Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  “We’re moving over to my place today, Ms Ratu. Can’t stay here forever,” he says.

  I gasp for some sort of response. Failing that, I sulk and start putting my clothes together. Only a few pieces—so I have the excuse, at least, to come home often, to get the clothes I’ve forgotten.

  We leave Bogor district for South Tangerang, for the district of Pamulang. I don’t care how much he pays for the taxi. I’m so tired, I sleep the entire way. Does he think I’m ugly, sleeping with my mouth wide open or whatever? I don’t care. He can think what he likes. As long as he knows I am still in love with my ex.

  We arrive at a row of ordinary houses in a perfectly ordinary residential area. I drag my suitcase of clothes into one of the homes. It is small, good enough for two, maybe three people. Two bedrooms—one of them is empty and miserable. A living room. Typical kitchen. A cramped, ugly bathroom. Just one look around and I am disappointed. But what did I expect? He married me because Mother paid him off, didn’t he? No way he could be rich.

  Oh, ya, now I remember. I married this boy to make my parents happy. Everything makes sense. I was forced into this. Not because I wanted to get back at Hans—I need to remind myself so I don’t feel so stupid.

  “Whose house is this?” I ask.

  “Mine,” Inu replies, throwing the windows open. “Still paying for it, though.”

  I nod, appraising its contents.

  “The TV’s really small,” I point out. “And your sofa, it’s this brand, ya, hmm.” I poke it with a finger.

  He offers no comment. I take a second look at the bathroom. The bathrooms I like are big, shiny and squeaky clean. I like taking baths. A lovely bathroom puts me at ease. This house? It is so bare. Nothing special about it. A photo-print here, a side table there. No air-conditioning. And does he even own a broom? I was hoping for a condominium or something.

  “So which is my bedroom?” I ask him.

  He frowns.

  “I’m not sleeping in the same room as you, Mr Inu. This house has two bedrooms, so you can have one, I can have my own.” I think a moment. “I’ll have the bigger one. You take the smaller one.” End of discussion.

  I survey the larger bedroom. He points at the closet in the corner. “All my clothes are in there,” he says.

  So I tell him: “Okay, okay, if you need to change, you can come in here. But you sleep in the other room.”

  I roll my suitcase into the room and begin to unpack. I remove his clothes from the closet. I’ve only got so much with me: my clothes take up two racks. I eye his clothes. A few crumpled T-shirts, shirts on hangers un-ironed. I accidentally find his underwear. Scraps of underwear, more like! Ah, why am I looking at it? And I have to make sure I hide mine. Who knows? He might go looking for them, to steal or sniff or do weird things with. Eww, so creepy. Once I’ve put my clothes away—I stuff my panties in the innermost pile—I look around. He is sorting out his own room. Putting on the bedsheets and whatnot. Tonight will be interesting, I think.

  “Oi,” I say. He turns.

  “I’m going to sleep,” I tell him. “So sleepy.”

  “So sleep, Ms Ratu, why do you need my permission?”

  So rude! I just wanted to let him know, so that he doesn’t come disturb me. After letting him grab his pyjamas I push him out, shut the door on him. Door: locked. Windows: latched. I turn off the lights and lie down. Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Then around the forty-three-minute mark—I’ve been keeping count—I swear I hear strange voices, coming from somewhere. Knocking, scratching, soft laughter. “He-he-he”, that sort of thing. From the kitchen, from the bathroom. I curl up, terrified.

  I try to calm myself. Just house geckos squeaking, probably. This doesn’t work. As the minutes pass I begin to panic. I have burrowed into my thin blanket (actually it is just a bedsheet). It only makes things worse. I sit up, shivering. I lie back down. In the end I get up again, too afraid to stay still. I go to the door. I work up the nerve to go out. I tiptoe, slowly, carefully, towards the other bedroom, where Inu is. What am I doing? What will I tell him? Still, it is better than getting strangled by ghosts. I need to talk to him.

  I see his door is ajar. So strange. I knock twice, very softly. It creaks open. I whisper his name. “Inu?” Nothing. I push the door a little wider. I see the surface of his bed—a crumpled heap—but I do not see him. The hairs all over my body stand on end. Where is he? Oh no. Please, no! He’s some sort of demon-ghost!

