Angkasa no longer struggles to differentiate galangal from turmeric, though his recipe repertoire is still largely guesswork. He shuts the spice cabinet, pleased by the tidy row of clay pots. As he scoots to tackle the dirty dishes, the cabinet door swings open again.
‘Do we have ginger?’ Silva asks. They rip pots out, quickly opening lids for a whiff, grabbing what they need, shoving back what they don’t.
‘Fresh ones are over there.’ Angkasa points at a bowl with sud-covered fingers.
Silva grabs a small pot to roast some cardamom pods, cloves and half a cinnamon stick, leaving trails of dust all over the counter and floor.
Like any Friday night, their stylish ensemble is grand. Blue and green fabric crisscrosses their body—a sweeping kimono with peacock feathers drapes over their broad shoulders. Angkasa wouldn’t be able to guess their age if he tried. All he knows is Silva works at the club down the road. Most of the time, though, they’re in the shelter, getting in the way.
Angkasa diverts his irritation to the burnt egg on the wok’s bottom.
‘Got something to say, little one?’ Silva says.
I just cleaned, Angkasa thinks, but chooses peace instead.
‘What are you making?’ he asks.
Steam whooshes as Silva adds water into the pot. They turn their face away so it doesn’t ruin their make-up.
‘Spiced coffee. I can’t stand it plain…’ They take a long and dramatic sigh. ‘Life’s bitter enough.’
Angkasa snorts.
Silva leans against the counter. Realising that the water won’t boil sooner in silence, they look around and spot Angkasa’s sketchbook. Before he can do anything, they snatch it from his pocket.
‘That’s private!’
Silva flips through portraits of people, the sea and life in his village. ‘Why Jogja? Seems like…a long way from home.’
Silva gestures vaguely, but Angkasa knows they mean his dark skin, his coarse and curly hair, his accent, maybe, or that he reeks of salt water even after months of not communing with the ocean.
‘It’s not an interesting story.’ Angkasa secures his book back, pretends like his heart isn’t working double time.
‘Then spill.’
Angkasa considers lying, but Silva’s air of impatience intimidates him. ‘I was, err, engaged.’
‘Was she a horrid old lady or something?’
‘No. She was my friend.’
‘Ooh. Was she ugly? Worse, boring?’
Angkasa laughs. ‘No.’
Hanum’s parents originally named her Harum, meaning fragrant. Like the infamous saying ‘mengharumkan nama bangsa’, she was to bring sweetness to her family, her school, her country. Yet her mother was illiterate, and when the name was misspelled on the birth certificate she didn’t realise. An R for an N: a happenstance, a tectonic shift in her destiny. She was beautiful, but not quite (an unmissable underbite). She was smart, but not quite (second in class, teachers never knew what to note on her report card other than ‘good’).
Personally, Angkasa thought Hanum’s best qualities were the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet as they could grip anything and everything without effort. After the sun had peeled the tips of their ears and reddened their noses, Hanum would climb a coconut tree with a knife between her teeth and drop two glorious coconuts on the sand. After they slurped sweet juice and wolfed the white flesh clean, Hanum would wear a half shell like a helmet. She’d get Angkasa to throw things at her head, increasingly heavy or menacing things, and they’d laugh as they got lodged into the helmet, bounced off or affected her balance. Her sweaty fringe would peek from her skewed coconut shell as it protected her from a sandal, a beer bottle, one time a bicycle wheel. It would make Angkasa laugh uncontrollably.
Hanum’s parents thought she was in love with Angkasa for they were inseparable; that their engagement was a gift. Most parents considered love marriages a luxury or a wasted opportunity. Yet she was a child and so was he. Barely fifteen. How could they be expected to have children? That seemed to be a preoccupation—no, obsession—in their village: wanting children to birth children. The night Angkasa’s parents declared his path, he and Hanum sat on a coconut tree toppled by last season’s monsoon.
He vomited.
She patted his back. ‘I feel the same way.’
If he didn’t love her in that moment, he never would.
Angkasa dries the last squeaky plates. Conjuring Hanum, even with a brief mention in this new life, feels wrong. He misses her enough.
‘It wouldn’t have mattered if she was the most beautiful girl in the island or the country or the world. In my eyes, she held as much charm as a sea turtle.’
Silva doesn’t laugh. Angkasa feels their eyes probing.
