Home by Leila S. Chudori Read Free Book Online Page B

off my story. Hmm…
    I coughed to clear my throat. “Surti and I once were close…”
    â€œYou were in love with her,” Vivienne said, correcting me, “and you were angry because Hananto was two-timing the woman you once loved.” Vivienne stared at me to assess whether her assumption was correct. “Or, possibly,” she added, “because you were still in love with her.”
    I hastened to explain. “What I was feeling at that time was only that Mas Hananto was squandering the affection of a woman who loved him—the same woman who had given him Kenanga and Bulan,” I said honestly, though still avoiding her question.
    Vivienne continued to stare at me, a small smile tugging on her lips.
    â€œThat was then, Vivienne. We all have a past,” I said sincerely, hoping that the light in her beautiful green eyes would not fade. “I’m serious. And now I care for and respect Surti as I woulda sister. She is—or was, rather—my best friend’s wife.”
    Vivienne still looked unsure. I myself was unsure. I knew that whenever I mentioned Surti’s name, my heart felt a jolt of pain. And hearing the names of Kenanga, Bulan, and even Alam, the youngest whom I had never known, still made my heart leap. I was the one who dreamt up their names. I don’t know if Mas Hananto ever knew that.
    In a firm voice, Vivienne now asked me to continue my story.

    THE TRIVELI AREA OF JAKARTA ;
    SEPTEMBER 5, 1965
    Mas Hananto rubbed his rub his jaw in pain. Inside the cigarette kiosk, the vendor snored, unaware of the disturbance outside.
    â€œMas Han …”
    Hananto turned away, avoiding the look in my eye. “You still haven’t gotten over her, have you?”
    I didn’t answer. It would have been a waste of time, what with the anger boiling in each of us.
    â€œWhat time is it anyway?” I mumbled, suddenly feeling my body begin to wilt. My knees seemed to have lost their caps.
    â€œThree,” Mas Hananto said brusquely, looking at his watch, a 17-jewel Titoni which was like a second heart for him and never free from his wrist. “That’s why I keep telling you to go to Senen Market and buy yourself a watch. You’re always having to ask other people the time.”
    His tone was rough, but I could tell he was no longer angry. His jaw must have been hurting him, though.
    I sat down beside him on the bumper of his jeep. “This will be the last time I interfere in your personal affairs,” I told him, “butI need to tell you that the way you live your life, with your family here and you going off to see Marni or some other woman there, shows that you are not consistent.”
    Mas Hananto helped himself to a pack of cigarettes from the kiosk, placed a bill to cover the cost beside the still-sleeping vendor, opened the packet, and then offered a stick to me. He signaled for me to get into the jeep.
    The streets in Jakarta were silent. Silence and smoke suffused the jeep’s interior.
    In what seemed just a moment, we found ourselves already driving by the construction site of the unfinished National Monument in the park facing the presidential palace. From the disarray of the site, it was hard to guess when construction would be completed.
    â€œSo, you don’t think I’m consistent?” Mas Hananto suddenly muttered.
    A strange question, I thought, coming from a man like Mas Hananto, who was so sure of the political ideology he had chosen to follow and the woman he had selected to be a helpmate in his life.
    â€œI say that,” I told him, “because you have a family. A family requires stability and consistency. If you can’t control yourself and are always giving in to impulse, then you shouldn’t have gotten married. All you’re going to do is to make other people suffer.”
    Mas Hananto glanced at me. “You’re not saying this because of Surti?”
    â€œYou know this has