Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

“It’s like I said. This marriage means nothing. It doesn’t change who I am, how my life is. I am still like before. In love with you, not with that pregnant bitch.”

  “So what are you saying? Your marriage is some kind of part-time job?”

  “No! Not like that. Can’t we just forget about it? Marriage, sure, but you and I are in love with each other.”

  I glare at him. “What the hell? Marriage isn’t a game. You know that? It’s a serious thing!” Wow, I’m one to talk, right?

  “It’s only a formality, babe, for all society to see. But love is just for us, we don’t have to show it to anybody. We can be married to other people, but the one we love? Nobody else has to see that. I’m married to that pregnant bitch. But I love you. Only you. You understand what I’m saying. She’s married my body, but you have my spirit.” He takes a long breath. “And I know your marriage is a sham too. Just you trying to make me angry.”

  I have my mouth open. How dare he! (Even though what he says is completely true.) I cannot say anything. I stay silent a long time.

  “Enough of this. My head is spinning. I don’t want to talk about any of this. You think you can simply come up to me, say you’re sorry and think everything can go back to normal?”

  Hans doesn’t say anything either. I stare into his eyes and he stares back. The way he looks at me, that’s something I only ever get from him. An intense, piercing look, boring into me. That’s the reason I stayed with him those two years (plus he’s a total hunk—only a mental case would let him go).

  “Come on, let me take you home.”

  “I’ve moved. To my husband’s place in Pamulang.”

  “I know.”

  So he’s still interested in me all this time.

  “You’re home?” he asks, flatly.

  “What does it look like?” I reply. Idiot. I’m already in the house, he still has to ask.

  I see Inu trying to cook an egg with his instant noodles. The egg starts bubbling over the lip of the pot; he turns the gas off even though the egg’s not fully cooked. I’m not about to help him with his dinner. I grab a cold Buavita juice box from the fridge and watch.

  “You don’t cook, do you?” I ask him.

  “Yes, I do. That’s what I’m doing,” he says, emptying a seasoning packet over his noodles. I look around. The kitchen is a mess—dirty bowls and plates and pans, an upended thermos. Disgusting slob. But this isn’t my house. I’m only sleeping here out of formality. So, whatever.

  “That’s your dinner?” I ask, nodding at his bowl, making a face.

  “This is what I have,” he says.

  To my estimation, if he keeps up with this diet, eating instant noodles every night, in two to three months time he’ll die of ruptured intestines. Not that I care. It’s his life. I leave to take a shower. And then I lie down.

  “Mr Inu! You sleeping in here tonight? Otherwise I’m locking the door,” I call out.

  “Up to you, Ms Ratu, it’s all the same to me.”

  “If you want to sleep in here I need to prepare a divider on the bed,” I say, arranging the bolster and pillows into the middle of the mattress.

  “Fine, go ahead,” he says.

  “But I need to see you fall asleep first. Don’t want you groping me while I’m asleep,” I say.

  “If that’s the case just sleep after me,” he calls from the living room. I hear the television turn on.

  I get the bed ready, with my bolster and pillows, and I wait for him. I lie down. I wait for ten minutes, looking at the ceiling. I feel myself nodding off. But Inu hasn’t come in yet.

  “Hey,” I yell out. “You coming or not?”

  “You said you want to wait for me to sleep first? So wait,” he says. Just like that.

  “So when are you coming in?”

  “I’m watching the match tonight. Maybe 4am? You can wait.”

  “Crazy!” I shout. I get up, charge to the door, stick my head out, stare at him. “Crazy person!” I say. Then I slam the door and turn the lock. Damn him. If I’d known I would’ve turned in earlier. How dare he play with me like that! Crazy, low-class, ojek driver!

  I really try to work up the courage to sleep alone tonight. I toss and turn and squeeze my eyes shut. But in this room I think I can feel the presence of spirits or terrible witch-women. All watching me. In the end, for the second time, I give in. I grab my pillow and bolster, wrap myself in my bedsheet blanket. I drag myself out into the living room. I stand next to Inu, grunt at him to move to the other side. He flings me a look of resentment then scoots over. I put the bolster on the middle seat between us. Then I settle into my side of the sofa like an oversized cat. This feels pretty nice. It is cooler, too. Turns out this shabby sofa is quite comfortable to sleep in, even though it seems too small for me.

