Jalan Jalan (19 page)

—So do it.

—Yeah. Right.

—You haven't said you love me for a long time.

—You're dead. Perhaps that's a reason.

—It is my birthday.

—You know I love you. I always love you. I love you.

—I love you too.

Over Laura's shoulder a student has his hand up.

‘Yes, Hendra.'

Laura nuzzles my neck, slides off my lap and leaves the class. I sniff and blink and clear my vision and go to Hendra. Once I've answered his question I move around the class, pretending to check the students' work.

I finish at nine, don't go into the staff room and instead walk out of the school. Outside Iqpal is sweeping the dry and dusty driveway.

‘You not wait for car?' he asks, leaning on his broom.

‘Not tonight. Tell the others I've gone, please.'

‘I will. Take care, my friend.'

I smile at him. He knows I'm somewhere else. Something must be written in international language in the lines and grooves of my face. I flag down a motorbike
becak
.

‘Where go, Mister?' asks the rider. He has a little leather cap on his head.

Where do I want to go? I should celebrate Laura's birthday somewhere.

—
Music?
I ask, climbing in the
becak
as she squeezes in beside me.

—Yes. And a bar we can prop up.

I tell the driver a hotel bar I've heard Jussy mention; small and with live music. He pulls off without checking behind. The night feels cooler as it rushes by. Two-stroke fumes are heavy in the air as usual. Cars and other
becaks
beep me and I hear the occasional ‘Hey,
bule
,' as we zigzag through the traffic. The city is still busy.

‘I very happy have you in my motorbike,' shouts the driver over the sound of his coughing exhaust. ‘I like
bule
.'

‘Good. Thank you,' I shout back. I feel like an adult in a pedal-car. My knees knock against the front rail and I have to keep my neck bent as the canopy is low. The driver sees my discomfort and pushes the canopy back. I can now sit straight. Laura rests her head on my shoulder.

‘
Bule
very big. Indonesian very small,' he shouts and then laughs.

I push a smile onto my mouth. The fumes and breeze are making my eyes water. It somehow feels suitable. By the time we pull up outside the hotel bar I have to wipe moisture from my cheeks. I thank him and pay.

The hotel bar is plusher than others I've seen here, with chrome and glass tables and hidden lights shining up the walls. Girls sit alone or in groups on high chairs along one mirrored side. I know why Jussy likes this place.

—
Oh. Prostitutes,
says Laura
.

—Do you want to go somewhere else?

—No. It's got character.

I go to the bar and pull out a high stool from under it. The barman says hi and smiles.

‘Two double whiskies, please,' I say.

He puts them on the bar in front of me.

Two? I've gone completely mad.

—Just drink them, numbnuts. No one's going to notice.

I pour one glass into the other. The barman watches and I make a crazy finger swirl movement at my temple. He smiles and goes to serve a group of suited men at the other end of the bar.

—
Where's the live music?
she asks.

I look around. There's an empty stage, a few people dotted around, mostly men at tables chatting with pretty girls. The girls aren't particularly dressed up, most just wearing jeans and T-shirts, more modestly dressed than the girls in the discos.

—
I guess it's the wrong day of the week. It is a Monday,
I answer
.

I put both hands around my whisky glass and slosh the large shot around.

—Go on, have some for me.

—For you.

I let it lie on my tongue for a couple of seconds then swill it around my mouth and swallow.

—
Good?
she asks.

—Not as good as the stuff you used to buy.

What am I doing? She's not here. I am going mad; having little conversations in my head all the time with a figment of the memory of a dead person.

—
But what if I'm not a figment?
she says.
I'm dead, alright. You've accepted that now, I know. But I mean what if I am here sitting next to you and you talk to me because you know I might be here and we're having some sort of psychic dead-to-live chat? Imagine if you ignored me and I really was here, trying to communicate with you. I'd be really pissed off.

—
Not likely, though, is it?

—
Not likely. No. But let me be here today. Give me that much on my birthday. Please.

I finish the whisky without swilling; straight down with a touch of after-burn.

‘Alright. Alright,' I say.

The barman looks at me.

—Not out loud, numbnuts. Keep it all in your head, otherwise I'm going to get embarrassed and leave.

I laugh.

—Watch it. He'll kick you out if you get any more loopy.

I turn the laugh into a cough and rub my head. I blow out a long breath, point at my glass and hold two fingers up at the barman. He tops us up.

—Just today. Because I miss you. Because I fucking miss you.

The glass blurs in front of me. I put my head on my arms on the bar.

—Don't cry here, baby. Not now.

She puts her arms around my neck and rests her head against mine. I can almost feel her breath in my hair.

—
Not now. Not now,
she whispers
.

—I miss you.

‘I miss you,' I sob into my arm, ‘I miss you so bloody much.' The last words come out as gasps between sobs. They come out loud and into the room and I don't notice or don't care. My hands crawl over the back of my head looking for hers, but they fall through air into my hair. All I can do is pull at it, pull, pull.

Then a hand is on top of mine, warm and familiar. My other hand goes onto the top of it without looking up.

‘Shhh. Do not cry.' A real voice. A living voice. Low and soft.

