Troppo (19 page)

Just as she's putting the finishing touches on the polish, another two ladies come in. They glance at me briefly then ignore me, whipping off their headscarves and angling their faces at the oval mirrors. Their conversation leaps from haircuts and colours to a local woman who's always flirting with their husbands at the fish market. Have you seen the eye shadow she wears? And she's got six children already and not even twenty-five! And I saw her go to the fish market
twice
last week, on the same morning. Claimed she ‘forgot' something. Forgot she had a husband, more like! Yes, well, what can you expect? She
is
from Java … Oh – sorry Surti. You know what we mean.

Sitting there, with the polish on my fingernails and toenails drying, I realise it's one of the first times on this trip I haven't felt like a spectacle. Like the bule. For a moment it feels completely normal: the children racing in and out, the vanity, the conversation which, with a few minor tweaks, could easily
be an eavesdropped conversation at a beauty salon at home.

On my way out the door, just as Surti is fluffing up the first woman's hair, I hear her saying, ‘So Bu, last time I was in Surabaya, I bought this handycam …'

Back at Shane's, Tengku, Umar and Kristi have disappeared. Their motorbikes aren't in the car park and a thorough search of the resort doesn't offer any clues. I end up in a chair outside my room thinking about the light; it's always the light that gets you first, teasing out stirrings of nostalgia or homesickness. The post-rain primaries of Fiji, the solemn-cold olives of Albany. And Indo – Indo is always slightly blurred, as if under a film of memory or longing, regardless of whether it's the wet or the dry season, whether the light is tindery or there's that smoky green wash over everything. This afternoon is no different. Although there's no view of the ocean from the balcony, there is a frieze of vegetation. Jellyfish-shaped pools of light surge through the leaves with the damp wind.

I wonder what keeps Tengku, Umar and Kristi here indefinitely, as employees. There'd be other jobs going, for cleaners, for cooks. Perhaps Shane's got them hooked, as well, on the promise of above-average wages. Good money is often enough to sideline suffering. It is for me, anyway. With the wage Shane's offering and the bonus, with the free accommodation and free food, with the reluctance to end up with Josh back in Scarborough, I'm committed to seeing the six months out. And while it's quiet now (most places are in the lead-up to Christmas) once things get going there'll be guests to keep me busy, to keep me from being roped
in as Shane's nightly drinking partner.

I haven't spent enough time with him to make any definitive judgements. He's a prick, he's a real prick to his local staff, but not the kind of guy to chop off someone's fingers – it's more likely that happened in Saudi. What I do wonder is if Shane, volatile and charismatic, intelligent and crass, will be a kind of catalyst for something – something bigger that's already happening in Batu Batur, in Sumatra, in Indonesia. I'm curious, and curiosity is winning. I'd rather be living here than dumbly dovetailing with Josh's life, Josh's ambition.

There's a distant crashing of fists on the front door. At last, some guests! But what will I do without Tengku and Umar to cook? I can't cook! And I'm still in my conservative going-to-town clothes. What if it's a good-looking bunch of Aussies, or Japanese, or better still, Brazos? What if it's Matt visiting, come to apologise, come to confess, actually Penny that wasn't my wife … Shit, what if it's Shane, back early, and his staff have disappeared? No, Shane wouldn't knock.

I lock my room, hang a left, pass four other guest bedrooms and reach the dining deck. Everything's in order. Then I head down the corridor of gut-warping surf posters, calling out ‘Sorry – just a tick!'

There're five Indonesian policemen at the door. I don't recognise any of them from my police station visit after the party at Franz and Adalie's. Their faces are as hard and shiny as the backs of new shovels.

Oh fuck.

I don't play Shane's games. Don't pretend not to speak Indo.

‘Selamat sore, silahkan masuk, yaaaa,' I say with faux fearlessness. Good afternoon, please come in. Please come in, and please don't notice how relieved I am for the extra length in my skirt, my sleeves.

The men follow me to the dining deck. One distinguishes himself as the officer in charge by sitting down and dumping his boots on the nearest chair. The hairs of his moustache hang over his top lip like tiny blades.

‘You work here?'

‘Yes, sir. Can I perhaps get you a drink, sir? We've got orange juice, Coca-Cola, tea, coffee …'

‘Yeah, I want a drink.'

He doesn't elaborate. Have I missed something critical and basic? ‘Maaf ya, Pak. Mau minum apa?' Sorry sir,
what
would you like to drink?

