by Lestari, Dee
Even though all the children were excited about their new classroom, they couldn’t help but look glum—today they were learning multiplication and division. Kugy surveyed her students. They looked dejected and she felt ready to give up hope. She still hadn’t come up with a creative way to teach the subject.
Suddenly she saw one of her students, Dadi, sprinting toward the shelter, his face beaming and his finger pointing somewhere behind him. He broke into a laugh, revealing a missing front tooth. “Ms. Ugy! Mr. Rangginang is here!” he yelled.
Rangginang? Kugy thought. She craned her neck in the direction Dadi was pointing and realized whom the child meant. She couldn’t have been more surprised. “Keenan,” she whispered.
For a split second, Kugy bowed her head and shut her eyes in an attempt to gather her energy and strength. In the blink of an eye, there was a merry laugh on her lips, and she called out to him. “Hello, Teacher! Welcome to our new classroom!”
Keenan smiled. Seeing Kugy laugh in that distinctive way of hers filled his heart with warmth. He called it “the laugh of grace”—it was like the sun, continually bathing the earth in its rays, harboring no ill will. That was the effect the laugh had on him, bringing him warmth without requiring pretense or effort. Pure grace.
Only after Keenan had come closer did Kugy realize how changed he was. He had lost weight. She could see from his eyes he was tired. Kugy was also aware the same thing had happened to her.
“What’s up, Little One?” said Keenan. “You’ve gotten even littler.”
“The Hunger No Longer raised their prices, so I haven’t been as well nourished.” Kugy chuckled. “You’ve gotten skinny, too. Is everything all right?”
Keenan shrugged and grinned. “It’s fine,” he said simply.
His presence was like a breath of fresh air. The children saw in him a savior who would liberate them from the morning lesson. Pilik began dancing for joy, shouting, “Draw something! Draw something! Draw something!”
Kugy shook her head. “No, no! You all have to learn math.”
Her words were greeted by sounds of protest.
Keenan picked up a piece of chalk and began to draw. Quickly, he drew six kites. “Come on, let’s count. How many kites are there?”
The children counted to six.
“Now let’s say Pilik has to divide these kites between him and Dadi.” Keenan drew a line. “How many do each of them get?”
“Three!” they answered in chorus.
Kugy smiled. Today she would have to let her class take its cues from Keenan.
Kugy’s class finished later than usual. The children acted like they had when Keenan had last visited—like fans meeting their favorite star—and they used various ploys to keep him around.
When the children had dispersed, Kugy and Keenan set to work cleaning up the shelter.
“Sometimes I wish you could be one of the regular teachers here,” said Kugy.
“Why?”
“So the children could have someone to teach them how to draw. Plus, there are so many creative ways to teach something when you’re here—ways I can’t teach when I’m on my own.”
“Oh. And I thought it was because you wanted to see me every day,” said Keenan mischievously.
Kugy laughed. “Yeah, I guess that would be a bonus, too. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Me, neither.”
Both of them were quiet for a moment. Kugy picked up her backpack and was about to sling it over her shoulder when she put it back down. “Where have you been?”
“Around,” mumbled Keenan.
“Why didn’t you say you’d moved?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Then you should start telling it now,” Kugy said firmly as she sat cross-legged on the floor.
“I stopped going to classes this semester,” blurted Keenan. “I’ve withdrawn from the university.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Kugy softly. “Wanda told me. What about your family? What did they say?”
“I’m not talking to them anymore. My father doesn’t approve.”
Kugy thought about this for a long time. Then she burst into a smile. “You’re really brave. I salute you. It’s a big decision to make for the sake of your art.”
“I’ve given up painting.”
Kugy jumped to her feet. “Wha—? Why?” she stammered.
“I thought painting was my life path. It turns out I was wrong.” Keenan kept his tone even.
“But didn’t you want to hold an exhibition? I ran into Wanda, and she told me you were concentrating on painting. That you were going on tour, moving to Jakarta . . .”
Keenan smiled darkly. “She was just joking. The exhibition, the gallery, going on tour . . . it was all just one big joke.”
“I don’t understand.” Kugy shook her head. “You mean there were never any plans to have an exhibition?”
“It turned out Wanda’s dad was never on board with accepting my paintings from the start. According to him, my work was still too immature. But he took them because Wanda asked.”
“But your paintings sold out in the end. All four of them! Doesn’t that prove people like your work?”
“One person, to be exact,” said Keenan bitterly. “Wanda. It turns out she bought all my paintings, and hid them in her house. She let it slip when she got drunk at Noni’s birthday party.”
Kugy stared at him in disbelief. “So all this time . . .”
“All this time, it’s been nothing more than a story about a rich girl falling in love with a dreamer. But it’s nobody’s fault.” Keenan smiled darkly again. “I don’t blame Wanda, or even her father. I’m the stupid one.”
“It doesn’t mean you should just give up on your dreams, though. You’re really going to stop painting? Just because someone like Wanda—”
“It’s not because of Wanda!” shouted Keenan. “Don’t you get it? I’ve already withdrawn from school and left home. I was so naïve—so sure I could prove to my family, to everyone, that I could make a living as a painter—”
“Exactly! So why don’t you prove it?” Kugy said. She stared at him in confusion. “Keenan, you’re the most amazing painter I know. Whatever Wanda’s dad says, whatever ulterior motives Wanda had, whatever those collectors think . . . to me, you paint with your soul, and that’s what counts!”
