As it was now Tjai’s turn to shadow Risjaf, who had gone to borrow lecture notes from a friend, I had some time to spend alone with Surti, even if I was cooking.
The cuts of milkfish, sliced shallots, green tomatoes, and citrus leaves were in their respective piles on the countertop and I was now grinding the turmeric with red chilies and garlic. The skin on my hands had turned yellow from the turmeric, and the paste of spice mixture began to splatter as I ground.
Surti, who was standing next to me, placed her right hand on mine, causing me to stop what I was doing.
“How was Rukmini supposed to know?” she asked, now stroking my hand. “Whenever Risjaf is around her, he’s as stiff as a statue, like he’s in electric shock.” She smiled gently and looked me in the eye. “I’m very sure that Rukmini is unaware of Risjaf’s feelings towards her.”
I stopped torturing the spice mixture and wiped my forehead with the back of my arm.
She was probably right. “Does Rukmini like Mas Nug?” I asked.
“It would appear so,” she said evenly. Adding another slice of turmeric to the paste, she began to move the pestle. By the way she crushed the root — gently, wordlessly — she seemed to be coaxing the spices to surrender themselves to their individual destruction in order to create a more perfect union of taste, one more pleasing to the tongue. I stared, fixating on her as she slowly turned the wooden pestle in the mortar as if massaging the spicy mixture. I swallowed. My body tensed. I hardly knew what was happening and I was unable to comprehend why her actions excited me so.
“What’s clear,” Surti said as she continued to grind the spices (which in turn made me more tense and less able to speak), “Mas Nug is willing to express his feelings. As is Mas Hananto. They are men who know what they want.”
She was right, of course. Damn the two of them, both of them older and more mature! Both had good jobs, though neither held a college degree. After graduation from high school, Mas Nug had enrolled in Chinese studies at the University of Indonesia but had never completed his degree. For several years, Mas Hananto had been a student in the Faculty of Law, but hadn’t finished his studies either. Even so, regardless of their educational deficit, the two of them were definitely more experienced in dealing with women. I felt chagrin. It wasn’t fair that we — Risjaf and I — were being compared to the two of them. And, for that matter, it wasn’t right that those two guys were going after college co-eds.
But wait a minute, I then thought. “You said Mas Hananto. He’s going after Rukmini, too?” I asked.
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.