~
It was already hot when I arrived at the Idas house for Rini’s wedding. I was surprised to find the entire street blocked to traffic. A crowd milled in the front yard of the house, some sitting on fold-up chairs, others crammed about little tables nibbling snacks. The crowd had flowed inside too, completely jamming the house. Everyone was in bright and ornate traditional dress, and the din was painful. I was spotted by Ronnie from the second-storey balcony: he pointed at me, and sent Georgie to escort me up the steps.
‘Isn’t it amazing, isn’t it amazing!’ Georgie chattered excitedly as we climbed above the clamour, ‘What a wedding! It’s like something out of the Arabian Nights, isn’t it, Mr Joe? Can you believe we’re here? And it hasn’t even begun yet, m’laddie! Three days of this! Look at all the people! Their clothes are gorgeous!’
DJ and Ronnie dressed me in Ronnie’s room, both men in a fever of efficiency. There was a last-minute hitch. Apparently I bulged in an unsightly way through the tightly wrapped sarong. Ronnie conferred urgently with DJ. It was resolved I should wear a pair of the skin-tight lycra shorts Ricky used for his bodybuilding at the gym. They were designed for the slim-hipped Indonesian market, a very tight fit. Somehow I managed to squeeze into these, the stretch material clinging to my thighs, biting my buttocks. I had my first inkling of trouble. I was about to protest when the call came for the groom’s party to assemble.
‘That’s good,’ said Ronnie, patting my behind, turning me about. ‘Nothing shows. Just in time.’
I watched from the window as guests began pushing through the gate, swelling the crowd in the street. They turned and faced the empty road before them, squinting in the looking-glass light of the tropics. Now most of the people were in the street, and everything began slowing down, growing quiet.
I was part of a group of twelve young men that formed a kind of guard for the bridal party, the twelve of us dressed in matching golden-brown sarongs with short black jackets. On our heads perched traditional black caps. Shuffling down the stairs, emerging into the light, I edged across the road with the eleven others. The tightly wrapped sarong was hard enough to walk in; the Lycra tights, I was already convinced, were going to emasculate me.
We lined the edge of the road facing the house. A small orchestra in the yard produced a stream of dreamy gongs and celestial tinkles. Apart from this the street was silent – none of the usual passing cars, no bicycle bells, no shouts from passers-by, no pleading beggars. Only the gongs and chimes, the occasional shuffles and coughs from those gathered, and the speculative cackles of chickens wandering between feet. Everyone was straining to look in the same direction, down the empty street, but I could see nothing down there.
Last to appear from the house was the bride, with Mama and the Doctor each holding an arm. The three of them took up positions at the head of the throng. Rini, wrapped in gold, face painted white, stared down the street, drained of expression, stiff as a doll. Mama had caught the stiffness too; her face was a mask of terror. The Doctor, stooped and genial, still wore his customary nervous grin under his walrus moustache. He nodded in a strained way at faces in the crowd. This might hurt a bit, his expression seemed to say.
Ten, fifteen minutes passed. My legs prickled. I tried standing on tiptoe, one foot after another. Tried flexing. I had to keep the circulation going – I had long lost sensation in my groin. The orchestra tinkled on atmospherically. The bride swayed, eyes closing and opening slowly, closing again. Still the crowd gazed toward the end of the street – the future depended on that empty space, it seemed. Yet the blank would not fill. The sky was cloudless, the heat unfiltered, the place treeless. The chickens stalked on, pecking between sandals. I wriggled my toes, sticky with sweat. Now I was losing feeling in my feet. Something had better happen –and fast.
I must have briefly blacked out; I woke, still standing, to find the crowd undulating, wavering all around me. Excitement was rippling back and forth in currents. The orchestra broke off. I blinked. Another crowd had manifested down the street, had taken up position there. They stood compact and still, as if they had been there some time. It was the groom’s party, the groom himself at its head, gleaming in a golden sarong. He stood below an unfurled banner, the banner limp in the stillness. The mirrored parties faced one another, unmoving and silent. The bride swayed, not staring down the empty street, but somewhere far inside.
Then, as a body, the groom’s party advanced a pace, a uniform pace. A drum began pounding, quietly at first, then insistently. The group advanced another pace. Suddenly the drum’s rhythm accelerated. Two dancers broke free from behind the bride, one twirling a yellow parasol, and they danced down the street. Pink dancers emerged from the crowd and followed, turning forward in circles. Arriving under the groom’s banner, they danced his entourage down the road.
As the group passed close to us, I found myself looking at a familiar face in the groom’s party. Yes, there was Reggie, spy, plant, hostage perhaps. He winked.
Then an unexpected moan rose from the crowd. The bride had slumped. The Doctor and Mama briefly wrestled with Rini, grasping her slender arms tighter, propping her up. But the dancers never missed a step: they continued bearing down on the bride.
That night I walked under the monkey, across the bridge, and stood before Babette’s gate. Maybe I could check if my equipment still worked. But I remembered the turning dancers, and I turned away.