Troppo (18 page)

He hasn't had his first drink for the night and his tone is mean, like a single blade razor catching unsoaped skin.

‘Kristi, tell Penny what happened last time I went away.'

Kristi is silent.

An interrogative white light pools on the table between us.

‘Well?'

Kristi stays silent. She looks so young: no breasts, no stomach, just those bruised Modigliani eyes.

I can't bear the tension, can't bear the soft rain of fear in my
chest, can't bear how he's trying to shame her. It's not too unusual for something like this to happen in the workplace at home but things are done differently here. You never shame people in front of their colleagues. Shane's doing this for my benefit.

‘Well,' I break the silence, ‘whatever it was, it's not gunna happen this time. Is it guys?' Tengku and Umar offer no support; they're absorbed by their hands. ‘Don't worry about it, Shane. We'll be right. Have you got a number we can call you on while you're away, you know, in case anything –'

‘Did I
ask
you to speak for me?' Kristi darts me a vicious look.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake,' Shane says. ‘Grow up. You three, fuck off. Penny, get me a rum and get yourself a drink too. I'll tell ya what happened myself.'

Shane relocates to a chair at the edge of the balcony and I'm careful not to spill a drop as I pass him his rum.

I settle into the chair next to him, half-moons of sweat under my boobs.

‘Sorry to put you through that,' he says, and his tone has completely changed. He sounds sincerely sorry. He sounds sincerely warm. ‘I've gotta come down hard on them, or they'll take me for a ride. Even the girl. Especially the girl. So, you reckon you can do it?'

‘Sure.' I don't know if he's referring to the job or to keeping an eye on the place while he's away but I can do it, whatever it is, I can do it.

‘Good.'

Over to our left, there's a sob of wind up the river.

When he starts talking, I expect to hear the story Kristi refused to tell but instead he asks, ‘You hear about the church they bombed in Padang last week?'

‘The church? No, I didn't hear anything.'

In this light, his wrinkle lines intensify the angular quality
of his face. He's very handsome. ‘I need you to be onto it,' he says. ‘I need you to be aware of what's going on across the country – especially stories of this kind. Things that are happening nationally might affect us locally.'

‘Sure. So what was the go with the church in Padang?' Padang's not too far down the road.

‘Well, predictably, from what I hear, the local police haven't been too forthcoming with details. Plenty of the politicians are sympathetic too – no doubt they're protecting the radical mob responsible. But it really comes down to the communities. The communities here are becoming more and more hostile.'

‘Is it really that bad?' I'd always been impressed by Indo's pluralism – especially in Bali – even if it is, to a degree, superficial. The side-by-side blue and white signs indicating a nearby mosque, a temple, a church; the bars and cafes staffed by kids of all faiths, from all over the archipelago.

‘Are you kidding?' His tone's blistering. ‘There's been a bunch of cases where building licences for churches have been revoked or simply not given at all. And did you know most Indos would prefer not to live next door to someone of a different faith? I've been in Indo for over thirty years now. Believe me, I've seen this place change. Even in Aceh – well, I guess Aceh has always been more conservative – but it's still changing, and not for the fucken better.'

‘So where's the change coming from, I mean, does it start in the villages with a few radical imams, or is this shift being driven by people in the cities?'

‘What is this, the fucken
7.30 Report
?' There's no sting; the rum's relaxed him. ‘Look, I couldn't really tell you. But as long as corruption continues politically, as long as poverty continues socially, these Islamic groups will get stronger and stronger. Elements of Sharia law are being adopted all over the place.
We're gunna see more bombings, we're gunna see beheadings, and we're gunna see things a whole lot more difficult for us bules living in Muslim backwaters like Batu Batur. Jesus, they might even ban this,' he gestures to the last of my rum.

I throw it back.

Hear the sea somewhere below, churning tissues and turds.

With the afternoon light dashing orange through the window, I put the finishing touches on a marketing plan and budget for Shane. Provided no guests turn up, the next three days should be pretty low-key. My head's swimming with sugar from the morning's coffees and I'm ready to head out for a few hours. Tengku and Umar are crunched over a chessboard on the dining deck and barely look at me as I leave.

