Love, Lies and Indomee Read online

  *

  We buy a bottle of Betadine and a packet of plasters. We limp back to my rental. Both my hands are scraped raw from breaking my fall on the asphalt. There are gashes on Hans’ knees. We treat each other’s injuries on the sofa by the balcony. My calf hurts—but I refuse to let Hans see. It is as wide as a Spanish guitar. I cannot have him see.

  “Come on, babe, let me put medicine on it. I’m your girlfriend, aren’t I?” I tease him, gently dabbing Betadine into his bleeding wound. We start laughing again.

  When Lala comes home she sees us in stitches on the sofa. Our laughter is genuine this time. She taunts us.

  “So you two are really in love, right?” she says, sarcastic.

  I raise my brow, throwing her a look: “Are you blind? Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

  “I thought he was just some boy you hired to fool your parents,” she says, nastily, then disappears into her room before I can respond.

  Hans and I look at each other again and laugh.

  “Is being your girlfriend always this fun? I want!” I say, mid-laugh. “You want to be my boyfriend? One-month trial period.”

  “Ah, you won’t be able to afford me,” Hans replies, in the same tone.

  “Asshole. Who do you think you are?” I say. I pull out a fat wad of cash from my purse. I fan myself with the money, then I hand it to Hans. He pushes my hand away. His face flattens.

  “Don’t worry. This is just a deposit. I don’t have enough cash. Do you take card?” I say, still joking around. I show my Gold bank cards.

  “No need to pay,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, laughing.

  “No need to pay if you want me to be your boyfriend.”

  “But…” I finally stop laughing.

  “I do need the money. But I don’t need to be paid to love somebody.”

  I stay quiet.

  “I’ll be with you, even if you don’t pay me,” he says.

  We stare at each other. It is a moment that stretches on—you can imagine leaves slowly falling and instrumental music accompanying the scene. My heart is pounding. What does Hans mean? Damn it. Wait. I need to think straight. I start to smile. Hans smiles, too. Gradually our smiles become chuckles, blossoming into joy. We start to chortle and snort like two people drunk on soju—the Korean drink the boss always drinks—even though we’ve only had whiffs of Betadine. My chest heaves, quaking.

  “Good joke, very funny,” I say, wiping away tears. My

  heart calms.

  “Yeah. Very funny,” Hans says.

  “You’re a real joker, aren’t you?” I say, smiling at him.

  He turns serious. “Who’s joking?”

  Eight months on and our relationship has changed a lot. Yes, we are in love. In the beginning, it felt like a dream and I kept pinching myself. Who would believe that something as sweet as this could happen to me? Ah, I’m so lucky. The first month I felt like a seventeen-year-old in the throes of her first crush. Oh God, I’m in love—I am giddy with daydreams and anxieties. Eventually the whirlwind abates, driven away by my workload. Truth is, I do not feel pretty enough to be with Hans. I have never been with anybody. And my first is someone like Hans? We didn’t start as friends either. The way we met was pretty disastrous. Fate is a funny thing. Hating somebody is risky business. Who knows what will unfold?

  I have lost a lot of weight. I have been drinking those bitter weight-loss teas, diet drinks that suppress my appetite. I’ve cut back on my nasi uduk breakfasts. I even try out those dodgy slimming pills you can order online. They make me lose weight really drastically—but also gave me dark panda rings around my eyes. So I cut back. Now I am only 56kg. I let my hair grow out, re-bond it, dye it with henna. I use expensive shampoos and conditioners, so it looks like Dian Sastro’s hair in those L’Oreal commercials. I didn’t do it at first, but one day I sent Hans to the salon for a facial and he bugged me to do it too, so I did.

  I’ve found that being in love is overrated. Overvalued. It seems so normal to me. Yes, my boyfriend looks like a film star, but love itself doesn’t seem like a big deal. Nothing magical or explosive like you’d expect from watching romantic comedies. Whenever we kiss, it feels just okay. Nothing magical.

