush.