At times Ratri suspected her husband was playing around with some model or starlet, as his colleagues did. But he mostly went to meetings with his subordinates and there were no women among them. And his secretary was a man in his mid-twenties who regularly visited their house for office business. Ratri concluded that her husband was a workaholic and that she had no competition.
The information Bambang shared with Ratri about his work went no further than what was reported in the media. Nonetheless, Ratri heard rumours of what was really going on. There were whisperings about a publicity-hungry young lawyer who had taken on an embezzlement case that would drag her husband down. Ratri understood that Bambang would fix the problem in classic fashion, as he had learned from his predecessors. A clean solution. Each access point clamped tight, like an iron gate. It was the era of the smiling general, when everything was always in order and violence left no mess. At first, the discovery of her husband’s world horrified her, but Ratri learned to build her own walls. She prepared for the worst, secured her investments and arranged an emergency escape route for herself.
—
Feeling bored, Ratri opened the window. She saw Jamal, the new gardener from the kampung behind the vacant lots. He looked to be about the same age as Anton when he died. Jamal’s strong and tanned arms gleamed as he planted rose seedlings. He was shirtless and in low-waisted trousers. Her eyes ran over the curve of his shoulder blades and the outline of his slim hips.
Less than two weeks after Jamal arrived, the door to Ratri’s room lay open. Jamal appeared in front of her, his hands smeared in soil and his body smelling of the sun. Ratri beckoned him to close the door.
There were firsts for the both of them. Jamal had never touched a woman before. And Ratri had never had so many soil stains on her body.
—
Jamal was so obedient, so patient, so quick to learn. And not only in the garden. Ratri’s feelings for him grew. She made him a household servant, gave him a room and raised his salary. Jamal accepted on the condition that he be allowed to go home to visit his mother on weekends. The young man lightened Milah’s workload by sweeping and mopping every evening. He rose early in the morning to wash the car before Bambang left for work.
Between their lovemaking sessions, Ratri listened to Jamal talk about his life. In his kampung he had been known as a tourist guide of sorts. He often invited flocks of timid teenagers on excursions to look around. Outside the kampung he showed off his knowledge of who lived in the estates lining nearby Jalan Baru. This one belongs to a celebrity. A former minister lives over there. He called Ratri’s home the ‘the tax director’s blue-walled mansion’.
Jamal gained broad insights from his connections. He be-friended the security guards who popped outside the gates to smoke clove cigarettes together, and the maids who shopped in the local bazaar when their employers didn’t visit the supermarket.
He’d had no intention of becoming a gardener. He wanted to be a driver. Until he started working for Bambang, he had supported his mother and younger siblings by driving a public minivan to and from Pasar Rebo. But he grew restless and harboured other dreams: to become a chauffeur for the owner of a Jalan Baru mansion. After becoming friendly with Mang Yayan, Ratri’s guard, Jamal mustered the courage to ask about the possibility of working in the house. Unfortunately, said Mang Yayan, Mr Bambang was not looking for a chauffeur. Besides, the one who worked for him had years of experience. But Mr Bambang was looking for a gardener.
Ratri asked, ‘How long have you wanted to be a chauffeur?’
Jamal blushed, arousing Ratri’s passion. The answer to her question was postponed.
—
Bambang was the last in the house to learn that Jamal had become Ratri’s personal assistant. That night, he had just come home from the office when he ran into Jamal as the youth was leaving Ratri’s room. Jamal bowed in fear, not daring to meet the searching gaze of the master of the house. Ratri appeared behind him and challenged Bambang’s look. She said, ‘Jamal gives wonderful massages.’
Ratri thought Bambang would fly into a rage and hurl Jamal out, not from jealousy, but to assert control over his territory. She was wrong. Bambang said nothing and continued on to his room, leaving Ratri with the still-shaking Jamal. Her husband was overly close-mouthed, perhaps because she was not as valuable to him as the Mercedes Tiger. It was also possible that Bambang had concocted a plan that she could not hope to guess at.
The next day, Bambang came home early. Through the crack of her bedroom door, Ratri saw that the door of Bambang’s room was open. He was wearing a black silk kimono that made his sagging belly more prominent. Not long after, Jamal appeared at the stairs.
