by Nuril Basri
“But I guess if it were your own child, it’d be different, ya?”
“Maybe,” I say, uncertain.
“Come, let’s make a baby?”
“Hish! Crazy!” I say, standing up right away. I leave the kitchen and everything in it. Crazy person!
Laughing, he calls after me: “Now will you stop calling me ‘Mr Inu’?”
“You can forget it, Mr Inu!” I shout back, from inside the bathroom. “And wash the dishes. I cooked!”
Make a baby? Hah! Dirty pervert. Tonight I’ll have to sleep with five layers of underwear on.
Okay. I’ll admit, I’ve been into cooking more, recently. I’m enjoying it. Not cooking for Inu; cooking for myself. At work I’ve been Googling recipes in between calls to police stations and investigators. I think cooking is becoming a hobby. The thing I worry the most about is adding too much salt. I always hold back, so the food tends to taste a bit bland to me. But Inu seems to like it that way. You don’t know how tiring it is, working and keeping up a hobby. Every day is a struggle, I swear. But Inu does appreciate me cooking, even if he doesn’t like it. And that feeling—that somebody values what I’m doing—satisfies me, makes me happy. I always smile to myself when Inu asks to pass one of the dishes. He’ll go: “Mm, yum!” or something tacky like that. And I’ll just act cool.
One day Hans phones me at night, as I’m stirring some mushroom soup. He is shocked and upset when I tell him what I’m doing. He’s never tasted my cooking, and here I am serving Inu food? I don’t feel like defending myself.
Instead I say: “You’re the same. Doesn’t pregnant Astrid feed you her cooking every day?
“She doesn’t cook!” Hans says, frustrated.
I can only laugh aloud. Here is something I can do that Astrid can’t. Ah, happy days. Haha.
“So hurry up and divorce that pregnant woman and come marry me. I’ll cook for you every day,” I say, sniggering.
And at that very moment Inu appears behind me.
“Who’s pregnant and has to get married?” he asks.
“Hah, no one, nothing.” I end the call with Hans right away. I busy myself at the stove. But I feel his eyes boring into my back. He is a live grenade; he could explode any minute.
“Anyway, it’s girl-talk! Why are you eavesdropping?” I say, turning around. “Go shower, hurry up!” and I shoo him away. Phew. Nearly had my heart explode, right there. But it looks like nothing has changed. Inu is not angry or even suspicious. We’re still together, husband and wife, in domestic bliss.
*
At dinner, every evening we talk about different things. I always ask him about what or whose pictures he’s taken and he tells me. At bedtime, sometimes, he brings his laptop in; editing photos or something, he says. Maybe he’s just pretending and he’s actually looking at porn. That’s surely it. Boys are all the same.
As time goes by I get used to him being there, sleeping next to me. My wall of bolster and pillows is still there of course. But I no longer see him as somebody who’s a danger to me. Something in him is quite reassuring. I even feel comfortable acting cute around him. I mean, with Hans I tend to need to be the smarter, more adult one—the breadwinner, in fact, supporting him. Not that I don’t love Hans. I do! So much! What’s some cash, compared to that? But it’s different, with Inu. And don’t think I’m comparing the two, okay? Hans is still the one for me.
That same week I drop by Hans’ top-up-card counter. Of course I text him first; I’m afraid I’ll see pregnant Astrid there, spoiling my appetite. I am stupefied. Wow. His counter is packed. I see computers, printers; one full display of phone-straps in various colours; another full display of shiny phone casings; trinkets and accessories of all kinds. On the wall he’s put up instant-print photos of smiling, pretty girls. And lots of real girls are crowding around. Teenage girls talking, laughing, whispering. I want to know what all of them are doing here. So I ask Hans.
“Why so many girls?”
“Customers,” he says, calmly.
I’m burning up with jealousy as usual.
“What kind of customers are these, all so flirty?”
“They are customers. They are not here to fool around, they buy top-ups, print their photos,” he says. He’s saying the wrong things. I stare at the girls.
What does that mean, not fool around? Look at them, giggling into their phones, stealing glances, winking at him. Half of them are still in their school uniforms!
