Love, Lies and Indomee Page 8

  to Jakarta.

  When I tell Lala that I am getting married she coos and says: “Wow!” and makes such a fuss. As if it’s such a great occasion. She goes on and on about all the things she wants for her wedding. She keeps trying to show me pictures of stuff, on her phone.

  “This wedding ring… I want a wedding gown like this one… The floral arrangements have to be rose-themed… The dais will look like this, look!”

  “Ooh,” I say, listlessly. I’m not thinking about all that. Sure, I did, once. A dream wedding with a dream man. But the way things have turned out? I’m not marrying for love anymore. You could say I’m marrying against my will (and also for vengeance)—to somebody I don’t even know. This is not the wedding of my dreams. So I don’t care.

  I am back at work the next day, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and things remain that way through the week. Mother texts or calls me every single day. About the smallest things.

  “Do you want a white dress? How about a light-green dress? What about the food? What’s your shoe size? I can’t remember. Do you need a new bra?”

  Mother can handle all that. Mother can decide. Sometimes she puts her foot down, insists I give her an answer. Whatever, I tell her. Then she asks me how many guests I’d like to invite.

  I tell her: “Just around ten, Ma.”

  It’s weird, really. Preparations for the wedding are going so well and so speedily. Some people I know take months. Years, even.

  That Friday evening I get a text from my husband-to-be, telling me everything’s done. The ceremony will be on Sunday at 9am. The reception? Some hall called so-and-so, from 11am to 2pm. I tell my colleagues about this. “Come to the reception, okay? This weekend.” I only invite my Indonesian co-workers. I keep it from the boss and from the Koreans at the embassy. Everybody I invite starts in surprise: “Wow, really? Seriously? Who are you getting married to?” I give them quick summaries. I text Lala, too. I have to return to Bogor right away; I don’t have time to meet her at home.

  *

  On Saturday morning, I am woken by Mother barging into my room, her arms overflowing with dresses and kebayas. I hold my head. It spins. It feels like I need twelve Paracetamols.

  “Get up,” she says. “You need to try these on. See which one suits you. Hurry up! You’re getting married tomorrow, why are you still lazing about?”

  I open my eyes. Reluctantly I take the hanger Mother holds out to me. These kebayas are for the ijab-kabul ceremony. The very first kebaya I put on seems to fit my figure perfectly. So I decide on that one. Then Mother has a dress for me. It is light pink and when I look in the mirror and see myself in it I want to weep. But I hold it in.

  The whole day is taken up with getting me ready. A manicure and pedicure; a mini facial; a full body scrub and massage; a wash and treatment for my hair; oh, even my ears get cleaned. And so on. Mother tells me that in her day, brides would not bathe for two days before the big day. You wouldn’t sweat in your wedding dress, because by then you would’ve run out of sweat. Hello? No way I’m going to do that sort of nonsense. Mother might, but not me.

  I spend the day on autopilot. The only thing I do consciously is text Hans. It is short.

  The wedding reception of Ratu & Inugrahadi, at hall so-and-so, tomorrow. 11am-2pm.

  No reply. I make sure. I text all the numbers I got missed calls from in the past week. Then, just to be certain, I text the same message to Hans’ old number again. Sixteen different phone numbers. He cannot say he didn’t know. I want him to show up.

  For a girl who is getting married against her will, I am surprisingly calm. It’s not like I can tell people how I truly feel. I want to text Lala. But it’s a Saturday evening, and she’s probably out with her boyfriend. I keep everything inside. Maybe I need an imaginary friend, like little girls sometimes have. “Oh, Dora,” I’d say, “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

  *

  Mother wakes me at five the next morning for dawn prayers. I rarely pray. At 6am the stylist arrives. I am put together. The make-up is slathered on. My brows are tweezed. My foundation is maybe ten centimetres thick. I keep quiet. Around 9.30am I am paraded around the neighborhood to the mosque. My wedding train is a crowd! Whatever.

  The kadi is waiting for me. Seated in front of him is my husband-to-be. At that moment the thing that occupies my mind completely is how tight my skirt is. Can I even sit down in this? I struggle with it.