Given the limited Indo tucker on Shane's menu I'm keen to see if there are any warungs nearby. I'd also like a place to go that's not Shane's – it's difficult when you live where you work, especially if you don't have an escape, somewhere you can switch off.

There are no fishermen on the beach, no surfers on the wave. While Shane's away this has to be the perfect time to get in the water. Although the right's a dry-season wave, on thick, windless afternoons like this, it's definitely surfable. It'd be nice to get a feel for it before the season really starts, before the carloads of Aussies pour in, charged up on steroids and bravado, adrenaline and ego.

With thongs slipping, I walk toward the maze of rat tracks that plait through the trees and pick one. The track leads past a straggle of salt-chewed wooden homes and after a few minutes, opens onto a village square. The square is shaded by an enormous tree, a king of a tree, the archetypal tree: the kind to
inspire worship, awe, animism. Two men crouching at its base break my reverie with an enthusiastic ‘Hello Mister!' Over to my right there's a warung, window stacked with mouth-watering triangles of brown food. The woman who runs the warung is thrilled when I step inside, says I'm the first bule to ever eat here.

Just as I'm sponging up the last of a furiously spicy chicken broth a wind comes up, sudden and violent. Where moments before there were supine shadows on balconies, or people stretched out on shop floors, there's now panic. The two men crouched under the tree spring to their feet and sprint toward the warung. A kite-tail of rubbish tears across the square in front of them. The giant tree tosses, the palms bend backwards.

‘Angin, Mister!' one of the men says, parking panting in the doorframe.

‘Ya, angin.'

Sure there's wind. But why the panic? Across the square, women and grandmothers and fishermen are huddled under their balcony roofs, talking, squawking, superstitiously staring at the sky.

‘Dari mana, Mister?' asks the man in the doorframe, stepping inside the warung so his friend can also enter. The novelty of a bule clearly outweighs the mystical, village-rousing effect of this wind. They take a seat at the table across from me. Close enough to make conversation but not close enough to intrude.

‘Australia.'

‘Australiii.' The first man nods knowledgeably. ‘My brother in Australi. Sydney.'

‘Have you been to visit?'

The man shakes his head. ‘No.' He flips open a packet of kretek cigarettes. ‘Rokok?'

‘No thanks.'

He signals to the ibu and gruffly orders tea.

I mean to ask them about the wind, about the agitation through the village – is it simply the fear of plummeting coconuts, or something else; perhaps uneasy spirits, an angry god? But I don't get the chance. The blokes hammer me with the usual questions, blending Indonesian with a brave, stuttering English.

‘You already marry?'

‘Yes,' I lie.

‘Where your husband?'

I wave my hand vaguely.

‘How much, ticket from Australia to Indonesia?'

‘Banyak dong!' Heaps!

And then: ‘Keagamaan apa, Mister?' What's your religion? Usually I don't think twice about answering Christian. I'm not Christian, but saying I am seems to arrest any further discussion. Right now though, I'm thinking of that freshly bombed church in Padang. So I tell the men I don't have a religion and predictably they become perplexed. I'm not sure if they'll press the issue, go into the whole ‘if you don't believe in God then what do you believe in?' but they both seem content to leave it at that.

What I don't expect is for them to ask if I'd heard about the bombing.

‘I did hear about it. Who do you think did it?'

‘Jemaah Islamiyah. Don't you know Mister? Bali bomb. Before Bali bomb, JI bomb church in Jakarta, Medan, Sukabumi … apa lagi?'

‘Uh … Mataram …' adds the second man.

‘So what do people here think about it? Could it happen here as well?'

‘Maybe similar, but not the same,' says the second man.

His friend gives him an elbow.

Ibu appears with their tea, one-third sugar, two-thirds boiling water, a limp bag.

‘What do you mean it could happen here?'

‘Ya …' the second man mumbles vaguely.

‘Begini ya,' the first man says, ‘in Padang they're a lot more …' he hammers his fist into his hand. ‘Maybe it's not just JI but also some imams and local people only want mosques, not churches. Me personally? I think mosque, church, temple, this is Indonesia, ya? Many people, many religions, why not?'

He puts his lips to his tea, sips. ‘The mayor of Padang is trying to make a new rule. He wants Christian girls to wear headscarves to school.'