“Where’s your pregnant girl?”
“At home, watching some drama,” he says, editing another photo on his computer, readying it for print. “Stop calling her ‘pregnant girl’, will you? It’s rude.”
“So you two have a house of your own, then?” I ask.
“Renting.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding. And I almost say: “Well, Inu has his own house.”
Suddenly Hans gives me a look. “Are you making fun of me?” he says.
What? Did I just say that out loud? “No, no,” I tell him. Though, yes, actually. And I also want to tell him that we’ve just spent a fortune furnishing the new house, and that he should know that Inu can edit photos a million times better than he can. He even takes photos of celebrities! What can you do, Hans? Look at photos of schoolgirls who think they’re so pretty, whose breath still smells of breast milk. Haha!
Okay. I know. When I’m jealous I can be a bit of a bitch. But afterwards I’ll regret it. Have to control myself.
“Whatever. I’m going home. I’m bored here,” I say, turning away and waving down a Bajaj driver, ignoring Hans who wants to send me to the station. So that’s how it goes.
But, as I’m making beef stew that evening, I send him a text.
Babe, sorry about just now.
And he replies immediately.
Mwaaahhh.
How do I not love this boy?
*
The weekend arrives. It is a weekend of disasters. On Saturday evening Ferlita comes over to visit. I’m not sure what she wants. Why is she spending a weekend evening with us? Shouldn’t she be out with her boyfriend or something? I mean, why is this Dian Sastro over, at our house, when we’re in South Tangerang and she lives in central Jakarta? That’s a long way, isn’t it? And it’s impossible that a girl like her doesn’t have a boyfriend.
When I get home—Saturdays are half-days, but I stayed at the office, too engrossed with looking up recipes—I find her sitting on the sofa. All sweetness, she says: “Hi, Ratu.”
Trying to get my shoes off, I say: “Uh, hello.”
Inu should be home too. It’s Saturday. He probably has the day off.
“Where’s Inu?” I ask.
“In the back, making coffee,” she says, smiling.
And now there is an awkward silence because I don’t know what to say. Okay, so this Dian Sastro doppelgänger is spending some time alone with Inu, while I’m away at work. Okay. That’s not a problem for me.
“I just got here,” she tells me. “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, I don’t have your phone number.”
“Oh, no problem,” I say, coolly. Of course I’m not as cool inside. I go over to her, sit down on the sofa, and start massaging my aching heels. Trying to be cool. Why should I have a problem with this, anyway?
I see that there’s a pile of magazines and notes on the table.
“You two have any plans tonight?” Ferlita asks.
I shake my head.
“Really?” she says, eyes bright. “If you do, I don’t want to disturb you two, I can go home.”
“Nothing on tonight,” I tell her, even though I actually wanted to ask Inu to take me to the supermarket. I’ve got a list of ingredients to get.
Inu appears with two cups of coffee. So Ms Ferlita Sastro drinks coffee too? Great.
“I’m only dropping by, I just want to show you a few design options for your house,” she explains. Her smile is truly mesmerising, and her eyes twinkle. So classy and also so alluring. I really do not like her.
/> When Inu puts the two cups on the table, I grab one of them, sip it loudly, greedily. Which is stupid, because all I get out of that is a burnt tongue. Ow! I only want to show Inu or Ferlita, or maybe the world, that I can drink coffee with the rest of the cool, pretty girls. But now I’m sticking my tongue out like some monitor lizard. So not cool! Damn drink from the depths of hell!
“Too hot?” Ferlita asks, concern in her tone. Damn her, pretending to care. She’s probably laughing inside.
I shake my head savagely. Inu only looks on, his expression unreadable.
“Hang on,” he says. “I’ll go make another one.”
“Hhang onh,” I say. “Ih’ll goh changhe clohthes.”
I follow Inu into the kitchen. Take a jug of cold water from the fridge, gulp it all down. Damn it. My tongue feels as if it’s just gone. Totally numb. What isn’t gone is Inu. “She came over by herself,” he says, out of nowhere. “I didn’t ask her to come.”