The pan of water boils. Silva adds a dash of sugar, four teaspoons of ground coffee, mixes, but doesn’t taste. They pour the smoky drink into a thermos, and when the cap spins it traps the earthy, rich aroma, leaving Angkasa with a shocking longing.
‘You’re coming with me,’ Silva says, thrusting the thermos into Angkasa’s wrinkled hands.
He glances at the messy kitchen.
Silva’s already on their way out.
‘Leave it. We’re late.’
*
The Airlangga’s entryway inhales and exhales pink light. Silva passes the bouncers without a glance and Angkasa follows, trying to keep his head up straight. Attendees—the final trickle—pay to enter behind him. With the ticket price, he can get rice with two vegetables, two meats and a side of sweet hot tea.
Tonight, the club is ferociously alive. There are easily a hundred people in the room, lounging on pink velvet couches and buying overpriced cocktails at the bar. None younger than Angkasa. The stage holds a bike dipped in gold paint, a microphone wrapped in tassels, a few instruments like a guitar and keyboard, and a banner with an English word he doesn’t know.
The relentless refraction of show lights onto disco balls makes Angkasa dizzy. Someone in a buoyant wig, with a face covered in make-up, wearing a mini dress adorned with strings of large plastic jewels—pink and purple—bumps into him. Her eyes widen as she spots Angkasa’s plain shirt and pants. Angkasa shrinks. He’s grossly underdressed.
Silva pulls him over to a large table with an empty seat.
‘Sit,’ they say, pushing his shoulders down until his bum lands.
‘What—’
Silva leaves. They wave and blow kisses to people they know, making brief conversations. Always flittering, never dawdling.
Angkasa doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on the people to his right, but what’s he to do? It’s not like he would know anyone here. The two are dressed in kebayas, one blue, one yellow. In the changing lights and occasional spray from the fog machine, they look like grand deities of old.
‘…but it’s due tomorrow,’ says Yellow, to Angkasa’s immediate left, furiously scribbling. The paper in front of them is full of shapes, arrows and mathematical equations. The top right corner is stamped with an emblem Angkasa recognises: a star within a flower. Universitas Gadjah Mada.
‘My friend, if it’s cash you’re after…’ Blue says with a disarming grin and slap on the back.
‘It’s a future I’m after,’ Yellow snaps. ‘And as your friend—’
‘Yeah, yeah. You want me to quit my job.’ Blue withdraws their arm.
‘Late nights on the streets, meeting all these men… I worry about you. A lot.’
‘And I’m supposed to gorge on this worry, darling? Eat it with a side of ikan teri, maybe?’
What’s wrong with anchovies? Angkasa bristles. Back in Bajo, if his parents served steamed rice, anchovies and chilli, the pungent, salty smell would compel his and his brother’s stomachs to rumble. The growl would rattle their bellies, their ribcages and escape their mouths as laughter while they shoved each other’s bodies in a race home.
‘Without it,’ Blue continues. ‘I never would’ve saved enough for surgery. I’m heading to Surabaya first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Nose and chin?’ Yellow asks blandly, flipping the paper to the other side.
‘Chest and genitals. I thought of fixing my arse too, but how would I sit if it was balloon-sized?’
Yellow snorts and Blue’s grin returns.
Angkasa’s brain tunes them out. He barely understands what they’re talking about anyway. When he sees Silva walk up the stage, he feels a sudden exhaustion laced with anger. Why am I here?
‘Good evening, everyone, and welcome to The Airlangga. To the first annual Poetry Dancing Manusiawi!’
Mediocre poets, grand singers and outlandish comedians take the mic. While Angkasa starts out quiet and curious, he finds himself gasping with everyone else when a magician swaps dresses with a flick of black cloth.
After the final trick, Silva gets up on the stage and gestures for another round of applause.
‘This is the last and best act of the night,’ they say, ‘though opinions are my own.’ The crowd jeers with good humour. The magician brings forth a keyboard closer to the mic. Still standing, Silva plays a few tender chords. They close their eyes and sing:
| Jika Tuhan ingin melenyapkanku Mengapa aku… Sempurna? | If God wills my disappearance, Why am I… Perfect? |
Silva draws out the second line, delivers the last like a purr. ‘Perfect’ is met with claps and laughter.