  Dating Hans is pretty fun, especially when I have to attend weddings. When I introduce him to people, I get the satisfaction of looking at their stunned faces and hearing them whisper among themselves: “She’s hired that boy to be her plus one or maybe she’s used black magic?” Whatever. Oftentimes Hans does look like my toyboy (I pay for his food and provide his pocket money every month, after all). But he is really more than that.

  Lately, though, I worry. Hans is acting suspicious. He hides his phone whenever I’m around and sometimes he disappears without a word. I can’t check on him all the time. There is always a new case at work. A Korean man scamming other Koreans, claiming he owns a tin mine in Papua—a mine that does not exist. The scammer is using fake land grants and my job is to visit the relevant land offices, to secure proof. It’s stressful, tiring me out. So much research, so many reports to write. So maybe it’s my fault for not keeping an eye on Hans. But being with someone doesn’t give me licence to take away his freedom, does it?

  Today I was on the phone with people from the Department of Meteorology and Geophysics. I had to brush up on reading coordinates (With the internet you can learn anything). A Korean national has vanished at sea and all the information we’ve been getting from ships in the area is in coordinates: longitude and latitude.

  That’s nothing compared to the dinner situation. Hans is refusing to accompany me to Bogor this evening. Every weekend we get on his bike and ride home together to have dinner with my parents. Tonight he says he can’t be bothered. I snap at him. I am so exhausted. He asks me whether I want to fight about it. I’ve been at work all day, frying my brain…and he has the gall to tell me he’s too lazy to send me to Bogor? I am pretty angry. He’s been loafing around the whole week. Can’t he make the effort for me? So we argue, argue, argue. Finally he gives up, sighing, and starts his bike. We end up having dinner in Bogor, as usual.

  In the kitchen Mother pulls me aside and says: “And here I thought you were just pretending with him.”

  “What? Ma, you’ve got it so wrong,” I snort.

  “I mean, he looks like a film star. So it looked like he was acting.”

  I make no reply. In a way Mother has managed to divine the truth. But that was before. Now he is my boyfriend, for real, we’ve been dating for eight months. Who can keep an act up for that long?

  “So when will it happen?”

  “When will what happen?” I know where this is going, but I feign ignorance.

  “When is he going to propose?”

  I shrug. “Who knows, his job situation is still up in the air.” This much is true.

  “You don’t worry about the expense. The important thing is you get married.”

  I narrow my eyes, frowning. “I’ll talk it over with him.”

  Since last month, my parents have been allowing Hans to stay overnight. Their reason: it’s dangerous for him to be on the road so late. They let him use the living room provided I am already in my room, with my door locked, before they go to bed. Father even takes my room key. Insane parents. Not as if Hans would dare do anything to me.

  I’ve made a duplicate key. I use this and sneak outside. Now, don’t jump to conclusions, I’m not that kind of girl. I’m seeing Hans just to talk. You know, sitting together, lit by the soft glow of the telly, chatting with our voices low. It’s romantic. I’m attracted to things like that—though Hans doesn’t indulge me. When I get out of my room I find him fast asleep. Sprawled on the sofa. I touch his foot. He opens his eyes and jumps up. “What?” he mouths, silently. I gesture to the veranda. I hope for a bright moon, for added romance, but the night is overcast. Brooding, dark clouds hang low in the sky. More horror than romance.

  “What’s up? I was sleeping. So tired,” he complains.
<
br />   “Do you intend to marry me?” I ask him directly. Sleep drains from his face. There is stony silence.

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm?” I stare at him. What kind of answer is that? Hmmm?

  “Yes… I do…of course…I do…” he stammers, trying to keep cool.

  We’ve never discussed marriage before. I think I have a pretty good read on Hans’ character—and he’s no way the type to settle down. Not a family man. No interest in marriage at all. And, frankly, this is all new for me too. I give my parents what they want and now they demand more. When I’m single, they want me to get a boyfriend. When I have a boyfriend, they want me to get married. Why is it always like this? I’m not going to force Hans into anything. Badger him into marrying me, like some wailing spinster with shrivelling ovaries. No. If I have to marry, both of us must want it.

  “Well?” I ask.

  He frowns, then shrugs. “Let me get a job first. Then we can talk some more.”