‘Let’s see how good at massage you really are,’ he said to the boy in a husky tone.
Jamal vanished within and the door closed.
Jamal wasn’t fired. But things changed after that night. Jamal’s mind seemed elsewhere when he made love to Ratri.
‘What is it?’ asked Ratri. ‘Do you have a girlfriend in your kampung now?’
She regretted fitting him out with new clothes that would have made him more handsome in the eyes of the kampung girls. But something else seemed to be afoot. He still visited her but only touched her robotically. He no longer told her about himself. Instead, he hid his thoughts from her. And then, one day, Jamal faced Ratri, his eyes full of trepidation. He told her he could no longer be her special assistant.
Ratri let the boy stay on to work in the house – sweeping, mopping, washing Bambang’s car. And every night, Jamal climbed the stairs and slipped into a bedroom to offer a massage. Not Ratri’s room, but Bambang’s. He would not leave until the following morning.
—
Ratri was no longer sure what Jamal was to her: gardener, slaker of lust or simply a young man the same age as Anton? She had lost a great deal: the pleasure of presenting new clothes to him, preparing special meals for him and, most of all, soaping his back whenever the two of them soaked in the bathtub together. Ratri remembered how eagerly she would listen to his tales.
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Ratri as her fingers glided over his skin. She reminded him that she had asked, once, why he wanted to become a chauffeur.
Jamal was slow to begin. It all started one day when he was washing behind his house. His thoughts drifted. The enclosure surrounding the bath was made of plywood and was a mere inch taller than he was. The babble of kids playing marbles nearby floated over it. A guava tree beyond the enclosure was fruiting. He caught sight of someone – another village youth, Hamid by name. Jamal’s body was still slick with soap when their eyes met. Hamid clumsily scrambled down the tree. Taking his time, Jamal covered his body with a towel. Then he went over and confronted Hamid. Afterwards, he returned to the bath enclosure, still soapy, wondering whether Hamid had ever peeped at his mother and sisters.
Jamal mused that a plywood door was very different from the high metal gates of the houses along Jalan Baru.
‘You can’t spy through those gates,’ he said.
‘And who would you want to spy on?’ teased Ratri.
Jamal confessed that from that point forward he often wondered what life was like behind the gates, and fantasised about making a life on the other side of them. Fancy cars came and went, arousing his curiosity about driving one. He didn’t care to be the owner, he just wanted to try one out. He imagined gripping the steering wheel in the air-conditioned enclosure. He would stare at the scorched, dusty city from behind the tinted windows. Behind them, he would be invisible, an undetected voyeur.
‘Oh, you clearly were born to be a tour guide.’
‘It’s not just the rich who like being tourists,’ Jamal said.
Ratri finally understood what happened to Jamal when Bambang’s vehicle left the garage early one morning. He wasn’t driving the late model Mercedes Benz but rather the historic 1982 red Tiger that was off-limits to Ratri. And in that car sat Jamal. He had found another door.
> Jamal returned the next day, beaming. Ratri found him in his small room and he hurried to rise from the mattress. He looked like he was steeling himself for a scolding. His expression quickly turned to surprise when Ratri spoke.
‘You need to remember one tourist tip: no matter what happens, never fall in love.’
Ratri’s warning came too late.
She wasn’t sure if Jamal understood, but at least the advice let him know that she didn’t hate him. On another occasion, he approached her. He hesitated and then hugged her close. He whispered a secret in her ear. In response, she stroked his hair slowly. She never told his secret to anyone.
In the vehicle, Jamal’s skin rubbed against the cool seat. And he felt a soft but firm touch all over. The touch of an experienced driver in full control, in an enclosed space, hidden by the gleaming doors, the tinted glass.
—
After passing through Ratri’s house gates, Jamal made his way through a series of doors. But his life really changed after the door of the Mercedes Tiger opened.
Compliant with her husband’s wishes, Ratri continued to accompany Bambang to weddings. She obeyed unwritten rules in front of officials’ wives, fulfilling her obligations, invoking Bambang’s name. Oh, he’s so busy lately. Last week he was out of town, inaugurating something or other.