“Whadheveh,” I say, tongue out. I leave for the bedroom, shut the door and change out of my work suit.
I go back to the living room in shorts and a T-shirt. No way am I dressing up in front of Ferlita. Let her be prettier than me. I don’t care. Inu is on the sofa with her, with his coffee. I sit on the separate settee, take my coffee, blow on it to cool it down, drink it in sips. Yuck. I don’t like coffee.
“I’ve brought some interior design magazines for you to look at. We can choose the ones you like, as a reference,” Ferlita says, handing them around.
I flip through the ones she gives me. Ferlita starts to talk about wall colours: purple and pink; purple and dark red; purple and lime; floral wallpaper or geometric wallpaper. And what about the guest bedroom in blue or dark blue? Okay, I’ve had enough. I’m not the one who’ll be painting these walls. Up to him to decide what colours he wants. Leave me out of it. Whatever. It’s Inu’s house, not mine.
“I’m going out for a while, ya?” I tell Inu and Ferlita.
“Where are you going?” the both of them ask, together. Haha, they suit each other.
“To the supermarket. There are some things I need to get,” I answer.
Ferlita says: “Just give me a few more minutes, there’s just a bit more.”
“But the supermarket closes at nine,” I say. Which is true. I need to get ingredients for meals for the next few days. I’ve got a few recipes I want to try out; I bought some foodie magazines this morning, and I was reading them at work. I can’t wait.
“I’ll take you,” Inu says.
“Oh, no, no, we’ve got guests.”
“Don’t worry about me!” Ferlita says, all smiling eager sincerity. “You two can just go, I’ll just wait for you guys here.” Even though she probably hates me now.
“I’ll go on my own. Won’t be long, the supermarket’s walking distance,” I say, my shoes on. I walk out the gate. Neither Inu nor Ferlita stops me. My pace is like a kangaroo’s run amok. I’m in no mood to change my mind. And I think Inu knows it.
When I say that the supermarket is within walking distance, that isn’t exactly true. I need to take a rental van. It’s a ten-minute journey. There, I go crazy. I thought it wouldn’t take long; I prepared a list of things to get, after all. But in practice, things turn out differently. I’m like a horde of mothers all together. I pick my vegetable produce carefully, compare meat prices, smell the spices; so on. And without realising it I’ve spent an hour at the supermarket. On my way home I suddenly wonder: what could Inu and Ferlita be doing, the whole time I’ve been gone? Nothing, of course. Ms Dian Sastro will guard her honour well. And Inu, even though I used to think of him as your typical male pervert, well, now I know he isn’t that kind of guy. So they haven’t been up to any funny business. Not like I should care if they are, anyway. I don’t love Inu. I need to remember this. Our marriage is fake. Okay? Full stop.
But when I get home, I find them doing something more horrible than I could’ve imagined. I find that they’ve cooked.
“Ratu, we made omelettes,” Ferlita says, all pleased, pointing at the eggs on the table, fluffy and steaming like some French chef’s creation. That gourmet omelette is already half-gone, and I see that Inu’s belly is a little plump under his shirt as if he is full already. I say nothing. “We left half of it for you. You haven’t had dinner yet, no?”
I would’ve been happier if I’d found them having sex rather than this!
“No, no, I haven’t. Wah. Thanks,” I say, trying to keep my cool. I place my giant shopping bags in a corner. I was going to cook such delicious things tonight.
They go back to the sofa together. Talk about suitable paints and appropriate furnishings. I carefully remove my supplies from their plastic bags and arrange them in the fridge. I am in agony. Secretly, I taste Ferlita’s omelette. And, yes, it is so, so good. And suddenly everything is terrible and it makes me sick and I never want to see Ferlita again.
Back in the living room, as I’m trying to butt into their conversation, Inu gets out a house key and hands it to her. I see it, and say nothing.
Then Ferlita looks at her watch, and says: “Oops! Almost
ten o’clock already,” and she gets ready to go.
