And she chases her dream away

By Rainy MP Hutabarat

She spread out the goat skin rug in her study, fetched the olive oil and changed into her kimono. Her head was hurting, her stomach puffed up and she was shivering slightly. She felt as if she were still on the air-conditioned executive bus from Jakarta to Medan. Damn, so much so for trying to save money. If only she had not exchanged her airplane tickets for the express bus tickets. But for that extra bit of money, especially with her boss's approval, she had sacrificed the comfort of her fragile body and braved the bumpy bus for two days and three nights. Her thick jacket could not protect her from the jostling and bumping. She would be using the extra money to treat her two colleagues from the Philippines and Malaysia to a trip to Yogyakarta and Solo, and to buy them souvenirs as well.

"Nak, isn't it a pity to use this goat skin as a spread? It will be smudged with oil. Why not use a tikar!" said the old masseuse, known as grandma.

"That's all right, Grandma. I'm not bothered about such things. I just want to get better fast!" she said, handing the old woman a bottle of olive oil which had been especially prepared for massaging.

"What! This oil will not cure you! You must use cooking oil, or coconut oil mixed with raw onions!"

"I know Grandma, but that's an old recipe. I can't stand the smell. This oil is especially for massages. I have been using it for two years. I rub it all over my body after my exercise. Keeps me warm and relaxed. It works just as well as minyak tawon. My friends say this is the oil of the gods and goddesses. It is even used for religious rituals," she explained, not without a little irritation.

"Grandma cannot use this oil! My fingers won't move. Can't read your nervous system. Changing the oil means changing Grandma's hands. Grandma won't do it, however much you're willing to pay. Only the cooking oil and raw red onions will make my fingers move smoothly. The recipe has not changed since the time Grandma started to massage people. Before, I even used the smelly coconut oil."

Limply she put on her kimono. She was angry with the old masseuse for ignoring her pain. Every step was an effort. She could not think why her best friend had recommended the old woman to her, assuring her that she was the best masseuse. "She is no ordinary masseuse!" her friend had told her. "She was born a masseuse. It's as if her palms are magnetic, or equipped with a radar which can trace the nervous system. Just give her a try!"

Such rubbish, she thought as she resentfully handed over a saucer containing cooking oil -- taken straight from a bottle labeled "non-cholesterol, made from corn kernels" with a nice smell and color -- mixed with raw sliced red onions. She took off her kimono and lay down. She floated on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness.

She could feel the woman's fingers start moving up from the sole of her right foot. Soon, she started to get used to the fingers which were creeping up, slowly, but sure and strong. The fingers massaged her body with full force, flooding the strength back into her limp nervous system and into her dizzy head. The old woman's fingers had yet to massage her whole body, but already she felt strength returning to her body, squirming back to life.

The old masseuse was perfectly quiet. She had her back to her. She felt the woman's eyes taking in every inch of her legs and back. The eyes seemed to know her body very well, better than she did herself.

But how she was suffering! The smell from the cooking oil mixed with the red onions made breathing difficult. The woman's hair and body exuded a putrid smell she could not place. Something like the smell of a pile of rotting garbage swarming with feasting bluebottles.

She tried holding her breath. She even tried not to swallow. Her resentment grew because the bad smell reminded her of the smell of the jacket of the young man who sat beside her on her way home from Medan. The young man's attitude towards her, a girl traveling on her own, had forced her to shout at him and shock the other passengers. Oh yes, her teacher, who was an expert in the art of kung fu once said no one could fight the heat of the sun. She could only try to get used to the unpleasant smell and pretend it was just air.

"What have you been doing? Your body is suffering from shock and masuk angin!"

"I have just returned from Medan, Grandma. On an air- conditioned bus. I could not stand it. At first I thought it was because I never exercise. Yesterday a colleague at the office challenged me to a game of tennis, although I was still tired and limp. But I accepted the challenge because the bet was huge. We played for nearly four hours. I arrived home exhausted, did not even have the strength to eat. I went straight to bed. This morning my stomach was all bloated and my head was spinning."

The old woman laughed softly. "It's nothing serious. You'll feel better tomorrow." Then her fingers slid onto her back and neck, massaging those parts with several small pulling strokes which made her cry out with pain. But when it was finished she felt better. The muscles around her neck and shoulders, which had been limp, were gaining life and starting to work. She felt blissful.

