You're still selling HAM for Chrissake!

I could feel my face going red and hear my voice droning on dreary and pointless. The girls in the supermarket closed their faces and their eyes glazed over, which was the standard response to bules losing their cool. It was the same in every supermarket the wine was clearly there, behind a strip of brown hessian, but not for sale. The new piped music started to take on mocking and smug undertones, which weren't there before.

Then, walking past the mosque, wineless, in search of dinner, I saw two lines of women kneeling forlornly at the back of a sea of men. They were drowning in a kind of white gossamer sheeting, with only a peep of their faces showing. I couldn't even see their hands. I averted my eyes and walked past swiftly, a little nasally man's voice bleating out after me over the sound system.

I was gripped by the violent urge to run naked down the laneway, red hair blazing and shouting out curses to the G.o.ds of Hate and Hypocrisy who seemed to be ruling this city. There had been too many months of biting my tongue, watching what happens to the women here. I wanted to cry out every unG.o.dly carnal desire into the street and call for the great G.o.ddess of s.e.xuality who has lost all of her ribbons and furs and has to creep around like Cinderella in the ashes or sit on a perch like an angry, tethered bird. She may not pout or purr or scream her pleasure. She covers herself in white gossamer, but is not radiant. She is broken, shackled and stunted like the bodies of the undernourished people who live here. She has a master and that master is called Husband. Father. Imam. Brother. Everywhere she turns she is a.s.signed a s.e.xual ident.i.ty and is then denied the right to express it.

The only option was frivolous luxury. In desperation, I waved down a taxi, which crawled off towards the leafy suburb where the rich Indonesians and ex-pats are driven around in their SUVs and Ramadan is merely a quaint seasonal backdrop to affluence. One thing was certain I was going to get wine. I headed straight for the special supermarket that kept fresh stocks of salami, stilton and Dom Perignon. It was strange to see so many bules in one place. There seemed to be a special code there that said: Minimal eye contact, don't smile. I don't want to know you. It was if each white had their own relations.h.i.+p with Indonesia and did not want to taint it by sharing with others. Or maybe it was the high crazy-ratio making people keep their distance. You never knew who you were going to get stuck with which mad marooned ex-pat who had forgotten how to go home would latch on to you and unleash their lonely story, the same story, more or less, coloured with intense hatred for the host country that they could not leave.

I returned home laden with expensive treats that didn't make me feel any better.

The one big compensation has been Fajar. Despite the lecture, which had probably been more to himself than to me, during Ramadan he actually comes over more often than usual in a blaze of nervous pa.s.sion and leaves to eat and pray in the cooling evening air.

Chapter Eight.

Aryanti

When I got home from the Warung Fajar, I took the pen that I had taken from him and put it safely in my drawer. I planned to use some of the money that I had saved to see the dukun while I was in my father's village. I would ask him to put a spell on Fajar, that he would forget about the bule and come back to me, and so I needed something from him to help make the spell strong. It was only a pen, but I had seen him touch it and even put it in his mouth and bite it. I would also take a flower that he had given me long ago that I had pressed between the pages of a book.

The plan was a good one, but my heart was in a panic as the bus climbed up the hill to my father's village the next day. After all, to do this is forbidden in Islam. I did not want the spirits to be angry with me for using magic. I knew that they could do terrible things when they were upset, like send a great wave to knock over a whole town, or make someone fall down dead in the street without warning.

The village was very quiet after the big noise of Jakarta. I had the feeling that I had woken after a troubling dream and found myself in this cool, friendly place where everything was as it should be. The people are planted in the earth, and they live like trees in their villages, with a tree's understanding of seasons and time. n.o.body is in a hurry. Everybody rises at 3 am, when it is still cool and dark, and they go out into the fields to tend the rice and vegetables before the sun can strike them. The houses are made of earth and brick, and chickens scratch around the yards. But there is a sad feeling to this village now, because most of the young people have left to find work in the city, and some of the older people as well. There are not many children playing in the shade of the big trees, and abandoned huts are dotted along the dusty tracks that wind their way out to the rice fields. Of my father's family, there was only my uncle left in the village, and his wife and younger children. The older children had already left.

