Love, Lies and Indomee

  Love, Lies and Indomee

  A Novel

  Nuril Basri

  ISBN: 978-981-47-8559-4

  First Edition: March 2019.

  © 2018 by Nuril Basri

  Translated by Zedeck Siew

  The Malay-language edition of this novel, titled Enak was published by Buku Fixi in 2016.

  Author photo by Siti Hodijah. Used with permission.

  Published in Singapore by Epigram Books

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  Epilogue 2

  Acknowledgements

  Translator’s Note

  About the Translator

  About the Author

  His name is Hans, a boy I got to know through Facebook. I am setting up a date with him while dealing with the case of a Korean man who had lost his passport in Bali when my boss, Mr Hong, suddenly appears at the door.

  “Ms Ratu, update me on your case as soon as possible, please ya?”

  “I’m monitoring news reports about crimes around Jakarta, sir. Looking out for Koreans involved in road accidents…” I stammer, scrambling to click my Facebook page shut.

  Boss stares at me goggle-eyed. He knows I am lying. Boss is a Korean ex-police officer and working for him isn’t easy. Especially in my position.

  I am a legal secretary at the embassy. Even though I am a secretary, they do not want me to look pretty. They want me to appear tough. So goodbye to showing up at work looking like a Pantene ad, with luscious locks and stylish high heels.

  Boss is so demanding, unrelenting. Maybe because we handle serious legal and criminal issues relating to Korean citizens.

  I exchange phone numbers with Hans. From his profile picture, he’s pretty good-looking. Ah, he could be using the photo of some pop artist, for all I know. I use a Hello Kitty doll as my profile picture, so I seem like a cute—yet mysterious—girl. Here is the problem: if I use my real face, nobody would want to meet me. I swear! It’s not that I make a habit of asking boys out—I’m not that cheap—but I need a boyfriend. Right now. And because work keeps me so busy, I only get to meet boys online.

  Before my workday ends, I am already in the staff bathroom. It is cold in here. I stand in front of the mirror though I am not really looking at myself. I don’t like looking in mirrors, because mirrors make me look fat. I am 166.5cm tall, so if I were 45kg, that would be ideal. The problem? I am not 45kg. I am 65kg. (And sometimes I am 70kg when I am stressed.) Ratu, “queen”; that’s my name and my size, too.

  I try to comb out and smoothen my shoulder-length hair as best I can. My hair is coarse, and it is always a struggle to keep it tidy. Then I wipe my face with a wet piece of toilet paper. There is nothing interesting about my face, except for my smile. I think I have a Julia Roberts smile.

  Then, after a session of self-criticism in front of the mirror (“Why are you so fat? Why is your hair like shit?”), I hurry out of the bathroom. I will not be late for my date.

  This evening, Hans and I are supposed to meet at the busy south entrance of Plaza Indonesia luxury mall. He’s thirty minutes late. This makes me think all kinds of things about him. What if he’s just a fantasy? Maybe he was using a fake profile picture and never meant to show up? He could be spying on me right now, laughing his ass off! What if he’s some serial rapist, on the prowl for his next victim? After waiting and waiting, I see he finally shows up.

  To be honest, I was hoping he’d turn out to be average-looking (ugly, even) like one of those ojek motorbike taxi drivers who loiter and wolf-whistle at girls.

  No such luck. The boy who shows up is 100 per cent the boy in the profile picture on my phone. He is tall, slim; I spy a broad chest under his unbuttoned shirt. He has clear skin, well-groomed eyebrows and sparkling eyes. A very sharp nose. His hair is shiny, slightly wavy.

  So now the question is: why would a boy this good-looking want to meet a girl like me?

  “Been waiting long?” he asks, his voice husky.

  “Ya…half an hour,” I say, vexed. Uh, damn, he is really good-looking. And he smells nice.

  “Ratu, yes?” he asks, smiling a little. I am transfixed by the neat white rows of his teeth.

  I nod, shake his hand. I don’t want to let go.