  “I’ll sleep here until you’re done watching football. Don’t you dare try anything,” I growl, curling up, covering myself with the blanket. “Turn the volume down, it’s too loud.” I hear Inu hiss. But the cheering crowd in the television doesn’t cheer as noisily as before. How does he expect me to sleep to yells of: “Hooo…haaa… Goaaalll!” And so I fall asleep.

  *

  If you were in my place you’d be shocked too. I wake up the next morning in bed. Yep—not on the sofa where I fell asleep. Oh God, how did I get here, from there? I look around. Inu is next to me, snoring slightly. In a state of dread, I feel for my clothes. All intact! Thank God. I yank away the bolster between us. I kick Inu several times.

  “Mr Inu. Get up. Get up!” I shout, roughly. I kick him again and he just rolls over, away from me. “Get! Up!” I yell. I am so angry. I wiggle closer. The first thing that comes to mind is to pull his hair, so that is I what I do. I yank it as hard as I can.

  He screams: “Argh!” So now he wakes. Looks at me. His eyes are red.

  “What?” he says, hoarse-voiced and annoyed.

  “Why am I here? I slept on the sofa last night!”

  “I moved you here,” he says, yawning, closing his eyes again.

  “Moved? How?”

  “I moved you. You didn’t want to be left alone, right? I tried to wake you after the game but you didn’t want to. So I had to move you.” He puts his pillow to his face. Afraid of my morning-face, probably, or my morning breath. How rude!

  “How did you move me?” I ask again, trying to pull his pillow away. He fights me.

  “Dragged you,” he tells the pillow.

  “Crazy!”

  “Whatever.”

  How dare he talk back to me. “Hey!” I yell.

  “Hoh!” he responds.

  “Screw you!” I spit out. I feel like holding the pillow down on his face. Holding it there until he struggles, desperate for air, until his suffocates, then stops, stiff on the mattress. (Just a fantasy. Not like I’ll really do it; I’m not that psychotic.) Inu gives no further response, probably fell back asleep. I jump out of bed and into the bathroom. I take a long shower. Brrr, I feel so dirty! He probably carried me last night. I’m sure of it. From the sofa to the bedroom. That image—me in his arms—distresses me. I unconscious, and Inu touching my body. How did he manage it actually? Me being so big? Maybe he really did drag me over.

  After the shower, I look at the clock and see that it is already quite late. No time for breakfast. I dress quickly, glaring at Inu still holding a pillow to his face all this while. As long as he didn’t see me put on my panties and bra—not because they are ugly; only because I don’t want him to see my putting them on, half-naked. I towel my hair off in a hurry. It is definitely not fully dry. As I am stuffing shoes and hair clamps into a Zara paper bag, Inu gets up. He shuffles out of the room. I totally ignore him. As I come out and head to the door, I see him pushing his motorcycle out, starting it up. Where’s he going, so early? Buying nasi uduk?

  “Get on, Ms Ratu,” he says.

  So I get on. I was planning on taking an ojek. But if Inu is offering a ride, why shouldn’t I take it? Not that I don’t feel the least bit g
uilty. He was up until 4am last night, watching football—now he is up at six, sending me off. His eyes are like Cyclops’, from the X-Men. I look at him. Maybe better if he just goes back to bed. Why is he bothering to take me? Whatever. Free ride.

  Getting off at Ciputat, I hear my mouth say something I totally cannot control and do not intend: “Thank you.” I glance at him, once, then feel shy, and run up into the bus.

  I forgot: the boss signed off on my leave, starting today. Damn it.

  The events of the night before need to be wiped from my memory. But I wouldn’t have managed to—if I didn’t have something to distract me. On the bus I get a text from Hans.

  How are you, babe?

  It makes me super happy and I forget all about Inu. I want to reply to his text immediately—but I’d look desperate. So I leave it for ten minutes, and let myself be jostled about on the bus. Only then do I reply:

  Good.