  Yeah, find a job. Up to you. Whatever.

  *

  I don’t see Hans for a whole month. The case of the vanished Korean man keeps me occupied. His last known coordinates place him in waters between Batam and Singapore. So I need to liaise with authorities from both countries, in anticipation of his body (if it comes to that) washing up in either territory. Dealing with marine police in Batam is easier—we are Indonesian, after all—as opposed to the Singaporeans (who are overbearing).

  The boss and I can’t understand how somebody can vanish from a boat like that. And I can’t understand why Hans has been avoiding me lately. Was it the talk of marriage? Is he that afraid of the prospect? We’re in love. And we’ve been together a while. Why is he fudging? Is he ashamed of me? Is eight months not enough?

  I really need to give him time.

  Maybe.

  Talk about marriage comes up week after week, month in, month out. Every time we talk, we end up arguing—and by the end of it we are so sick, so emotionally exhausted. Hans will disappear without a word for a few days. Then suddenly reappear, as if nothing happened.

  I check his phone often. Look through his call log, read his text messages. Call me paranoid. But I have every reason to be. Quietly he has been seeing girls from Facebook again. We argue all the time, always about the same thing—that I don’t trust him, he’s cheating on me, he’s growing tired of me, I’m too pushy.

  We break up, the fairytale ends.

  But Hans is a rough patch of sea. He rolls out with the tide and wanders the oceans of the earth—then returns, turning up always to the same beach. That beach is me. And this is how we are. Hans disappears for a month. Then I find him on the veranda of my rental, looking forlorn and in need of TLC.

  I love him. I’m not going to lie. I love him so much I almost want to say I can’t live without him. He is the only person I know who entertains all my anxieties. He makes an effort to understand my work, listens when I complain about the boss, about my friends and so on. So, when he returns to me, asks me to hold him, I let him sink into my arms. How he has cheated on me, how he has been hurt by these other girls—surely prettier than me—but I won’t hear any of it. Hans is a wounded thing. Hurt. Disowned by his family. I love him.

  You cannot imagine how many times we argue, break off and get back together. Time passes, fast. I feel myself grow older. Another year goes by. No sign that anything will change or that Hans will marry me.

  “How’s your business going?” I ask him one day, over the phone. Having given up on finding an office job, not wanting to be a cab driver, Hans has been trying out various things. But mostly he follows what his friends are doing. He never really makes decisions on his own.

  “Mmmm…okay,” he says. Doesn’t take him long to launch into a tirade about his current venture, how there aren’t any prospects, how he hates his partners, how it is difficult to find customers, how his friends are scamming him. How everything is going to fail. He always asks me for start-up money. (And, no matter what his new scheme is, I never see any of the profits.) I never get my money back.

  Whatever. This is better than him wasting his time, gaming at the cybercafé. Let him do this “entrepreneur” thing. I’ll spend whatever I have to.

  “Is there a problem?”

  It takes him a long while to reply. “Mmm, don’t think I will go with you to Bogor this weekend.”

  Damn it! It’s my birthday this weekend.

  “Why not?” I ask, faking innocence like a jealous old wife.

  “It’s nothing… Something’s just come up… A…a business thing. Important. You know it’s just starting up, so…”

  He is lying. Behind his cool, smooth exterior, Hans is a nervous little boy who shivers when he is up to no good. It’s easy to tell when he is lying.

  “Ugh! You do what you want!” I slam my phone on the table and mutter at the reflection in my computer. The boss walks by, looking for Post-It notes. I snap at him: “What do you want?”

  “Oh, so angry, ya?” he says, in accented Indonesian.

  *

  That weekend I travel to Bogor by train. With my silky hair and my slimmer figure, nowadays I catch men leering. I can’t stop myself comparing them to Hans. So far, none of them measure up, looks-wise. I’m not attracted to any of them.

  Hans has been texting me.

  You’re angry, aren’t you.

  Forgive me, ya?

  And so on. I ignore his messages. Damned idiot. My head feels like it is going to explode. Especially when the first thing Mother says to me when I get home is: “So when are you getting married?”

