Jalan Jalan

by Mike Stoner

  Charles just eats. He slurps as he sucks noodles between his teeth. He looks down at the table the whole time, taking occasional sips from the red wine.

  My noodles are good; the vegetables are crisp and it’s all easy to pick up with chopsticks. The wine is excellent. It coats the inside of my mouth.

  We finish. Benny burps. Fitri punches his arm. I look at Charles. He is looking at the menu, but his eyes aren’t moving.

  ‘You two have ice cream,’ he says to the children. ‘Order what you want. Your teacher and I are going outside for a cigarette.’ He dabs his mouth and stands. I do the same.

  I’m trying to think if I’ve done wrong. I follow him out to the car park. We stand under the neon sign. It’s a gentle heat tonight. Above the stars are clear and the moon is full. It reminds me of summer evenings back home, lying on the beach watching for shooting stars. The two of us lying with our arms around each other.

  I offer Charles one of my Marlboros.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  He flicks his Zippo and lights both of our cigarettes. I smell the lighter fluid in the still air. Cars go past on the road at few-second intervals.

  ‘My wife was also raped.’ He draws long and hard on his cigarette and blows the smoke up to the night sky.

  ‘Oh.’ Oh? Is that all I can manage?

  ‘It is alright. You do not have to say anything. I am telling you because you should know, so that when you return to your small little country that thinks it knows so much about everything, you can tell your friends about me. About the unsavoury Chinese club owner whose wife and daughter were raped by a gang of Indonesians who needed to take their anger out on someone.’ He nods his head and then shakes it while he kicks little stones across the car park. ‘It is the same everywhere, I know; the minority gets blamed and punished for anything the majority cannot accept as their problems.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I am sorry for you too. You have lost. I can see it.’

  Charles half-turns his head towards me.

  I look at my feet, nibble my bottom lip, swallow.

  ‘I do not want to know, but if you need help, please ask me.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m OK. Really.’ I am now drawing a line in the broken asphalt with my toes.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course you are.’

  There is a silence. I count four cars go past. A mosquito buzzes by my ear and I flick my hand at it.

  ‘Is that why your wife isn’t here?’ I ask, feeling he wants more conversation.

  He grunts and nods.

  ‘She blames me. They were taken from a taxi on the way to the airport. We could see it coming, the riots and troubles. I had to stay, but she says I should have driven her. I should have protected her.’

  I look in through the restaurant window and see Fitri playing peanut wars with Benny.

  ‘She is right. I stayed to protect my money. My fucking money.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come—’

  ‘No. She won’t. Never. And not my daughter, too. Never. Fitri and Benny don’t know what happened to my wife. They only know about Juni. My wife is too ashamed to talk of it and to talk to me.’

  ‘Where were Fitri and Benny when all this happened?’ I ask.

  ‘I had already sent them to their cousins in Singapore. Juni and my wife, Su-Chin, stayed here to convince me to go.’

  We both flick our cigarettes across the car park. They bounce and spark across the gravel.

  ‘And you really never heard about these riots in England?’

  ‘Really, no.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know if I’m apologising for the British media or expressing regret for Charles.

  ‘Well. When you go home to England you tell your friends, and I hope they will be interested and see how easy their lives are.’

  Five minutes’ interest maybe, then the conversation will return to unimportant crap.

  ‘Why do you stay here? Why not go and join your wife in Singapore?’ I ask.

  ‘She won’t have me back. My business is here. I was born here. Fitri and Benny were born here. Singapore would be a strange place for us, and’—he looks sideways at me and laughs—‘my money is here. My clubs make me a lot of money. My fucking money.’ He shakes his head once more and lets out a long sigh.

  I wonder which clubs he owns and whether he supplies the waiters with the drugs they sell. I think I know the answer.

  ‘I will get the kids and pay. Thank you for the cigarette.’ He turns and goes back into the restaurant. I look to the stars. So calm and quiet up there.

