My Name is Bimbi

By Martin Aleida

When I was still a young girl I thought I was the happiest of all children left orphaned by their fathers. I was adopted by my uncle, who devoted considerable attention to me. Too much. So great was the attention given to me that I often asked myself whether I was really an ordinary girl.

When I was at the peak of my growth, I felt a change in his attitude. He was very mindful of the way I dressed. Although I had never worn a dress cut above my knees, every time I wanted to have a dress made, he always reminded me that it should not arouse men's sexual desires. My blouse had to have sleeves that could hide my elbows. In fact, my friends often told me that my shoulders bordering my upper arms were attractive if I left them uncovered.

Every day, before I left the house to take my lectures, my uncle always told me not to accept anybody's favor.

"Never, not even once," he admonished.

I knew why he advised me so. Uncle knew that many men driving automobiles -- perhaps they were just drivers -- often invited girls into their car. If this offer was accepted, there would be a chance for an indecent act and the girl would be degraded. That was my uncle's conviction.

Uncle's firm decision never to be indebted to anyone was not just concerned with matters in our daily lives. He often expanded this conviction to include nations. He always said that Japan had become a strong nation because of their strong self-confidence. They would never be indebted to anybody. He said it was very difficult to entertain the Japanese unless they knew that they could repay their indebtedness some day.

"Indebtedness can never be completely repaid. There is always part of your indebtedness that will remain with you till you leave this world. Remember, that is not our goal in life," so Uncle usually told me. "Obviously life is not something easy."

Sometimes I thought that Uncle was too strict. Just imagine this: when I had almost completed my lectures I became acquainted with a man who is now my husband; the principle of never being indebted to anyone or never accepting anyone's favor remained the key words in our relationship.

"He held my hand and kissed the tips of my fingers. I did likewise to show equal love for him. No less and no more. I did not want him to think that my love for him was greater than his for me. If I may not be indebted, why must I make him feel committed to what I have given, Uncle," I said.

So, that was that. Our relationship was really open and I never hesitated to tell Uncle what happened between me and my lover. He seemed satisfied that I well remembered his advice. No matter how carried away I was with love, I never failed to remember his advice not to receive anybody's favor.

Uncle liked to give his advice at the dining table while eating. Sometimes his advice was repeated, expressed in a subtle new way or with the addition of some fresh expressions. I knew that when we were at the table it would be difficult for me to disagree with him. I did not have the heart to express opposite ideas. After all, Uncle had raised me, hadn't he? He not only fed me more than that which my siblings received from their adopted fathers but also provided me with sufficient education, perhaps more than enough for me.

"Has money ever been involved in your relationship with your boyfriend?" he asked, resting his spoon on the edge of his plate.

Returning his gaze, I thought for a moment before replying. "No. We have made a pledge. Never. Except later, when we get married. When we are husband and wife."

"Good," he said. The corners of his mouth raised a little and his eyes reflected a happiness he tried to hide but couldn't.

Lowering my head and raising the spoon to my mouth, I saw him squinting at me from across the table. Just like someone awaking from a long dream.

"I am a confirmed bachelor," Uncle said. "I will be like this till the end of my life. No one has ever stolen my heart. But that is not the reason why I always refuse a favor. You can be like me if you want. You have started with your lover. Try to persist in not receiving favors from anyone, not even from your lover. If he holds and touches you, you must do likewise to him in equal amount of warmth and intimacy. His deep kiss must be returned with yours. It must be like this until both of you are really independent. Free. A free attitude is very important, particularly when you stand before a drawing table. Just like an engineer," he said, looking deeply into my eyes.

To other people, this advice might have been considered as interference with their most personal affairs. No father would do so to his daughter. A taboo. Yet, I myself did not feel disturbed because I thought that he had guided me to grow into a woman, although not a perfect one. The most important thing was that I could be independent. I got used to Uncle's open attitude and I was proud of having been raised in a manner that other people might consider odd.

I thought that because of the education I had received from him I could easily give up my reliance upon him after I got married. However, honestly speaking, I found it difficult to part with him and leave him to live alone in Bogor.

