Surti looked at me clear-eyed, not bothering to offer an answer. A speck of the spice mixture—turmeric and chilies—was on her cheek. She looked away and then busied herself grinding the spices again. My God!
“Mas Hananto asked you out!?”
Surti squeezed my hand. “I turned him down. Doesn’t my heart belong to you?”
“Surti…”
“Don’t worry, Dimas, and don’t ask again about Mas Hananto. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
I nestled my body close to hers. Her body emitted a scent of turmeric. I wiped the yellow speck from her cheek.
“I want you to be the father of my children,” she said in a voice of certainty.
My God. She had never spoken with such assuredness before. I tried to follow suit and said lightly, “If you have a girl, we’ll give her the name Kenanga.”
“And if the child’s a boy?” she responded in kind.
“Then we’ll call him Alam.”
There was still a bit of yellow color on her cheek and I licked it to wipe it away. Almost unable to resist my growing excitement, I held her chin in my hand and pressed my lips to hers, which were soft, velvety, and luscious, like the taste of Baltic Ice Cream. I used my tongue to explore her bodily curves: the nape of her neck, the cavity between her breasts, her erect nipples. When Surti released a suppressed moan, I knew that I would not, that I could not stop myself from further exploration. If Risjaf came back and demanded his promised dish of milkfish soup, I would cite force majeure: an earthquake had destroyed the kitchen. I lifted Surti and set her down on the kitchen table. As my body entered hers, I knew the feeling that I experienced would last forever. Forever and always.
I often use the word “forever.” “Always” is a favorite of mine as well—especially when I’m naked. One should always remember not to say anything when making love, because ecstasy makes us forget the ground we’re standing on and even our ideals. People who know me well tend to portray me as the antithesis of all that is certain and constant. There was some truth in Mas Hananto’s accusation—that I wasn’t willing to take sides, either in politics or in love. I was a ship never tethered to one port for long. Soon after calling into one harbor, I would be anxious to raise the anchor again.
After that love-making session, which raised havoc with the kitchen, I knew for certain what Surti would expect from me: one day, and sooner rather than later, I would have to fasten the knot of my love to something certain. But did that mean I had to stop my voyage now, I asked myself. Were there not more voyages to undertake, more ports to explore, more books to read? The ocean is vast. Even on such a long journey as ours, was it necessary to stop or take a break? When writing, I didn’t like to use periods. I preferred to use commas instead. Don’t tell me to stop. I would drown in stagnation. Don’t.
I sensed that Surti was aware of my anxiety. At the very least, she knew that with the end of my formal education ahead of me, I was preoccupied with my review of lecture notes and literary texts as I prepared for final examinations.
Many of the books I used, I borrowed from Mas Hananto’s personal library. I remember him once lending me works of Leo Tolstoy—books which the wife of a Dutch friend had given him. The wife had been crazy about him, he told me. And he was still friends with the both of them, he said; but then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “and their daughter, who is going to college in Amsterdam, is a real knockout.” Why I had suddenly thought of that incident, I didn’t know. There was no reason for me to get worked up thinking about Mas Hananto’s fecklessness or his amorous adventures with his friend’s wife or daughter.
At any rate, even though I had buried myself in books and notes, I shouldn’t have been surprised when one day Surti stopped by my boarding house to see me.
“Dimas …” she began, with a serious look on her face and a bright glow in her eyes. “My parents are hosting a dinner for some relatives, a few of my aunts and uncles. And there will be a friend of the family from the Netherlands as well, Dr. Bram Janssen, who is in the country at the moment. I want you to meet them.”
What?
What was this?
Why?
Was this necessary? Now? Her parents? At their home in Bogor? Her aunts and uncles? Dr. Bram Janssen? My throat suddenly felt scratchy. I understood the implication of her invitation, but there were still so many books, so many ideas, and oceans and continents to explore. Did I have to meet her parents now? Did I have to set anchor?
I looked at Surti. In my heart, I spoke out in protest, but my lips were sealed. Surti, Surti… Who was I to be introduced to your family with all its doctors and degrees? I could see myself, squeezed in among them in their elegant living room, with a glass of wine in my hand, as they chatted about the state of the nation and how it was never going to advance. What was I to say to her father and mother and to her aunts and uncles? All of these questions whirled around in my heart. Surti now knew me well enough to read my thoughts. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She turned away from me and left my boarding house.
After that unspoken conversation and the dinner invitation I didn’t accept, it became ever more difficult for me to see Surti. Not only was I very busy preparing for my final examinations, she herself seemed to be doing her best to avoid running into me on campus. Frankly, I didn’t try extra hard to meet up with her either. I had decided that, for the time being at least, I needed to concentrate on my studies. After final examinations and graduation, I would go to see her.
One day I went to Mas Hananto’s paviliun across the road to borrow a dictionary. As was usual, the door to the paviliun was open. I stuck my head in and called out to Mas Hananto and Mas Nug. No answer. The door to Mas Hananto’s bedroom was closed. A surprise. I knocked. No answer. I opened it. I didn’t know why, but my heart was beating wildly. And there I saw Mas Hananto standing with his arms around a woman who was seated with her back to him at his desk. I couldn’t see the woman’s face, shielded as it was by Mas Hananto’s form, but I could smell the scent of jasmine. I quickly pulled the door shut, causing it to slam. My heart pounded faster and faster. My breathing came in spurts. I fled the paviliun with its louse-infested couch.
I cursed and swore to myself that I would never again set foot in the home of that traitor.
Prone on my bed, I stared at the ceiling as Risjaf repeatedly played “Als de Orchideeën Bloeien” on his harmonica.
After some time, he stopped and then I heard him say. “Hey, Dimas …”
“What …?”
“How about if we burn down that paviliun across the road?”
I turned my head towards him and smiled weakly, somewhat consoled by Risjaf’s display of solidarity and brotherhood.
“No need for that,” I said as Risjaf lifted his harmonica to play again. “Better to murder those two fuckers instead.”
Suddenly, we both burst into laughter, delighted by this black fantasy.
It wasn’t easy for me to expunge the name of Surti from my life. Not only because I liked to cook and the kitchen was a constant and painful reminder of my feelings towards her. For the first few weeks after that incident I was forever seeing Surti standing next to the cooker and her reflection on plates and in pots. But where I saw her most often was on the handle of my knife, perched there, looking at me, as I prepared spices for grinding: shallots, onions, and turmeric.
Just as other men with broken hearts would do, I tried to forget my feelings for Surti in the most clichéd of ways: by sleeping around with other women. After each of these sessions, however, I always felt foolish and sick to my stomach. By coincidence, with political and social tensions on the rise in Jakarta at that time, we rarely saw Mas Nugroho or Mas Hananto. They were busy with their work at Nusantara News and both had been assigned to cover the incident