Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  Our honeymoon comes to an end. At six in the evening we are back on a train, destined for Jakarta. I sit on a pile of souvenirs. I’ve bought ornamental fans (what I’ll use them for I have no idea); some funny little drums; several pairs of unique sandals; and a few knitted bags I actually really love. I spent a lot of money in Malioboro. Also there is a large plastic bag full of packets upon packets of lanting and other snacks.

  “So many places we didn’t visit,” Inu says.

  “That’s good. We’ve got a reason to come back again,” I say, cheerfully. What am I saying? It’s not as if Inu and I are going to last, are we? Don’t I want to split up with him? I mean, why do I think I’ll be back in Yogyakarta with him? Am I going to keep this up forever? This sham marriage?

  As the train begins to move, Inu is still hunched over his giant camera, checking his pictures. I munch on my snacks and peek at the photos. After a while, I begin to nod off. When the conductor comes around with pillows I wave my arms for his attention and grab two pillows. I’m not making the same mistake I made last time. No wet islands on Inu’s T-shirt. Oh no.

  So I fall asleep. I don’t quite remember what time it was we arrived at Senen, in central Jakarta. From there it is a taxi all the way home. I don’t want to know how much money Inu spent on the whole thing, but I do know I slept soundly throughout. Thinking about it, I feel like he should’ve spent more. It is his honeymoon, too. Why not take an airplane, to some place fancier? Not that I didn’t enjoy our trip. Well, enough of that. All I wanted to do was make Hans angry. A bonus if I got an enjoyable honeymoon too.

  When we get home we both sleep like the dead. I don’t even bother to build my pillow-wall. We wake up at midday the next day because we’re hungry. Our faces identically crisscrossed, our stomachs identically gravelly. My phone is ringing. It’s Mother.

  “Hello?” I answer, growling.

  “So how was your honeymoon?” she asks. How does she always know about my life? And always such a busybody about the details.

  “Okay,” I say. “Nice,” I add.

  “Why didn’t you come to Bali? Why honeymoon only in Jogja…”

  “It was nice in Jogja, lots of Javanese people,” I say.

  “You always go against everything I say. You should ask him for another honeymoon. Then come to Bali. It’s great over here!”

  “Ma, why’re you calling? I just got back. Still so tired. I’m going back to sleep.” I end the call. I’ll call her back when I’m more awake, I think.

  The phone rings again. I reject the call. And it rings again. And I reject the call again. This happens about five times. Then a text comes in. I yawn, and then I read it.

  What are you doing? Why no answer? Am I disturbing you?

  A text from Hans. I didn’t know he was the one calling.

  Just got back. I’ll call you later.

  “Who was that?” Inu wants to know.

  “The ex,” I say, not thinking. Sudden, shocking silence. What the hell did I just say? Damn my damn big mouth.

  Inu doesn’t comment. He just shambles off to the bathroom to shower. I tear open a packet of snacks and start munching on lanting. Because I’m starving. I shower after him. After my shower I see him eating my lanting on the sofa in front of the television. I go out to look for proper food. I find only a gado-gado seller. I buy two packets.

  At the dining table, eating gado-gado, Inu tells me: “Let’s go to a café this evening, Ms Ratu.”

  “Us?”

  “Ya. You, and me. The two of us. Go to a café,” he says.

  “What’s at this café?” I ask, not asking him which café

  he means.

  “My friends who couldn’t make it to the wedding the other day want to meet us, to congratulate us.”

  “Oh, so you do have friends after all?” I say. I didn’t think he had friends, I thought he was like me.

  “Not many, just some work and university mates,” he says.

  So this boy has colleagues and university mates? News to me. Thought he was just an ojek driver, paid to get hitched to me. Some kampong boy. His friends are all thugs and gangsters and wild, cheap women, probably. Might be real interesting to meet people like that.

  “Sounds good. Who knows, they might give us some wedding gifts, too, ang pows maybe,” I say, stuffing my mouth.

  “You only think about money, don’t you?” he says, mocking.

  This really offends me. “Ah, so what? Money’s important, you know? People work to the bone to earn some money. When we got married, weren’t you paid? With money?” I grunt.

  “What?” It’s like he didn’t hear me.

