Our two-year relationship was an experiment in promised togetherness. Trains, buses, planes, emails, phone calls, letters, plus a mishmash of urgent consoling and lovemaking. The time we spent in the same city, in the same house, and in the same bed was measured with a quiet intensity. We were busy making stories for later. There was always someone from our weekday lives asking . . . 'how's Ali?' . . .'how's Luke?' and we both needed things to say.
When I moved to Indonesia, there was a cocky confidence between us. We were in an 'open relationship,' because we loved each in a manner that we thought went beyond the boundaries of convention. Within three months we each had both exorbitant phone bills and lovers.
In April, Luke took a week away from marketing corporate interiors in Sydney's CBD and came to visit me in Yogyakarta. Besides massages, cheap souvenirs, and spicy food, he wanted reassurance. After I picked him up from the airport, we lay still and tried to read each other's bodies. When I tried to speak, my tongue crashed clumsily against my teeth. I became afraid that what had been fragile and beautiful had started to fall away.
On his second afternoon, I left him at 'Larissa's Salon' while I went to uni. I struggled, as usual, through my translation class while avocado and aloe vera were rubbed through his hair. The girls looked after him, as I had known they would. They giggled and said he looked like Jesus with his white skin, long hair, and serious stare.
We spent four days fighting, and convinced each other it was 'only natural.' I organised another afternoon massage for Luke, this time at home, with Ibu Yem, a neighbourhood healer who had become like my surrogate mother. I explained the arrangement over breakfast, then I sent him out to the market to buy vegetables. I admit, my motivations were dubious. At worse, he would wander through the tight corridors stooping and apologising as he towered above the fresh produce. He would feel the alienating weight of his wealth as he handed over his cheap rupiahs. He would feel ignorant as people chattered at his blank face, and he would feel stupid as people pointed and laughed at his tall slender body. At best, he would enjoy the stench of humanity and the raw commerce of survival. He would find souvenirs for his flatmates and have a story to tell them later.
He found the vegetables easily enough, paid exaggerated prices for them, and continued exploring. Through the isles of polyester panties, plastic accessories, and recycled rubber furniture, he was drawn to the old women selling flowers. They wrapped up the little parcels in banana leaves when he pointed to their baskets, clucking sombrely to each other and patting him on the back. He smiled, paid, and headed for the exit. 'Kuncen,' he said confidently as he climbed into a rickshaw with a bag of vegetables and several little packages of roses. Kuncen was the name of our suburb.
'Who for?' asked the driver pointing to the flowers in Luke's lap.
'My wife,' answered Luke. We were in the habit of telling people we were married. It was to be expected here and prevented both unnecessary shock and embarrassment.
'Your wife .. . in Yogya?' the driver asked.
'Yes, yes, she studies here,' Luke replied and the driver looked upset, shaking his head and patting Luke on the back as the flower ladies had done.
'You see your wife, sir. You see your wife,' the driver encouraged. They passed some other rickshaw drivers resting on the side of the road and Luke's driver yelled something to them. They all nodded sympathetically.
Luke hadn't seen anything familiar yet. He was scanning the busy streets for the big white hospital or the primary school with the ice sellers outside.
The traffic had thinned out and they seemed to be in a quiet residential area. Behind a tall white fence, ancient frangipanni trees offered their white and yellow blossoms to the clouds.
The driver helped Luke dismount.
'Here mister, Kuncen. Here your wife. Five thousand rupiah mister.'
Leaving his packages on the seat, Luke looked inside. They were at a cemetery and Luke saw that many of the gravestones were covered in little parcels of pink and white roses.
I get home as my neighbours are called to evening prayers. Luke is lying shirtless on the sofa. Red bruises like warrior paint follow the paths of his ribs, marking all the way to his chin. Ibu Yem has showed no mercy.
'That was some massage Ali,' he says with a soft rage in his voice. 'You could have warned me it means something different here.'
Wondering whether I am guilty of cruelty or carelessness, I lean down and kiss Luke on his hot forehead. I dump my bag and go into the kitchen.
'How'd you go at the markets?' I ask, scooping tea and sugar into the pot.
'That wasn't exactly what I expected either,' Luke's answer floats through the doorway. But I am not really listening. I am imagining the scene in the loungeroom of my Yogyakarta home. Luke beginning to relax as soft mango-coloured light filters through the curtains. Ibu Yem methodically works the tension out of his shoulders. Slowly and deliberately, the 'krik' begins. Ibu Yem rubs kerosene and eucalyptus oil into Luke's back and chest, takes a large silver coin, and scrapes off layers of dead skin until blood rushes to the surface of his flesh. It is an old Javanese healing technique, apparently good for circulation. Luke of course, has no idea. Ibu Yem is pleased with how the red bruises show up on his white skin. He is saying something in his language but she doesn't understand and she thinks it best to do a thorough job so all the toxins are fully released.
Luke is here in Java, uncomfortable, confused, and lonely. He doesn't like the heat. He doesn't like the dirt. He doesn't like the pain that's meant to be good for him. I am thinking defensively as I wander back into the lounge room, and hand him a cup of sweet tea. I am thinking defensively because I blame myself for the rift between us. I clutch my warm cup to my chest as I drift into the bedroom. A blanket of pink and white petals cover the mattress. I take in a deep breath of the soft scent and think only of forgiveness.
'Your tribal markings are sexy.' I say as Luke appears at the doorway. We lie together telling stories and I can feel the heat of his blood as my finger traces the bruises on his chest. He tells me about the markets and the roses. He knows I didn't listen earlier and he is a generous storyteller.
We make love for the last time, on a bed of funeral flowers.