Home - Leila S. Chudori

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after few years I grew so bored with my work at the Ministry of Agriculture, I knew I had to stop. I wanted to write a book. I wanted to publish a paper. I wanted a change.

      So it was, one autumn night, I came home to our apartment bearing a bottle of wine and several cuts of choice beef. It was nine o’clock when I arrived home, and Lintang was already asleep.

      “What’s the celebration?” Vivienne asked, taking the bottle from me and pinching the meat. “This is expensive, Dimas. What’s up?”

      Vivienne’s green eyes bore into me.

      “Sit down,” I told her.

      She sat down beside me, a look of suspicion on her face. I took her hand and kissed her fingertips. It always excited her when I sucked on her fingers. I wanted her to understand the decision I had come to.

      “You know I love you and Lintang,” I began.

      She nodded and frowned, a nervous look. “This isn’t about another woman, is it?” she asked.

      “What! Are you crazy?”

      Vivienne laughed with relief. “You always forget how good-looking you are, Dimas. The grayer your hair, the more attractive you are for younger women. But never mind… What is it?”

      I paused, wondering which younger women found me attractive. How unfortunate I did not even notice. “It’s torture for me, Vivienne. I am so unhappy with…”

      “You want to quit your job at the ministry, is that it?”

      “Oui.”

      She stared at me, a tree offering its shade. As long as the subject at hand was not another woman, Vivienne seemed to me to be the most understanding wife in the universe. Unlike some other French women I knew, who allowed their husbands to flit from the bed of one mistress to another, for Vivienne there were very clear rules in our marriage. She would tolerate everything except one: another woman. And I agreed.

      “I knew.”

      I embraced her and held her tightly to me.

      Once again, I asked myself, what did I have to complain about if I had around me a family that loved me? Why did I feel like a piece of me was still left behind in Indonesia?

      That night, we poured ourselves a glass of wine and discussed what our future might bring once I resigned from my steady job at the ministry. In the course of our conversation, we were suddenly interrupted by a rapping sound. I opened the door to find Mas Nug, whose face was forlorn and whose appearance resembled a pile of dirty clothes. He was sweating, his shirt drenched. He held in his hand a brown manila envelope. He stared at me with tears in his eyes.

      Vivienne quickly pull Mas Nug inside the apartment. “Come in, Nugroho, come in.”

      My heart beat faster. What had happened now?

      Mas Nug’s hands were shaking as he held the envelope.

      Vivienne slowly took the envelope and gave it to me. I opened and read the document inside: a divorce request. Rukmini, his orchid in bloom, was asking Mas Nugroho with the Clark Gable mustache for a divorce.

      I put my arms around Mas Nug and pulled him to me, hugging him tight. I knew how much he loved Rukmini, even if, like Mas Hananto, he too played around.

      “I supposed I should have known why she refused to move here,” Mas Nug said slowly, taking the glass of wine that Vivienne proffered.

      “Why?” Vivienne asked.

      “Because of her relationship with a military officer, the one who protected her during the hunt for communists in 1966 and 1967. This man, Lieutenant-Colonel Prakosa, I thought at first was just a friend of her father’s who had in him a kind enough heart to help Rukmini.”

      I swallowed, imagining the faces of Lieutenant-Colonel Prakosa and Rukmini before me.

      “So, you’re saying that Rukmini is asking for a divorce in order to marry Lieutenant-Colonel Prakosa?”

      Mas Nug lifted the wine glass to his lips and downed its contents in one gulp. He asked for his empty glass to be filled. Vivienne obediently granted his request.

      Between tears and with the smell of wine on his breath, he ranted. “Tell Risjaf he was lucky never to have married her. Inside that orchid was a worm,” Mas Nug spat with anger and hurt.

      After emptying the rest of the bottle of cabernet sauvignon, Mas Nug picked up the letter of request for a divorce and flattened it on the dining table.

      “Pen!” he shouted at me. Never before had I heard such a dictatorial tone in Mas Nug’s voice.

      I frantically searched for a pen but couldn’t find one. Finally, Vivienne rummaged inside her purse and managed to come up with one.

      Mas Nug scrawled his signature on each of the multiple copies of the letter of request. Silently, I hoped that he had managed to affix his signature to the right spot, because when he signed the papers he did so in anger and with a theatrical flourish.

      When he had finished signing the papers, Mas Nug refolded them and gave them to me.

      “Mail them for me, will you?” he asked, while putting his jacket back on, “I’ll end up throwing them in the fireplace if I take them with me.”

      I nodded and said “sure” while signaling with my eyes to Vivienne. I would have to take Mas Nug home; he was already wobbling. Vivienne fetched my jacket for me and then walked us to the door.

      “Bonne nuit, Vivienne, you’re lucky to have Dimas. He’s a loyal man. Bonne nuit, Dimas. And you’re lucky to have married the very beautiful Vivienne. Bonne nuit. Au revoir, Rukmini. And fuck you, Lieutenant-Colonel Prakosa!”

      I patted Mas Nug on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow me. As we walked towards the Metro station, crunching the red fallen leaves under our feet, Mas Nug looked up at the sky and screamed. The Parisian autumn heightened the sense of gloom.

       A cook a pure artist

       Who moves everyman

       At a deeper level than Mozart …

      W.H. AUDEN

      90 RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS; APRIL 1998

      IN PARIS IN THE SPRING, THE DAYS GROW LONGER AND THE nights begin only when one is ready to pound the mattress. I am listening to a soft whistling sound, a tune of no certain pattern, the song of someone who can neither read music nor keep a beat. It is the song of my friend, Nugroho Dewantoro, who has come to within hearing radius. I can detect the effort he puts into trying to sing like the remarkable Louis Armstrong or any one of a number of the Indonesian keroncong crooners he so admires. At any one time, he might be whistling Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World;” at another, the traditional Indonesian song “Stambul Baju Biru.” It’s always a guess. Only Mas Nug has the verve and gaiety to not be affected by changes in weather. He’s the same, whether it’s an incredibly hot summer day that burns the flesh and causes skin to peal; the autumn, when the pollen count is so high everyone is coughing and sneezing; the winter, when freezing temperatures corrode our tropically pampered Malay bones; or the spring, that fickle time of year when it’s sometimes cold and windy, sometimes warm and humid.

      The only time I remember Mas Nug unable to beat back the gloom was the time he received the letter-of-request for a divorce from Rukmini. At all other times, he’s always been the most optimistic person in the world, ever capable of finding the silver lining in any disaster.

      Even back in Jakarta, when there were the five of us, Mas Nug was a guy who could never say, “give up.” That gang of ours on Jalan Solo was made up of five men, each of whom felt pretty sure about himself in one way or another. Look at Mas Nug, for instance, who, with his Clark Gable mustache,

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