‘What else have you got?'

I rack my brains. ‘Sprite, Fanta, Teh Botol …'

Those lazy-mean eyes have infinite blinking patience.

‘Lagi ada Bintang, arak, gin –'

‘Whisky,' he cuts in.

He's been here before.

‘Buat semua?' For everyone?

A slight inclination of the head. I hit the bar and pour generous serves, balance them back on a tray. The officer doesn't take his eyes off me as he sips. I'm tempted to get up and pour myself a whisky, or to put my feet on the chair next to the officer's; tempted to do something young and mad and indifferent, just to shatter the glassy tension. He's first to finish. He draws a single finger over his lips, asks softly, ‘Dimana Shane?'

‘Medan. He'll be back in two days.'

‘Did he leave it?'

‘Leave what?' I ask, just as it dawns on me. They're here for the bribe, of course. The bribe Shane pays to sell liquor, to stay open. Shane didn't mention they'd be coming and he certainly didn't leave any money. Perhaps they're early. ‘Oh, yang itu!'
You're talking about
it
. ‘I'm sorry, sir, but Shane left nothing with me to give to you. He's been very busy and actually quite sick. Perhaps if you come back on the weekend?'

‘I think you can help us.'

There's something about their faces, something at once familiar and utterly strange. These police have the same look as Indonesian soldiers, or Indonesian customs officials – the ones who fleece you in small rooms, behind closed doors, over ash-stippled desks. It's a look of carefully combed contempt, backed with blankness. It's a look that makes it impossible to imagine these men as husbands, as fathers, as brothers.

‘Take me to the office. You have a key to the safe.'

‘I don't have a key to the safe,' I say truthfully. ‘I've only been working here for a week. Shane doesn't trust me with a key to the safe.'

‘Then I'm afraid, miss, you'll have to give me your passport.'

‘My passport's with immigration,' I lie. ‘I don't have my passport. But I'm happy to get you a photocopy.' I jump to my feet.

The officer doesn't like this. He too springs to his feet so we're eye level.

Above us, the nuts in the betel tree click like wooden beads.

‘Whisky,' he says.

‘Certainly, sir.'

‘The bottle,' he says.

‘Of course.'

I bring him an unopened bottle, our last. Hand it over with the faintest tremor in my fingers.

‘You tell Shane we'll be back,' the officer says.

Then the five of them turn and head toward the door.

I can't help myself. I break into English. ‘See ya later, ya fucken jerks!'

The officer turns and for a single horrified moment I worry
he's understood me. I smile and dip my head graciously. He nods. They leave. And I make straight for the remaining half-bottle of whisky.

Adalie texted yesterday asking me over for coffee. I'd forgotten about giving her my number at Dennis' place. Tengku and Umar had reappeared by the time I left, but Kristi was still missing. I didn't feel too bad about heading out, knowing the boys were there. I wasn't disobeying Shane's explicit demand not to leave the resort unattended.

It's hard to imagine it was only a few weeks ago I was last in this house of wood and glass, moving drunk around the laughter-lit rooms, burningly conscious of Matt. Now, it's a completely different space; the paintings are bubble-wrapped and the artifacts and textiles are bundled into boxes. The remaining glass in the window frames is held in place by brown masking tape and there's the moving-out smell of cypress-scented cleaning products.

‘Come in, come in!' calls Adalie when she sees me at the door.

‘Thanks. How's the packing coming along?'

‘It's awful.'

‘I'm sorry,' I say awkwardly.

A woman comes in from the kitchen corkscrewing a grey cleaning rag between her hands. She smiles at me, flashing neat white teeth, and asks Adalie if she has a moment.

‘Tentu saja!' Of course! Adalie says in thickly Dutch-accented Indonesian.

The woman then drops to her knees in a position of
supplication and my heart drops with her – appalled.

‘It's like this,' she says. ‘Bu has been such a good employer over the years and I give thanks to God for bringing you to us. But I have something to ask. Yesterday, one of my sons crashed our family's only motorbike.'

Adalie is as uncomfortable as me. She's readjusting her skirt, lowering herself to the floor, taking her housekeeper's hands in her own.

Her housekeeper, almost crying, continues, ‘Bu has always been so good and I'm so sorry to ask, but I wonder if you can spare some money to help fix the motorbike?'