  We sit with our own thoughts in the car. The stereo plays quietly, a slow Chinese song sung by a mournful-sounding woman with piano for accompaniment. We are driving back through the city so Charles can drop me at my house. I look from the window and see single women standing along the side of the road, smiling and putting one leg forward as we pass, a little calf showing.

  ‘Pretty ladies,’ I say.

  Fitri laughs in the back. I turn and raise an eyebrow at her.

  ‘They are not ladies,’ she says.

  ‘You’re joking?’ I look back out of the window. One blows a kiss as we pass. Very pretty and very skinny.

  ‘She isn’t joking,’ says Charles. ‘This is Jalan Iskandar Muda. It is full of ladyboy prostitutes. They are very pretty sometimes, but not for me—but perhaps for you? You want me to stop?’

  ‘No. No. Not for me either.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘You are sure, because if you want—’ Charles is smiling. It is nice to see. There is warmth to it.

  ‘No. Really. Thank you.’

  At the end of the street we come to some traffic lights. A woman sits in the middle of the road holding a baby wrapped in a sarong. Her eyes are dark and cheeks hollow. The baby sleeps. The woman looks up at Charles and holds her hand out, but she doesn’t stand up. Charles reaches into his glove box and comes out with some notes.

  Lowering his window he shakes the money at the woman. She stands and takes it from him. She nods her head and mutters, then returns to her place sitting against the traffic-light pole. The lights change and we pull off.

  ‘That was generous of you. I thought you didn’t like Indonesians.’

  ‘How can I not like Indonesians when I am Chinese-Indonesian and this is my country? She did nothing bad to me. When I say I hate Indonesians, I do not mean it, or I try not to mean it. How can we hate an entire people just because of the actions of a few?’ He shakes his head. ‘I hate the few, but the few exist everywhere, no matter what their skin or nationality or religion. She is just a woman who is worse off than me.’

  I look at Charles, deep-lined eyes staring at the road ahead. He has two children in the back who I can’t help but like. Charles might possibly be a criminal, but I like him too.

  ‘Pak Andy seems to think all beggars should find a job,’ I say.

  ‘Pak Andy is a pathetic little man with no business sense and no—no, character. He is a mouse.’

  ‘I thought you were friends. That’s why I’m teaching your kids.’

  ‘No. He is repaying a debt. He is terrible at business and terrible at gambling.’

  We arrive at my house and he puts the car in neutral.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you. In a few weeks I am opening a new club. I want you to come to the blessing.’

  ‘Blessing?’

  ‘It is tradition for new businesses to be blessed by a dukun, to bring good luck.’

  ‘Do-can?’ I ask.

  ‘Du-kun. Dukun. He is like an Indonesian medicine man, a witch doctor. He has blessed all my business premises and all are prosperous.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be superstitious.’

  ‘I believe in nothing, but I am open to anything.’ He stares at me again, thoughts forming behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps it helps me, perhaps it doesn’t, but I think you should meet him. He might help you.’

&nb
sp; I’m not sure why a witch doctor would help me or why Charles thinks I need help, but for some reason I say, ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. Good night. Say good night, children.’

  ‘Good night. Sweet dreams of ladyboys,’ giggles Fitri.

  ‘Watch it, Missy. Good night.’ I slam the door shut and Charles is already pulling away before I have a chance to wave. I stand in the road and look to the stars again. So many shining away up there, some twinkling and others still. Are twinkling ones the planets and the others suns, or is it the other way around? I can’t remember. There are also constellations I’ve not seen before. I never thought about the sky being different here. I should start a list: Things I Never Considered in the World. I feel my mind is breaking out of some sort of prison and seeing a new freedom it never knew existed. Everything around me is still. Even the cicadas are silent.

  How can a dukun help me?

  —Perhaps he’ll get rid of me.

  —I thought I’d already got rid of you.

  —You can try, baby. You can try.