But, except for official ceremonies, it was now Jamal who stood at Bambang’s side. He no longer wore the sweatshirt and jeans that Ratri gave him, but black trousers, a shirt and a black leather jacket that made him look older than his years. Now he smoked Lucky Strikes and used a Zippo lighter bearing a Los Angeles Lakers logo, which Bambang had bought while visiting Anton. Jamal appeared to be doing important work for Bambang, but at home he still happily lathered his boss’s beloved Tiger, polishing it until it sparkled, caressing its smooth doors.
Ratri couldn’t say for certain what Jamal did away from the house. She also didn’t know which had ensnared Jamal more: Bambang, or a door opened just for him. But she smelled danger. She was anxious when he came home late. Jamal pooh-poohed her concerns, drunk on love.
‘So, you’ve become one of his thugs, huh?’
Jamal looked dazed by Ratri’s interrogation. He sighed and then, with a far-off expression, said slowly, ‘Mr Bambang drives so smoothly. You should see how he handles the steering wheel, takes charge of the gears.’
The danger that Ratri had sniffed from the beginning became concrete one sunshiny morning. Ratri called Jamal to her room. Unusually, she let him see her with her hair in disarray. Her eyes were swollen. She tossed the morning paper towards Jamal.
Headlines on the front page blared out the death of a young solicitor. The publicity-hungry lawyer had been found dead in his car, stabbed seven times. Police suspected that several people had been in on the murder. One of them had rashly left behind a Zippo lighter with a Los Angeles Lakers emblem.
‘Really, really stupid,’ Ratri muttered.
For some time, Jamal remained frozen. Ratri refused to ask him why – his love for Bambang, or for doors. Both were now equally nauseating. Jamal had become a fugitive. And Bambang despised carelessness.
Jamal couldn’t stay there. Ratri asked him to leave.
‘But Mr Bambang loves me,’ Jamal protested. It was clear he didn’t want to leave the house, not through any door.
‘Bullshit,’ snorted Ratri. She jerked Jamal’s hand, pulling him out of the room. Her knees were shaking as she went down the stairs beside him. She emptied his wardrobe and packed his clothes.
‘Get as far away as possible,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to your mother’s. And don’t even think of coming back here.’ Then she slammed the door.
—
The night was dark. Ratri was driving the red Mercedes Tiger along a winding road lined with stately trees. There was no light apart from the car’s headlights. There were no signposts. Ratri caught something out of the corner of her eye. A figure running along the side of the road. She wasn’t sure who he was. Ratri stopped and backed up. But she couldn’t see him any more. She was alone on an endless, winding road.
For three days after Jamal’s departure, nightmares interrupted Ratri’s sleep. Recurrent dreams about a car and a mysterious figure that disappeared on the road.
—
Ratri had told Jamal not to contact her. Even so, she camped in the living room in case the phone rang. Secretly, she hoped he would let her know he was okay.
The fourth day after Jamal left, the phone rang at eleven at night. The call wasn’t for her. The phone was connected to the master bedroom, and Bambang had already picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Sir.’ The sound of panting. ‘They’re after me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Help me.’
‘Stay there. I’ll come and get you. Where are you?’
Ten minutes later, Bambang emerged from his room, looking purposeful. He was dressed sharply. Another man trailed Bambang, smoothing his clothes. His secretary.
Ratri stood, tensed, at the end of the stairs.
‘I’m coming with you.’ Her voice was soft but determined.
Paying no heed to the secretary, Ratri hastened her step and followed her husband to the garage. They had no time to argue because, as soon as the car door opened, Ratri nimbly made her way into the passenger seat. Bambang turned to her. There was no anger in his eyes. Ratri felt that he was deliberately allowing her in.
Bambang pressed the automatic lock. They drove, not passing through the toll gate towards the city, but continuing along Jalan Baru in the other direction, to wherever it was that it stopped. Ratri had never been this way, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. Her nightmares. The same deserted road. Darkness. No lights. No signs.
Bambang parked the Mercedes Tiger on the side of the road without turning the motor off. Being with her husband in a confined space, not speaking to each other, Ratri felt jittery, but the sound of the engine and air-conditioning rescued her.