  “Sorry ya, I was late. Had a lot of work,” he says, still smiling.

  Again I nod. What sort of work does he do? Office hours are over, and yet he looks and smells immaculate. When evening rolls around, people who have been working all day end up with oily faces. Could he be a model?

  “It’s okay, no problem,” I say, awkwardly. Truth be told, I hate people being late. It’s my boss, rubbing off on me. I only need to be a minute late to set Mr Hong off. “Babo! Babo!” he shouts, in Korean; I have no idea what it means.

  But for Hans, I’d be willing to wait a week. I wouldn’t even get angry.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” he says, leading me into Plaza Indonesia. We walk side by side. This makes me really shy. I have never been out with a boy as good-looking as Hans. As we walk our hands brush now and again. My heart pounds like waves on Kuta beach. He is so collected, so cool, it’s as if we have known each other forever, as if we always go out like this.

  Oh God, help me, I really like him! I have never known a boy like Hans. And he is really nice. All my hard work has paid off, this time. YESSS!!! I am finally getting my dream boyfriend!

  We go down to the basement level. This entire floor smells of food. We head towards Red Pepper—it is actually a food court, similar to other food courts in any other shopping mall. The food tastes the same, but at four times the price.

  I order mutton soup with rice. Hans orders grilled ribs with French fries, which looks delicious—and pricey. I keep sneaking glances at him, because my chest is still full of joy and awe.

  As I pay for my food, Hans bends down and sweet-talks into my ear: “Hey, pay for me too? Can’t be bothered to get my wallet out.” Then he saunters past me, beyond the counter.

  Immediately I realise the type of male species he is.

  I buy him a bottled tea because I worry he might order fruit juice—that costs 30,000 rupiah here. No way am I treating this guy so lavishly.

  We sit opposite each other. My adulation of his chiselled face and charming smile has evaporated. I no longer feel the need to be nice to him. All his great features, the ones I was admiring before? I look at them again and he looks like a chimpanzee.

  I’m so annoyed!

  “What do you do?” I ask, just to make small talk. We have been sitting silently since we began eating.

  “Secret,” he replies, gnawing the meat on his plate.

  Secret! Hah! Typical: refusing to answer, just so he can play at being mysterious. Later he will probably s
ay he is a magazine model, or an actor in an as-yet-unreleased soap opera, or that he owns some trendy boutique—when, in fact, he might just be a bum.

  “Isn’t your husband worried about what you’re up to?” he teases.

  “What? Do I look like a lonely housewife looking for a fling?” I hope he gets that I find him insulting.

  Instead, he asks: “Where do you live?”

  “I rent a place not far from here.”

  He nods. “Sorry ya, I can’t drop you home. After this I’ve got a photography session to get to.”

  I snort. Photography session? Puh-lease. Besides, who wants to be escorted home by some chimpanzee? Hello, if you were really a model, why would you need a girl to pay for your dinner?

  He isn’t attracted to me. Now that, I understand. He doesn’t even look at me. If I were pretty, he would be treating me like an angel. Everybody treats pretty women like angels. My lot is the curse of average looks and above-average body fat: people treat me like I do not exist. Boys like Hans are attracted only to my ATM card.

  When we finish eating, we part ways. “Thank you for buying dinner. If you want to hang out again, just text me. If I’m not busy, I’ll text back.” He gives me a low-lidded look and his widest, most winning smile—the kind of stuff he uses on girls like me all the time, probably. Does he think I’ll swoon? Does he think I’ll be so entranced by his good looks, I’d ignore the fact he is a disgusting parasite? You think wrong, Hans! I may not be pretty, but I am not stupid!

  “Okay,” I say, vaguely.

  He bends, turning a little, offering his cheek, as if for a kiss.

  “Ewwww!”

  I push him away, hard. He stares at me, stupefied. Maybe he assumed I would not pass up an opportunity to kiss him (an opportunity so graciously offered). But there he is: rejected. He can make assumptions about other girls, but no no no, not about me.