  Ten beats later another text comes in.

  You still angry?

  I wait a whole minute.

  What do you think?

  Thirty-four beats later.

  Aw, babe, don’t be angry. I said I’m sorry. Are you gonna make me beg some more?

  I wait two minutes this time.

  Not angry.

  It’s a great feeling, fooling with Hans. I type out my replies, grinning all the while.

  He says:

  Want to meet you.

  Can’t be bothered.

  Wait for you at the south gate after work. I miss you.

  And I take twenty minutes before replying.

  You can wait until you go bald. I’m off today. On leave.

  Out of the bus and walking towards the office (intending to head back to my rental) I run into Hans, lying in wait like some village bandit. Before I can duck and hide, he catches sight of me. I’d look like some crazy fat girl, running in my heels, so I have to sashay past him, pretending I don’t see. He’s looking better. Not like the mess he was yesterday.

  “I love you, you know?” he says, trailing after me like some street vendor.

  “Aw, thanks,” I reply, cool. What I really want to do is simper and tell him I love him too—but he did leave me. I can’t forgive him so easily.

  “That’s your answer? So you don’t love me anymore?”

  he asks.

  “It’s not that,” I get him to follow me to the chilli tofu stall by the road. Hans looks like he hasn’t eaten.

  “What is it, then?”

  I shrug.

  “You’re still angry?”

  “Honestly? Yes!” I say. I think I’m finally learning how not to be a silly girl, easily swayed by sweet words from a hottie. Yes, I love Hans, but I think I have the right to stay angry at him a little longer.

  “Aren’t we even?” he says, swallowing some tofu. It isn’t my favourite food, too spicy.

  “How are we even?” I ask, doing my Dian Sastro-style angry voice from one of her romance melodramas.

  “I’m married. But so are you. Even.”

  And suddenly I am really Dian Sastro-style angry. “Hey, I didn’t get my husband pregnant, did I? I never cheated on you!”

  “I’ve changed, babe. Believe me.”

  “Changed, my foot!” I shout at him. I stand up and start walking away.

  “I’ve changed! Really! Believe me!” he yells after me. I hurry, holding my hands over my ears. How humiliating, us being seen in public like this.

  I get onto the pedestrian bridge in front of Plaza Indonesia, at the Hotel Nikko. At the bus stand in front of the hotel I wait for the bus back to Ciputat. It takes two minutes for the bus to arrive. Part of me hoped that Hans would try to chase after me—but he is preoccupied with his chilli tofu. I get on the bus.

  Even back then we would argue about the smallest things: my nails were too long; he wore a T-shirt I hated. I used to break up with him every week, swear that I’d have nothing to do with him ever again. I’d mock him, remind myself of all his failings, how callous he is, how he hurts me. I even spat on his picture, once. But as I soon as I saw him again, I’d forgive him. Always. I’d wipe my spit from his picture. That was how we were. Father used to think I’d been somehow bewitched because I just couldn’t get away from Hans. Hah. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore. Right?

  I think about my parents. Why haven’t I heard from them? I got married a few days ago. Don’t they want to know how their daughter is doing? Where I live now? If I’m eating? Whether I’m still alive? There in the bus I decide to call them. It rings a long time before somebody answers.

  “Sorry, I’m busy. Heading home but don’t know the way,” Mother says, without preamble.

  “What? Don’t know the way? Mama, where are you?”

  “I’m on the way back to the hotel,” she answers.

  “Hotel?” I am confused.

  “I’m still in Bali with your father but I’ve been walking around on my own. Now I’m lost.”

  I’m shocked. “Bali?”

  “We’re on holiday,” Mother says. “Don’t worry. I haven’t seen any dogs around. Okay, dear. I’ll talk to you later?”

  The dead tone goes: toot toot toot…

  I can’t even think! My parents, in Bali? What are they doing? Aren’t they afraid of all those dogs with rabies? Here I am issuing travel advisories to Korean tourists, warning them against Bali. And my own parents are holidaying there? How could they! They are there and I’m here, with Inu? I want a holiday, too!