When the old woman asked her to turn over, onto her back, she felt the unpleasant smell grow stronger, invading her nose from all directions. Fortunately her nose had stopped protesting. The bad smell disappeared, vanishing into God knows where. She felt a sensation invade her chest. She trembled. Terrified. For heaven's sake, what is happening to me? She tried to chase off her feelings. The old woman's fingers continued to massage her shoulders. The fingers danced, making circling movements around her breasts and snapping strokes around her belly.

Oooooooooooo. What dance would perfectly explain those movements? she thought.

"You know, Dik, Balinese dances always enchant me. The movements are quiet, flexible and forceful, as if they carry a mystery. They are like a challenge to explore," her lover had once said. He was living abroad at the time. They were on the way to Bandung, in an air-conditioned bus. She had shivered, having forgotten her jacket. Her sweetheart had continued. "I have seen Indian dances in Bombay, the hula-hula in Hawaii, ballet in New York and a bunch of other dances. But none of them can move me." And then her sweetheart had nudged closer to her, and closer, and closer.

The dances were indeed beautiful... She had gone into a daze, and fallen dumb. After a while she had replied, "I am trying to picture a death dance. Remember Salome, daughter of King Herodes? She was like a mermaid, they say. Very beautiful and lithe. Everybody went into a dream watching her dance. Both men and women. But who would have thought that the dance of a mermaid had to be paid for in blood, the head of a beloved of God? How horrible. Beauty that kills."

Suddenly she snapped, "That's enough for today, Grandma!"

"Grandma just wants to shoo away this wind! You're not married, are you?"

"What has marriage got to do with masuk angin?"

"Not interested? You're missing something big. There is a lot of beauty in marriage."

"I don't care if it's beautiful, a hell or heaven, a prison or a palace, I don't care. After all, people say beauty can be as powerful as death. I'm quite happy you know!

It seemed the old woman was trying to confuse her. Her fingers were goading her with their tantalizing strokes.

Once again she heard the voice of her lover. "Do you remember when you whispered to me the groom's whisper in Kidung Agung? You make my heart throb/ dinda/ my bride/ you make my heart tremble with a wink of an eye/.../ How elating your love is / dinda / my bride / Far more delightful your love is than wine /.../ Pure honey drips from your lips / my bride / honey and milk under your tongue /...

She was in a dream now. Her body floated and she could not recognize her own thoughts. Suddenly she was startled by her own voice, arguing with her lover. "Who is the groom? Who is the bride? I don't see us, you and I. I see a divine intimacy. A beauty that is as powerful as eternity."

Something left her body. This time she had difficulties formulating it, she could only guess. What was it? The taste of wine? Dates? Coconut water? She did not know.

The old woman smiled to herself.

"I have been getting massages since I was a kid, Grandma!" she said by way of small talk. "Whether it was a slight fever, a flu or a cough, usually my mother would summon a masseuse. Sometimes she did it herself. When I was in the scouts, I often gave my friends a rub when they had masuk angin. Nothing more than a rub!"

The old woman laughed heartily. She could see clearly now that the woman was very old. Her thin body, shriveled skin, small eyes and white pupils. But her breath was even and regular, far from breathless. And the old woman must have spent as much energy as she herself had, playing tennis for four hours.

Suddenly astonished, she asked the old woman to take a break and asked her to have lunch with her. But the old woman refused, saying she had another call to make. "There are other people to massage," she said. "I promised yesterday. Such a sad thing, sprained the leg. This man really needs Grandma, he's in real pain."

"Then come once a month, Grandma. The best time is Saturday between 8 a.m. until midday. I really enjoyed your massage. Although I still have this headache and fever, I feel alive!"

"Nak, that's what you call beauty. Make you fell eternal for a fleeting moment. It was not a dream!" The old woman sounded firm and intelligent. Then she left, with her thin fragile body, looking unkempt.

She was startled, silenced, and could not argue the way she usually would.

And the next day, her fever and the pain that had seem to sear her head disappeared. She felt refreshed. Soon she started chattering like a salesgirl, telling her neighbors to summon the old woman when anyone in their family was ill. "If you are not satisfied, I'll pay for you!" she bragged.

Some of her neighbors agreed to give the old woman a try. Especially since she had staked her own money as a guarantee.

"But please, don't pay her peanuts!"

"But she's an old woman. Normally they don't lack money. They usually do it only for a bit of pocket money."

"That's no reason to pay her peanuts. Massaging is like the work of an artist. It requires concentration, strength, sensitivity and care."

