The Majesties

by Tiffany Tsao

  Neither of us had ever stayed at the Beverly Tree Plaza before, but we had wanted to avoid running into anyone we knew, so the usual high-profile luxury hotels were all out of the question. Estella had remembered our old high school friend Nikki mentioning, ages ago, that she’d stayed there while having her eyelids done. She’d made her first wide-eyed debut at a mutual friend’s baby shower, smiling sweetly and batting her eyes.

  Our second cousin Hwa had been in attendance too, and she’d shrieked and clapped her hands in delight. “They’re so big! You look like a Japanese manga character!”

  Nikki beamed. “I know!”

  “The folds are so fine,” Hwa gushed, admiring the surgeon’s handiwork. “He must be really top-notch. You know, my sister’s friend got her eyes done in Japan—everyone was raving about Japanese plastic surgery—and her eyelid folds are so thick, they look pregnant.”

  Everybody laughed.

  Aubrey, Gerry Sukamto’s niece, was there too (we really did live in a small world). “You know what you should have said?” she drawled, “ ‘Darling, I love your eyelids. When are they due?’ ”

  This elicited a fresh roar from the room. Blinking innocently, Aubrey strutted around, running her hands over her own imaginary baby bump. “ ‘Darling,’ you should have said, ‘if one of them is a girl, can you please name her after me?’ ”

  It was Hwa who coaxed the rest of the details out of Nikki, including where she had stayed: the Beverly Tree Plaza, its suites small and shabby, but, importantly, with no other Indonesians around.

  “I don’t care who knows about me fixing my eyelids,” Nikki had declared, “but I didn’t want anyone to see me before the scars had healed!”

  When we arrived, our room was more or less what we expected, given what Nikki had said. The furniture was opulent, but frayed. The ivory shag carpet looked like it smelled of cat. It was the kind of place where you could imagine rich old ladies taking up residence. I tipped the bellboy, and Estella unlaced her boots and flopped down on the pink chintz sofa.

  “I’m starving,” she stated.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Where do you want to eat dinner?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Barbecue in Koreatown?”

  “Ugh. Too heavy. Also too far.”

  “How about Ramayani in Westwood?”

  I stared at her incredulously. “You’re joking, right? We just got here. What are you, a villager? Can’t live without Indonesian food for one day?”

  “I was just joking,” Estella said defensively. “Let’s go someplace close by.”

  We both fell silent, trying to decipher the yearnings of our stomachs.

  “How about Matsuhisa?” Estella asked.

  “Funny,” I said with a smile. “I was about to say the same thing.”

  Something suddenly came to mind.

  “Will it be all right for you, though?” I asked.

  She laughed—a kind of laugh I hadn’t heard from her for a while. Silvery and easy. It was how she used to laugh long ago, long before.

  “Don’t be silly, Doll. I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Nothing had changed at Matsuhisa. But then again, nothing ever did. Not its cramped foyer or unpretentious interior; not the demographics of the waitstaff: Asian or Eurasian, attractive and young. The same painted silhouettes of diners adorned the walls, frozen midgesticulation, teacups glued to lips, chopsticks eternally aloft—easily mistaken for real shadows until you noticed they never moved. Matsuhisa was far humbler in appearance than the offshoots spawned by its owner-chef’s success. The flashy nouveau Oriental interiors of the branches in New York, Las Vegas, and London tried too hard to impress. They were teenage girls in sky-high stilettos, dripping rhinestones and cheap perfume. Matsuhisa was their kimonoed grandmother, ageless, peerless, stolid, unaffected by the passing of time.

  The hotel concierge told us he hadn’t been able to get us a reservation before 8:30, but by the time we’d showered off the stale smell of the plane, changed into fresh clothes and driven over, we were twenty minutes late. The service was as good as we remembered. The hostess apologized even though the lateness was our fault and told us our table would be ready in a jiffy. As we stood listening to the chatter wafting around the corner from the dining area, I felt Estella’s spirit curl and tighten like a prawn in a steamer.

