Jalan Jalan (29 page)

‘Principles?'

‘Principles? Maybe. Is principles goodness in life? Care for things? Belief in gods?'

‘Yes. Maybe. But not the god bit.'

‘So you can eat meat. You not care for things, not care for animals, not care for friends, you no principles. You only care for your problems. So eat meat.'

She waves the chicken in front of my face. The fly buzzes around it trying to get on.

‘Eat.' She waves it again. ‘And it is
enak enak
. Tasty.'

Have my principles gone? What were they to begin with? Vegetarian because of what? Pacifist? Really? In this age where everyone has guns and everyone has an alleged cause to fight, is there room for pacifism? And what about treating people with respect? So few people deserve respect. Don't they?

Do I still care about these things? About animal welfare? About wars being fought for oil and water and fuck anyone who lives in the vicinity? Have I ever cared? Have I just been a bullshitter, because having principles is cool?

‘Padang food very tasty food. Special from Sumatra. Very spicy.' She brings me back from my internal soliloquy. ‘Eat chicken, Mr Crazy Chicken.'

I smell the spices and chilli coming off it. Why not eat it? What do I care for a chicken? What do I care for anything? Laura has gone. I have no real love for this girl sitting opposite; no love for me; no love for anyone. Why not eat the bird?

—Go on, eat the bird, dickless.

—Great. So you're suddenly back and joining sides with the mad Hindu, are you?

—I'm saying nothing. I'm dead. The bird's dead. What does any of it matter?

I look at the other dishes on the table, at all the various parts of cows and sheep and chicken marinated in all sorts of spices and herbs.

—Do what the hell you want. That's why you're here. Care for nothing and no one anymore. Hurt who you want. Eat that little chick-chick-chick-chick-chicken.

Eka is holding it so close to my mouth I can almost taste it. No meat for eight years; why not have it now? What does any of it matter?

‘It matters,' I say and push Eka's hand away and pick up a stuffed cassava leaf. It tastes good and chilli heat sears my mouth. I take a gulp of water from a smeared glass.

Eka nods and smiles and a hand strokes my face, but not Eka's. Hers still hold the chicken.

—Still got some cares, then, Ice-Cream Boy.

I nod and smile back at Eka.

‘First you help friends, you help people you can. Then you help her. You help crazy dead girl who still loves you.'

—I think I'm beyond help, but she has a point. You could try.
I nod again.

‘I care for you, Eka.'

‘No you not. Shut up and eat.'

I pick up an egg and take a bite. More mouth burning. My head is on fire.

‘Egg is animal,' she says.

‘I'm vegetarian, not vegan,' I say through the pain. The inside of my mouth is near blistering. ‘I'm not that crazy.'

STATIVE
AND ACTIVE

F
itri
is dangling her feet in the pool while Benny floats tummy-side down on a gently turning airbed in the middle. His arms are drooped over the front and slowly rotate in the water. Although guards still patrol around outside these walls, the rest of the house is silent and empty. I feel more like a babysitter than a teacher. My feet swing in the water next to Fitri's.

‘Does your father miss your mother and sister?'

‘Sometimes you English people are really stupid.'

‘I guess we are. But how do you know he misses them?'

‘He is my father. Yes he is big boss man too, but first he is my father.'

‘Your mother's name is Su-chin, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘I just want to make sure I've got it right. It makes someone more of a person, more human and real, when you know their name.'

‘Please don't mention her again. It makes me sad.'

‘OK.' I steer back to the straight and narrow. ‘What's the past participle of drive?'

Fitri looks at me, all open eyes and open mouth.

‘Well, I am being paid to teach you English.'

‘But I know nearly all in English.'

‘Nearly everything. You know nearly everything in English.'

She kicks me under the water.

‘Benny,' she shouts, ‘what is the past participle of drive?'

‘Driven,' he shouts back.

‘Even he knows. We don't need lessons.'

‘So why not ask your father to take you to Singapore to meet your mum?' She doesn't want to learn, fine. I'll spin it back into dangerous bends.

‘He is too proud. Too busy. Too scared. And I think my mother will not talk to him.'

Something tickles my knee, and before I see what it is, I flick my hand across it. A small moth flitters off my skin and lands in the water. Leaning forward I try to pluck it out, but the mini-waves from my waggling legs push it out of my reach. It flutters a little more, wings weighted with water, then it's still. Guilt prickles me like nettles. We both stare at the moth for a long moment.

‘You should ask him.' I pull my eyes away from the death and look at Fitri's profile. ‘You should tell him to go with you. It hurts him all the time. He needs resolution.'

‘I know.' The only sound is the gentle lapping of water around the pool edge and the faint hum of traffic from outside the house.

‘Can you use stative verbs in the continuous?'

‘OK, Mr Teacher. What is a stative verb?'

Benny shouts from his plastic lily pad, ‘A verb like, like, hate, love. It describes a state. My sister is sooo stupid. And you cannot use in continuous.'

‘Is he right?' she whispers to me.

I nod.

‘Little shit.'

‘Fitri, where do you get this language?'

‘American TV. We cannot see kissing, it is all cut out, but we can hear all the bad words in the world.' She picks the can up from beside her. ‘So I cannot say “I am loving this Coke”?'

‘No. You can't. Love should be permanent and not short-lived. Not just this moment. You don't love one thing one day and not the next.'

She nods.