  I make a noise like the screeching monkey from my balcony and go inside where Kim is staring, eyes half-closed and reddened, at the TV. He holds a joint up above his head. I take it and flop into the armchair. I smoke and don’t bother passing it back. Kim is already riding the rides in the amusement park of his mind. I climb on mine along with rapists, gangsters and dukuns. When my dead girlfriend makes an appearance I shake her away. I picture what the dukun might look like to keep her out of my head: bones through the nose, rings around a lengthened neck, or a painted face. And I ask him, however he looks, ‘Answer me this: how are you going to help me, Mr Dukun, or is it Dokan, or Kando? Kando. Good one. Hehe. Why they call you Kando?’

  ‘Because I Can Do.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Let’s see if you really can, Mr Can-do dukun.’

  BIRTHDAY PARTY

  I wake up and it’s there. It’s in my head like a lump of lead, heavy and grey and poisonous, put in there for when I stir from sleep so I can’t miss it: Laura’s birthday. Old Me’s already yanking the reins. I might as well let him. Laura’s beside him, waiting to celebrate an ageless year. No fighting it today. No escaping or removing it or pushing it away by acting new. He’s got me.

  Not that he’s really left me alone anyway; I’ve felt him moving around down there, pushing against my ribs. I’ve managed to subdue him of late, to knock him down before he’s had a chance to stand up. I know he doesn’t like his replacement, even though his replacement isn’t fully formed yet. It’s just a foetus waiting for the final touches to its features. Perhaps I’ll give final complete birth to him after today. Then he can rampage without boundaries.

  In the meantime, take it away, Old Me. Do your worst, just for old times’ sake. I hand my body over to him and he picks it up, gets it out of bed and manages to do all the normal morning ablutions and eating and getting to work without incident.

  Well done.

  At work I work. In class, Johnny tries to broach sex positions, but I steer the class onto Chapter 6 – If I Had a Million Dollars. I think they can sense I’m not myself. If only they knew it’s actually more a case of being myself, my old self; Old Me is settled back into the routine of being quiet and morose and is about to let Laura step forward any moment, to let her out. I can sense it. I know him so well.

  Another class follows. Writing exercises. I sit at my desk and stare at my sandaled feet.

  —You don’t have to do this just for me, you know. Here she is.

  —I know, but today is just a glitch on my road to recovery.

  —Wallow in my memory one last time?

  —If you left me alone, that’s exactly what I would be doing: one last time. I’d appreciate it if you both leave me be after this.

  —I’ll try, but I can’t speak for him.

  —That’s a shame. Anyway, happy birthday.

  —Thanks.

  —You know I don’t want to be a shit to you.

  —I know.

  She sits on my lap and puts her arms around my neck. Her cheek touches mine.

  —I could stay like this forever, I say.

  —So do it.

  —Yeah. Right.

  —You haven’t said you love me for a long time.

  —You’re dead. Perhaps that’s a reason.

  —It is my birthday.

  —You know I love you. I always love you. I love you.

  —I love you too.

  Over Laura’s shoulder a student has his hand up.

  ‘Yes, Hendra.’

  Laura nuzzles my neck, slides off my lap and leaves the class. I sniff and blink and clear my vision and go to Hendra. Once I’ve answered his question I move around the class, pretending to check the students’ work.

  I finish at nine, don’t go into the staff room and instead walk out of the school. Outside Iqpal is sweeping the dry and dusty driveway.

  ‘You not wait for car?’ he asks, leaning on his broom.

  ‘Not tonight. Tell the others I’ve gone, please.’

  ‘I will. Take care, my friend.’

  I smile at him. He knows I’m somewhere else. Something must be written in international language in the lines and grooves of my face. I flag down a motorbike becak.

  ‘Where go, Mister?’ asks the rider. He has a little leather cap on his head.

  Where do I want to go? I should celebrate Laura’s birthday somewhere.

  —Music? I ask, climbing in the becak as she squeezes in beside me.

  —Yes. And a bar we can prop up.

  I tell the driver a hotel bar I’ve heard Jussy mention; small and with live music. He pulls off without checking behind. The night feels cooler as it rushes by. Two-stroke fumes are heavy in the air as usual. Cars and other becaks beep me and I hear the occasional ‘Hey, bule,’ as we zigzag through the traffic. The city is still busy.