  “We can leave, you know,” I offered.

  “No, I want to stay,” she said. “It’ll be good for me. Besides, I’m not as brittle as you all think.”

  We tried to push it from our minds. I made a sorry joke about the display of Matsuhisa-brand salad dressings being there since the dawn of time. She made a lame attempt to laugh. It was no use of course. The memory crept in at the corners. The blasts of cold air from the front door, constantly opening and shutting, carried in the querulous voice of Leonard’s mother, fearing the wind would make her ill. The hostess guiding us to our table grew bustier and blonde, transforming into the woman Leonard had ogled that night. Even what we ordered, which was what we always ordered, were the same dishes that had witnessed Estella’s public shame—the yellowtail with jalapeño, the miso cod, the creamy spicy crab. Our table for two flanking the wall offered a prime vantage point from which to survey that other table where our former selves were seated: Leonard’s parents to the left, our parents and me to the right, and Leonard and Estella seated across from each other in the middle, the thin line along which our two clans blurred into one.

  It had been the worst of the bad times. Leonard had reached the apex of his cruelty, which had corresponded to the apex of his financial success. The Angsono family conglomerate, Sono Jaya, had made a successful incursion into instant-noodle territory. Share prices had skyrocketed and an era of expansion had begun—for the business and for Leonard’s physical person. Around the same time, he had hired a personal bodybuilding trainer. Under diligent daily tutelage and a steady diet of protein shakes, Leonard had grown as hulking as a healthy water buffalo.

  The transformation from man to beast had brought about some seemingly desirable changes: He drank much less and stopped staying out so late. But for the most part, the metamorphosis had been terrifying. How the chest and arms of his polo shirt had bulged that night, the embroidered polo player on his left pectoral muscle twitching, as if with suppressed excitement or fury. How all his veins protruded and throbbed, in time, it seemed, to the beating of an enormous horse’s heart. Perhaps most unnerving was his face, naturally babylike with soft lips and cushiony cheeks, sitting atop that incongruously muscular body.

  It had been right before Christmas—that and summer were the two high seasons for Indonesians who owned houses or condos in LA. The air was crisp and deliciously untropical. The business year was drawing to a close, and all the important projects had been wrapped up or put on hiatus so their energy could be bottled for the first quarter of the new year. The sales were on and the shopping was good. The atmosphere was wonderfully festive. Christmas-light-trimmed houses and bushes twinkled good cheer. The velvety voice of Bing Crosby could be heard everywhere, reminding listeners that Santa Claus was coming to town.

  Our two families, yoked together now for three years through Estella and Leonard’s marriage, were starting to settle into a certain familiarity with each other, even if the couple’s relationship was showing strain. My parents and I often came to LA for the holidays, but this time we accepted the Angsonos’ invitation for us to stay with them in their house.

  Leonard’s mother, Tante Elise, had done it up beautifully, in a combination of light woods and quaint French country prints. Naturally, whenever she and her husband came, they brought their housekeeper from Jakarta—the faithful, stocky, four-foot-high Rina. But the size of their Los Angeles house demanded its own year-round maintenance, and this was taken care of by a large-bosomed, sandy-haired woman named Patty, who, in return for a decent salary and free room and board in the house itself, was more than happy to keep things shi
pshape. She oversaw gardeners, scheduled repairs, and whipped up Western-style food whenever the Angsonos came to stay. Her repertoire was wonderfully American: blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon for breakfast; buttery grilled cheese sandwiches and ranch-dressed salads for lunch; crisp-edged lasagnas and tender meat loaves for dinner; and endless trays of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. As delicious and charming as Patty’s food was, there was only so much Western food a person could stand to eat, so Patty alternated cooking responsibilities with Rina, whose repertoire consisted of familiar home-style dishes—spicy curries and sweet, dark stews; noodle soups, fried rice, and stir-fries; fried chicken, fried fish, fried tofu, fried tempeh, and, if she found the right bananas at the Asian supermarket, fried banana fritters.