  “Whatever, I don’t want to talk about it.” People are sensitive about money, and I’m not about to waste daylight arguing with him. Inu does as I say: he doesn’t mention money again. Money is the root of all evil. People all around the world kill each other every day because of money.

  “I don’t think I’ll go, Mr Inu. Too tired,” I declare.

  Inu stops eating.

  “My friends know I’ve married a human being. If I go alone, what do I tell them? That I’ve married some jinn?” His voice is even, but in a higher octave. I’ve gone too far and he’s angry with me.

  “Okay, okay. I was only joking,” I say, a little afraid. And, enthusiastically: “What time are we going?”

  He’s curt. “Four, Ms Ratu.”

  *

  So at 4pm I am already showered and all done up. I don’t want to look too pretty (I’m not pretty, anyway). I just wear a little powder and some lip gloss. Ordinary jeans (not tight, not sexy) and an ordinary T-shirt (not tight, not sexy), as well as a jacket (not sexy). If I tie my hair in a ponytail, I’ll look quite macho, quite tomboyish and plump. But I think this is casual, cool. The rebel girl look. Just need to add Converse and black eye-liner, and I’ll be your cool fat emo girl. Hehe.

  Not in a mood for prettying up, to be honest. I’m only meeting Inu’s friends. What’s so special about that? I get out of the bedroom with my everyday handbag. I’ve got a handkerchief, a Maybelline compact (it’s getting thin), some perfume (it’s almost empty) and a cheap scarf I got off a peddler on a pedestrian bridge in Jakarta. With those sandals from Jogja, I’m done. Inu comes out in a crumpled black T-shirt under a crumpled shirt, with jeans and shoes that also somehow look crumpled. As crumpled as his hair and face.

  We leave on his motorbike. The café is in south Jakarta. Quite a distance from the house, and when we get there my hair is like a loud, suspended explosion. The café looks chill, exclusive, expensive. There’s a live band playing smooth Western music. We sit down. Inu looks for his friends as I flick through the menu.

  A few minutes later a guy comes into the café calling Inu’s name. He gives me a look. I’m still trying to choose my drink—between Lychee Punch and Crystal Bubbles.

  Inu introduces his friend, “This is Hendritian.” I look at the guy, then shake his hand. Looks okay, doesn’t seem too rough, and he’s got a gentle mouth. Shirt a little messed up, but not sloppy. Not one of Inu’s loan shark buddies then. So what kind of buddy is this Hendri guy? I’ve no idea.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Hendri smiles at me. He says that the rest are on their way. I’m still trying to decide what to eat. Steak? Burger with fries? Nasi goreng with beef ribs? Hmm, everything looks great from the pictures.

  “What’s it like living with Inu?” Hendri asks all of a sudden.

  I turn around and say: “What?” That comes out rougher that I’d thought. Hendri is a little taken aback. What I don’t expect is Inu kicking me under the table. “Ow!” I cry. I don’t know why Inu is upset with me, but kicking me under the table, that’s kind of silly? Ha. I’m trying not to laugh.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” I ask Hendri, extra politely.

  “Er, what’s it like living with Inu?” Hendri repeats.

  “Mmm, sometimes it’s quite strange. He likes to kick me under the table if I’m rude to his friends!” I r
eply, snickering. I see Inu’s eyes bug out, angrily. But I can’t stop laughing, I don’t know why. Does he want me to be polite like some royal princess? I’m not his princess.

  My order arrives. That’s a relief. At least there are some things I understand, like this lychee punch. And you won’t believe me, but after a few more minutes more people arrive. I think they are random customers but they come over and say hi to Inu, and they all start looking at me. Not one or two people. One or two dozen people. Some girls among them. And that, in the end, is the thing that bothers me. None of them look like your typical gangster moll, not like I’d imagined. These girls are young and fashionable. I really regret wearing these worn jeans and T-shirt. Ugh, I look like an old ondel-ondel doll next to these fashionistas.

  Then she appears. You can tell she thinks she looks like Dian Sastro—and, ya, she does look like Dian Sastro. She’s got such a smile. She sits right in front of Inu. I sit at his side, sucking on my lychee. Not looking at Inu, the girl holds her hand out to me.

  “Ferlita. Call me Fey,” she says, smiling. She’s got such a smile. And such a stylish look. Very simple: a plain tank-top, a striped skirt and a pair of flats. Wavy hair in a pink clip. Ya, she really does look like Dian Sastro. I look like a jumbo-size blue barrel.