“If I were really as amazing a painter as you think, Wanda’s dad would have accepted my paintings right away. She wouldn’t have had to coax him. And, if I were really as good a painter as you think, people would have bought my paintings. Wanda wouldn’t have had to secretly buy them.”
“So based on one gallery and a bunch of people you don’t even know, you’re giving up all your dreams. Is that it?” Kugy’s voice rose in pitch.
“Wake up, Kugy.” Keenan turned away. “The Warsita isn’t just any gallery, and those aren’t just any people—they’re experienced art collectors. You and Eko can say my paintings are good because you’re my friends. But those people know better.”
Kugy shook her head again. “No. You wake up! Who cares what the gallery says? Who cares what those people say? You have to be sure of yourself.”
“You’re right,” Keenan answered firmly. “I should wake up and face the facts. The reality is Wanda used my paintings to get close to me, and it was my stupidity that allowed it to happen.”
“You said this wasn’t because of Wanda, but you keep bringing her and the gallery up. If you ask me, I’m the one who doesn’t see what Wanda or the Warsita have to do with it. This is about you believing in yourself.” Kugy almost sounded reproachful. “All this time, you’re the one who’s been inspiring me to hold on to my dreams. Thanks to you I’ve started writing again. I’m not going to let you give up like this—”
“I never asked to be anyone’s role model!” yelled Keenan. “Don’t put pressure on me like that!”
Kugy fell silent. Her hands trembled as they put away the rest of the things scattered around the shelter. Then s
he slung her bag over her shoulder. “I guess I’ve thought too much of you this whole time,” she whispered, not looking at Keenan. Before long, her brisk strides took her away behind a clump of bamboo. She walked hurriedly, without so much as a backward glance.
Keenan didn’t move. All he could do was watch. He regretted what he had said, but now it was too late. He didn’t even have enough confidence to stop Kugy.
A gust of cold wind pierced his skin and penetrated his veins, leaving a sense of loss that spread throughout his body. Keenan shuddered. It wasn’t just loss he was feeling—it was abandonment.
CHAPTER 22
COME BACK TO UBUD
Alone in her room, Kugy began writing as if she were possessed. That night, she was determined to pour everything out onto paper. Her handwriting filled the white blankness—sheets and sheets of it. As she wrote, the occasional tear slipped out, leaving an inky stain on the paper where it fell. Kugy didn’t know if they were tears of sadness or anger, and she didn’t care.
On page three, the pace of her writing began to slow. Her feelings, which had started out so muddled, began to show their true colors. She should have been happy when she found out Keenan and Wanda’s relationship had ended. She should have been relieved when she found out Keenan wasn’t going to move to Jakarta after all, or leave her to promote his paintings. But she wasn’t. And Kugy realized that this was true heartbreak. It had broken her heart when she had thought Keenan was meant for someone else. But now that she knew Keenan wasn’t the same person she had fallen in love with—now her heart was really and truly broken.
Kugy began to weep. She didn’t write much beyond this—only a few more lines of disappointment. Kugy realized that all this time she had created an illusion of who Keenan was, and had loved that illusion instead. The reality was that Keenan was broken and weak.
She heard a door open, then Noni’s footsteps in the corridor. Kugy swallowed. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. Not only had she lost her true love, she had lost Noni and Josh because of it.
She folded the sheets of paper into three paper boats.
Beside the university was a shantytown, and next to the shantytown, a stream. It was the closest body of flowing water Kugy could find.
That morning, before going to class, Kugy stopped by the stream. A few children were catching tadpoles. She kept going, lest the children abandon their play and decide the object she was about to set afloat was more interesting. She had an important mission and she didn’t want it to fail.
Only after she felt she was at a safe distance did Kugy stop and approach the water. She pulled out three paper boats from her backpack. There were no other channels of communication, no other friends she could talk to. No one but Neptune, she thought. One by one, she set the paper boats afloat on the stream.
As the boats sailed away, it was as if something lifted from her heart. She felt like she could breathe again. How long had she kept this habit buried away! And how much had it taken for her to resurrect it! Kugy had forgotten how relieved she felt whenever the stories and woes her heart had to tell were sent floating out to sea, even if she didn’t know how long their journey would take.
November 2000
It was the first of November. Keenan was surprised to find Bimo at his boarding house so early in the morning.
“Hey, Keenan. How are—” Bimo stopped midsentence. “Wow. You’re so skinny.”
Keenan stood in the doorway and smiled. It was the standard comment he’d been getting from his old classmates whenever he saw them.
“Hi, Bimo. Come on in,” Keenan said. He opened the door wider.
“I have something to give you.” Bimo handed him a white envelope.
Keenan recognized the handwriting instantly. The return address on the back confirmed his suspicions. It was a letter from Uncle Wayan in Ubud, addressed to his old boarding house.
“When did this arrive?” asked Keenan.