To hear someone mention God so flippantly makes Angkasa uneasy. The sermons his family went to at the hillside chapel were silent. They were marked by a rigid order of events, by knowing when to call and respond. Even the most joyous songs people sang with arms folded in front of their bodies. Closing your eyes, head bowed, signified reverence (though to Angkasa’s younger brother, it meant a good nap).
Looking around him now, a similar, holy hush engulfs the club. Yet everyone is alert. Even the bar staff watch intently as Silva sings:
| Saat jemariku menggali tanah, kubur diriku Di hati bumi Kan kutemu diriku Magma merah membara | When my fingers plough soil, bury me In Earth’s core I will find myself Raging red magma |
| Saat kakiku melonjak, lontarkan diriku Ke angkasa membentang Kan kutemu diriku Bintang perkasa, takkan mati | When my feet rockets, hurl me To the expansive sky I will find myself A mighty star, undying |
| Jika mimpimu menghadang mimpiku, Bagai gerhana Tenanglah hatiku Teranglah jiwaku Matahari takkan berkata ‘maaf’ | If your dream engulfs my dream Like an eclipse My heart, stay calm My soul, it shines The sun would never say ‘sorry’ |
| Anyamlah karangan bunga Bersyukur, bergemalah, karena aku anakNya Jikalau aku malapetaka Tuhan akan meninaboboku antara seprai dan selimut. | Weave a garland Rejoice, resound, that I am God’s child If I was calamity God would lullaby me between sheets and a blanket. |
*
All around Angkasa people shout yeses and amens. They whistle, snap, tap the table and pound their feet. Angkasa can’t deny the goosebumps on his arms, Silva’s song reverberating in his heart.
Silva ends the night by calling out to people from different cities.
‘Semarang!’
‘Bandung!’
‘Jakarta!’
‘We’re here! We’re here!’ the crowd roars back.
Angkasa’s palpable rindu—homesickness, longing, relief, fear, love—inflates to a point of pain.
‘Good night, everyone!’ Silva sings.
Angkasa’s feelings burst as pink confetti rains to thunderous applause.
*
Outside, Angkasa tilts the thermos and lets drops of coffee land on his tongue. He doesn’t have to wait for Silva, but he wants to say thank you. He’ll wait another thirty minutes if he must.
In the haphazard parking lot, Angkasa spots Oumar, one of the older boys in the dorm. Stocky as a bull, gentler than a baby rabbit. People walk in single file, some still dancing, others conversing and laughing. Some touch Oumar’s chin and hug him goodbye, and Angkasa wonders how he knows these out-of-towners. As the bikes vroom past, their glittery riders wave happily at those left behind. Angkasa smiles and waves back.
Oumar mistakes it as a gesture for him. He smiles, a little embarassed to be caught in the scene, his dimples marking his round face. Angkasa feels possessed by the spirit of Bajo’s caterpillar under sunshine: his legs squirming this way and that, his hands fumbling with the thermos.
To get to Angkasa, Oumar weaves past a woman with a basket of satay on her head, a man shouldering a bamboo stick holding cotton candy in plastic tubs, and a vendor selling reading materials, yo-yos, collectible cards and other toys while brandishing a wand. Bubbles drift around Oumar. One pops on his bald head as he pauses to buy a magazine.
Oumar playfully hits Angkasa’s chest with the faded copy. He aimed for the head but realised Angkasa was too tall and this small correction is endearing. Angkasa catches a glance of the cover: two young men with fluffy hair in headbands, with moustaches, graphic tees and jeans. One sits cockily: open legs, one knee bent, tilted chin. The other rests his arm on this knee and he’s laughing.
‘For the fashion,’ Oumar says using sign language. Angkasa has never seen him in anything other than a loose white shirt and grey pants.
‘Did you come for the event?’ Angkasa signs back. He is the only boy in the dorm that also knows how.
Oumar nods then explains in a rush. ‘Silva strongarmed me to be head of security. They’ve been organising this since last year. Least I could do—they’re always funnelling us money whenever they can.’
‘Oh,’ Angkasa says, a little surprised. ‘Well, Silva dragged me here too!’
Oumar’s smile widens. ‘What did you think? You looked like you enjoyed yourself.’
He’s kind to everyone, even street cats, Angkasa tells himself.