After we had eaten with the family, my brother went to the river with the small cousins to check on their fish traps, while I set out to consult with the doctor. I was afraid that Aunty would want to come with me to buy the medicine, so I told her that Father had asked me to speak to the doctor alone. He was well known there as a natural healer, using herbs from his own garden and wild plants that grew on the mountain.

As soon as I had bought the medicine, I made my way to the cave of the dukun. I was afraid, although I knew he was not one of the sorcerers who send death and disease to people's enemies. They do not allow this kind of magic here. Black magicians are cast out, and the graves of children and babies are guarded every night for forty nights after they are buried, so that sorcerers from other villages cannot steal their bodies.

The dukun came to the front of the cave, wearing only shorts and plastic slippers. He scratched at his belly and followed my gaze to the blood-red stone on the ring on his finger.

You must look very closely if you want to see, he said pleasantly, holding out his hand. Inside there are two jinn, who do not like to be disturbed by anyone but their master.

I looked closely into the ring, but I could not see anything there.

You cannot see because they do not want you to see them, but they may listen to your troubles if they are interested, he said.

We sat on the floor of the cave, and I told him the story of Fajar and Vic, and showed him the pen I had brought from the warung. Dukun was not happy that the story involved a bule, and even more troubled when I described her hair.

That colour is strong magic, he said. Especially when the hair grows down so far. Did you not bring me any of it? He frowned at the plastic biro and the squashed brown flower in front of him, and tugged at his beard. Then he went to the front of the cave and took a bottle that had been hanging from a tree outside. He kneeled down beside me and rubbed oil from the bottle into my temples and wrists, and then began chanting in a high, weak voice. The smell of the oil was strong and made my head dizzy and light. I was mesmerised by the strange chanting; it made me think of bones lying in a place where no rain fell. When the dukun had finished, he wrapped the pen in cloth and poured some of the oil into a small phial and tied this to a cord, which he placed around my neck.

Put it under your pillow and chant the words every night, he told me. His face was covered with perspiration and his hands trembled as he handed me the spell, which he had written on some white cloth. Walk back slowly and drink water when you arrive at your uncle's house.

Outside, the world was suddenly bright yellow after the darkness of the cave, and the smell of ylang-ylang floated on the breeze like a song. The trees were shaking white flowers from their hair and the dragonflies, with their orange stick-bodies, darted forward and floated back helplessly on the wind's current. A goat was grazing in the middle of a field, but I could see that it was not really a goat there was an old man spirit living inside the animal. He lifted his hairy face and winked at me. I walked unsteadily through the village with the feeling that I was seeing all things as they had always been, yet for the first time, the colours behind the colours and the light behind the light, and there was a sharp buzzing noise, which was the sound of all living things, including the stones and the clouds.

I returned to the house of my uncle and drank water as instructed, and then slept immediately and dreamed a dream of voices chattering and hammering away like two angry birds arguing, but it wasn't Bahasa they were speaking.

My brother and I stayed in the village for one more night, and in the morning went back to Jakarta with my father's medicine. I did not look for Fajar, or go past his shop, as the dukun had told me not to seek him out. I went back to selling the cakes as usual, and every night chanted the words to the spell I had been given.

I was not surprised when, on the fourth day, as I was walking along the road, Fajar pulled up next to me on the bike. We did not speak, but I got on the back and he drove to a place where we could sit on the gra.s.s without being seen by too many people. I leaned back in his arms and we sat in silence and looked at the sky. I let him kiss my fingers one by one. Then, he used his big teeth and bit softly along the side of my hand, which was a very strange feeling.

We had been there together for a long time, when his phone began to ring, and before he could reach for it, I quickly took it from the pocket of his jacket. I hardly had time to see the name flas.h.i.+ng there before he took it from me.

What does she want?

I do not know. She probably wants me to drive her somewhere. Where did you go the last days? he asked, switching the phone off. I missed you.

Weren't you too busy with Vic to miss me?

Aryanti. How can you be jealous? Are you crazy? This is a woman who will help me, that is all.