  The ceremony begins. I feel nothing. Except for how humid the mosque is. Somebody puts a wedding ring on me. It is a simple ring, with a tiny stone, very plain and ordinary. My dowry is 25 grams of gold. Real gold, I suppose. And a prayer shroud—I’ll probably never use that. And then the kadi announces: “Now you are one in matrimony.” And suddenly everybody is roaring. This is how we become husband and wife. In the blink of an eye.

  I turn around to kiss my parents’ hands. Both Mother and Father are sobbing. Oh God. It is just a wedding. Then my husband-to-be—my husband, I should say—he kisses their hands. I look about me. I feel like there is something missing. What is it? I cannot say.

  Outside the mosque, a large bus is idling.

  “Do we get on this?” I ask my…my husband.

  “No, that,” he says, pointing at a black sedan decked with flowers and ribbon. I get into the back seat. I would’ve been happy with the bus, really. It would’ve been more interesting. But he got me a car. So I’ll take the car.

  The stylist meets me at the hall for our reception. Time for a change of costume. It is the pink princess gown I tried on yesterday. Then I take my seat on the dais. I am like a decorated pink cake. I am so hungry. I’ve had nothing to eat since dinner yesterday evening.

  Inugrahadi approaches. He hasn’t changed. He is still in the same coat he had at the mosque: all black. He says nothing. We sit together and wait for our guests to arrive. I scan the hall. It is not big, but good enough. The dais is good enough. Not great, but not ugly either. The photographer is here. I pose for his flashes politely. No energy for enthusiasm. Suddenly there are so many people. I see my parents talking to my aunts, my gossip-addicted relatives. “When is Ratu getting married? When?” Well, here I am. They probably rode on the bus.

  Something is still missing. I realise what it is.

  “Where are your parents?” I ask the man beside me.

  “Not coming,” he replies.

  “What? Why?” Did his parents disown him or something?

  “They’re dead, how are they supposed to be here?” he answers.

  I don’t know how to respond. I feel bad and a little sorry. His expression is hard to read. So I keep talking.

  “What about your relatives?”

  “None of my relatives will be coming.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Well, it’s not surprising. If this is how you’re earning your money, of course you can’t depend on your family.

  “So you live alone?”

  He nods.

  I am an only child, too. Well, not really. There was my sister. She was two years older. She has been gone a long while. She died when she was in her second year of secondary school. I was in my third year of middle school. I try not to think about her. It is all heartache. I loved her. The fact that somebody I loved so much is gone…that is torture. I don’t want to remember her. She should be here, sharing this with me. My best friend. She always listened to me. When she was alive, I wasn’t fat. We’d watch our weight together. People used to say we looked alike, but she was way prettier than I.

  The guests are approaching. I don’t recognise everybody. Most of them must be relatives, my parents’ friends and acquaintances. Where are the cash-envelopes going? Not my business. My aunts and uncles have open, relieved faces. Happy that there is one fewer unmarried girl in the world. The bevy of gossipy aunties come to greet me with their powder-caked faces, then retire to a corner to whisper. People sit down to eat. There is a lot to eat. I can only watch from t
he dais.

  It is a formal affair. Nearly nobody knows who Inu is. Perhaps he doesn’t have that many friends. Hah. I’m sure of it. Who would want to be friends with him? Please. He’s been reduced to selling himself off, hasn’t he? Marrying a girl for cash.

  I see that Lala is here. She comes with her boyfriend. I am happy to see her. Finally, somebody I recognise. She comes to congratulate me.

  “I didn’t come alone,” she tells me.

  “Ya, I saw. Your boyfriend.”

  “No, I don’t mean him,” she says, waving a hand.

  “Who then?”

  Lala nods her head. I look in that direction. And there, I see him. My ex. Hans. He stands as if he is trying to disappear into one of the hall’s decorative potted palms. So he came, ya? Haha! Good. Excellent, even. Let him see all this. I want him to hurt. I want him to feel pain. Jealousy. Frustration. Let him feel the way I felt, when he left me for someone else. Haha. Of course I didn’t go to his wedding. I don’t even know what the girl he is married to looks like. Counting that fact, objectively, he has to be hurting more than me. And now that he is here, let him hurt some more. I wiggle closer to Inu’s side. I hold Inu’s hand, and press myself to him. I put on my happy face: I smile, I show my teeth, I radiate joy like I am Miss Indonesia.