  As he leaves I hear him mutter: “Ah, fatso wants to show off, whatever.” What a fucking freeloader!

  I’m not hoping that some pretty boy will fall in love with me. If anybody like that showed any interest, there would be some kind of ulterior motive. They would want me to buy them things, or help them with work, or clean their houses for free. Maybe there are girls willing to do all that for a handsome face, but not me. I’m not that desperate. I am not going to buy love. But it does hurt, when it happens to me.

  On my way home, I listen to “Parasit” by my favourite pop star Gita Gutawa and sway to the music—all the way to my rental place, behind the office.

  Just forget Hans. Pretend I never met him. He is a disgusting parasite, undeserving of the least attention. I decide I will unfriend him and delete his number from my phone.

  But I still need to please Mother, who can’t wait to get a son-in-law. For her sake, and to keep up this great hunt for a sweetheart, I need a new date soon. It’s important to get somebody with average looks this time. And vet their Facebook profiles more thoroughly. Phew.

  *

  The next morning I head straight to Boss’ apartment. He’d asked me to stop by there, before going to the office. Secretaries like me tend to spend a lot of time running about, rather than sitting behind a desk. I represent my boss at a lot of meetings because he cannot speak Bahasa Indonesia. And I don’t speak Korean. The only word I recognise is “jinjjaarooo!” although I’m not quite sure what it means. We communicate only in English.

  On the way, I buy nasi uduk from a roadside stall. Between mouthfuls, I resolve to stop eating breakfast, starting tomorrow. I need a diet. This nasi uduk is just going to add to my body fat. Maybe I should toss it out the taxi window. Oh, but I shouldn’t litter, should I? I’ll throw it away when I arrive.

  When the taxi stops in front of The Sultan Apartments in Semanggi, all the nasi uduk is inside me. Oh God, I need to diet. It feels like I have a python wrapped around my belly.

  I’ve been to Boss’ apartment several times. Sometimes I have to accompany his wife around, as she goes shopping and so on. She has only been in Indonesia for a few months. A lot of things are new to her. I’m not only my boss’ work secretary; I’m a personal assistant to his family.

  Madam Hong comes down to meet me. She is a fragile tower, ready to fall at the slightest touch.

  “Hyun Ji,” she says.

  Hyun Ji is Boss’ daughter. She is a second-year student in Upper Secondary.

  “Is Hyun Ji okay?” I ask Madam Hong, in English. The last time I dealt with Hyun Ji, the girl had asked me to accompany her to watch a movie at Blitz Megaplex. This was a cover—she actually had a date with her boyfriend. I was just there as insurance, like insect repellent.

  “Hyun Ji, eye.” Madam Hong’s English is stumbling, difficult to understand. I wait and keep listening. “Eye, pain… Later, Ms Ratu, bring to doctor…. Pick up, school… I cannot.”

  Ya, of course she can’t. She can’t even handle getting credit top-ups for her phone. Taking her daughter to the doctor, having a medical conversation in English? That would be beyond her.

  She is a lovely woman. She looks like the prima donna of some Korean drama. But she is a bit of a bimbo.

  If Madam Hong is a Korean drama star, what does that make me? The poor-girl character in an Indonesian soap!

  Madam Hong hands me 1,000,000 rupiah, in cash. She asks me to wait on the apartment steps. Her driver will drop me there, she says. Great, I won’t have to take another taxi. I know Boss’ family employs two chauffeurs, though I’ve only met one.

  Shortly after, a Nissan MPV with ‘CD’ plates (special plates, belonging to diplomatic staff) appears. It pulls up in front of me. I wave goodbye to the beautiful Madam Hong, open the door and make myself comfortable inside.

  “Pick up Hyun Ji from school first, ya, Uncle? I’m going to nap a little. Feeling sleepy,” I say. I rearrange the fluffy seat pillows. I don’t like to be too friendly or polite with people. One: the boss doesn’t like it; I need to be tough, he says. And, two: plain girls like me don’t get much out of acting all sweet. It’s nauseating. I myself hate to see plain girls go all cutesy, dreaming they are members of some girly girl group like Cherrybelle.