“A long time ago—almost two weeks. But I only got ahold of it last week, and this is the first chance I’ve had to come over. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thanks. I should have come to you.”
Bimo laughed. “How were you supposed to know the letter was there? Telepathy? You don’t have a cell phone, and this place doesn’t have a landline! You’re so skinny I think your brain must have shrunk, too.”
Keenan grinned.
“How about breakfast?” Bimo asked. “My treat. When was the last time you ate a good meal?”
Keenan thought for a while, then shook his head. “I can’t recall. My brain’s shrunk, remember?”
Bimo chuckled. “Okay then! A good meal it is!”
Breakfast with Bimo ended up stretching into the afternoon. Keenan visited the campus and spent the day hanging out with his old friends. He realized how much he had missed such companionship. Ever since the incident with Wanda, he had kept to himself, shutting himself away like a hermit. After he’d spent so long in the stuffiness of his soul, Bimo’s visit was a breath of fresh air.
Back in his room, Keenan pushed the window wide open. The place needed some fresh air, too. He picked up the envelope and fingered it, wondering whether the letter would provide another refreshing breeze. Keenan shook his head. He was tired of hoping.
Without further thought, Keenan opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter, two pages long, along with another slip of paper. Keenan had to sit down when he realized what the slip of paper was. Hurriedly, he read the letter. Even when he was done, Keenan didn’t move. He sat for a long time.
He stared at the papers in his lap. Uncle Wayan’s letter had given rise to such a sudden surge of emotions that his mind and heart were still trying to digest what he had just read. Keenan reread the letter, this time more slowly.
Uncle Wayan wrote how surprised he was to receive Keenan’s paintings—they had come without warning, as if they had fallen from the sky. Although Keenan had explained that he was sending them as something to remember him by and as a token of appreciation, Uncle Wayan felt that something must have happened. However, he hadn’t been able to reach him.
The painting Uncle Wayan liked the most had been mounted onto a wooden frame and displayed in his studio. A few weeks later, the painting had caught the attention of an art collector, who expressed interest in buying it. Uncle Wayan had already said the painting wasn’t for sale, but the person was determined to buy it. He had fallen head over heels for Keenan’s painting.
Uncle Wayan then apologized—he didn’t mean to overstep. But he said his heart had told him to let the person have it:
As love may bind two hearts together without warning or explanation, so I felt the painting had found its soulmate. I know the person who bought your painting well. So I am certain it is in the right hands. He bought it not as an investment, but out of love.
Keenan continued reading:
The painting is truly very beautiful, and its spirit is strong. Although I very much wanted to keep it for myself, I also didn’t want to stand in the way of your good fortune. Hopefully this money will come in handy. When will you come back to your home in Ubud? The rest of the family and I hope continually for your return. When you receive this letter, please send us news.
Keenan stared again at the slip of paper. It was a check for three million rupiah. On it was written, For General Pilik and the Alit Brigade.
Keenan spent the rest of the day lost in thought. It was a lot of money—enough to buy a motorcycle if he wanted. Late afternoon turned into night. The orange of the sky gave way to blackness. And he remained lost in thought. His mind was in so much turmoil. He didn’t dismiss the matters that had been raised, but he didn’t take steps to address them, either. He felt doubtful, traumatized, shaken. But still he heard that question buzzing in his ears: When will you come back to your home in Ubud?
Lena couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. They had agreed to meet at a time when she would be alone and everyone else was out of the house. Her heart was cut to th
e quick to see her own son acting so furtively, like an escaped convict terrified of being caught.
Keenan waited as his mother spent the first fifteen minutes of their reunion crying.
“But you’re doing all right?” Lena asked.
“I’m all right, Mom,” answered Keenan with forced nonchalance. “I may be skinny, but I haven’t gotten sick.”
“You can come home anytime you want. Trust me. Your father’s heart will soften. He’s hard on the outside, but in reality he misses you very much.”
Keenan gave her a thin smile. “I didn’t want to meet you today to discuss coming home. Actually, I want to say good-bye.”
Lena was shocked. “Good-bye? Where are you going?”
He took out the envelope containing Uncle Wayan’s letter and handed it to his mother. “Read this, Mom.”
Lena began to read. When she got to the end, she let out a long sigh. She knew a second parting was about to take place, but this time she felt somewhat relieved, for she knew her son would be well taken care of.
“I’m going to live with Uncle Wayan,” Keenan said. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
Lena gazed at her oldest child through a film of tears. She realized her little boy had become a man who had chosen his own life path. Soon, he would spread his wings and fly, and neither she nor anyone else could stop him.
Lena’s voice trembled. “Behave yourself over there, okay? Don’t give your Uncle Wayan any trouble.”
Keenan swallowed. It was obvious that his mother was trying to act composed for his sake. His eyes grew hot and his vision blurred. He steadied his breathing before continuing. “I have one more request, Mom.”
“What is it?”
“Please don’t tell anyone I’m in Ubud. Not Jeroen. Especially not Dad.”
Lena felt her chest tighten.
“I really want to turn over a new leaf. Start from scratch. This is the path my life has to take, Mom. My old life was a prison, and I’m not going back.”