‘I didn’t know people could dream so brightly,’ Angkasa signs, purposely curating his words to impress. He regrets it immediately.
Oumar’s eyebrows lifts. ‘An illustrator and a poet? Tell me your dream then, wise artiste.’
Angkasa laughs and shakes his head. For now, all he desires is a peek into that magazine. ‘I’ll let you know when I find out. And yourself?’
Oumar thinks. ‘My dream is to not be eclipsed.’
Their shared smile is soft but mighty. A moment later, though, Oumar scrunches his nose.
‘That was…a bit much,’ he laughs.
‘I think I understand,’ Angkasa assures him.
The night of Angkasa’s engagement, after he’d wiped the vomit off his face with the hem of his shirt, Hanum turned to him with a rare serious expression.
‘Make sure your parents have fallen asleep, then sneak in through your window. Do not wake anyone. Only take what you need and meet me back here.’
She’d never spoken to him in that tone.
His parents slept soundly by the front door with pans hanging on the kitchen’s opposite wall. Past a rattan barricade, he and his younger brother Bumi shared a cosy mat. Angkasa grabbed two pairs of clothes, his sketchbook and pencils.
He froze when he felt tiny fingers tugging his shirt.
‘Are you leaving?’ Bumi signed, sleepily.
Angkasa nodded.
‘Will you write?’
‘You can’t read.’
‘I’ll learn for you.’
Angkasa’s heart clenched.
‘Okay.’
Bumi cradled his fist to his chest and sucked on his thumb, even though their mother had wrapped it in a chilli-soaked band-aid.
Beside the coconut tree, a modest engine boat awaited him. Hanum’s father owned a third of Bajo’s fisherman boats. Hanum would get a stick beating for stealing one.
She told him how much the boat was worth. ‘When you get to the port, triple the price.’
‘I’ll pay you back, I swear it.’
Hanum saw his sketchbook and reached for it. She flipped the pages and tore off one—a worthless sketch of them floating in a cave. Ten minutes off-coast, yet no one went there for the bottom was infested with sea urchins. They often went together on Hanum’s boat to hear their words echo. To scream.
‘There,’ she gave the book back.
Hanum smiled under her coconut helmet. Angkasa’s lips quivered when he tried to smile back. She squished his cheeks. The girl who was good, but not quite.
In pitch black, the sky and sea were indistinguishable. Stars winked from above, under, all around him. Angkasa thought about Bumi jumbling B, P, D, and Q with stick on sand, his father spreading his arms above the mantas’ dark wings, his mother releasing a snake through the window to scare her brother’s bully.
The sign for ‘eclipse’ is two Cs with all fingers, crossing paths.
If Angkasa dreams a new dream will his parents hate him, forgive him, or forget him?
Goodbye, goodbye, he thinks. Then selfishly, Don’t forget me.
*
In the boys’ room, Angkasa shuts his eyes but his mind replays. Replay: pink confetti fluttering across his vision. Replay: the art, the humanness. Replay: tears streaking down Blue’s face. Replay: his conversation with the boy now snoring soundly across the room.
Angkasa sighs and gets up. As quietly as he can, he fishes out his sketchbook and pencil from his satchel. He tiptoes his way past people’s mats, limbs, thin cloths used as blankets. He crouches for the candlestick on a silver plate then leaves the room.
He hasn’t written to anyone back home since he left.
Even if he documents the events of tonight in great detail the pages would read to them as another of his myths. A strange one at that, with no sea witches, pirate treasures or komodo dragons. Only people.
He rips a page from his sketchbook.
Hanum,
And Bumi, if you’re learning to read as promised!
I am alive. I’m eating well, though the coconuts aren’t as sweet. Today, a friend—
Silva’s no friend, but it’ll be the only lie he pens. For convenience. Maybe they’re almost a friend, he thinks. Silva did take him out and bring him back to the dorm safely.
—taught me how to make a special drink called Kopi Jahe…
Angkasa details the steps and suggests they add ice. It’s too hot in Bajo to drink warm things. He sketches the wrinkly skin of cardamom pods, papery twist of cinnamon sticks.
Find these at the market.
When I drink it again, I’ll think of you.
When you try it, think of me too.
Angkasa.
On the envelope, he writes Hanum’s name and the only post office in Bajo. He doesn’t include a return address.