I look over my arm hoping for the impossible, but know it won't be.

‘What is wrong?' asks Eka. ‘Why cry?'

I slide my hands away from hers and sit up, wiping my eyes on my palms.

‘Here.' She hands me a napkin and points to my nose. I wipe it and blow.

‘Sorry. I'm sorry,' I say.

‘
Tidak apa-apa
. No problem.'

She is as beautiful as the first time I saw her. Dark Indian skin and large dark eyes, bar lights reflecting in them. They're alive. Her hair falls thick over her shoulders and down her back. Laura is sitting silently, watching. Maybe.

The barman says something in Indonesian to Eka and she says something back and waves her hand at him. He moves away.

‘What is wrong, crazy English man?' Eka pushes the whisky towards me. I take it and drink just a mouthful. It burns the inside of my cheeks.

—
Go on, tell her,
says Laura from the next stool, legs crossed, foot bobbing,
I dare you.

I shake my head.

—You're not here. You're not here, no matter how hard I try to make you here, you're not here.

—Are you sure? How can you be sure?

—I can't, but—

‘My girlfriend died a few months ago. I have trouble forgetting her,' I say.

—Ah, so that's how it is then. Rather be with a pro than with your super-dead girlfriend. Nice. I'll be off now. See you later. Thanks for the birthday drink, numbnuts.

I take a deep breath, swallow, widen my eyes and blink. Guilt crashes into my gut like a brick.

‘I talk to her sometimes,' I say, ‘but I don't think she's really listening. She says she is, but I don't think she is.'

—Oh yes, I am. And watching everything you do.

—I thought you were going?

—Haven't made up my mind yet.

‘You are sad man. Crazy sad man. How do you know she not listens? Spirits are very clever.'

—This girl's not as dumb as she looks.

If I could give Laura an icy stare, I would.

Eka pulls a stool out and sits next to me, legs crossed. There is a little skin showing between the bottom of her jeans and the top of her shoes.

‘I don't know. I just think that it isn't possible.'

‘Many strange things possible in the world. Many many. Perhaps you should believe she there.'

—Go on. Believe.

‘I'm going crazy believing that. Talking out loud all the time. Wanting to touch her, to feel her and not being able to. It's better I don't believe. I'm trying to get away from her. To forget her.'

—Forget me? Huh.

—God. Shut up.

‘So if you don't want her spirit here, you must be strong. You must have new life.' She prods my arm on the last two words.

‘Ha.'

‘What funny?'

‘That's exactly why I came to this country. For a new life, a new me. A New Me.' I finish my whisky and ask for the same again. ‘For you?'

—Yes, please.

‘Maybe I try this too.' She sniffs my glass, looking at me over its rim. ‘Whisky?'

‘Yes.'

—Oh, don't give her my drink.

‘Please.'

I order the same for Eka.

—Numbnuts.

—You still here?

‘I didn't expect to see you here,' I say, hoping Laura will take the hint.

‘Sometimes here.'

‘To meet men?'

She laughs.

‘Yes. To meet men for money. I am bad girl.'

—Ooooh. Slapperrrr.

‘And you told me you weren't a prostitute.'

‘No, not prostitute. I just take money from men. I am beautiful, so I can.'

—A pro, and modest with it. Charming.

Eka sips her drink and grimaces. ‘I never sleep with them first time.'

‘Second?' I ask.

‘Sometimes. If I like. But not for you tonight. I think you need talk tonight. You not need sex.'

I don't disagree. And nor does Laura.

‘It's her…it would have been her birthday today. I haven't thought of her much for a few days, well, not that I've noticed, and then I wake this morning and the first thought: it's Laura's birthday. My day ruined.' I finish the drink. I'm not feeling drunk yet.

‘Poor Mr Crazy.' Eka runs her fingers down my cheek. I jump. ‘I'm sure she is happy you remember. I'm sure she miss you. Please give me cigarette.'

We smoke in silence. I can sense Laura brooding nearby. More whiskies are poured.

‘You must live your life. You cannot stay in past. She understand.' She stubs her cigarette out.

—I bloody don't.

‘That's what I'm trying to do,' I say. ‘But there's a big part of me just wants to think about her and live in the past. I just wish I could go back, change something. Stop her, so she misses the bus.'

‘Bus?'

—I don't want to hear this sob story. I'm off now. Don't you dare forget the slice-of-cake rule. And if you do, don't catch anything.

I shake my head.

‘She died in an accident. She'd just got off a bus.' The words are foreign and uncomfortable as they come from my mouth.

‘Do not think of past. Perhaps she will be reborn and when you are reborn perhaps you will be together again.'

‘Rebirth? You believe in that?'

‘Yes. I am Hindu. My ancestors came from India many years ago.' She runs her fingers through her hair, it falls through her fingertips like silk. I want to feel it too. The thought surprises me.

—
Men,
comes a voice from somewhere in the back of my skull,
you can't help thinking about nooky, can you?

—You're still eavesdropping, then?

No answer.

‘You talk to her again?'

‘No. Yes, a little.'

‘You want I go? Leave you two alone, crazy man?' She has an eyebrow raised and her full lips smile.