  At Christmas, Patty was in her element. She bustled around in boxy cardigans adorned with elves and bobbly reindeer noses and ribbons. Garlands of fake fir studded with velveteen bows and glitter-dipped pinecones materialized on the stairway banisters. A wreath attached itself to the front door. A Christmas tree complete with lights and metallic balls and bronze tinsel sprang up overnight in the living room. The gas fireplace blazed from sundown to whatever time Patty decided to turn in for the night. Bowls of itty-bitty candy canes and Hershey’s Kisses littered every table, counter, and shelf. It was the season to set aside differences and, accordingly, jars of swarthy molasses crinkles rubbed shoulders with jars of men and women of the gingerbread persuasion. And thrown into the mix were tins of blond snowflake-shaped sugar cookies iced in blue, points tipped with tiny silver balls of dubious edibility.

  In short, during the holiday season especially, Patty ensured that the Angsono house looked, smelled, and felt like the houses of white people. I wouldn’t be surprised if Patty was bringing to life her own private fantasy of all-American life as she thought it ought to be. (I dimly remember what she mentioned in passing to me once about a shiftless ex-husband, an estranged daughter, and a dingy former apartment with bad mold and faulty plumbing.) Leonard’s family loved it. We loved it. All our Indonesian friends loved it. And the handful of American friends whom Leonard’s parents entertained took it for granted—they were made to feel unconsciously at ease in a way that would have been impossible if not for the invisible hand of Patty.

  So you see, two weeks of Yuletide comfort and joy, of inhabiting an environment that radiated happiness and warmth, had lulled us into a contented stupor that made that night’s awakening at Matsuhisa all the more wrenching, as sudden as a lightning bolt on a clear day, and triggered by virtually nothing: a woman, Nordic in bone structure and good looks, passing our table and catching Leonard’s appreciative gaze; Leonard’s hand, as he reached for his green tea, brushing almost imperceptibly against her hip. Nothing, really. And yet Estella flashed, scrawling her temper across the sky.

  “What, two women aren’t enough for you? Why don’t you add her to your harem?”

  Our mother’s warning not to air dirty laundry in public came flat and low: “Stell.”

  Leonard eased his massive back into his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” he responded coolly. “Anyway, how do you know it’s just the two of you?”

  My sister’s hand cracked against his cheek, a blur of manicured scarlet and diamond and gold. And then Leonard had simply taken her wrist in his and squeezed. The pink jolt that raced up her arm forced her mouth into an inaudible shriek.

  “Len, don’t,” his father said low and sharp, rising to his feet. “Not here, Len. Not here.” He sounded as if he were addressing a dog.

  Ma squealed in spite of herself, hitting my father frantically on the shoulder. “Rudy! Stop it! Get him to stop it!”

  Abruptly, Leonard let go. We all resumed eating. Estella, still tender, nursed her tea in silence. After five minutes, maybe seven, conversation about everyone’s plans for the next few days recommenced: appointments with doctors in Beverly Hills; golf for the men, shopping for the women; meals with the friends from home who were also in town.

  Nonetheless, our parents were obviously shocked by the whole thing. I wasn’t. Some part of me had been expecting this all along. The eruption of physical violence had only been a matter of time, and not just because of the notes Estella had found in his briefcase. Those too had been part of the inevitable progression of their relationship into what it had been fated to become from the start. Estella and our parents had simply chosen to deceive themselves, while I never had.

  The families had taken two separate cars to the restaurant, and after our mother won the fight over the bill—Leonard’s parents had the tact to let her win, to let our family regain some face, appear in control—she announced that she and our father were taking Estella and me to that new gelato parlor all our LA-savvy friends had been raving about. Leonard could go back home with his parents and we’d meet them at the house. She said all this pleasantly, smoothly, as if nothing had happened.

  When the valet brought the car around, our father slipped him a ten and slid into the driver’s seat as if he knew where we were going, where this gelato parlor was. Our mother cheek-kissed each of the three Angsonos good-bye. The only sign that something, anything, had altered was that our mother and I had changed places, Ma sitting in the back seat next to Estella instead of in the front with my father. Our parents waved as we pulled away and Leonard’s parents waved back. Only their children took part in none of this: to the casual onlooker, we must have looked like overgrown five-year-olds, petulant and up past our bedtime.