For what, Fajar? For what reason will she give you all of this money?

The money is small for her. And she is very kind.

Why is she so kind? There must be a shrimp behind the stones. What does she want in return?

Sayang, he replied. She is forty years old. Do you think I am in love with my grandmother?

All right. I believe you are not in love with her, but an older woman may fall in love with a young man.

That's your mother's idea. That every girl will like me.

My mother thinks you are too handsome. That's all.

What do you think, sayang? Am I too handsome?

I looked at his smooth face and dark eyes and was about to make a joke, but surprised myself by taking both his hands in mine and saying, Yes.

As we kissed he toyed with the b.u.t.ton on my blouse, and then his long fingernail traced the outline of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Something was different. I no longer wanted to fight him when he touched me like this. But I was worried that someone might see us.

It's time to go home.

All right, sayang. But give me one more kiss first.

Anyway she is a very ugly woman. How can you stand her on your bike?

Are you still thinking about Vic and spoiling our afternoon?

Would you like me not to be jealous that you spend your time away from me with another woman?

I hope you will only think about you and me, sayang.

Will you be jealous if I drive around with a bule man?

If you drive around with a bule man I will kill him. Aryanti, she is going to help us. We will be married and we can have this warung, to help us get out from my mother's house.

So it was settled, just like that. We would be married. He did not even ask, but said it like that, as if we had been talking about it all afternoon.

I don't want to live with your eldest brother, I said. I am afraid of him.

My mother will not let him bother you.

I'll tell my mother tonight. Father will back me up. He likes you.

Thanks to Allah somebody in your family does.

When I got home I told my mother simply that I was going to marry Fajar. We would have the ring ceremony in a few months, when he had paid the ring, and some more on the bike. I would not listen to any more objections.

It was hard to believe how quickly it all happened after that trip to the mountains. I should have been happy, but instead I felt uneasy, and when I went to sleep that night I heard it again, and all night long so that my sleep was disturbed the two jinn fighting like crows over a stick. The next morning I woke and went downstairs to find that Fajar was already standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and waiting for me.

Chapter Nine.

Fajar

One thing Aryanti does not know, nor Vic either, is that there are many naughty girls in Jakarta. They will wear their jilbab every day, and keep their faces very sweet and pure, but once inside a room with a man it is a different story. There are also the Christian girls and the Chinese. And Budi and I have f.u.c.ked many of them. Sometimes they will ask you for money, but sometimes they just want to be naughty, and all you have to do is provide a room.

Budi is lucky, because there is only himself and his uncle, so we can bring girls to his house sometimes, when we find them. We find them on Facebook from the internet cafe, and meet them in Jakarta Raya, which is not so far away, and then take them back to Budi's. If anybody sees us driving them we can say they are customers. Once we even found two sisters, who liked to change horses in midstream.

The only thing to be very worried about is Budi's uncle because he is Imam, and believes that all such adultery should be punished severely. If he catches us we are completely flogged and dead, because he is like a father to Budi and he can command the wors.h.i.+ppers of his mosque to carry out any beating he orders, and he would tell my eldest brother to beat me also. But we are careful to know where he is going and how long he will stay out.

A few weeks before Ramadan, we took two girls to a place where Budi's friend was working as a security guard, for the Mission lady's family. That woman was in charge of helping poor Indonesian girls to go to school, and was supposed to be a very good woman. But I didn't understand why she could use a company that would only pay one million per month for a man to stand at her house twelve hours a day, six days a week, with only two packets of coffee to drink every day.

On Sundays she took her whole family out to church and then lunch, and would usually stay out all day. Budi's friend often invited us over on these days to swim in their pool. He locked the front door and, in case of their early return, he planned for us to escape over the back fence and to tell them he had been inside praying.

The day that we brought the two girls there, he was very angry at first, because there were too many people walking in the front door, in view of the whole street. But then he calmed down and we went swimming, the girls in their underwear, and we had some vodka from the cabinet, being careful to replace it with water. We f.u.c.ked both girls one time each before calling a taxi and dropping them in Blok M and going home.

