Love, Lies and Indomee

by Nuril Basri

  “Sure.”

  I tell Inu that I am going home to Bogor. And Inu tells me he needs to shoot photos at some big motor race or something today, and will only be home in the evening. We are in agreement then. We’re going our separate ways today. Before I leave Inu informs me that Ferlita might come over to do some work on the house; he gave her a set of keys. And I say, yes, fine. So I lied to him. I wonder if Inu might phone my parents to check whether I’ve really gone to see them. But why should I care how he feels? I don’t care whether he gets angry or not.

  In the end I meet Hans at my rental in Jakarta. What a hunk. I almost kiss him as soon as I see him. But I hold back. I’m not that easy, okay. Bored hanging in the room, he asks me to follow him out. We take the busway. Do you know where we go? We go to the National Monument. Haha. I am so happy. It is full of couples, holding hands, walking around. Full of children running, peddlers calling, trying to attract our attention. Full of people—but nobody will care about us holding hands here.

  Honestly, Hans and I never talk much. I am happy just to be with him, and be seen with him. They are all jealous of me, I’m sure, the girls we walk past. I’m sure that some of them grumble about how lucky I am. I want to squeeze myself to him, hold him tight. As we wander around, Hans’ phone rings. He answers right away.

  “What is it? Where are you now? Okay, I’m coming.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him. The call has him looking worried.

  “Astrid,” he replies.

  “What about her?” I ask him, trying my best to feign the slightest concern.

  “Her stomach hurts. I need to go home now,” Hans tells me, tugging me to pick up my pace.

  “Hurts how?”

  “I don’t know. She’s the pregnant one.”

  And so we are back on a busway, even though it’s still early afternoon and I’m far from satisfied. He’s a picture of anxiety. And me? In my mind I’m imagining the worst, most horrific things. Maybe pregnant Astrid slipped and fell, and she’s miscarried. Or she’s eaten too much young pineapple and she’s miscarried—I’ve heard that miscarriage is what happens when you eat too much young pineapple. May that be what really happened, so Hans can quickly ditch her and then get together with me. Amin.

  I decide not to head back to my rental. I’ll go home, to the house in Pamulang. Cook a good dinner. A special one. I’ll spend the whole evening in my kitchen. When I get back, at around five, I have my key in my hand, but it turns out that the door isn’t locked. I push it open. I call: “Hello?”

  It’s Ferlita who appears. “Oh, hi!” she says, peeking from the kitchen. She has pieces of coloured paper in her hand. I keep my cool; Inu warned me about this. Why am I surprised?

  “Hi,” I say.

  “I’m trying to pick a good colour for the kitchen walls. What colour do you like?”

  I go over to her and purse my lips and pretend to think. “I’m not so hung up about the colour, you decide,” is what I finally say. I open the fridge for some cold water.

  “When will the painters be coming?” I ask her.

  “Mmm, how about painting it ourselves?” Ferlita says.

  “What do you mean? You can do it?”

  And she says: “Why not? The three of us, me, you, Inu, and we could invite Nilam or Hendri along. It’ll be fun!”

  I don’t reply. I mean, shouldn’t this painting work be handed over to professionals? If we do it ourselves chances are it’ll turn out blotchy or ugly to look at.

  “Saves money, too,” she says.

  Good point. In that case, I agree.

  “Can,” I say.

  And then I step into the bathroom, to pee. That’s when I see the washing machine open, like it’s just been used. And the pile of Inu’s clothes—the one always on the bathroom floor—it’s not here anymore. I hurry up and finish and go back to Ferlita, acting cool as I can.

  “Did you use the washing machine?” I ask her, cautiously.

  “Oh, ya,” she says, smiling like nothing’s the matter. “Washed Inu’s clothes for him. Also wanted to wash yours. But I thought you might not like it? So I didn’t.”

  “Sorry, you washed Inu’s clothes? Why?”

  “No reason. I’m used to doing it. Used to do it all the time,” she says. Like it’s nothing.

  I cannot think anymore. I just don’t get it. Don’t know what to say. This woman just washed my husband’s clothes. Why? What kind of woman does that?