  “So pretty! Just like Asri Welas, you know, Asri Welas? ‘Sabtu, minggu, setengah satu!’” She’s so pretty even when she’s clapping out that silly Asri Welas catchphrase.

  I feel offended. I look like Asri Welas? Not that I think Asri Welas isn’t good-looking—she’s got an exotic look. But she’s so thin! This girl is mocking me!

  “Thanks!” I reply, all smiles. Quietly I button my jacket up so nobody can see my stupid shabby T-shirt underneath. Especially not this Ferlita Fey girl.

  “Why do you look so crumpled?” she asks Inu. That tone of hers, all care and concern.

  “This is my usual,” he replies. “Just like before.”

  “Wow. So your marriage really changed nothing, ya?”

  Inu and I sit there, silently.

  Then Inu mutters: “Nothing,” at the exact moment I say: “A lot has changed!”

  We look at each other. And everybody at the table looks at us.

  “Eh, so funny, you’ve just married so of course you guys are still a bit confused, ya?” Ferlita says with her pretty face.

  Inu and I sigh, relieved. The rest of my order appears, steak and a whole mountain of fries. Now I feel terrible. I’m the only one who’s ordered food. I don’t dare to eat. Pretty Ferlita, full of poise, orders a bowl of salad. Enough, she says. Damn it. The salad comes in five minutes. I’m so stressed out: here I am with my big steak and this Dian Sastro-lookalike with her slim figure is only eating a bowl of leaves?

  “You’ve got an appetite, ya?” Ferlita asks, smiling at me.

  “We-well, not really, just hungry,” I reply. What does she mean, saying something like that? She must be mocking me. I notice that Hendri is working hard to get Ferlita’s attention. But she never once looks in his direction. Poor thing! A new girl arrives at our table. This girl is the polar opposite of Ferlita. I feel so much better with her here.

  “Hi!” she says, sitting down and scooting to Inu’s side, shoving him roughly. “Where’s your wife, Inu? Want to see,” she says. I feel like I’ve been jabbed in the eyes. What’s up with this girl?

  Greasy face, baggy T-shirt like mine—but way, way baggier. Cardigan like a sack hanging off her. Pants made of cheap cotton. Shoulder-length hair, messy and tied back. She’s not focusing on anybody.

  “This one,” Inu replies, nodding at me.

  “Hi,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She grabs it, shakes and shakes for a second, then pulls away quick as anything. So weird. Not like I’ve got a rash on my hand, or anything? Why is she acting all afraid?

  “Nilam. Inu’s cousin,” she says, flatly.

  “Oh,” I say, nodding. I didn’t know Inu had any relatives.

  “That steak looks good. I want a steak, too, but Inu has to pay for it,” Nilam says, pointing at my plate.

  “Just order it,” Inu says.

  This Nilam girl is so odd. And Ferlita is so friendly with her. The two of them are both so strange.

  “So both Fey and Hendri are here. You two together?” Nilam asks, no tact at all.

  “Eh, no, no,” Ferlita replies.

  “Excuse me, I need to use the washroom,” I say, slinging my handbag over my shoulder.

  Nilam says: “I’m coming along.”

  In the toilet I hurriedly touch up my face. Nilam disappears into a cubicle. Peeing, probably. I polish my whole face with Maybelline. Don’t want to look ugly. I really regret coming here, in this outfit. I should’ve worn a dress and heels. Ugh, I feel so sorry for myself. I take out my zebra-print scarf and tie it around my neck. Maybe it’ll lend me some class.

  “You cold? Why put on a shawl?” Nilam asks me, coming out, zipping up her pants.

  “No, not cold. Just that I brought it along and it’s a shame not to wear it.”

  “So you’re Inu’s wife,” she says, examining me up and down, frowning oddly. “You look ordinary. Not really pretty.” Then she turns back to the mirror.

  I look at her in disbelief. She said it so simply, attacking my looks like that, so directly, saying I’m not pretty! When she herself is nothing to look at! I mean, just compare her to Ferlita!

  “Whatever.” That’s the only thing that comes out of

  my mouth.

  If that wasn’t Inu’s cousin, I’d have torn her face off already. I leave her at the sink. “Hey, wait!” she calls, coming after me.