  Something taps my back. I scream my lungs out. Kyaaaaaaaaa!

  “It’s the middle of the night, so noisy! Why are you yelling?” he says.

  “You trying to give me a heart attack?” I say, shaking, rubbing my chest, stopping my heart from exploding.

  “As if you have one,” he grunts.

  “Where did you go? Were you peeping on me?” I say.

  “I was in the kitchen. Getting a glass of water. What are you doing in front of my room, huh?” he asks me back. “Were you peeping at me, Ms Ratu?”

  I shut up. How do I answer? It’s humiliating to admit that I’m too afraid to sleep alone in my room. I don’t know how to say it.

  “I don’t feel comfortable in there,” I say, pointing through the door.

  “So you want to switch places?”

  “No, not that.”

  “What then?”

  “There’s a spirit here, too, I think… I don’t feel good. Especially in that room. I don’t feel good, alone, in there.” Oh no, what am I saying? Why do I always have to bullshit like this? It sounds so stupid. Can’t I think of anything better?

  “You want me in there with you then?” he asks.

  “No, no, actually it’s okay. I’m okay,” I quickly say, recovering. Trying to save face. “Just wanted you to know.”

  “Well, fine. I’m going back to bed. Can you…” he points at me, standing in his way.

  “Hey, Mr Inu, wait,” I say, holding a hand up. “I’ll let you sleep in my room tonight. But don’t try anything. Okay?”

  He snorts, but heads to the main bedroom. We lie down, side-by-side. I place a pillow and bolster in the middle, between us, as a barrier. I don’t want his arm or his leg intruding into my side of the bed and touching me. Ugh! It’s odd: in five minutes Inu is fast asleep, but here I am, eyes still open wide and blinking. I scan the room around me. Its walls and ceiling are white. I imagine things emerging from underneath the bed or from inside the cupboard. Or there’s something knocking on the windowpanes. Here he lies, next to me, dead to the world. I stop being afraid. Though now I feel uncomfortable, I am not afraid of ghosts anymore. I try closing my eyes. I hear his snores, escaping softly beside me. And then I am asleep.

  Waking up early the next morning, I find Inu gone. I look over the bed and see him kneeling on a prayer mat. Maybe he thinks piety will win me over? Ceh, as if! Like I would find the pretence of devotion attractive. I never once saw Hans pray—I went out with him anyway. Hans is Christian, as far as I know. No problem.

  “Not performing your dawn prayers?” he asks me, once he is done.

  I shake my head. “Didn’t bring my prayer shroud.”

  “There was a prayer shroud with the dowry. Don’t want to use that?”

  Oh, ya, I forgot. There was a prayer shroud switching hands at the wedding. What use is that? Better a bathroom set.

  “Don’t know where I put that,” I tell him. I let him look at me. I don’t care if there’s gunk around my eyes or spit crusted around my lips. He doesn’t deserve beauty from me.

  “Want me to go borrow one from the neighbours?” he asks.

  What? Why is this boy so pushy? Haven’t I made it clear I don’t want to pray? Why does he have to force me? The more he pushes, the more I don’t want to. What gives him the right, anyway? Ignoring him, I shuffle into the bathroom. I shower with the soap and shampoo I bought yesterday from Indomaret.

  *

  When I’m done with my shower, he is still in my room.

  “What are you doing here? Go b
ack to your own room!” I yell. I am standing in a towel, covered only from chest to thighs. He sneaks a peek, then leaves. It is only six. I think I’ll go to work. Yes. This wedding will not change me one bit. I will go to work, as usual. I will head to Jakarta and deal with my cases.

  I try on a miniskirt at first, but it makes me feel idiotic. Just a shirt and jeans will do. I see him sipping coffee and watching that little ugly television of his. On the news: Mount Merapi erupting.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, leering.

  “Jakarta, Mr Inu. To work,” I say, blasé, putting on

  my socks.

  “Today?” he asks.

  “Yes, today. Besides, I’ve got nothing to do here.”

  “Won’t you be tired? Jakarta’s a long way,” he says.

