Moon over Legian Beach

Moon over Legian Beach

By Bre Redana

The moon was perched over the ocean at Legian beach as I took
Maggie behind the stand of bushes at the back of the Gado-Gado
discotheque.

"Hold me, darling" she pleaded.

I did more than embrace her and she groaned with my touch. She
hadn't changed.

"Come on," she moaned. "Do you want to or not?"

Her half-demanding, half-begging tone was a sign of special
intimacy for me to hear. Time seemed to stop turning.

The wind off the Balinese coast pushed its way through our
entwined bodies, causing me to shiver. In the radiant reflection
of the moon -- or maybe it was the reflection in my eyes --
Maggie seemed completely unchanged. Her breathing was rapid as
she nipped her fingers with her lips.

I wondered if I were dreaming. Earlier, in the discotheque, I
had closed and opened my eyes repeatedly, trying to figure out if
the woman on the tightly crowded floor was Maggie.

"Another Beefeaters?" the friendly waitress asked. Looking at
my almost empty glass and pack of Mild Seven cigarettes on the
bartop suddenly gave me a start. Yes, that was my drink of choice
and that was the brand of cigarettes always found in my pocket:
both were a legacy of Maggie, two things I had found myself
unable to discard.

"Why don't you change your brand of cigarettes to mine?" she
had suggested one time, when we were still together. "That way,
whenever you have them with you, you'll think of me. It will keep
your eyes from wandering."

"Even if I don't smoke I'm still going to think of you," was
my retort. Her pampered ways were always on my mind. Ever since
breaking up, I'd frequently find myself sadly sipping Maggie's
drink of choice.

My sole reason for even coming to the disco was to seek the
kind of feeling I had once experienced when I was together with
her. A bittersweet pastime.

"A normal life ..." I laughed to myself when recalling the
words that we once had spoken. It was because we wanted a normal
life that we had broken up. But to completely remove from my mind
the fond memories we had shared was, it seems, not as easily done
as removing the memory from a computer -- with a simple punch of
the delete button, having it vanish entirely.

Oddly enough, it was precisely the things that once annoyed
me, even the most rankling of our shared experiences, that were
slipping from memory. And in a most gradual and surreptitious
fashion, Maggie was reemerging as if in a confectionery dream. I
yearned silently for her to return. At times, she seemed so real
in my dreams that she might have been standing beside me. I
longed to stroke her shoulder-length reddish-tinted hair and
whisper softly into her ear. "Oh, my love..."

And don't I feel foolish forever running after women I think
are Maggie -- in a hotel, at a movie theater, in a store or on
the street -- only to discover that the woman I'm pursuing is not
Maggie at all, that she bears not the least resemblance to her. I
know how foolish it is but at the same time I also know that my
actions represents the true hope in my heart.

But that night I wasn't mistaken. The woman on the dance floor
was Maggie. Even through the darkness and the flashing disco
lights, I could see the beads of sweat on her brow and the mole
near her right thumb.

I watched her from my seat at the bar. Occasionally, she'd
throw in my direction what seemed to be a held-in smile, the same
kind of smile she used to give me when finding me unconsciously
staring at her, studying the small mole above her upper lip, the
shape of her nose and cheeks or the fine strands of hair behind
her ears. When catching me do this, she'd immediately look into
my eyes and smile, and then rest her head on my shoulder or
chest.

"Oh, Maggie..." I clicked my tongue unable to believe my own
eyes. Even the song that was being played at that moment was "her
song", "our song".

I remember her telling me once, "You know, darling, this song
is actually an old one. You were probably just a kid the first
time it came out, or maybe not even born."

Maggie was 12 years older than I, and the difference in our
ages held for me its own special attraction. I could only shake
my head in amazement when she'd tell me about her experiences as
a teenager. I was amazed by and, at the same time, jealous of
time and history. Suppose that I had been born earlier, I could
have shared in that period of her life as well. She would have
been my one and only, both then and now. And she would not be
with her current spouse, an old man with a high government
position. Perhaps with me she would have had children.

She would sometimes cry when we embraced. "I really love
children...." she'd start to say, but then let her statement
taper off without a conclusion.

And I would look back at her, confused by her tears as she hid
her face inside my arms. "Hold me. Just hold me, darling..."
she'd sadly plead.

I'd try to console her. "You are my one and only," but that
would make her cry even more, which prevented me from trying to
say anything more and her, too, for that matter. We'd tighten our
embrace, holding each other as if never to let go. And as the
warmth of our bodies spread through us, her fingers would begin
their work. And soon afterwards the sadness would disappear and
be forgotten.