  One more thing. What am I doing on a bus to Ciputat this early? It is only ten in the morning. I’m a mess. Wasn’t I supposed to head back to my room in Jakarta?

  *

  “No work today?” Inu asks. I am stretching myself on the bed. It is late morning.

  “Yes there is. I’m just going in later,” I lie. Yes, I’m on leave but I need to pretend. Keeps me free to do what I want.

  I am in the bathroom, cleaning up. I put on some casual clothes. I pretend to pack office wear into my Zara paper bag (it is crumpled, I should really throw it away). Inu is also ready: baggy T-shirt, loose pants, jacket a size too big, loose shoes. Overall bagginess.

  “Come on,” I hurry him.

  “Just a minute,” he says, clipping his helmet on, rolling his bike out. “Here’s the key,” he says, dangling it in front of me. I grab it, shut the door, lock it.

  “You made a duplicate already?” I ask him.

  “Didn’t have the time. When you get home just text me.” When I arrived home yesterday morning I found the house locked, so I rang Inu and yelled at him. “Why the hell is the house locked? I can’t get in!” I said. He rushed home to open it up for me. He asked me why I was home early. I didn’t bother answering. (I didn’t know how to explain it, to be honest. So I just pretended I was angry.)

  In Jakarta I head straight for Plaza Indonesia, to an ATM machine. Withdraw some cash. Then back to my rental. I’m paid up to the end of the month. Maybe I’ll keep renting, too. This is good—a refuge for when Pamulang gets too much. I love my little rented room. I’m been here several years already. When I get in I lie in my own bed and munch on the snacks I bought on the way. And then fall asleep.

  At noon my phone buzzes. A text from Hans. I read it with eyes wide open.

  Miss you.

  I’m off today. At my rental.

  An invitation. But not too much of an invitation—I don’t want him to feel too pleased. If it was an out-and-out invitation I would’ve said:

  I’m at my rental, come over?

  That’d feel too cheap. This is subtler and I think he’ll get it. Sure enough, a moment later my phone buzzes again.

  I’m coming over right now.

  See? I knew it. We don’t need to spell things out. We understand each other perfectly.

  When Hans appears I ask him up. I am still annoyed at what happened yesterday. But when I see him now—I’m not going to lie—I’m happy. We sit together on the balcony. The building is quiet. It’s the aftern
oon, everyone’s at work.

  “I sold my motorcycle,” Hans says.

  “What?” I say, surprised.

  “Yeah. I was going to pawn it, but what I would get from that was too little. I’d have to work double to get it back. So I sold it,” he sighs.

  “Why did you sell it?” I ask, intrigued. That bike meant so much to him.

  “I told you. I want to change. I don’t want to be like a kid anymore, forced to depend on other people.”

  “So you sold your bike? How are you going to get around? Won’t you have to depend on people even more now?” Plus, I won’t get rides from him anymore, which is disappointing.

  “I bought a second-hand one. Only cost me two million…I was getting bored of the old one, anyway.”

  “So what did you do with the remainder of the bike money?” Hans and I used to argue about money. We are weird when it comes to money. Even though this money isn’t mine, I’ve gotten used to the idea that Hans’ money is my money. And my money is his money. No idea why.

  “Babe, I’m starting a business,” he says, all proud of himself. I like it when he calls me “babe”. It makes me feel like I’m not so heavy.

  “Another business?” I say, wary. I can almost see him at the end of the week whining and complaining about all kinds of things.

  “My own business,” he says. “I can do it, and I’m not going to ask anyone for help, not even you.” It’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  I can’t believe it. Hans isn’t capable of doing anything serious with his life, on his own (except getting girls pregnant, maybe). He’s got no drive. He always needs some sort of outside motivation. I had to keep pestering him, to do this or that. He’s like a pig. Just walks straight ahead. Won’t turn this way or that, until he hits a wall. It was me who had to get him to turn around whenever he needed to. Ever since we started going out.

  “So what sort of thing are you going to do? Another investment? Are you going to sit at some cybercafé? Sell poker chips?”