  “Oops,” she says, looking at her watch. “Evening already! I’ll head home, ya? I’ll come over again tomorrow. I’ll bring a few things, accessories, brighten things up here a bit. Say hi to Inu for me, okay?” she says, putting on her shoes.

  I just nod and nod, not thinking.

  After she is gone, I check the cupboard. And you will not believe what she did. She ironed his clothes. She even touched his underwear. They are all folded, neat, in a little stack. Inu comes home around seven in the evening. I only cook him fried eggs. He eats, anyway. Drenches the eggs in sweet soya sauce, and swallows them down like he’s starving. I start to feel guilty. I should’ve made him something nicer. But I’m supposed to be furious here. I don’t talk to him at all.

  The next day I leave for work as usual. The Monday traffic is terrible; when I get to the office I’m nearly late. All that’s not important, I won’t talk about it. I spend the whole day sitting at my desk, mostly daydreaming about what I’ll make when I get home. Tonight I’ll make Inu something really nice. To make up for my sad eggs the day before. But you won’t believe what I find waiting for me at home, that evening. Inu and I arrive around the same time. He gets home five minutes before me. The door is open. The light is on. And there is a delicious aroma, wafting from the kitchen.

  I march into the house and find Ferlita ladling her final dish onto a plate. My mouth hangs open. There’s a whole array of dishes. I can barely believe she’s made so much. It’s like a restaurant meal, or a meal like in one of those glossy cooking-oil ads you see on TV. I stare at sauce-dipped prawns, arranged in circular symmetry, each in its own nest of green, flowery garnishing.

  “You cooked?” I ask her.

  “Ya. I was here since lunchtime, didn’t have anything else to do, so I thought I’d cook for you,” she explains. “This is okay, right?”

  I do not respond. I only stare at the food.

  “Ya, I mean, it’s better than just eating eggs alone, you might get boils,” she continues, smiling so wide her eyes are nearly closed.

  I turn to Inu. He is red-faced. He doesn’t dare look at me. I can smell the sulphurous smell of a conspiracy. So, Inu’s been complaining about me to her? Damn him.

  “I brought some decorations for the living room. Did you see?” Ferlita asks me.

  I nod. Pots, jars, assorted ceramics, each with an arrangement of dried flowers and gnarled sticks. And yellow hall lights. Whatever.

  “You two please go ahead. I would like to take a shower, no need to wait for me,” I say. And I spend about half an hour in the bathroom. I lather my whole body in bubbles, and I scrub and scrub and scrub. I try to scrape callouses from my heels, put on a hair mask, clean my ears—basically I do everything, so that I take as long as possible. Ferlita has to rap on the door and yell: “I’m going! Goodnight!”

  And I say: “Right!” from inside the bathroom.

  Finally I get dressed. I feel fresh, like a bloom of perfume. I decide I will eat. There is still so much left on the table, all beautiful, all mouth-watering. But I decide to cook some instant noodles instead. After that I go straight to bed. Inu is there, on the bed, already.

  As soon as I see him there I say: “Please wash up, ya, Mr Inu? After you’ve eaten?”

  “Okay,” he says, fiddling with his laptop again. Looking through the day’s photos, I think?

  “So Ferlita is your domestic helper, is she?” I ask him.

  “What?” he says, blindsided.

  “Ya. You are used to having her wash your clothes?” I say.r />
  “Wait. She washed my clothes? I thought you washed my clothes! How was I to know?”

  “She also ironed all your clothes. She treats you very well, Mr Inu.”

  Inu slams his laptop shut. “I never asked her to wash my clothes. Or iron them, even,” he tells me.

  “She is used to it, probably. From when you two were together, before, from when you two were living together.”

  “What’s with you? Fey and I never lived together. And she never washed my clothes.”

  “No need to lie,” I snarl.

  “Who’s lying?”

  “And you complained to her when I made you fried eggs for dinner. You damn crybaby. You are trying to humiliate me!”

  “I never complained. She asked me what I had for dinner. I don’t mind eating fried eggs for dinner. And I would never want to humiliate you!”

  “You don’t understand. I have to travel so far, just to get to work. You don’t know what my job is like. You need to understand why I can’t spend all that time cooking you a feast, like she can.”

  “I’ve never compared you and Fey, okay?”

