Free Home by Leila S. Chudori Page B

the two of them were definitely more experienced in dealing with women. I felt chagrin. It wasn’t fair that we—Risjaf and I—were beingcompared to the two of them. And, for that matter, it wasn’t right that those two guys were going after college co-eds.
    But wait a minute, I then thought. “You said Mas Hananto. He’s going after Rukmini, too?” I asked.
    Surti looked at me clear-eyed, not bothering to offer an answer. A speck of the spice mixture—turmeric and chilies—was on her cheek. She looked away and then busied herself grinding the spices again. My God!
    â€œMas Hananto asked you out!?”
    Surti squeezed my hand. “I turned him down. Doesn’t my heart belong to you?”
    â€œSurti…”
    â€œDon’t worry, Dimas, and don’t ask again about Mas Hananto. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
    I nestled my body close to hers. Her body emitted a scent of turmeric. I wiped the yellow speck from her cheek.
    â€œI want you to be the father of my children,” she said in a voice of certainty.
    My God. She had never spoken with such assuredness before. I tried to follow suit and said lightly, “If you have a girl, we’ll give her the name Kenanga.”
    â€œAnd if the child’s a boy?” she responded in kind.
    â€œThen we’ll call him Alam.”
    There was still a bit of yellow color on her cheek and I licked it to wipe it away. Almost unable to resist my growing excitement, I held her chin in my hand and pressed my lips to hers, which were soft, velvety, and luscious, like the taste of Baltic Ice Cream. I used my tongue to explore her bodily curves: the nape of her neck, the cavity between her breasts, her erect nipples. When Surti released a suppressed moan, I knew that I would not, that I could not stopmyself from further exploration. If Risjaf came back and demanded his promised dish of milkfish soup, I would cite force majeure : an earthquake had destroyed the kitchen. I lifted Surti and set her down on the kitchen table. As my body entered hers, I knew the feeling that I experienced would last forever. Forever and always.
    I often use the word “forever.” “Always” is a favorite of mine as well—especially when I’m naked. One should always remember not to say anything when making love, because ecstasy makes us forget the ground we’re standing on and even our ideals. People who know me well tend to portray me as the antithesis of all that is certain and constant. There was some truth in Mas Hananto’s accusation—that I wasn’t willing to take sides, either in politics or in love. I was a ship never tethered to one port for long. Soon after calling into one harbor, I would be anxious to raise the anchor again.
    After that love-making session, which raised havoc with the kitchen, I knew for certain what Surti would expect from me: one day, and sooner rather than later, I would have to fasten the knot of my love to something certain. But did that mean I had to stop my voyage now, I asked myself. Were there not more voyages to undertake, more ports to explore, more books to read? The ocean is vast. Even on such a long journey as ours, was it necessary to stop or take a break? When writing, I didn’t like to use periods. I preferred to use commas instead. Don’t tell me to stop. I would drown in stagnation. Don’t.
    I sensed that Surti was aware of my anxiety. At the very least, she knew that with the end of my formal education ahead of me, I was preoccupied with my review of lecture notes and literary texts as I prepared for final examinations.
    Many of the books I used, I borrowed from Mas Hananto’s personal library. I remember him once lending me works of Leo Tolstoy—books which the wife of a Dutch friend had given him. The wife had been crazy about him, he told me. And he was still friends with the both of them, he said; but then, with a glint in his