Twilight in Kuta

by David Nesbit

  When I got back to the city, I found that Yusuf had left a message for me to call in at the club as soon as possible, even though it wasn’t due to open for a couple more days. This was not that unusual, although I did wonder why he hadn’t tried to call me or leave a message on my mobile.

  Anyway, I turned up at the club later that afternoon and my meeting with Yusuf was characteristically short. He told me in as few words as possible that Pak Neil wanted me to branch out more now and to see more of his businesses. I asked him what exactly that would entail, but he just said that I would soon find out and it would be good experience for me. He also told me that from now onwards my monthly salary would be five million rupiah.

  Pak Neil had a lot of businesses all over Jakarta and not just strictly in the entertainment industry; he also was involved with lots of shops and properties and had many other investments. However, he was usually conspicuous by his absence and we really didn’t see very much of him at all. I remember thinking that for someone who was still relatively young, Pak Neil had done well for himself but I couldn’t really see how, as he hardly ever seemed to be around in those days.

  Anyway, the first place I was detailed to work in was one of his apartment buildings in Slipi. I had to work there purely as a liaison clerk to start with and my task was to just to make sure the tenants were relatively happy.

  I had to act as a sort of go-between for them and the various departments of the building management. For example, the building had a security system and employed an outside firm on a contract basis. It was my responsibility to make sure the security firm were happy with the precautions and systems in place (fire alarms, id checks, emergency escapes, sprinkler systems, etc.) while not intruding on tenants’ privacy. I had to also liaise with the tenants’ organisation which was supposed to meet monthly and would air complaints or feedback on a manner of things ranging from rent payments to parking spaces to noise complaints. I also dealt with the rents collection agency to ensure that tenants were paying up on time, and then there was the repairs maintenance department to handle, the shop tenants who took up space in the basement of the building, the small restaurant that provided limited room service and a thousand other jobs and responsibilities that lay outside the direct remit of any of these departments.

  I found the work to be a lot more demanding, and to be truthful, a lot more satisfying than working in the club. I had so much more to do and I found myself exhausted at the end of each day, but I also had much more of a sense of achievement because I felt that I was actually earning the exorbitant amount I was being paid in contrast to feeling a bit of a fraud when I worked in the club.

  I didn’t really have an office that I worked out of – instead I was stationed mainly on the front desk of the lobby. This enabled me to act as a kind of receptionist as well as my other jobs. This suited me fine because I was able to get to know most of the residents this way.

  There was quite a wide mix of people who were staying in the five-story, sixty-apartment building, with some being local middle aged families, some young single people, some old and retired couples, and even some expatriates, or bules as we call them.

  I hadn’t really met that many bules when I had been working in the club, except for Pak Neil, of course. Endy had told me that they sometimes came in but usually preferred the clubs in the Blok M area of the city or the restaurants and bars in Kemang. Both of these areas were just a little more upmarket than we were and perhaps that’s why they preferred them.

  I got to know a few of them in the apartment, though, and found them to be reasonably friendly. Some were a little quiet and didn’t stop for a chat too often, but some others were very talkative and liked to spend time talking with me. This was great for me because it gave me the chance to practice my English which I hadn’t really used that much since leaving school.

  These bules were in Jakarta for a short time only, usually a year or two years, and so were keen on having a good time. They almost always were single people or else friends sharing, and they often had parties or brought back girls to their apartments. This was no problem as long as they didn’t stay too long or cause any trouble. It did lead to one or two awkward situations, though.

  I remember Pak Neil used to call round sometimes and this was the first time that I really got to speak to him on a regular basis. He would sometimes turn up late at night, either alone or with a young lady in tow, a ‘naughty girl’, usually, and then disappear upstairs to ‘his’ apartment.

  On the nights that Neil came round on his own, he and I would sometimes get the chance to ‘shoot the breeze’, as he put it. He would just accompany me in the reception area of the apartment and he seemed content to put his feet up and get away from the stress of running his businesses. He told me these nights gave him the opportunity to ‘escape from it for a while’ and although I wasn’t really sure as to what he was alluding, I was happy to hang out with him and chat away. Most of these chats we had were really rather inconsequential and consisted of not much more than passing the time together. I was mindful of what Endy had implied about asking too many questions, and also of Heri’s warnings to ‘be careful’, so I took steps to ensure our conversations didn’t stray into dangerous waters.

  Over time, though, I told Pak Neil more about my background and family, and also about my reasons for coming to Jakarta along with my hopes and aspirations, and Pak seemed to listen attentively. He would rarely interrupt but would prefer to let me talk and he’d interject only when he wanted to clarify something or help me out with my still-poor English. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my life and whatever pearls of wisdom I was trying to impart, but one thing about him that never changed was the fact he was always very guarded and hardly ever

  spoke about his own private life.

