Cinta Ku
Mirandi Riwoe
T he oil pops in the pan, bites the skin at the base of her thumb and she thinks of Jakub, of the first time she met him in her step-father’s sitting room, surrounded by porcelain vases, egg-shell-white and blue. He stood across from her on the Persian carpet. His eyes took her in, this rich girl who was being tossed to the poorest fishing family of the village, all because her mother had been foolish enough to follow the waves that beckoned to her from the sea. He’d murmured her name, Maya, and, even then, right then, she wanted to rest her face against his chest, inhale the scent of his skin which was as glossy and dark as tamarind.
But that was a long time ago now. In another land. Later, when she moved to Australia, she taught her language at university—a mere assistant to the lecturer, Professor Malcolm. Her students would never have imagined their neat little Bahasa tutor, Bu Langkun, in her button-up blouse and pleated skirt, had once been a lowly fisherman’s wife, who lived in a hut, who dried and salted sardines until the pungent flesh crumbled in her fingers.
After scooping garlic into the oil, Maya makes her way into the lounge room and opens the mahogany display cabinet, the one with the leadlight glass. From it she takes out a pink dessert bowl in which are nestled five gleaming shells. Betrothal gifts from Jakub, left by the ebony tree in the garden each morning leading up to their wedding. As she lifts them out, the shells clack against each other. Pressing the cowrie shell to her ear she closes her eyes and for a moment she can hear their beach, their waves, the whistles and coo-coo-coo of the birds. She can smell the brine, the sea-water fug. She runs her fingertips over the metallic peacock swirl on the underside of an oyster shell, while her gaze takes in the milky gleam of the clam. Her favourite is the mother of pearl on the mussel shell. She brings it to her mouth, and the tip of her tongue searches out anything—a granule of sand, a hint of salt— in the shell’s scalloping. But there’s nothing left.
She smells burning. The garlic. She hurries back to the kitchen and whisks the pot from the stovetop. The slices of garlic, charred so that they look like wood shavings, still bubble in the oil. That’s okay, though, isn’t it? Staring at the garlic for a moment longer, she shakes her head. No. She will start again. It has to be just right.
While the fresh garlic cooks, Maya glances out the kitchen window, the foggy glass a barrier between the warmth inside and the damp chill out. The eucalypts in the backyard are paler than the teak trees of her childhood. Their leaves are dry, crackle between her fingertips, but she likes the little plants, the ones called ‘pig-face’—what a funny name to call a flower with such friendly petals, but that’s definitely what Pat had called them when she’d popped in from next door to welcome Maya to the street.
Placing shallots into the mortar with the chillies, ginger and candlenuts, Maya grinds and pushes until the spices are pulpy and her hand cramps. You two will be like a mortar and pestle, Jakub’s grandmother had croaked at their wedding, and then, leaning in close to Maya, You’ll be the mortar. Maya could smell the cardamom on the old woman’s breath from the betel nut she chewed, the red cud wrapped in sirih leaf.
Each morning, at dawn, Maya waited on the beach for Jakub’s fishing boat to bob into sight. At low tide, sea foam frothed across the sand like honeycomb and had the orange tinge of paprika. She had to step around bluebottles that washed up on the shoreline so that their whip-thin tails didn’t sting her toes. One day she was inspecting a tangle of the tiny jellyfish, strung together like a bunch of fairy lights. Jakub came up behind her, stomped the bulbous bluebottles under the soles of his sandals so they burst.
‘Jakub,’ she screeched, jumping out of the way.
He grinned at her and shrugged. ‘I can’t help myself.’
Smiling, Maya mixes turmeric into the paste and scrapes it all into the pan. From the fridge she brings out a bowl of cubed lamb, and the meat sizzles as soon as it hits the spices. Seasoning the meat, she watches as crystals of salt sink into the pink flesh, and thinks of how she used to lick the salt from Jakub’s skin, from the flat planes of his shoulder blades. Of how, on the very hottest days, when the heat thrummed through her blood and left even the furniture warm to the touch, he’d purchase a handful of ice to place on the back of her neck, and then slowly suck it away. She shivers, stares at a speck of sauce on the white kitchen tiles, and can almost feel the trickle of water down the middle of her back.
But her skin is no longer smooth like it was then. It’s as dry as a desert—elbows, throat, her hands—an arid mosaic of drifts and creases. Arthritis tightens her joints and aches in the bones of her right foot.
Thumping four stalks of lemongrass with the base of her knife, she adds them to the pan. The lemongrass lies atop the lamb, bruised and knotted like Jakub’s body that bright morning they’d brought him to her on a makeshift stretcher made out of a shattered door, a sarong stretched across its beams. The waves had smashed his body against the rocks for so long his eyes were as milky as tapioca balls, and bloodberries were scattered across his chest, except they weren’t berries. She couldn’t keep her thoughts straight as Jakub’s father told her of the storm that had claimed five fishermen; as Jakub’s mother pressed her cheek to Maya’s swollen belly and wept.