  *

  From where I am I see Ferlita and Inu talking. Ferlita is smiling, happy. But as soon as they see me approach, they stop talking. I sit at my spot and begin to carve up my steak. It’s getting cold.

  “Excuse me, I’m going to start,” I say, not waiting for a reply. So I’m not pretty. Why would I need to act pretty? I gobble down the meat. Nilam matches my greed when her dish arrives. Ferlita daintily pushes the leaves around in her bowl. So pretty, so poised. Before I am finished one of our group goes up to the stage, checks the mic. Her name is Bhetsy. We were introduced earlier. (She told me she’s a private nurse. At first I think it’s a euphemism, for like a mistress or something. But looking at her, she really must be a private nurse.) She’s probably going to say something about me, I bet.

  “Check, check, testing, testing. Hi. Good evening,” she says. The café falls quiet; everybody turns to look at her. “Okay. Without further ado, let’s give a toast to the newlyweds over there. The groom is an old friend, and now both of them will be our friends. Raise your glasses, all together now. Cheers! One, two, three, cheers! Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” the room responds, lifting their drinks up.

  “To Ratu and Inugrahadi. May they be a couple forever!” she says. Then she leaves the stage. Everybody claps and smiles at us. I feel myself burning up. Inu grins, joy in his face.

  We leave around eight in the evening, after everybody manages to have a chat with me and Inu. Some of them have brought gifts; I accept these a little hesitantly. Throughout the evening I feel my phone buzz, but I don’t give it a single look. Too busy trying to pretend to smile and make nice with Inu’s friends to check my messages. My shin aches. I think I might be lame, from all the kicks I got from him for being awkward with his friends. We don’t say anything to each other until we get home. Inu locks the door and steps into the living room. I wait for him with my arms folded.

  “What was wrong with you?” I ask him. Shouting.

  “What was wrong with you? Watch your damn manners in front of my friends!” he shouts back.

  “So it’s all my fault?” I say, eyes wide. I’m a little shocked, actually. He’s really angry. My heart is pounding now.

  “Ya! You are so rude!” he says. “Next time please don’t embarrass me,” he adds, softer-voiced. Maybe he feels bad, seeing me so upset.

 
“Mr Inu. How did I embarrass you?” I ask him. I genuinely want to know.

  “Ah, enough! My head hurts,” he says. “I know you don’t like me, but why do you have to make it so obvious to other people?”

  I do not reply. I want to hiss at him—Hish! Hish!—but my mouth is clamped tight. I just look around the empty living room, not daring to meet his glare, full of angry disappointment. He must’ve been holding that in all this while, since the start of the evening. But he kept things up: smiled, joked around. If this is marriage, I want nothing of it. I don’t know who this man is before me. I think this is our first real argument. I leave. Go to the bathroom. Lock the door. Switch on the light. And in there I begin to cry.

  The next morning I don’t want to talk to him, even though Inu sends me to the terminal. Today I will renew the lease on my rental room and grab some clothes from there. Throughout the days of my honeymoon, the boss didn’t ring once. Maybe nothing happened while I was gone.

  When I arrive at the office, I see that this isn’t entirely true. The work is a pile, like Inu’s dirty laundry. All day I’m stuck at my desk, translating, answering letters, doing follow-ups. The boss really respected my holiday, apparently.

  At the end of the day I head to the ATM and onwards to my rental—when I run into Hans. He has been looking for me.

  “You. I’ve called, sent texts. You never answered,” he says.

  “Sorry. I ran out of credit. And out of battery.”

  He frowns. It makes me happy to see Hans. He is fresher-faced, a million times better than Inu can ever be. He’s never shouted at me. Hans and I usually hang out on the sofa by the balcony. But the rental is full of people. Some are back from work. They look up and say hi. I don’t want to bother them, so I ask him into my room. The first thing I do when we get inside is hug him. I hug him because I’ve missed him. Then I kiss him. Kiss him on the lips. (Sure, I feel a little guilty, because I’ve a husband now, but I kiss him anyway.) Hans pulls me towards the bed, but I don’t move. I know he wants more than just a kiss. Hans just sighs when I refuse him. I ignore him. I let go of him, and start taking clothes out of my wardrobe. These will go back with me, to Pamulang.