‘But language is always changing and no doubt one day someone, or some big company or something, will create a slogan and change the rules overnight. Then everyone will go around saying “I'm loving you right now” or some such bullshit.'

‘You are right, love should be for always. And watch
your
language.'

‘Sorry. That's exactly why you should convince your dad to see your mum.'

Fitri is about to say something more when the sound of the front door slamming reverberates around the house. Shoes clip-clop in a regular fast beat across the tiled floor. Charles appears by the pool in business trousers and short-sleeved white shirt. He looks at us for a moment through a smoke haze wafting from the cigarette clamped between tight lips. He takes it from his mouth.

‘These English lessons are becoming very relaxed. Maybe I pay you too much, Englishman.' He leans against the wall and stares some more.

‘I've learnt a lot today, Father,' says Fitri, ‘about stative verbs and love.'

‘Love? Huh. That can't be taught in day. It can't be taught in a lifetime.' He sighs and pushes himself off the wall.

‘Do you have time for me to ask you something after the lesson, Charles?' I ask.

‘Yes. Come and talk now. My lazy children can wait for you.'

I stand up and wet feet marks follow me into the main room. I look back at the trail I have made. They are already disappearing in the heat.

Charles goes to the fridge and takes two Heinekens out. I'd forgotten other beers existed in this land of Bintang and Anker. Europe survives without me. It still makes its own beer, still extends its prying tentacles searching for the smallest of profit into the faraway reaches of the rest of the world. I'd prefer a Bintang but I take the Heineken with thanks.

Charles flicks the TV on and we each sit in an armchair. He reaches for the video remote and a Manchester United–Arsenal game comes on.

‘Mr Beckham relaxes me. He is the best thing from your country.'

‘Something of a god in this country,' I say.

‘Yes. The only Western god most of these Indonesians are willing to accept.'

I pull the ring from my beer and take a swig.

‘So what do you want to ask me?' He sits back in his chair and puts his feet on the table. He sighs and wiggles in his chair as though trying to achieve comfort, then takes his feet off and sits upright again.

‘Are you OK?' I ask.

‘Yes. Just tired. Is that what you wanted to know?'

‘No. I'd like your help with something.'

He nods and keeps watching the match.

‘It's actually to help a friend of mine.'

‘If you ask for my help, you know I will want something in return.'

I nod. ‘I thought you might.'

But I have no idea what. Different possibilities shoot through my mind: free lessons, sell drugs to my students, give him money, lots of money. I have always wondered why he wanted me to teach his kids.

‘First you tell me what you want.'

‘Right.' So I do. He listens and nods. He doesn't interrupt. I tell him my idea of how he can help, and when I have finished he looks at me.

‘Why do you need me? You should do this on your own. And why do it anyway?'

‘Because I want to. I don't want to sit back and hear about these things anymore and do nothing. And I want your help because I don't want to risk screwing it up on my own. I'm just not physically up to it.'

Charles snorts.

‘That is maybe true, but if you are mentally adequate, you can do it alone. Trust me, I know about these things. I am not a strong man, but people think I am. Reputation is my biggest muscle.'

‘I don't have that reputation.'

‘Are you sure? You are a little mystery to most, I think; that is a kind of reputation on its own.'

‘I just don't want to mess up.'

On the TV Beckham hits one off the post, but Charles expresses no emotion. His dark eyes don't brighten at the near miss.

‘OK. So tell me where and when and it will happen. Although why you assume I can help with such a thing I do not know.' A slight glimmer of something in his eyes at this, maybe humour, as he peers sideways at me.

‘Thank you. Is tomorrow night too soon?'

He shakes his head.

‘Now, what you must do for me.'

What will it be?

—I go for the drug-selling, myself. Or maybe sexual pleasure to one of his business partners.

—I hadn't thought of that one.

—Mafioso, numbnuts. It's going to be gruesome.

‘Your mind is elsewhere,' cuts in Charles, ‘your eyes have gone away.'

‘Sorry. It happens.'

—Stop making it happen, will you.

She seems to take notice.

‘You remember Teddy?'

Oh shit.

‘The witch doctor?'

‘The
dukun
. You will see him. He will find out where your eyes and mind go and he will help you.' He takes a long swig from his beer and then burps. ‘Excuse me. Too much gas in this piss.'

I think I would have preferred the drug-selling rather than the
dukun
.

‘But that doesn't help you,' I say, hoping for a way out.

‘But it makes me happy. Teddy says he can help you, then he can help you.'

‘So why doesn't he help you with your problem?'

Charles shifts in his seat and the faintest of redness touches his cheeks.

‘Because I have told him not to and his power isn't that strong. And do not mention it again.' He looks at me and this time holds my gaze for an uncomfortable time. Some sort of warning passes unspoken, and then he looks back to the football. My heart beats heavy in my chest.

‘You will meet the
dukun
. I will ask him where and when and you will go there.'

‘OK. But it won't help me either.'

‘Why? Because you don't need help?'

‘Exactly.'

Charles laughs suddenly and loudly.

‘There are so many things wound up in your body, between your shoulders, down in your insides, swirling around your fragile skull, I can almost hear them. You need help, believe me.'

I think about telling him he is wrong or that he also has the same symptoms, but decide against it. Instead I thank him and walk back to the pool where Fitri still dangles her feet and drinks her Coke and Benny snores on his floating mattress.