  “I know she’s smarter than me. A better cook. Nicer than me. Not fat like me. Prettier than me. So why did you marry me? Why not just marry her?” My mouth cannot stop because if it stops my eyes will start to tear.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Don’t pretend like you care!” I scream at him.

  “Are you still jealous?”

  “Ah, who the hell is jealous? Enough! No more talking. I need to sleep!” And I roll around. Damn it! Why should I be jealous? Really, why should I? All I’m thinking is, Ferlita’s not playing fair. She knows Inu is my husband. It’s not right, what she’s doing.

  But, really, why should I care? I should be thankful somebody wants to wash his clothes, cook for him so I don’t have to. So stupid of me to get so angry.

  My eyes start to tear a little anyway.

  The next day something strange happens. At work I am drowning in case files when a colleague from the consular visa department calls me over. Tells me somebody is here to see me, at the visa counter. Half-distracted I just nod and go over. Most of the people that come to see me are investigators or police officers with reports or official letters and such things. This time my visitor is no cop.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask, eyes wide with shock, heart skipping beats.

  “No reason. Just wanted to see where you work,” Inu says, smiling.

  I go red. “It’s nothing special.” I feel the whole visa department’s eyes on us (the counter area is a fairly open space). How did he even find out I work here? Grr.

  “Pretty special,” he says, still smiling.

  “Okay, so you’ve seen it. Done. Go home.” I don’t want to have to introduce my husband to people. I am pushing him off to the exit with both hands; I don’t notice Mr Hong until he calls my name angrily.

  “Ms Ratu! Why are you chasing away visitors?” he asks me, frowning.

  “N-not a visitor, boss, he’s my husband.” Ah, damn my big mouth!

  Boss’ eyes pop out. “Wah. You’re married, ya?” And you can guess what happens next. Everybody on staff comes over to busybody, asking: “Oh, so who’s this?” and so on and so on. Pft. I’m forced to introduce him after all. They seem to like Inu, and he seems happy to meet them.

  And then: a miracle. “Ms Ratu,” the boss says. “You can leave early, if you want.” Oh, praise be to God, it is only eleven and he’s allowing me to knock off? It’s like he’s rescued me from the crush of an anaconda. I give him my most doe-eyed look of gratitude.

  I grab Inu’s arm tight. “Lunch?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. I feel like something expensive today, so Plaza Indonesia it is. My feet drag us both in that direction, towards Kitchenette and Bistro Baron. Usually I go to EX Plaza, or just to the basement, to the cafeteria where the drivers and other staff eat, way cheaper. But Inu is here. I should make use of him.

  I order a Strawberry Kiwi Elixir (35,000 rupiah, not even counting tax) and of course you’ll believe me when I say that drink is heavenly. Pink in colour and not even in a glass but a specially-made jar.

  I order a dish called “Abigail” from the menu, crepes topped with ice cream. As well as “Seaweed and Cheese”—actually fried chips dipped in melting cheese. Everything is delicious. I take my time with every bite, I mmm and mmm like I’m on a gourmet show. (Though all of that doesn’t get me full.) Inu doesn’t order anything, not even a glass of water.

  “Not eating?”

  “I’ll have something later.”

  “Why?” I sneer. “The food is really good here, Mr Inu. Why would you eat elsewhere?”

  And he just laughs.

  On the way out Inu pauses in front of Floe, a flower stand right opposite Kitchenette. You know what he does? He goes in, buys a single perfumed rose, strolls out and hands it to me.

  “Eh! What is this?” I say, trying to be cool. Though I know my face must be bright red right now. I see one or two passers-by look at me in envy. Well, if not in envy, they still look at me. I’ve just eaten at Kitchenette, and now I have a rose, a gift from my boy. (My boy being Inu notwithstanding.) How could I not be happy?

  Inu says goodbye to me at the entrance to my office on the thirtieth floor. He waves at everybody else. I go back to my desk, trying to keep my flower out of sight—a futile effort.

  “Shut up, okay? He’s not that great. Always makes me angry,” I say, before anybody can say anything.