  I know the drive to Hyun Ji’s school will take a while. She’s enrolled in an international school; the students there are all expat children. I’ve been there a number of times.

  I snap awake the moment we stop at the school gate. A few minutes later, Hyun Ji emerges. She gets in immediately and sits down beside me.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” I ask.

  “They hurt. Maybe my contact lenses have expired. My eyes are all blurry.”

  Heh. Expired contact lenses? What a weird kid.

  “We’ll go to Aini Hospital ya, Uncle?” I tell the driver. Aini Hospital is Jakarta’s largest eye hospital.

  The driver says nothing. He keeps his eyes on the road. Doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge me. What a snob!

  “You know? I picked my own driver. All the girls in school are crazy about him,” Hyun Ji says, lounging. She can tell me anything because we are quite close. She is a Korean schoolgirl, cute and pretty like that Suzy character in the Korean drama series Dream High.

  “Him?” I say, pointing at the guy in the driver’s seat.

  Hyun Ji nods and grins. I look at the driver again. He is giving the road his 110 per cent. He wears a beret and sunglasses. Oh, please. He looks like some sleazy masseur.

  “Can’t see his face,” I say. (This whole time, everything I’ve been saying to my boss and his family has been in English. And that driver there doesn’t understand English, I think. He is just a driver, after all. Hyun Ji and I are free to gossip about him.)

  “He doesn’t like people looking at him while he’s driving. Shy, maybe?” Hyun Ji whispers. “Sometimes I sit in front, next to him, and pretend we are a couple. But he is too old for me.” she giggles.

  Often I look Hyun Ji up and down, up and down, and the same question keeps repeating in my head: What’s it like to look like an SNSD girl g
roup idol? How does she deal with real life?

  “Is he that handsome?” I ask her, trying to catch a clear glimpse of our driver’s face.

  “Very handsome. Hang on, I’ll get him to take off his hat and glasses.”

  “Nah, no need, leave it,” I say. Poor driver Uncle! What if he feels like we are making fun of him? I don’t want to become the fat girl who bullies her boss’ chauffeurs.

  “Hans, take off your hat and glasses, please,” Hyun Ji says in her best schoolgirl voice.

  The driver says nothing. He doesn’t understand English, maybe. Wait. Hans?

  “Hans?” I ask Hyun Ji. That name. It can’t be.

  “Yup, his name is Hans. Like a Dutch person, right?”

  Quick as lightning I lean forward to look at him. For a long time I stare at his lips, his nose. “Hans?” I ask again.

  OMG! It is really him!

  I laugh out loud, and loudly. Haha! I laugh like an evil witch, like Mak Lampir played by Farida Pasha. I laugh and I hold my belly. Hans looks distressed. His hands twist on the steering wheel.

  “You know him?” Hyun Ji asks.

  “Hang on, let me double-check,” I say, mid-snigger. I pull out my phone. I forgot to erase his number last night—I dial that number now. A moment later I hear a phone ringing from inside the driver’s pants pocket. Bingo!

  “Nah. I don’t know him. The Hans that I know is a nutcase,” I tell Hyun Ji, and I laugh some more.

  As I help Hyun Ji explain her problem to the ophthalmologist, I am still smiling. I have to stop myself from bursting into laughter; I don’t want be labelled insane. As for Hyun Ji’s eyes, the doctor says it is only some mild irritation. He prescribes her some really expensive eye drops—probably because she looks like a walking wallet.

  From the hospital we head home. The whole journey back I talk to the girl. I ignore Hans completely. He fumes bitterly in the front seat.

  We are greeted by Madam Hong. As Hyun Ji gets out of the car, Madam Hong ducks down and speaks to Hans: “Please send Ms Ratu back to office.”

  Hans only nods. I beam. I am so satisfied.