Maya’s chest tightens, and her breaths are shallow. She adds lime leaves to the curry, and the fragrant steam rises from the gulai kambing, a shroud of silk against her face. It will be all right.
The wheels of Riley’s skateboard clatter down the driveway and scrape to a stop. As he walks through the door, he pulls his sweater off over his head so that tufts of his hair stand up. ‘You have the heater up too high again, Gran.’ He grins and drops his backpack to the floor, drapes his sweater over it and goes to the bathroom, locking the door. The pipes squeak as he turns on the shower.
Maya wonders where he’s been all afternoon, but her daughter, Ina, told her not to worry about him, that they like him to be a ‘free-range’ kid. Ten days ago, when Ina and her husband left on their cruise, Riley showed Maya a video of him skateboarding in the city, flying over a set of stairs, his board skimming the handrail. She’d clutched at her chest and murmured, ‘Adu, adu.’
Maya has long enough to fold the towels and sweep the kitchen floor before she spoons the lamb curry onto steamed rice. Some of it splashes over the side of the bowl and her hand wobbles as she carries the heavy bowl into the dining room and calls Riley to dinner.
He pulls a chair out from the table. He’s much taller than Jakub was, but his wiry hair has the same blackbird sheen, and his nostrils flair when he’s annoyed, just like Jakub’s did. He takes a seat and she stands beside him. The bruising on his cheekbone has sallowed, and is no longer the colour of an eggplant. The tiny cut is healing neatly too, not telling of the fracture beneath.
Her fingers follow the line of his jaw, find the soft skin beneath his chin.
‘Makan,’ she urges. ‘This was your grandfather’s favourite meal.’
She watches him dip his spoon into the curry.
‘It’s not too spicy, is it?’ he asks as he presses his earphones back into his ears, scrolls through the music on his phone.
‘Maybe I make those pandan crepes I told you about?’ she says. Jakub used to love them too. Sweet. She always added extra palm sugar to the coconut filling when she made them for him.
He takes a bud out of his ear and raises an eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’
‘The crepes? Those green ones?’ She holds her breath. Somehow it’s important that he wants to try them but, of course, it doesn’t matter too.
He shrugs. ‘Sure.’
She smiles, pats him on the shoulder. Returning to the kitchen, she hopes weevils haven’t gotten into the desiccated coconut. Her hand rests on the plastic container as she glances over her shoulder at the boy again. The facial swelling is fading, but what of his anger at the boys who waylaid him and his friend, Kedus, last week? Worse than the phone call to collect him from the hospital had been the squall of Riley’s rage. The swearing, the calls for revenge, as he circled his bedroom, muttered on his phone. Her stomach clutches into a sick knot. She wonders again where he’s been all day.
‘Riley, how much longer do you have of your holidays?’
She has to repeat herself twice, louder each time, before he turns his head and removes his earbuds.
‘Two more weeks.’
Nodding, Maya mentally calculates her savings against airfares; wonders where his passport might be found. She can already smell the curl of smoke from a kretek cigarette and the charred lamb sate smouldering on a barbecue plate.
* * *
Only four days into their journey, and Maya’s already feeling sickly. Riley, though, is fine. Safe. When Maya had called Ina to tell her of their trip to Java, her daughter was pleased—disappointed, almost, that she was missing out on a holiday with them.
From the lookout, the ocean looks overexposed, blurred, in the afternoon light. Pelabuhan Ratu’s shoreline scallops to the north and white houses with shingled roofs rise like small anthills from the hectic foliage that covers the land from the sea to the mountain. Closer in, banana fronds wave; closer still, a scattering of sun-bleached rubbish litters the dirt directly behind the warung where they sit on a rattan mat, waiting for their black tea.
Riley crunches on krupuk chips and Maya’s gut squelches, shifts. She turns from the food, gagging. She wonders which meal in their two-day visit to Jakarta had turned on her. How foolish, arrogant even, to have eaten that bowl of delicious goat soup by the side of the road, blasted from all sides by the heat of the gas burner, the cars beetling by, the midday sun. Or was it the bubur manis she enjoyed at the hotel’s breakfast buffet that was the culprit? She can’t believe it was her niece’s rice porridge, but she’s wondered about the slices of fruit; were they washed in local water? Local. The word reminds Maya that she is no longer from here, that her body betrays her time away from this place and she feels a dip of sadness.
Maya gazes on Riley again, as he reads something on his phone. Luckily he’s a little fussy, and only eats from Styrofoam cups of Indomie, bananas, crisps.
Shops, timber shacks and makeshift petrol stalls flash by on the drive to their hotel by the beach. She wants Riley to see the chickens that scoot out of the way of the traffic, the washed clothes that are strewn across bushes to dry, the colour of the soil she is from, but he’s opened up his laptop, taps hard at the buttons as he plays a game.