‘And what do you think about this?'

‘Lebih baik,' says the second man. Better.

Outside, the wind streaks through the palms in a long dark bruise.

Should I run for it now, or risk getting stuck in the warung for the next hour or so if it rains?

The decision is made for me.

A hot crack of thunder and sudden rain sizzling the dirt.

I settle back against the wall and order a tea.

My toenails are growing in, my eyebrows are flaring out: it's time to follow the Kiwi's beauty-salon mud map. It leads to a shopfront brightened with rockmelon paint and bookended by a tailor and warung. A glance at the floor almost prompts me to jump back on the bike – it's nearly invisible under a thatch of black, unswept hair. Two unoccupied chairs are turned toward oval mirrors; on the wall there's a discoloured poster of effeminate Korean guys modelling hairstyles from the '90s, all spike and sideways fringe.

‘Yaaaa, mau apaaa?' A woman appears, formidably fat and girlish: pink lipstick, no headscarf, carefully straightened hair.

‘Bisa mani pedi, Bu? Dan bisa waxing alis mata?'

‘Ya, of course!' she enthuses.

I look again at the unswept floor, think of the last cucumberpale flakes of burn between my legs. Then I think of the immaculately groomed Kiwi and so I let the beautician sway me, gushing and gossipy.

‘What's your name? Where are you from? No children?! Oh wow. I'm Surti. Yes, I've got two, very naughty! No, no, I'm not from here, I'm from Surabaya, Jawa Timur. My husband, though, he's from here. A fisherman – see how dark he is? Too much sun!' She points to a wedding photo. He's handsome and she looks gorgeous, cinched in a traditional kebaya, a mask of makeup starching her skin. ‘Ahh … Surabaya,' she sighs.

‘What do you miss most? Family?'

‘Ya, I miss my family a little bit.'

The cloth's barely noticeable, the quick rip, rip, rip.

‘But what I really miss is the shopping malls! Have you been to Surabaya? Anything you want, you can buy in Surabaya. Cell phone, electronics, makeup. Wow! Last time I was in Surabaya I bought a handycam. You know, to make video? Very expensive, nearly one million rupiah. I used it for two weeks but then I got bored.' She pauses then her eyes brighten. ‘Penny mau beli handycam? Half a million only!'

‘No, no, no thanks, Surti, I don't really need a video camera.'

She murmurs understandingly, then giggles. ‘Oh wow, my husband was so angry when he found out how much I paid …'

She pushes me to sitting. ‘Okay, all done! You like?'

Surti's transformed caterpillars to crescent moons.

‘They're perfect!'

‘Really?' she's pleased. ‘Now nails, ya?'

Outside, over the scrape of brooms on cement, there's the caterwaul of kids. Moments later, a boy and girl tumble through the door with fingers the colour of Burger Rings. They've both got lolly-punched teeth.

‘Dik, dik, jangan nakal! Keluar!' Don't be naughty, get outside, Surti commands.

They don't. Instead, they stomp and spit and puff out their chests. Surti ignores them, deftly working the cuticle nipper. When she gets up to look for the nail scissors and her back is turned, her children move in with their orange fists and rain me with small blows. I'm saved from savaging by the song of an ice-cream man. He's walking down the lane toward us with his cart. The children's fists drop and they fly out the door. Nudging and shouldering each other, they order ice-creams. When the man asks for payment, they gesture toward the
salon. Their ice-cream wrappers are already crumpled in the dirt at their feet.

Surti's missed all of this, bent over my toes, but when the ice-cream man comes to the door of the salon, explaining that she owes him money, Surti explodes. The man hangs his head and scuffs his thongs in the dust. A couple of times he lifts his chin, just long enough to snatch a look at me, then he drops them again. Finally, when she's finished giving him a serve, Surti hands over the money for the ice-creams and sends him away.

‘Bodoh!' she spits when he's out of earshot. Idiot! ‘Every second day this happens. Those naughty kids! I tell him again and again, don't sell them ice-cream unless they've got the money in their hand. I think he's a bit slow. Bodoh banget! It's hard, ya Penny, two naughty kids, husband always away fishing … Aduh!'