The problem was that one of these girls had scratched me with her long fingernails and I did not know. When I went later to Vic's house, there were three scratches in a perfect row, on my side, above my hip. The worst thing is that she found them by kissing along the line of my shoulders and down my side until she suddenly stopped and there was silence.

What the h.e.l.l is this?

I could not see the scratches until she held up a mirror for me.

Oh, I said. It is very hot in my house. Probably I did it while sleeping.

What are you talking about? she said. Do you think I am an idiot? Hold up your hands.

I did as she asked, spreading my hands out in front of her. She ran her fingers along the tops of my fingernails, which were very short, except for the one on the small finger of my right hand. You have one long nail, she said. Not three. Do you expect me to believe that you have scratched yourself in three perfect straight lines, an equal distance apart? In your sleep?

Sayang, I do not know how the scratch came to be there, I said. Trust me.

She walked over to the table and lit one of my cigarettes, which was a surprise for me. I had not seen her smoke before.

What do you mean, trust me'? What the f.u.c.k does that mean? I want to know who scratched you on the a.r.s.e!

I did not like the ugly words she was using. I could feel the panic rising up in my chest and quickly turning to anger, as I realised she would not believe me. I tried to calm myself before I spoke again.

Vic, you are a rich woman, I reasoned. You sleep every night in your air conditioning, but my house is very hot and full of mosquitoes.

She did not reply straight away, but looked at me and blew a puff of smoke straight in my face.

So it's my fault, because I am rich, that some wh.o.r.e of a woman has scratched you.

Without warning, the anger rose up again and I found myself s.n.a.t.c.hing the cigarette from her hand and grinding it into the ashtray. Then, the ashtray was shattering onto the floor and I was screaming at her, with the blood roaring in my ears. Her eyes widened and she stood up quickly and began to speak, but I was already at the door.

I stood there for a moment and shouted: Do not call me ever again!

Then, I was on the street. The outside world was blurry and hot, after the cool whiteness of her bedroom. I lit a cigarette and the smoke tore at my throat and soaked into my lungs, which were already pulling in too much air. I went to find Budi, to drink beer, and tell him the story, but when I got to his house he was not there, and, instead, I decided to go home. As I pulled the front door shut I saw them all there waiting silently for me. My mother, Rhamat, Agus (my second eldest brother), Chitra and also Rhamat's wife. They all stood up and Agus pushed me into a chair. They must have chosen him to speak, because they knew I hated Rhamat and would not listen to him.

You will finish with the bule, he said simply. You will not drive her anymore, or receive her phone calls. You will keep the shop but you will not receive any more money from her.

I began to protest, but my mother silenced me with a wave of her hand. I am her youngest son, and the one who reminds her of our father. I could see that it was hard for her to say the next thing: You will obey this, Fajar, or you will leave this house and this family.

I could see that they were serious; I was hot with shame to think what they knew about me and Vic, and I looked at Chitra, who was standing with her shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Agus placed his hand on her shoulder.

You will not show your temper to Chitra. She is right to protect the honour of this family, and your honour also, he said.

I left for the warung after being made to apologise to all of them and to promise not to see Vic again. It seemed that everyone was sticking their nose into my business in one day first Vic and now everybody else. Why could they not just let me be a man and run my own life? I knew better than to fight this time.

There were very few customers that evening, but I was glad, because I wanted to be alone, and try to find a way out of all this mess. But, for the first time since I had opened the shop, Aryanti came by. I did not even feel surprised because everything was happening that day. At first, I was going to ask her to leave, but then an idea came into my head, about how I could keep Vic without anybody from my family interfering.

Stay and talk for a while, I told her.

I did not hear from Vic that night, and I guessed she was still angry with me. I was very worried that this would be the finish, if I did not act carefully. When I saw her two days later, being driven to the shopping centre by an ojek, I did not wave to her. I also did not call her or even turn on my phone. Then, after five nights, I turned it back on and waited for the call, which came after midnight. I went to her house, as she had asked me to do.

At the door, she looked me over thoughtfully from head to toe before waving me inside and pouring each of us one of her famous gins.