After our wedding, my husband and I rented a pavilion. Luckily, I got a job with a consulting firm in Jakarta. My husband was less lucky, though. He got a job as supervisor on a port expansion project in Merak, where he rented a small house. We shared equally the trouble caused by living in separate places. One week my husband drove to Jakarta and stayed for two nights. The next week, on a Friday after office hours, I drove alone to Merak and stayed there two nights.

When it was my turn to visit my husband, I found the journey was a relief from the bustling sounds of Jakarta. Alone, driving a car, going along the toll road, the sun seemingly like a giant red marble slowly descending to meet the dark blue horizon, far, far ahead. Usually I stopped the car and parked it at the side of the road in order to observe the giant fiery ball, perched a millionth of a second above the horizon. My fatigue from the day's work always disappeared with the sight of that wonderful panorama.

Unfortunately, one Friday turned out to be an awful day. When I entered Kramatwatu, it began to rain and suddenly, I had difficulty steering. The steering wheel felt like it was being torn from my grip and the sharp smell of burnt rubber assailed my nostrils. Alarmed, I steered the car slowly to the side of the road and stopped. I opened the door and stepped into the rain. Drenched from the downpour, I found the right front rim resting directly on the asphalt.

I hurriedly entered the car again and sat down, thinking hard about what to do. I knew where the spare wheel was; it was hanging beneath the car. But, I did not know how to remove it. The problem was that I had never experienced this kind of bad luck.

I finally located the lever and the crank. Braving the rain, I left the car, carrying these heavy instruments. I placed the lever in position and attempted to remove the spare wheel. I could not get it off. After several desperate tries, I carried both the instruments back into the car.

Slumping onto the seat, I began to find fault with myself. Had I had prepared myself better for this kind of trouble, I should be able to get over it easily. I enjoy driving and should have been better prepared. My husband always admired the fact that I found pleasure from driving because it was something he hated very much. You see, my husband has a strange feeling about driving. He feels sinful when he drives a car. Driving a car, he said, means holding the environment in contempt because while driving we intentionally spread poison to pedestrians and cyclists.

When we bought our car, he could not hide his admiration when he saw me washing it. He was surprised that a woman -- me -- would like to do something like washing a car, a job he thought did not suit a woman. Therefore, he said, he loved me all the more because I liked washing a car.

Suddenly I saw from the rearview mirror a BMW sedan pull up behind my car. The emergency lights were on. The driver turned on the beam and the small light in turn. I became worried and my heart beat unusually hard. My worry turned to fear.

I heard the horn sound several times, but did not turn. I sat motionless in my seat.

After several minutes, a man wearing a tie left his car and hurriedly approached my car. He knocked at the window, exactly by my side.

Overwhelmed by fear, I couldn't move. I didn't dare even a glance. He put his mouth close to the gap in the window and said, "Open the door and give me the lever and the crank!"

I kept quiet. His sunglasses gave the impression that he was a man fond of flirting with women and smart enough to make use of any situation.

As I continued looking ahead, he left the window and went to the front of the car. He gestured to me that I should open the door. I remained quiet and still. My mind was clear. I resolved to refuse the offer of this man, someone unknown to me.

Drenched from the rain, the man again came close to the window.

"Bimbi ... Open the door. I'll help you!" he said, half shouting.

I was surprised when I heard him call my name. I closed my ears tightly with a towel. How could he know my name? I thought he must have observed the plate number of my car, B 313 BI. He must be a very observant person, and also one who could easily be attracted by a woman at first sight. I became suspicious and felt repelled. I lowered my head. I closed my ears and shut my eyes. I tried to detach myself from the outside world, the downpour and the man insisting to offer his favor to me. Did he really only want to help me or was he playing a trick to do me harm?

I heard the man knock once more at the glass. Then, I heard only the rain. From the corner of my eye I saw him leave from my car. I was relieved when I saw in the rearview mirror that he had returned to his car.

Unfortunately, I was really unlucky that day. Several minutes later I saw him leave his car and approach my car carrying a lever and crank. He disappeared from view, then I heard the sound of iron clanking beneath the car. A few minutes later he appeared, slowly rolling the spare wheel. He passed close to the window beside me then disappeared from view once again.