  If I think about, I don’t really know very much about Hans. I know we like to argue. That’s about it. But we love each other, I know that too. I don’t know whether Inu loves me. Ah, it’s a stupid question anyway. Haha. He’s probably acting all sweet now because he knows I’m angry with him. This is some kind apology. That’s how I’ll take it.

  *

  If you think I’m warming up to Inu, if you think I’m falling in love with him, you think wrong. Nothing he’s ever done has ever won me over in any way. I’ve never liked him. I need to remind myself that our marriage is the result of my manipulative parents, and Inu is a hired actor. He’s keeping me away from Hans. I only love Hans and I only have to wait about four months, before we are back together.

  Our lives are pretty much unchanging since that odd lunch date. Ferlita drops by a few times, but does nothing more than rearrange things. She brings more rubbish over—pretty decorations, she says. Not that pretty, to me.

  Then a funny thing happened. This weekend Ferlita brings Hendri and Nilam along. They come ready to paint the house. Nilam is so gung-ho, she starts painting the walls before we can get all the furniture covered with newspaper. It drips all over the sofa. Nilam rattles off a handy tip she’s read on the internet: “We need to use water-based paint. Oil-based paint is no good. And we need to use W- or Y-shaped strokes, so it doesn’t double up and become lumpy.” Probably Hendri’s come to help because he’ll take any chance to spend time with Ms Dian Sastro: when Ferlita stands on tiptoe, her brush over her head, I catch him staring at her chest. As for Inu and I, we only follow instructions. Neither of us are super interested.

  Though a small detail really tickles. As the day goes on, I spy damp spots on Ferlita’s T-shirt. Under her arms. Wet spots, beginning to smell. I didn’t know girls that look like Dian Sastro could sweat. Haha. I’m not being mean! I really didn’t think it was possible. Maybe she should wear fans under her shirt, to prevent it. With her chest, she definitely has the space.

  We don’t finish in a day. It takes three Sundays in a row. And the next Sunday Ferlita wears a sleeveless top instead. I can see that her underarms are white and smooth, hairless, flawless. I imagine her needing to apply a ton of deodorising powder, and the powder turning to porridge as she perspires, but I am wrong. So, fine, she wins again.

  As for Nilam, she is just OTT. She plays loud techno music while we work. The songs are Japanese, I can’t understand anything. But it’s fun. Li
ke it or not, eventually all five of us are jumping around, moving to Nilam’s beat, singing along to the syllables. I’m enjoying it. I’ve never done this before. And Inu makes sure he doesn’t have assignments on the weekends, I force him to make sure. Several times he begs me for permission to leave, but I just pull his beard until he stops asking. I buy some ornamental plants from a nearby nursery. I like having a garden. I buy potted flowers and arrange them in our front garden. But then Ferlita has to go buy expensive bouquets to decorate inside the house. Whatever, up to her.

  On the third Sunday we put up some wallpaper, and everything is done. Every room has a different feel. The kitchen is a harmony of green and lime, with yellow accents. The living room is wallpapered, hung with paintings—Ferlita’s doing—on a dark-purple feature wall. The house is full of colour, and all the work of us amateurs.

  The five of us go to the mall, to celebrate. A feast. And I also plan to get Inu to buy a bigger television and chairs for the terrace. What I don’t expect, after we’re done eating and Inu agrees to look at some plasma-screen TVs, is that we’d run into Hans and his pregnant wife. My heart stops completely. I am stone-faced as we approach. Inu, Ferlita, Nilam, Hendri—none of them know what is happening, of course. But Hans and I are pale. It’s a disaster.

  “Hi,” Hans half-squeaks, the word torn in his uncertainty, not knowing whether he should say hello. We should have just pretended to be strangers! Hans is such an idiot! Oh God, and I have to look at pregnant Astrid. It’s the first time I’m meeting her. Her teeth are a white line. Her eyes flash with spite. What kind of creature is she? She glares at me, bitch-faced. When I don’t answer Hans, Inu elbows me.

  “Eh, hi!” I say, as cheerfully as I can manage. I really don’t know what to say, so my mouth takes charge. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a radio for the shop,” Hans replies.

  “Oh, we’re shopping for a plasma TV,” I say even though Hans never asked. Oh God, I must look so guilty. I need to be cool. Be cool. If I’m anxious, everybody will get suspicious.