"Ugh, you're exaggerating! But all right. I'll pay the going rate, no less, and no more!"

"The most important thing for me is that my husband won't have an excuse to get a massage outside home. He said he goes to a traditional massage parlor or a parlor run by the blind. But I don't believe him! I reckon he's looking for a dream!"

"Don't become suspicious of men, Bu! I'm offended!"

"It's true. I myself prefer to dream alone!"

Everybody laughed heartily.

She said goodbye hurriedly, afraid the conversation would stray onto other topics. Usually, when it did, it was her single status that would be the target. And they would start to matchmake her with someone, as if they were pairing a couple of animals.

That day she had just returned from a trip out of town. She was really tired, and longed for a hot bath, after which she would rub the olive oil all over her body to help her fall asleep instantly. She was supposed to write down her notes, but she decided to do it at dawn. Fortunately she had asked for the old woman to come on Saturday.

She had just finished changing when the bell rang. She was surprised because she had no appointment. Not even her closest friends dared to visit her without prior notice.

From her window she saw some of her neighbors, men and women, gathered in front of her iron gate.

"You really are too much!" they greeted her when she appeared at the door.

"The old woman is really full of herself. You said she was great, but she refused to massage my husband!"

"She smells awful. And she insisted on using cooking oil and red onions. I wanted to use kayu putih to make my body smell good. You know what? She refused. She thinks there's only one kind of oil?"

"Maybe she is a fake. Pretending to insist on using traditional concoctions. Next time think twice before you recommend people to us. I was really annoyed! I was ready, only to be turned down because I wanted to use balsam!"

She tried to remain calm, trying to regain her balance. Annoyance and anger were written in the faces of her neighbors. "It was the same with me," she said, still trying to control her shock. "I asked her to use olive oil because I cannot stand the smell of red onions mixed with cooking oil. She refused. But I thought, maybe she has her own way and beliefs as far as her massage is concerned. Why not let her have her way? She is no novice, you know!"

"Why didn't you tell us she's like that?"

"I forgot. I thought it would not matter. I was only trying to help. It's as simple as that."

Still grumbling, her neighbors finally shuffled off. She was still trying to overcome her shock. She felt like she had just witnessed a demonstration aimed at her. She suddenly realized that the old woman had never had any intention to sell her expertise. Her experience with the old woman was unique, only she had experienced this.

On the Saturday of her appointment with the old masseuse, she started waiting at 8 a.m. While waiting, she busied herself in her garden. She pruned the yellow palm leaves. She shaped the Japanese bamboo trees. She tidied her ferns. She rearranged her pots of kuping gajah, kuping rusa and suplir. She turned the earth.

It was past 10 a.m. but the old woman had not arrived yet. The bell of the ice vendor seemed to be chatting with the bamboo instrument of the baso man. Her neighbors' children welcomed the new day as if they were celebrating a party, as they always did. Running in all directions. Bicycling. Cradling their dolls. Shouting, yelling. Dancing. A world of dreams! she thought, amused, grinning to herself. She started to feel the old masseuse would not come. She must be visiting someone else, she thought. Massaging people who were really in pain. After all, she was not really in pain, she just wanted a massage, didn't she?

She went into her study, lay down on the goat skin rug which still smelled of red onions mixed with cooking oil. The rug had been a birthday gift from her best fried. Her friend who had recommended the old woman to her. Who never tired of telling her to get married.

The smell of the red onions and cooking oil lingered in her nostrils. She did not care. The smell transported her back to her dream. She heard her lover's voice again, the pilgrim who made his home everywhere, asking her to dance. "Come on, dance with me. Let's blur the line between reality and dream. Let the world change, only the dance is true, Dik!"

Just like before, she fell into a trance, confused. Then she repeated what she had said: "I don't see us, you and I. This is like a beautiful dream which comes and goes."

Translated by Adhi I.M.

Note:

Nak = short for anak, meaning kid tikar = plaited pandan leaves used as a rug minyak tawon = a kind of rubbing oil to keep the body warm masuk angin = an Indonesian term when one does not feel well but not really ill dik = short for adik, meaning younger brother or sister, also used as a term of endearment by a man to her lover Kidung Agung = the Psalms dinda = adik bu = short for ibu, mother or an address for older women kayu putih = a kind of rubbing oil to keep the body warm

Rainy MP Hutabarat is a theologian and a staff member of a church foundation. Her short stories have been published in Suara Pembaruan, Kompas dailies as well as Horison magazine.