  In the back seat, Ma took Estella’s arm, sat stroking it consolingly, wordlessly. Humming softly to himself a tuneless tune, Ba continued to drive to who knew where.

  It was Ma who spoke first. Tentatively. “Stell. Does he do this often?”

  Estella didn’t respond, only crossed her arms and exhaled impatiently. Ma repeated her question. “Does he do this often? You know. Hurt you?”

  The car sped up. Our father was merging onto the freeway.

  “No,” Estella finally snapped. “No. This is the first time.”

  “Are you sure?” Ma asked.

  Estella snorted. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Why are you angry? I’m just trying to help.”

  “I just told you, didn’t I? This is the first time. Does it matter?”

  Ma’s voice shrank, wounded. She began to sob, her natural inclination to play prima donna mingling with genuine maternal concern. “Of course it matters,” she whimpered. “We’re your parents, Stell. We love you.”

  Estella exhaled again and looked out the window. “How dare you,” she mumbled.

  “What?” asked my mother.

  I turned in an attempt to catch Estella’s eye, to calm her somehow, but I could see that it would be of no use. A fury had come upon her. Her face was blind and hot, and I could tell that everything was white and tingling and electric. “How dare you,” she repeated, her whole body quivering. “As if none of it mattered until now. As if everything he’s been doing up to this point hasn’t mattered. And now… only now you worry about him hurting me? Only now you do something on my behalf? Only now do you dare to tell me—” she choked. “As if you didn’t know before this. As if you weren’t responsible for…” To prevent herself from breaking down, she stopped talking.

  “Oh, Stell,” Ma moaned, “how could we have known? You can’t blame us. We did it because we loved you. You think we don’t love you?”

  Estella said nothing, even when Ma repeated her question. “You think we don’t love you?” It was relentless, her good intentions, her desperation to absolve herself of guilt. “You think we don’t love you?”

  At last Estella spoke. “I know you do,” she said curtly, trying to put an end to it all. Anything to end it all.

  “We couldn’t have known it would turn out like this, could we, Rudy? Ask your father. We couldn’t have known—”

  A scream. Estella’s. A piercing howl to drown out Ma, Leonard, the world and time and all that had contributed to the miserab
le situation she found herself in. No, not to drown them out. To shatter them. To break them into pieces. To reduce them to dust to be scattered by the winds. But it was useless.

  We never made it to the gelato parlor. Thank God. Our father had sense enough for that. He drove us in circles for a while, then parked the car two blocks from the Angsono house until both his daughter and his wife had finished crying. Then he started the car and took us back. When Patty innocently asked us whether we’d had a good time out (everyone else had gone to bed, or at least to their bedrooms), we all lied and said that we had. And when we went upstairs, it was implicitly understood that Estella was to sleep in my room that night.

  As I said, that was the worst of the bad times. It really was. Who knew that in two years, Leonard would transform again beyond recognition? That in four he would find Jesus? Then again, Leonard was always unpredictable, a man of change eternal, evolution everlasting. If he’d lived any longer, who knows what he might have become?

  “You know, even then, I didn’t wish he were dead,” Estella mused, dredging us up into the Leonard-less present.

  I raised an eyebrow and my pair of chopsticks. “You do remember what you said to me that night, right? After we came back from ‘gelato’? When you were lying next to me in bed?”

  She frowned. I had her right where I wanted. I popped a morsel of cod into my mouth and let out a maudlin wail: “ ‘I wish he were dead. Oh, Doll. I wish he were dead.’ ”

  She grinned and whacked me on the shoulder with the flat of her palm. “I did not!”

  “Ow! Yes, you did!”

  “I did not! I did not!”

  But she kept hitting me and we both kept laughing because we knew it wasn’t true and because I’d just said it to lighten the mood and because it was good to have a sister.