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

stopped walking, and looked at me in question. Lowering my lips to her ear, I whispered, “I want to be with you. Forever.”
    During the first few months of my relationship with Surti, things went along pretty much the way they usually did among young men and women at that time: politely, guilelessly, and chastely. Any time our breaths began to join as one, we’d suddenly hear Risjaf or Tjai cough, causing us to draw apart from each other again. Sometimes, Surti and her friends would come to our boarding house with Rukmini and Ningsih, “just to bring us cookies they had made” or something on that order; but, usually, after the briefest of conversations, they would immediately take their leave. “It’s not proper for an unmarried woman to be seen visiting a man,” Surti reminded me.
    And whenever this trio of young ladies did stop by, all of a sudden our older and more dashing neighbors, Mas Nugroho and Mas Hananto, would also appear, “just to borrow some glasses or a platter” (which I knew they’d never use) or to help me cook up some fried rice. Even though my fried rice was famous among the students who boarded on Jalan Solo, it was obvious that our neighbors were coming not to dine but to feast on the sight of the three young women. Crafty devils that they were, they’d pretend to help by grinding chilies or preparing the seasoning by mixing shrimp paste with oil, but all the while they would be shuttling back and forth between the kitchen and the living room wherethe three girls were seated, a farce that would end with the batch of them giggling together. Meanwhile, Risjaf and Tjai would find themselves staring, hopelessly frustrated by the sight. The three of us were just college students, whereas Mas Nugroho and Mas Hananto were grown men with mustaches they could shape like that of Clark Gable.
    Through their gambit of borrowing things and “giving Dimas a hand” at our boarding house, Mas Nug and Mas Hananto succeeded in persuading the three women to visit their den of iniquity. Mas Nug, who had a much larger expendable income than we as students had, owned a hi-fidelity player and would play records for the three womem. For that reason, the trio willingly spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time at the paviliun listening to the songs of Sam Saimun and others. Mas Nug, who couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, would always start singing along, disrupting the glorious sound of Saimun’s voice. Mas Hananto owned a radio and sometimes we’d hear the girls laughing at the comic repartee of Bing Slamet and Adi Karso on their show at Radio Republic Indonesia.
    Initially, I thought that Mas Hananto was attracted to Rukmini with the ruby red lips. I knew that Risjaf was almost epileptic about this but was trying not to show his jealousy. Only later I realized that Mas Hananto was in fact helping to win over Rukmini for Mas Nugroho. As the competition between Risjaf and Mas Nug to capture Rukmini’s affections heated up, I of course stood by Risjaf. As his friend, I was bound to support him.
    One day I found Risjaf rummaging through books on my work table.
    â€œI want to borrow some of your poetry books,” he said. His eyes emitted a deep light of sincerity.
    What? Here was this tall and very handsome man from Riau with thick wavy hair— a living and breathing testimony to masculinity—looking for books of poetry. A man with his build and temperament didn’t need poetry to conquer a woman’s heart.
    I took Risjaf firmly by the shoulders and turned him around until he was facing me. “Listen to me, Sjaf! Rukmini likes you. She’s always liked you. There’s no need to woo her with poetry. Just ask her for a date.”
    Risjaf stared at me, wide-eyed. “That’s easy for you to say, Dimas. You’re good with words. But whenever I see Rukmini, my heart stops beating, and I don’t know what to