"This isn't boring you, is it, our relationship?" she asked me
once.

When I sighed deeply before attempting to answer her question,
she suddenly broke into tears and turned her back toward me.
Whenever she started to cry like that I would have given anything
to be able to make her calm down.

But "I love you," is about all that I could say. And this, at
times, just seemed to make the situation worse. She'd struggle
and tear herself from my embrace. "No! You don't love me at all,"
she'd scream.

So then I'd yell and threaten her, "Calm down or I'm going to
choke you!" But then I'd say "I love you, darling, I love you.
Now be quiet and come to me..." Only then might she calm down and
her eyes begin to glisten with happiness instead of tears.

Sometimes I laugh when remembering such things. She was always
so suspicious of me. But that was Maggie. I wouldn't be doing
anything; I'd just be sitting there quietly and by myself and
suddenly she'd accuse me of not loving her anymore. She'd go
berserk. If I insisted that I loved her it would send her into an
even greater rage. She'd accuse me of lying. God, it was so
annoying. To myself I called her an emotional terrorist. What a
mess we were!

"I'm pregnant," she told me once. Now that, I thought, was a
major annoyance. But she cried and then got all offended at my
suggestion that she have an abortion.

"You're completely irresponsible," she screamed at me.

That hurt a lot. I didn't think she was being fair at all.
"What do you mean, 'irresponsible'?" I asked. "You're the one who
wants to keep our relationship a secret. So you tell me how I'm
supposed to act responsibly," I demanded.

"Stop being so rational." she mumbled through her tears.
"And what's wrong with being rational?" I felt chagrined. What,
wasn't I permitted to think? How very typical for a woman, I
thought.

"You don't understand women..."

Was she right? Didn't I understand women? I would embrace her
and stroke her hair while she sobbed. We'd start to kiss.

"I love you..." she'd say.

I wanted to laugh out loud when hearing that. I mean, did
being in love mean acting so stupid and foolish? And then, as it
turned out, she wasn't pregnant after all. Her period was merely
late.

"Probably stress," as she explained offhand. "I'm stressed
because of you."

"Well I'm stressed because of you, because of this
relationship," I told her seriously.

"Then maybe we should split," she suggested.

"Maybe so, maybe we should just act normal. You, me, the both
of us. I'm tired of this."

"Well, I'm tired, too." she said, as if mocking me. "Don't you
ever think I get tired? Okay then," she announced, "from now on
we'll just act normal,"

As the Los Lobos song We Belong Together came to an end, I
suddenly came back to my senses. The song's pounding rhythm had
ceased and there was Maggie, walking away, off the dance floor,
with her midi dress swaying as she moved. I wondered if it was
the one we had purchased together in Hong Kong. Shopping ... that
was one of her hobbies. I stood up and rushed after her as she
made her way to a seat in the corner of the room.

Suddenly I was standing before her.

"Darling..." The word glided off my lips.

"Oh, darling!" she screamed as she jumped from her chair and
threw her arms tightly around me. I felt like I was holding a
dream that had once vanished. I wanted to hold her so tightly
that the dream would never disappear again. We kissed as if we
never wanted to part.

And back behind the bushes just now, with our bodies
glistening with perspiration and our clothes in a mess, after our
breathing had begun to return to normal, we asked about each
other's news.

"I'm living here now. I moved here with my husband almost two
years ago," she said.

"And you?" she asked.

"Me? I'm fine," I answered without giving it thought.

She smiled at me. "I mean, do you have a girlfriend or are you
married?" The smile remained on her lips as she asked that
question. I knew well the nuances of her smile, and this one was
sincere.

"I'm married," I said with a laugh.

She laughed too. "So, you're leading a normal life?"

We both laughed together.

"Darling, you are committing adultery," Maggie teased.

"Yeah, adultery part two," I joked.

She bit my shoulder. I held her again, reluctant to let go.
The wind off the shore was rustling the leaves on the bushes. She
begged to be held tightly once more.

"Come on, darling," she groaned. Yes, this was her sign.

The moon was still perched over the ocean. Legian Beach was
bathed in silver light. Time seemed to have stopped turning.

Maybe I wouldn't go back to Jakarta tomorrow after all.

-- Translated by Jennifer Lynne Kesseler

The story is taken from Menagerie 4, printed here courtesy of
the Lontar Foundation.