  “You’ll be twenty-nine tomorrow,” she nags. Oh God, you think I don’t know? I can only stare back at her and take it.

  “He’ll propose soon, Ma. Don’t worry.” Even though I am worried.

  “Enough already. Find somebody else,” Father butts in, out of nowhere.

  “Come on, Pa. Finding a boyfriend is not like buying fish at the market.”

  “So don’t look for a boyfriend. Look for a husband. Somebody who’ll make an honest woman out of you. Not just around for a good time.”

  “I’m already lucky to find somebody who wants that with me,” I say, without emotion.

  “If he doesn’t want to marry you, let me find someone.”

  “Go ahead. When you find somebody, you can marry him. I don’t want to.” I get up and go to my room.

  The whole night I stare at my phone, hoping for a text from Hans. Something short, a birthday wish, whatever. He is my boyfriend. He should know when my birthday is. I don’t expect gifts or a big surprise. I understand his financial situation. Is a birthday wish too much to ask? It costs only 350 rupiah for a text. He’s got credit on his phone (I should know, I pay for the top-ups). Where’s my text? Not a single alert. I wait until two in the morning. Still nothing. This hurts so much. I spend the night alone in my parents’ living room. I fall asleep watching television.

  The morning is cold and quiet. No messages, no missed calls. I send Hans a text with nothing in it. No reply. I send :( emojis—several of them. No response. Maybe he is really out of credit? So I call him. His phone is turned off. Damn it.

  A thousand possibilities run through my mind. He’s sold his phone. It’s been stolen. Maybe he’s turned it off because he is with some other girl and he doesn’t want me bothering him. Maybe he’s just run out of battery. Whatever. I don’t care.

  But I do care. And I can’t do anything. Right? I don’t know where he is, what he is doing. The only thing I can do is not panic and kick everything, every single thing I can find in the house.

  Mother comes home late in the evening. She brings me a fancy chocolate cake. It looks delicious. She lights the candles so I can make a birthday wish. I blow them out in a huff. Who could celebrate in my state? I must seem so pathetic. No friends, no word from Hans. Only my parents and their pity.

  I’ve never had many friends. Correction: I don’t have any friends. I’ve never been close to anybody. I don’t
have anybody I can really call on. After graduation, my school and university mates went their separate ways and forgot about me. I was never the popular girl. What I had were fake friendships—symbiotic exchanges, convenient in that time and space—severed as soon as they were no longer useful. The only thing I have is Hans, and the piles of case-files in my office.

  “Your boyfriend didn’t show up?” Mother asks.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You’ve been arguing with him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You two broke up?” Mother guesses.

  “No, Ma.” How could she say such a thing? Breaking up with Hans would be the worst birthday present in my entire life.

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know, Ma. Please stop asking, ya?” I plead.

  “Okay. It is up to you. Your papa’s offer is still there.” At this, I cover my ears.

  I do nothing but sit at home, on the sofa in front of the television, with a DVD on, eating my chocolate cake alone. I don’t even have the energy to go out and buy something

  for myself.

  When I hear the beep of a motorcycle outside the house, I think it’s the best gift I could ever get. My heart rushes with joy—though I put on an angry face as I step through the doorway.

  Hans’ face is red; he doesn’t dare look at me straight. We spend several minutes like this, with Hans sitting there, not saying anything. I want to ask him what the matter is. But I refrain. I’m supposed to be angry with him. He doesn’t get off his bike. Just sits there, trying to find the right words.

  His dirty jeans and faded shirt. His green motorcycle, gleaming. He squints in the slanting sunlight. His hair is a tangle, as if he hasn’t showered. Or slept. He looks disturbed, in trouble perhaps. I was angry. I was going to scream at him (though I’m thankful he has come)—but seeing him now, I don’t have the heart to be cruel to him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, more concerned than annoyed.

  He refuses to answer. He walks up onto the veranda and sits in silence. I watch him. He’s brought no gifts. But in his sling bag I see something odd. The zipper of his bag is open and in it I see a small box. Oh God, what is that? I hold my breath and swallow and act calm, like I’ve seen nothing.