She apologises to me for disturbing us. She tells me she didn’t mean to. I smile and shake my head. I’m cool. I say: “It’s nothing. You’re no stranger.” And her eyes light up like that Candy-Candy cartoon. We stop a taxi for her. Inu locks the door and I go straight to the bathroom. Wash my feet, brush my teeth, climb into bed. I have no desire to cook anymore. Or eat. Inu gets into bed too. There is the sound of the fan, and night insects.
“Ferlita’s so pretty,” I say, staring at the ceiling.
“Ya,” Inu replies. He’s brought one of the interior design magazines with him to bed and flips through it lazily.
“You two together?” I ask.
“What? No. I’m married, right? How could I be with her,” Inu answers.
His words are like weights on my chest. I feel warm. It is hard for me to breathe.
“No, but, before. You two were together?” I don’t know why this information is so important to me.
“That was before. In kindergarten,” he says, idly.
“And now? It wouldn’t be a problem, whether you want to be with her. Whatever,” I say.
“Why? So that you can also go and be with somebody else?”
My chest shakes. Like an earthquake. Of course it does. I am so tense. So much doubt, anxiety. I don’t want Inu to know I am still seeing my ex.
“Eh, no way. But Ferlita is so pretty, so smart, so good with interior design. How can you not be in love with her?”
“You’re jealous, ya, Ms Ratu?” he asks, mocking.
My face is burning. “Hish! Sorry, ya? Up to you, what you want to do. I don’t care.”
He does not respond. I try to close my eyes. But in my head I hear the sound of his magazine’s pages, flipping, flipping. It is all I can hear. A roaring noise. I want to grab that magazine and fling it into hell.
“What colour do you want the walls?” Inu asks me.
So I say: “Black.” My back is to him. “Then we can buy chalk, and it’ll be like a blackboard.”
“Hish,” Inu says, and then he laughs.
What colours should the damn walls be? I don’t give a damn. Purple and cream would look nice, I think. But whatever. It’s none of my damn business.
The next morning I wake up late on purpose. I don’t want to make Inu breakfast, or lunch or dinner for that matter. I don’t want to cook. Let his stomach go distended from hunger. I wake at 10am, stagger to the sofa in the living room, grab the remote control, switch the channel to some gossip show.
“Hey, I was watching the news,” I hear Inu say, next to me.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice,” I yawn and stretch without a care. I pretend like he’s not really there.
“Going to shower,” I say. I leave the sofa, turning the television off as I go. Haha, he should be fuming by now.
Out of the shower, my phone rings. Mother. So I answer it quickly.
“How are you?” she says.
“Good.”
“Any problems?”
I take a moment, then say: “Everything’s fine.”
“How’s married life with Inu? He’s treating you well?”
“He’s good,” I say, curt.
“I want to come visit you, but your papa is still so busy, he hasn’t had the time.”
“Oh. That’s fine.”
We’re silent on both ends of the line.
“Well, I’m really happy you are doing well. Okay, then. I’ll call again soon,” she says. And that is the end.
At the moment I am angry with Mother. It’s really because of her that I had to get married to Inu. I wouldn’t be in this state if not for her. She needs to know how angry I am, somehow! (This idea comes out of nowhere.) As I’m about to toss my phone it buzzes: a text from a number I don’t know.
Why didn’t you message me? Already told you, right? If there are problems you message me. I know everything about Inu!
I think I know who this is.
Sorry, Nilam. Didn’t have the chance. Nothing has come up yet. Everything is good.
Fine, be like that. Bye.
What’s wrong with her? Maybe she wants to see Inu and me arguing. Scratching each other’s eyes out, or something. My phone rings. Damn it.
“Hello?”
“Where are you? Haven’t heard from you at all.”
Oh, I know this voice.
“Sorry. I’ve been so busy.” Any excuse will do. “Lots of cases, at work. You know, you rarely call me, too.”
“Same as you. I’m in just as bad a place as you are. Married life sucks,” he says, whining.
“Oh, really?”
“But I think being married to you will be nicer,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. So I soften a little.
“Going anywhere today?” Hans asks.
“Don’t know.”
“Let’s go out together. The two of us,” he says.