  What little information he did let slip was just fairly routine stuff. He told me, for example, that he had been born and raised in the UK and had come to Indonesia for the first time about fifteen years earlier. He said he enjoyed living here ‘to an extent’ and when I asked what he meant by that, he just replied that here life was fairly good for those willing to work hard. I remember saying I thought life in the west must be easier than in Asia because his country was rich while mine was poor. Neil just smiled at this and replied that I shouldn’t believe everything I saw on TV or read in the papers.

  The only time we did have one conversation in which he opened up a bit to me, however, came a little later and in hindsight considering what was to end up happening to me, I wished I had paid more attention to his words them.

  One night we were sitting together in the reception area of the apartment building just filling in time and trying to stay awake when Pak Neil suddenly said, apropos of nothing:

  ‘You a dreamer, Jack?’

  I was a bit confused by the suddenness if not the meaning of the question and so didn’t answer immediately. Pak Neil for his part just looked at me sideways and then closed his eyes.

  ‘Ah sorry, Jack. None of my business. Ignore me. I’m just in a funny mood today.’ It was true that he looked different than normal; more ill at ease or uncomfortable, if you like. Less self-assured, possibly.

  ‘Why, Pak? Anything the matter?’ I tried to help.

  Pak Neil kept his eyes closed. ‘No, not really. It’s just that … … Well, sometimes, life doesn’t go the way you think it will, does it? Then you end up over compensating for disappointments.’

  Well, I found myself struggling to keep up, but I felt he wasn’t really looking for much of an input from me anyway.

  ‘Has something happened, Pak?’ I timidly ventured.

  A sigh: ‘No, that’s the trouble. Nothing’s happened. A whole lot of nothingness and emptiness.’

  I chanced a glance at Pak at this point and to my eyes I have to say he seemed far away; distant even. For the first time in the period I’d known him, Pak Neil looked less than in control. If it didn’t sound so silly I’d even say he looked down beaten, as if li
fe in general rather than anyone thing was getting him down.

  Again I tried: ‘Really, is there anything the matter? Anything I can do for you, Pak?

  ‘No, Jack. Just promise me a few things, will you?’

  ‘Sure. Anything.’

  ‘Just don’t hope for too much in this world, mate. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, and never, ever depend on anyone else for your happiness. I did that and now look at me.’

  I found this last statement particularly confusing. I mean, it looked to me that Pak Neil had everything a man could want. He was rich, important, good-looking, owned many properties and businesses, and seemed to me to be living the ideal life. I risked a little and told him this.

  ‘Ah, Jack,’ he reasoned for the second time in a matter of minutes, ‘appearances can be deceptive, you know. But, at the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Appearances, young Jack, appearances. I appear to have it all but, in reality, well … let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’ This last utterance was accompanied by a finality that indicated I had no say in the matter and so no response was required or forthcoming.

  Over the next few weeks, Pak Neil started coming round a bit more often and he seemed to step up his liaisons with young ladies. At one point he had a steady stream of late-night companions who would be on his arm as they arrived and then accompany him upstairs to his apartment.

  This wasn’t really his own apartment, as such, as he never stayed there alone but it was the one he used when he was, ahem, entertaining. These girls would invariably leave the next morning or later the same night. This was quite a regular occurrence for him and I didn’t really think that much of it one way or another, after all, who was I to be moralistic about making love with a ‘naughty girl’ for money?

  Anyway, one night he brought another girl home with him and as they went to the lift together I happened to look at her and she caught my eye. Instead of giving me a grin as most of the working girls did in that situation, she sort of scowled at me. I didn’t think much of it at the time and when the same girl arrived back in the reception area an hour or two later I made the mistake of saying, ‘Sudah, Mbak?’

  This I shouldn’t have said because it means ‘Already finished, Miss?’ and in the wrong circumstances it can be very rude.

  It turned out that this was the wrong circumstance.

  The girl was very angry now and stopped walking to look directly at me.

  ‘Apa, what?’ she asked me.

  I was really embarrassed and said, ‘Tidak apa apa, non, nothing Miss.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘What do you mean ‘already finished’? Tell me.’

  I hesitated again, but when she clenched my fist and took one more step towards me I finally answered.

  ‘Nothing, Miss … Just that Mr. often has …’

  ‘Mr. often has what, Mas?’ She asked me, still clenching her fist.

  ‘Erm … girls come to his room and I thought …’

  ‘Ah, really? Are you sure? Ha! You thought I was a pelacur or a gadis nakal, naughty girl, didn’t you?’ she screamed at me.

  ‘Maaf, Mbak, sorry, Miss’ was all I could reply.

  It was not my finest hour, and I felt guilty and ashamed for a while and I also worried for a long time that she would make a complaint about me, but in the end she didn’t. I did learn from that experience, however, not to judge people or to be quick to rush to form opinions of them.

  During this period still I made sure that I kept in close contact with Heri as much as I could, because above everything else I still valued his words of wisdom. Although I knew he was proud of the progress I was making, he would still insist on exhorting me to ‘be careful’.

  At first I thought it was just basa-basi, or empty words, that he was spouting, but as time went on and still he persisted with his warnings, I began to wonder if there wasn’t more to it than met the eye, and if Heri wasn’t in fact referring to something in particular that I should be wary of.