  I want to say: “As if you care?” But I don’t dare, haha. What I do say is: “Yes, Mr Inu. I’ve got to work. Got to earn some money, you know? Money, useful stuff, got to buy stuff, pay for stuff,” I rattle on.

  “You didn’t take leave?” he asks.

  “Duh, what I do, I can’t simply take leave. It’s an important position, you know? If I’m not there the whole thing falls apart. Koreans will all be rotting in jail.” I have my heels on now.

  “What do you do, anyway?” he asks.

  “You’re full of questions! Okay, I’m off.” I carry my handbag and step out. I make it four steps from the door. Then I stop, like a senile old lady who can’t find her purse. Oh God, where am I? I turn back to the door. The door opens. He stands there.

  “Why? Forgot something?” he sniggers.

  “Nah,” I reply purse-lipped. “Just wanted to know whether angkot taxis come through here… Or private taxis?” Can’t sound poor in front of Inu. Sure, I barely have any savings left (spent it all on Hans), but this boy doesn’t need to know that.

  “No angkots. Taxis, sometimes, but they’re rare.”

  “How about ojeks?” I ask, trying to sound posh.

  “Where do you need to go?”

  “Bus terminal.”

  “Fifteen thousand rupiah, ya?” he says, joking, getting out his motorcycle.

  Oh God. So this guy is an ojek driver! I open my mouth, wanting to protest. But nothing comes out. I cannot believe I married an ojek driver. Is he really an ojek driver? How could he afford a wedding like the one we had?

  “You’re an ojek driver?” I ask him.

  “Ya. Like you say, Ms Ratu, got to earn some money. It’s honest work.”

  I don’t know what else to say. He gives me a ride to Ciputat market, quite a distance from Pamulang and one of the busiest places on the planet. Seeing how he drives, if he says he’s an ojek driver, I believe him. So reckless!

  At Ciputat market, I board a bus to Jakarta. It quickly gets stuck in traffic. The road is jammed the entire way. I’m so stressed out. It is nearly 9am when I get to the office. I’m all sweaty and my hair is a mess: I spent all morning putting it up! Panting as I walk past their desks, my colleagues look at me and laugh, teasing, snickering. I know which ones turned up at the wedding and which ones didn’t. If they didn’t come to my wedding, no way will I go to theirs! Hah. I think I’m turning into my mother (she wrote down the names of everybody who attended, along with how much each gave in their envelopes).

  “Hey, newlywed’s late! Had a late night?” says the girl from visa data entry.

  “Nonsense. I’ve moved. It’s far away in Pamulang,” I reply.

  “Wow. A brand-new house? No wonder you said yes,”

  she teases.

  “Ah, it’s a tiny place. Ordinary,” I casually say.

  “And you’re back to work right away. What about your honeymoon?”

  Oh ya, I completely forgot about a honeymoon. I never once thought this wedding was real. But I have to pretend, don’t I? Walls have ears—I have to pretend I’m happy, so that Hans hears.

  I say: “Mmm, honeymoon will be later.”

  “So tell us, tell us. What’s it like? Marriage?” somebody

  else asks.

  “Nothing special. The same,” I say, going over to check the fax machine.

  “Is it hard, dealing with your husband?”

  That makes me think a minute. “Nothing worse than usual.”

  “Do you have to cook? Cook his meals, serve him breakfast, wash his clothes?” she asks me.

  I don’t respond. It doesn’t have to be that way. Even though that’s how it usually is. “I’ve just been married a day,” I protest.

  Finally at my desk, turning on the computer, on reflex I begin to type out an application letter for four days’ leave. I print it out, hand it in to the boss. He looks at me, surprised. “Why? So suddenly.”

  “Ya, I have some important things to take care of,” I reply—just a break and a pretend honeymoon.

  “I’m not going to authorise this,” he says.

  “Authorisation or not, I need four days off,” I say.

  He grins. He is used to my sass and he likes it. After all, he taught it to me. I have never taken leave these past two years. I have no problem with overtime, or answering calls or taking reports on weekends. So four days is nothing.

  The boss asks: “You will be reachable if anything comes up?”

  I shrug. “Nothing will come up.”