When they reach the hotel, Maya holds her breath a few moments. The hotel, white and brick, looms large on this part of the coast. She’s never stayed here before. Has avoided it, in fact. But it’s the finest hotel along this stretch, and she wants Riley to experience only the best. The reception area is vast and bare of people, except for a young woman standing behind the reception desk.
After receiving their room key, Maya asks the girl in Bahasa, ‘You have a room here, for Nyai Loro Kidul, don’t you?’
‘Room 308, Bu.’
‘Can we see it?’ Her pulse quickens as she asks. She’s heard this hotel has a bedroom set aside to honour the Queen of the Southern Sea.
‘Of course.’ The girl picks up the phone and speaks to someone and, not many moments more, a man, also in uniform, joins them. His skin’s the colour of mocha, much darker than Maya’s and, although his face is sunken and lined, he has the physique of a wiry adolescent. He leads them to the lifts, and they proceed to the third floor. They follow a long balcony which overlooks the gardens and beach. And there is so much light. Maya shields her eyes. She’s feeling nauseous again, giddy. Riley stands by the railing, and peers out to sea.
The man turns the door handle of Room 308.
‘No, wait,’ she says. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Her heart pounds. How foolish. She didn’t realise she still believed.
‘Yes, Bu.’ The man bows and moves away.
Suddenly Maya’s tired. The joints in her fingers ache. She joins her grandson.
‘What’s in there anyway?’ he asks.
‘A room dedicated to Nyai Loro Kidul.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘A goddess, Riley,’ Maya replies, rubbing her dry hands up and down her face. ‘A beautiful goddess.’ Who stole your grandfather away. From me. From you. ‘She doesn’t like anyone to wear green. Green is hers.’
She points at the aqua flowers on his board shorts, and he grins.
After settling into their room, Maya opens the sliding doors, and a warm draft billows the curtains as she steps out onto the balcony. Sitting down on the plastic chair, Maya takes it all in. It’s been many years since her last visit. That time, her steps had been too heavy, had dragged through the sand, as her eyes sought out tiny bluebottles or familiar sand-polished stones. Now, she sees ancient fishing boats, naked and lonely, resting high up on the beach; the long shed-like buildings of the fish market. The bougainvillea, dashes of pink against the blue of the sea.
Maya’s gazing at the swelling, lava sunset when Riley pulls a chair up to hers and hooks his bare toes up against the balcony wall.
‘Can you smell it, Riley? she asks him. Can he smell the fragrance of what once was her home? She wants to clasp his hand in hers, but he’s almost a man now, not the little boy she used to squeeze and sniff. From where she’s seated next to him, it’s too awkward to pat his shoulder, so she taps his knee.
He closes his eyes and lifts his nose to the breeze. His nostrils flare and in the half-light he looks like Jakub. ‘That curry smell? It smells like your curry, huh? That one you make me, yellow, with chicken drumsticks.’ He opens his eyes. ‘Except yours smells better.’
He’s being kind. Or maybe he means it.
When Maya finally wakes the next morning, she is curled into the foetal position. Her body has tried to cradle itself from the pains that cramp her stomach. Sitting up, she groans softly as she gets to her feet, her knees creaking in the quiet of the room. Riley’s not in his bed.
By the bathroom sink he has left her a note. Gone to the beach. There are surf lessons.
Alarm spirals through her body like a rising siren as she staggers out onto the balcony, leans over the railing. There he is, paddling through the shallows on a board, one amongst four. He mentioned going for a swim the night before, but she just said that his mother wouldn’t like it, that the surf was too rough. She thought that was enough. How can Maya tell him she doesn’t want him to go into the ocean because that’s where her husband died? How could she convince him that her fears were not unfounded?
She doesn’t bother with shoes, a comb, her bag. As she wheezes down the two flights of stairs, as she scrambles across the stark white tiles of the foyer, as she shields her eyes from the glare of the sun, she knows she will not catch him in time. Even as she makes slow purchase across the hot sand, she can see the surfers are out of calling range.
Maya wades into the sea a few steps and crouches down. Her nightie trails in the water, and the gentle waves lap at her underpants. She will wait here all day, if need be. Riley and the other surfers have paddled out far, beyond the lacy ripple of the coral lagoon. They are just dark dots bobbing in and out of sight. Her eyes take in the blue water, so dark, so bright. If she squints it’s almost as if the sea merges with the sky; a cerulean world, an underwater dome. She can’t believe that there are large waves, even past the reef break.
Maya’s gaze drops to her feet, hazy under water, half submerged by sand. She swishes her hands in the warm seawater. The skin of her arms is papery and sun-spotted above the water level, but appears as smooth as a hazelnut beneath. Like it used to be. She mutters a short prayer, not to Nyai Loro Kidul, but to Jakub.
Bring him home safely, cinta ku. My love.