  Anyway, after around another six months I was once again moved on, this time to work in one of Pak Neil’s hotels. I was officially without title in the time I worked at the Rose Garden Hotel, but my brief was pretty much the same as in my previous positions; namely to learn as much as I could and also, although this was unsaid, to try and show leadership or management qualities.

  I have to say I didn’t really enjoy the position in the hotel that much. I am not sure why; maybe it’s because I ended up getting arrested!

  Like my problems before with Mr. Simon, it wasn’t my fault, not really. I think the only thing I could be blamed for really was my naivety. It all started when I was working as a Floor Manager at the RGH.

  You see, what I had to do was be in charge of one floor of the hotel and to make sure everything was going ok. Like in the apartment, I was the liaison between the various departments, but I had the brief that the guests were the most important. If they had any problems or complaints then I was the one who had to sort them out.

  One day I was making my rounds, just walking around and making sure that security was ok, housekeeping was doing its job, and any guests around were happy and had no problems, when I came across a room with its door open. This wasn’t unusual because many guests leave their doors slightly ajar, for any number of reasons, such as they are waiting for someone to come back, are expecting a visitor or room service, are in a big group which has taken many rooms and so now they are leaving them open to allow for easy access or many more reasons. So, I wasn’t unduly worried or surprised to see the door of room 624 slightly open.

  I did what is protocol in those situations and just knocked gently on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said a female voice in English. I did so. In later days I wished I hadn’t, but by then it was too late.

  I was greeted by a western lady wearing just a short nightdress, a baby-doll, we call it here – and a smile.

  I was embarrassed.

  ‘So sorry, ma’am. I saw your door was open and so I was just checking that everything is ok,’ I said in my far from perfect English, but I think she understood me.

  ‘No problem, dear,’ she smiled. ‘It’s good to know there’s someone who still cares about other people.’

  ‘Erm, I was just doing my job,’ I stammered. ‘I will be on my way, then,’ I added, nodding at the door but unable to take my eyes of this very attractive lady’s legs.

  She saw me looking at her and gave another grin as I no doubt blushed deep red. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay for a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked, while giving me what even I in my limited experience of such matters knew to be a look of amusement and fake innocence.

  ‘Erm … I’d better be getting back to work,’ said I, Mr. Smoothy.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll fix you a coffee. Wait there.’

  I did.

  She went over to the mini bar and I have to admit I enjoyed watching her walk. She was, I guess, in her mid-thirties, was around 150 centimetres, perhaps 50 or so kilos and was very, very attractive. She had short brown hair cut in a sort of bob style and a nice suntan. Her white baby-doll dress was short, to just above her knees and, as it was a little tight fitting, it showed the curves of her rather attractive body nicely.

  I tried to keep my eyes off her but it wasn’t easy. To make matters worse I think she was fully aware of the effect she was having on me.

  She walked over to the mini-bar and turned away from me, glancing ever-so-sweetly at me over her shoulder. She then made what appeared to be a great show of bending forward to look for the coffee while keeping the palms of her hand on her thighs. She knew what she was doing; she was teasing me. She knew that by adopting this pose her baby-doll would draw that bit tighter around her and show off her assets even more.

  I wasn’t going to look; I wasn’t! I was going to be strong on keep my eyes and mind elsewhere. I could do it, I knew I could.

  I
couldn’t.

  ‘See anything good here, darling?’ she teased.

  Hmmmmm … it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it and I know I have only myself to blame, but it’s natural, isn’t it? It was her fault for teasing me and for driving me to it.

  So, here I am now; on trial for rape.

  I didn’t rape her. I have never raped anyone. She wanted to make love with me; she was just as willing as I was.

  I have a lawyer. His name is Mr. Bambang Yohannes. He is good and he believes in my innocence, I think.

  We are in court now and he is asking me questions about what happened that day. He is gentle with me and I answer him the best I can. I tell him what happened with the open door, the invitation to have a drink, the lady in little more than her underwear. I tell him how she teased me and let me know, or at least think, that she wanted to make love with me. I then tell him what happened after she asked me if I saw anything I liked. I forget to tell him, however, that she called me ‘darling’.

  He seems happy enough with my answers and thanks me before sitting down.

  That wasn’t so bad, I tell myself. I look around the courtroom and I see people I know. I see Heri, who has come here with some of the old gang from the building site. I am happy to see them. Mr. Yusuf is also here. He does not look happy. He is only here because he has been sent by Pak Neil. Pak Neil is not here himself but I know he is responsible for paying my lawyer. I am very grateful to Pak Neil because without his help I would never be able to afford a lawyer and I would surely go to prison for a long time.

  Mr. Joko Hardono, the prosecuting lawyer / attorney / barrister / whoever, stands up and approaches me. I had forgotten about him. He is not so nice to me. He doesn’t ask nice easy questions like Mr. Bambang did. He doesn’t seem to think I am innocent.

  No, in fact, he is not a very nice man at all.