  *

  The next day, I still have to show up to work because the boss hasn’t signed off on my leave application yet. It’s a fairly ordinary day, except I have to go to the police headquarters. Another box of Korean ginseng, as a gift of thanks for official help at the Shinee concert a few days ago. A near-riot of crazy, screaming girls, trying to tear their favourite boy band to shreds. They call themselves fans, but they are so scary. A lot of my job is delivering parcels. Not that I mind.

  Leaving the office, there is somebody waiting for me at the entrance. He is standing right there, by the door. He looks a mess. Greasy face, a little stinky. Tangled hair. The sight of him is heartbreaking.

  “What do you want?” I ask him, not looking, heading straight to the lifts.

  “Need to talk to you,” Hans says.

  “Go away. Nothing to talk about,” I reply. The lift dings open, I hurry in. Hans follows before I can stop him; so do a few others. He keeps silent all the way to the ground floor. I get out.

  “It’s important. I can’t stand it… I miss talking to you. I can’t continue, like this. I still love you,” he says, trying to keep up with me.

  I feel eyes on me. How am I supposed to act, in this situation?

  “Stay away from me. You stink!” I snarl at him.

  And he says: “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

  So what can I say? I head towards the ATM. He trails me, like a starving beggar. “So spit it out. I don’t have time for you,” I say, my back to him.

  He has a lost look. I give the ATM my PIN number, but enter it incorrectly. I have to key it in again.

  “Out with it!” I say. “Come on. My husband is waiting for me at home.” And, at that, on hearing me say “husband”, his face changes. Haha, take that, Hans! Hurts, doesn’t it?

  “I love you,” he says.

  “Don’t you have a wife at home?” I sneer.

  “To hell with her. I only ever loved you.”

  “What’s with all this ‘love’ business? Sorry, okay. I belong to somebody else now.” I try to remind myself: I am angry. Because, to tell the truth, I’ve been feeling it again… You know, the excitement of being with a lover. Am I still in love with Hans? What should I do? I want to burst out crying. My whole face is burning and my hands are shaking.

  “Who is he? This husband of yours? What does he have over me?” he yells.

  So I shout back: “How dare you! How dare you. Who’s the girl you married, huh? What does she have, over me?”

  That shuts him up. Hans is pretty smart about this, actually. He doesn’t tell me she is prettier than I am. If he did I would’ve kicked him in the balls and left him there writhing.


  “I couldn’t control myself,” he says, groaning. “There were devils, tempting me.”

  “Hah! Devils? Excuses! You didn’t think how I would feel. You cheated on me, you asshole. Asshole!” Suddenly I am genuinely angry. I leave the ATM. People around us are beginning to stare.

  “Look, yes, I’m sorry. I’m apologising. I’m sorry,” he pleads. He chases me. Where am I going? I am just walking; my feet go their own way.

  “You’ve got it easy, saying you’re sorry. After betraying me like that!”

  “It was wrong, I was wrong,” he says, pawing at my arm. Pulling at it. That gives me some satisfaction to see him beg.

  “Enough, okay? Go home to your pregnant wife,” I tell him.

  “Babe, please. I don’t love her. I only love you.”

  “If you don’t love her, why did you marry her?” I stop in front of a congee stall and make as if I want to order. But then I continue on. Where am I going? Just to get away, to not look at him.

  “She is not like you, babe. You are special. She tricked me. She is not a good person, not like you. She got me drunk, got me…argh…with her. Only now I realise how good you were, for me. No one else was ever as good as you. Babe, please give me another chance, please.”

  So I stop. Stare him in the eye, Hans and his pretty-boy eyes.

  “Such sweet words. I’m sick of them.”

  “Have you ever heard me beg like this?” he asks me. “I am serious. Not playing around anymore, I repent. I’m truly sorry. I only want you. I don’t want to lose you.”

  It’s true. He has never said things like this. “So what do you want now?” I say, impatient.

  “I…I want us back to the way we were, before,” he says.

  “Are you crazy?” I snap. “Hello? We’re both married. To different people! How are we supposed to go back to the way we were before, huh? You’re crazy.” I have to hold my head high.