Clearly this man, wearing a tie and wet through and through, was resolved to replace my wheel without permission. A favor I could never accept. Therefore, I considered what he was doing to be a crime in another form, something which would only fetter me. What could I tell Uncle? I seemed to have allowed a stranger to trample upon his principle that we should not accept anybody's favor. Sorry, but I could not fight this, Uncle. Had I tried to put up a fight, he could have hurt me with one of the tools.

I could not stop this insult, which was hidden behind a favor. When I could not bear the situation any longer, I burst out crying with my fist in my mouth. Still sobbing, I was startled to feel the body of the car begin to lift. Then again, the sound of clashing iron. The car rocked a little from his effort to turn the bolts.

The head of the man appeared again. He rolled the wheel with the flat past the front of the car, passing close to the window. I heard him place the good wheel on the side of the car. So, his favor was almost complete. When he had finished putting the wheel back into its place, he got into his car and drove slowly away into the rain.

I was alone at the side of the road, still sobbing. I blamed myself for being raped because of allowing the man to do me a favor.

Arriving in Merak, I telephone my aunt, who worked at the traffic police division in Jakarta. I asked her to check the address of the owner of the BMW. After a discussion with my husband, we had agreed that I had to look for this man and repay him for what he had done to me at a rate higher that the prevailing market rate. If he was a professional, the time he spent and his self respect, which was somewhat degraded when replacing my flat tire in a downpour, would be paid in excess of any agreement we might reach.

The next day I returned to Jakarta to look for the owner of the BMW. Well, it was quite a bother indeed. The car had changed hands several times. Finally I came to the house of the last owner, the man who had, in a forceful manner, given me his favor on the toll rod in Kramatwatu.

A housemaid opened the door for me. She must have known from the way I looked that it was urgent for me to see her boss.

"Mister does not want to be disturbed. He is resting."

"Sorry, it is very important. It is about his car in Serang," I said, persuading her and giving her my visiting card.

She went in. A few minutes later she returned and invited me in. I was almost overwhelmed with worry when she led me to a bedroom, instead of asking me to wait in the sitting room. I stood at the door, alert. I search the room with my eyes. Below the window, a man was lying on a bed.

"Come in, Bim," he said, almost inaudibly. "Come here, my beloved child ...."

Unconsciously, I clenched my fist and rushed to the side of the bed.

"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Uncle," I shouted, my chest heaving as I tried hard to contain my sobbing. "I really did not know that you were the man," I said, still sobbing and clasping his hand tightly. His hand was very hot. Uncle had a high temperature.

"You have been virtuous. Nothing to feel sorry for. You have followed my advice. You are very kind. How's your husband?"

"Safe and sound. He sends his greetings.

I held and stroked his hand, stroked his neck and listened to the words that came haltingly from the gap between his lips. He had moved from Bogor to Rawamangun in Jakarta for three months to make it easy for him to supervise construction of a road on a plantation in Lampung.

"Why didn't you let us know that you had moved from Bogor?", I asked softly, then added, "Oh, no. You are not wrong, Uncle. I regret Uncle ... Sorry."

I stood and watched him in repose, his face revealing his difficulty bearing the temperature, which had risen as he was emotionally moved. I bowed my head and kissed his broad brow. I touched the mole hanging below his right eye. It was a birth mark which showed that his life was unlucky. That's why, he said, when he was small, his mother always wanted to remove the mole. Instead of disappearing, his birth mark had become bigger. I brought my face close to his. I kissed his eye, exactly at the mole. This birth mark showed me how handsome Uncle was when he was young.

"Sorry, Uncle ..."

He did not reply. His hands shook. His left cheek was sort of being pulled up. It seemed as if he wanted to say something but was too weak to do so. His face became bluish pale. His eyes shut slowly and his brow turned cold.

I did not know what to do. I could only mumble and fight hard not to sob, calling, " Uncle ...."

He was quiet, motionless on his bed.

-- Translated by Lie Hua