  Inu sees me smiling. He is a little confused, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Why did you leave him way over there?” I ask Lala.

  “I got him to come, but I was afraid you might get upset,” she whispers back.

  I shake my head and grin: “Heh, no. Why would I?”

  Lala waves at him to come. Even from where I’m seated I can see he does not want to. He looks crushed, just like I hoped. Haha! This is so good, seeing him in that state. Hello, Hans! I’m married now; I have somebody. My day and joy is complete. I feel the way he must have felt, when he got hitched.

  “What’s the matter? Why are you smiling to yourself?” Inu asks me.

  “Nothing,” I say. I let his hand go and shift away.

  Hurting Hans makes me so happy. I don’t think I ever really hurt him before. I loved him too much. Because he was so handsome, I couldn’t do anything cruel to him. I did not want to lose him. But he left me for his own selfish reasons, not because I drove him away. Now I am enjoying myself so much. Let him realise I don’t worship the ground he walks on anymore. I can be cruel and hurt him too. Thinking about it: am I really being cruel? I mean, doing all this just to hurt him. Will he really be hurt and angry? Will he really cry like I did? I cried endlessly, night after night, when he told me he was getting married. That was a terrible place to be. Have I turned into a monster? That question consumes me. Am I a bad person? Am I? I am still thinking about it as guests start to leave. Leftovers piled on the tables. Even Lala is no longer here. And then, suddenly, a thought forces its way into my brain. Oh God! My forehead breaks out into a cold sweat.

  “Mmm, you’ll be spending the night at my house, right?” I ask Inu.

  “Why don’t we go home to my place? Or do you want to stay at a hotel first?”

  Sweat streams down my temples.

  “Let’s just spend the night at my place, okay? I need to go home tonight,” I say, pleadingly.

  “Why?”

  “My place. There’s something there, at my place, in my bedroom. Like a spirit thing. If I want to spend the night anywhere else, I have to ask its permission first. If I don’t it will follow me and haunt me. I won’t be able to sleep. You’ll be disturbed, too.” That’s what I say? What the hell am I babbling about? Only an idiot would believe that!

  Inu looks at me strangely. But then he says: “Oh, really? Okay.”

  How the hell did that work?

  “Thank you,” I say, getting off the dais.

  After all the guests are gone, the hall’s cleaning staff appear. Obviously we are meant to clear out of here. I hurry out into the parking lot. The black sedan is waiting for us.

  I don’t wait for Inu; I dive in. “Uncle, turn up the air-conditioning, please,” I tell the driver.

  Inu sits beside me. I fidget away. Then I remember: he is my husband now. The car speeds back to our house. I am starving. We pass bakso stall after bakso stall on the way. I stare at each one with beggar-child eyes. What I want most in the world is for us to stop, for me to get out, for us to eat bakso by the roadside. But of course Inu wouldn’t want to. What bride and groom would get out of their luxury ride to sit by the dusty roadside for a bowl of noodle soup?

  When we get home the thing most on my mind is to get out of all this fabric. The dress blooms out like it belongs to a Disney princess. Not really something I enjoy. I like simple things. And wearing it feels like I’m in an oven. It itches. It is so heavy. It makes me look like an ondel-ondel doll. And I need to pee. I want it off! I call for somebody in the house to help me. But the house is empty. There is only me, Inu and the chauffeur.

  I have no choice but to ask for Inu’s help with the zipper. Oh God, please let Inu control himself—Amin! (All those stories about how men turn into animals, seeing the slightest bit of skin. It’s so dangerous!)

  Out of my dress and changed, I run into the kitchen, to the fridge. Nothing. Just a jar of peanut butter. So that is what I eat. It is my wedding day, and all I get to eat is peanut butter. Inu pauses at the doorway to stare at me. Then he leaves. Where has he gone to?

  Some time later my parents return. Here they are, with packets of food. Finally! They smile at me. Following them: people, relatives, a crowd. They all cram into our house. Oh, damn it. Here I am, half-dressed, and now they come to congratulate me? What for? Wasn’t all the time we spent in that hall enough?