  ‘I very happy have you in my motorbike,’ shouts the driver over the sound of his coughing exhaust. ‘I like bule.’

  ‘Good. Thank you,’ I shout back. I feel like an adult in a pedal-car. My knees knock against the front rail and I have to keep my neck bent as the canopy is low. The driver sees my discomfort and pushes the canopy back. I can now sit straight. Laura rests her head on my shoulder.

  ‘Bule very big. Indonesian very small,’ he shouts and then laughs.

  I push a smile onto my mouth. The fumes and breeze are making my eyes water. It somehow feels suitable. By the time we pull up outside the hotel bar I have to wipe moisture from my cheeks. I thank him and pay.

  The hotel bar is plusher than others I’ve seen here, with chrome and glass tables and hidden lights shining up the walls. Girls sit alone or in groups on high chairs along one mirrored side. I know why Jussy likes this place.

  —Oh. Prostitutes, says Laura.

  —Do you want to go somewhere else?

  —No. It’s got character.

  I go to the bar and pull out a high stool from under it. The barman says hi and smiles.

  ‘Two double whiskies, please,’ I say.

  He puts them on the bar in front of me.

  Two? I’ve gone completely mad.

  —Just drink them, numbnuts. No one’s going to notice.

  I pour one glass into the other. The barman watches and I make a crazy finger swirl movement at my temple. He smiles and goes to serve a group of suited men at the other end of the bar.

  —Where’s the live music? she asks.

  I look around. There’s an empty stage, a few people dotted around, mostly men at tables chatting with pretty girls. The girls aren’t particularly dressed up, most just wearing jeans and T-shirts, more modestly dressed than the girls in the discos.

  —I guess it’s the wrong day of the week. It is a Monday, I answer.

  I put both hands around my whisky glass and slosh the large shot around.

  —Go on, have some for me.

  —For you.

  I let it lie on my tongue for a couple of seconds then swill it aroun
d my mouth and swallow.

  —Good? she asks.

  —Not as good as the stuff you used to buy.

  What am I doing? She’s not here. I am going mad; having little conversations in my head all the time with a figment of the memory of a dead person.

  —But what if I’m not a figment? she says. I’m dead, alright. You’ve accepted that now, I know. But I mean what if I am here sitting next to you and you talk to me because you know I might be here and we’re having some sort of psychic dead-to-live chat? Imagine if you ignored me and I really was here, trying to communicate with you. I’d be really pissed off.

  —Not likely, though, is it?

  —Not likely. No. But let me be here today. Give me that much on my birthday. Please.

  I finish the whisky without swilling; straight down with a touch of after-burn.

  ‘Alright. Alright,’ I say.

  The barman looks at me.

  —Not out loud, numbnuts. Keep it all in your head, otherwise I’m going to get embarrassed and leave.

  I laugh.

  —Watch it. He’ll kick you out if you get any more loopy.

  I turn the laugh into a cough and rub my head. I blow out a long breath, point at my glass and hold two fingers up at the barman. He tops us up.

  —Just today. Because I miss you. Because I fucking miss you.

  The glass blurs in front of me. I put my head on my arms on the bar.

  —Don’t cry here, baby. Not now.

  She puts her arms around my neck and rests her head against mine. I can almost feel her breath in my hair.

  —Not now. Not now, she whispers.

  —I miss you.

  ‘I miss you,’ I sob into my arm, ‘I miss you so bloody much.’ The last words come out as gasps between sobs. They come out loud and into the room and I don’t notice or don’t care. My hands crawl over the back of my head looking for hers, but they fall through air into my hair. All I can do is pull at it, pull, pull.

  Then a hand is on top of mine, warm and familiar. My other hand goes onto the top of it without looking up.

  ‘Shhh. Do not cry.’ A real voice. A living voice. Low and soft.

  I look over my arm hoping for the impossible, but know it won’t be.

  ‘What is wrong?’ asks Eka. ‘Why cry?’

  I slide my hands away from hers and sit up, wiping my eyes on my palms.