In the distance, someone emerged from the bushes, running towards the Mercedes Tiger. In Ratri’s dreams, the figure was blurry. Now she saw it was Jamal. He was wearing the same black trousers and jacket and looked exhausted.
Suddenly, two men appeared from behind the trees and chased after him. Jamal reached the vehicle and pounded on the door, shouting for Bambang. The men caught up to Jamal and grabbed him. One of them had a rope in his hand. He looped it around Jamal’s neck.
‘Open the door!’ Ratri screamed.
Her husband stared straight ahead. Bambang must have had it all planned. In total control, like the way he drove.
When she thought back on the incident, Ratri couldn’t remember how long Jamal struggled. She had reached for the lock but Bambang seized her wrist. Her hands were weak. Jamal flailed at the door. He continued to stare inside and his mouth moved, as if he were saying something. The glass began to fog up. Ratri was still trying to make out what he had said when she realised that she was staring at the wide eyes of a corpse.
Jamal’s body slumped against the car. A final door that did not open for him.
—
Ten years after Bambang’s death, Ratri sat behind the wheel of the Mercedes Tiger. She was now fifty-two years old. Beside her sat a young man. An activist, or so he said, although for Ratri he remained an enigma. Activist, slaker of lust or simply a young man the same age as Anton? They talked for a long time about the election and the return to candidacy of so many of the same old faces. ‘How funny,’ said Ratri. ‘So much had been forgotten in ten years.’
‘Yes,’ said the activist, yawning. ‘By the way, why don’t you sell this car? It gives me the creeps.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? It’s where your husband died. Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched.’
‘Do you remember how he died?’
The man relayed what was reported in the media. ‘Anyway, your husband was an important man,’ he said, trying not to offend Ratri with the mention of corruption. R
atri smiled. She nurtured a different memory, of something unheard, considered unimportant.
On the day Bambang died, she got the answer: not to the riddle of her husband’s death, but to a question of her own. She had wondered whether Jamal’s story had truly ended there. Indeed, she didn’t care why or how Bambang died. That day she knew that a message was sent, though it was not easy to decode. Maybe the ghost of Jamal was taking vengeance over unrequited love and the betrayal of his trust. But even the motive of revenge couldn’t explain away Jamal, a young man obsessed by doors, a young man who would force entry and refuse to budge.
Ratri pulled the car over. She dropped the activist off in front of his house. He gave her a peck on the cheek before getting out.
Ratri stepped on the gas and stared at the figure in the rear-view mirror, laughing.
Kuchuk Hanem
After that evening, Kuchuk Hanem – let’s call her that, as few knew her by her real name – would linger in the men’s memories even after they returned to their continent. Her two guests were indistinguishable from other tourists, their whiteness and curiosity making them easy targets for thieves. They had come expressly to see her, the most famous courtesan in Esna. She stood at the top of her spiral staircase, her chin raised, inspecting her prey with imperious eyes. The strands of her necklaces glistened. Kuchuk Hanem let the pair gawk at what they could make out of her body beneath her gauzy lavender robe. Her mastery of the pose allowed her to evoke divinity. She had ordered her servant, accompanied by a ewe coloured with henna, to escort the gentlemen to her residence.
Only later did Kuchuk Hanem find out that her visitors, a photographer and a writer, were distinguished in their land of archivists. The former was obsessed with ruins and geometry; the latter, with the human or, rather, the half-human. The writer, while never losing respect for his photographer friend’s obsession with visual fidelity, indulged his own passion for the world around him by describing his encounters with hybrid creatures that were part goddess, part animal, part devil. Despite their different natures, the pair had sailed up the Nile to record this antique land, the playground where Kuchuk Hanem had learned to perform – and cheat – in her games. They had equipped themselves with a map inscribed with the respectable mission of bringing back knowledge about this other world. Through their eyes, one might see the curves of Kuchuk Hanem’s body haunting the severe lines of pyramids, and all Egypt incarnated in her kohl, in her henna, in the rattles on her anklets, in the beads of sweat on her décolletage.
Apple and Knife Page 3