  “Wah! The bride has taken off her dress, ya?” one of the gossipy aunties says to me.

  “It was too warm,” I say, my mouth full of beef rendang.

  And another gossipy auntie says: “Too warm or too impatient?” At that all the aunties hoot—and there goes

  my appetite.

  “Let’s go, don’t hang around. Let’s not disturb the newlyweds!” she adds and cackles.

  Oh God. I just want them to be gone. Please let them leave. Not that I’m in a hurry for that.

  In my own room I lock the door. Phew—the sigh I heave is massive. I drop onto the bed. Let my eyes shut. Hopefully this is all a bad dream. When my eyes open there is a figure standing in the open door to my bathroom. It is wiping itself with my towel.

  “Aaaaaa!” I scream.

  He looks at me, shocked. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Why are you here?” I say. “Simply barging into my room? And you’re naked!”

  His next look is one of confusion. “Ya. So?”

  I want to shout at him. Say something like: “You can go home!” Or: “Use the outside bathroom!” Or something. But then I remember we are now married. So I am forced to let this be, for now.

  I say: “Don’t suddenly scare me like that. Heart attack!”

  “Who scared you?”

  “You. You, Mr Inu! Suddenly appearing in my bathroom like that,” I mutter.

  “What? So I have to knock on the bathroom door if I want to come out?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

  “Hishhh!” I hiss, annoyed. I glare at him. “Enough. I’m showering. Give me my towel!”

  Inu wipes his underarms before returning the towel to me. “Oh gross! Never mind!” I say. I lock the bathroom door. I am forced to use an older towel; it’s got little black spots all over. The shampoo and soap bottles are all rearranged, messed up. Terrible! Splash marks on the wall, above my head. I shower uncomfortably, hurriedly. Then I scream a warning: “I’m coming out! You better have your eyes covered!” My own idiotic fault, not bringing a change of clothes in with me. I peek around the door. I see him staring at me.

  “Hey! Cover your eyes, I said!”

  “Why should I? Not like it’s wrong, anymore. Ms Ratu, we’re now husband and wife,” he laughs.

  This asshole won’t listen. I stride out,
as calmly as I can, even though I’m worried he will pounce on me. I snatch underwear, jeans and an anorak from the cupboard. And dash back into the bathroom to put them on.

  “Where are you going?” he asks when I come out again.

  “To sleep, Mr Inu,” I reply.

  He grins, mockingly. “You’re dressed like you are going mountain climbing, Ms Ratu.” He falls onto my bed.

  “Whatever,” I say. He can laugh all he wants. He isn’t going to take advantage of me or get a look at my body while I’m asleep, that’s for sure. With all these layers on, any funny business from him will definitely wake me up.

  I let myself lie down on the bed. Thankfully, the bed is a king size, so we can both lie down without touching. I stare at the ceiling. He does, too. And it feels weird. I glance in his direction. I want to say something, but he beats me to it.

  “Ms Ratu, please don’t force me to sleep on the floor or in the bathroom or on the sofa in the living room. I am really tired today. I just want to sleep in a bed. And you have no right to be angry with me because I’m doing exactly what you say. Here I am in your parents’ house even though we should really be spending the night at mine. Okay. That’s all. Good night.”

  My mouth is hanging open. The mouth on this boy! So rude!

  “Want to know something, Mr Inu?” I ask him, after a minute. “I hate you. I really do. I hate you!”

  He does not respond, just twists around to get the light switch.

  “Don’t you dare try anything in the dark,” I say.

  I hear him snort, annoyed, and see him cover his head with a pillow.

  *

  I do not sleep a wink all night. The next day I feel faint and feverish. What have I done? Got married to some stranger. Am I really this impulsive? What will I do now? Can I divorce him? Or placidly go along with it for the rest of my life? I am the stupidest person on earth. I got married to spite my ex. Teen-drama-level stupidity.

  The boy in my bed is just waking up after I’m dressed and finished with breakfast. The whole night I was sweltering, wearing my jeans and jacket. All his fault! He yawns and tells me to start packing, to ask the spirit in my bedroom for permission to leave. What? Why?