‘That is no problem,' says Adalie warmly. ‘Of course I can spare you the money. How much do you need?'

Her housekeeper mumbles a rupiah equivalent of forty Australian dollars.

‘Of course. No problem at all,' Adalie repeats. ‘We've been so happy with the work you've done. And just because we're leaving now, it doesn't mean we won't be back, it doesn't mean we won't be in touch.'

‘Thank you Bu. May you have a long life,' her housekeeper says, tears sliding freely now down her pretty, high-cheeked face.

The two women embrace. If only I'd turned up ten minutes later. This is way too intimate. The housekeeper is a proud woman – imagine the courage it must have taken for her to fold to her knees and beg. I feel slightly sick-dizzy when I think of the power of money here.

Through the glass, over the balcony, a grey wind gurneys the tops of the trees. In the distance, there's a lead-pencil line of ocean lurching with swell. So much for my plan of getting in the water.

‘Sorry Penny,' says Adalie. Her housekeeper has disappeared. ‘Please, come. Can I get you a coffee?'

‘Sure.'

When we're finally settled in cane chairs on the balcony, sipping from glasses of grainy, tasty robusta, she says, ‘Remember the meeting at Dennis'?'

I nod.

‘Do you remember what Matt said?'

My cheeks spot red like stovetops. ‘About what?'

If Adalie notices my shame she doesn't let on. ‘About Shane. About the dukun.'

‘Yeah,' I say cautiously, wondering where this is going. ‘Matt was seeing a dukun to try and poison him.' While I haven't said anything to Shane, I'm carrying it, the moral baggage of complicity.

‘So is it working?' Adalie's dead serious.

‘I don't know. Shane's sick, there's no doubt about that.'

The wind picks up. Adalie's unruffled, face thoughtful. ‘I'm about to tell you something. And I would like you to keep this just between the two of us.'

I wait.

‘I've talked with my housekeeper and she's gone to see a friend. We think this will work much better. Here.' She hands me a plastic bag. Inside is a twisted black piece of … what? Skin? Fin? Bone? Tongue?

I get a prickling feeling under my shirt that's got nothing to do with the wind. ‘More black magic,' I say, surprised at how even my voice is, thinking: these mad bloody bules! First Matt, now Adalie, who else? The bules here are probably wheeling and dealing in more black magic than the locals!

‘Don't say anything to Franz,' Adalie says. ‘I know he's an anthropologist, but he's a scientist first. He wouldn't approve. The thing is, I really don't want to go back to Europe. Imagine – winter in Holland. Horrible! Franz says the only way
we would possibly consider staying is if Shane was gone. I know, I know,' she gestures inside to the packed boxes. ‘A bit late, no? But this,' she flicks the plastic bag, ‘very bad, very strong. It took my housekeeper a long time to get.'

‘So … what do I –'

‘Boil it. Then mix the boiled liquid in with some tea. One week within drinking it, he'll be gone. Back to Australia.'

‘I don't know if Shane drinks tea. Certainly beer and spirits.'

‘Well, I leave it to you.'

‘Adalie, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but Shane's my boss. He's paying me, and well, he's … well, he's not
that
bad.'

She laughs softly, mirthlessly. ‘Yes, this is what you think now,' she says. ‘This is what you think now.'

That night, after Tengku and Umar have disappeared to their room, it feels like I'm the only one in the surf resort. The wind has completely died. Waves detonate on the reef. I fidget through a few pages of Robert Adamson but feel too keyed up, too nervous to be reflective. So I toss the book and turn instead to a surf movie. There are the usual boobs and barrels and blue water. I only half watch, mind still elsewhere. I'm thinking of the police with their skin buff with sweat and oil. I'm thinking of Ibu Surti dreaming of shopping malls while Adalie dreams of magic. I'm thinking of the plastic bag with its devilish black contents scrunched out of sight in my rucksack. I'm thinking that consumerism, modernity, must be slowly eroding culture, and wonder if it will also erode religion. I'm thinking of a burning church and Josh's text in code. And suddenly, hotly, I'm thinking of Matt. Of my lips tracing his jaw, tracing a path through the raw stubble down his throat, tracing his dark, sharp collarbones. I'm thinking of his hands gliding my sides, lacing hard in the small of my back. I'm thinking: I hate being here alone. I hate sleeping alone. There's a pause in the surf movie. Beyond the guesthouse drifts the eerie electric song of the ice-cream man.