Free Home by Leila S. Chudori

say.”
    Oh, Risjaf… I told my friend to sit down and take a deep breath. Obediently he sat down on the edge of the bed. His thick wavy hair was disheveled and big drops of sweat rolled from his forehead and down his cheeks. Risjaf, this Malay man with such a fine heart, was completely unaware of his own charm.
    â€œRisjaf, just look into Rukmini’s eyes and tell her that you want to ask her out.”
    Risjaf’s mouth dropped open. “Where?”
    Good God! How could such a handsome face exhibit a mien of such stupidity?
    â€œOut! On a date!” I almost yelled. “Take her to see Solo by Night at the Metropole; invite her to dinner at Tan Goei; treat her to a milkshake at Baltic Ice Cream; or, if you really want to save your money, go for a walk with her at Zandvoort.”
    â€œZandvoort…Zandvoort…” With his mouth still agape, Risjaf repeated the word over and over.
    â€œIn Cilincing, stupid!” I half shouted at him.
    â€œYou talk to her first, will you, please?” Now he was pleading with me.
    My God.
    For two long and painful hours I mentored this man who was so handsome but so naïve about women. Risjaf nodded at my instructions and wrote down all the places he might take Rukmini. After that, he quickly bathed and then changed into a blue dress shirt. He glossed his hair with pomade and combed it neatly. He folded the notes he had made during my primer course and put them in his trouser pocket—as if they were some kind of amulet that would help him to speak fluently.
    With Surti spending the weekend at her parents’ home in Bogor, I myself was “on vacation” that night, so I gave my blessings to Risjaf, wished him the best, and made ready for a night of reading. Risjaf strode from the house with an almost confident air.
    No more than a half hour later, I heard a weak knock on my door. Who could that be, I wondered. Opening the door, I found Risjaf, who came into my room with his head drooping like a limp dish rag. He let his body fall onto my bed. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling overhead.
    I looked down at him. “What is it, Sjaf?”
    â€œI went to her place…”
    â€œAnd so?”
    â€œSo she wasn’t there.”
    â€œThen you can go back another time.”
    â€œShe’d gone out with another man!” Risjaf cried.
    I was silent, not knowing what to say. My heart poured out for him.
    Risjaf stared at me, his eyes reddened with anger or perhaps pain.
    He spoke slowly and in a low voice, but the sound in my ears was like the ticking of a bomb.
    â€œThe lady at the boarding house told me that Rukmini had gone out with a man named Nugroho.”
    That night I let Risjaf sprawl on my bed as he played the same song repeatedly on his harmonica, the Dutch tune “Als de Orchideeën Bloeien.” After about the fifth time, I was ready to wrest the harmonica from his hand and throttle him with it, but the tears welling in his eyes made me feel sorry for him. And after midnight, when the orchid still hadn’t bloomed, Risjaf, in his now-crumpled blue shirt, finally fell asleep and began to snore. I stretched out on the floor and stared at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. There were still many things about women that I, too, did not understand.
    In the weeks that followed, I was Risjaf’s shadow, going with him wherever he went: to campus, the library, Senen Market, Metropole Cinema, most everywhere, just to make sure he didn’t wind up standing atop a tall bridge or on the edge of a deep well. His demeanor and manner were those of a man without hope. I also shadowed him when he walked across the street to stand motionless on the sidewalk outside Mas Nugroho’s paviliun . He had held the phlegm in his throat for so long, I knew he was now ready, that he had to spit it out. Splat! At least he had spat on the walk and not into Mas Nugroho’s face, I thought. But that would not have been