The Photo

The Photo

By William Chen

One morning in 1975, I went to see the Le Mayeur museum in
Sanur, Bali. It was still early. The museum had just opened its
doors to the public. I walked into a quiet empty courtyard. A
lone gardener was piling up dead leaves and fallen Cempaka
flowers into small heaps. Many tall Cempaka and some withering
Bougainvillea trees were still growing on the site where a gazebo
had once stood.

Its foundations were all what was left standing on the spot
near the wall which separated the museum from the public beach. I
climbed up the crumbling foundations which were about a meter
high above the ground. A good spot to watch the white waves
colliding gently against the coral reef off the shore. It was a
pensive moment, I stood there alone realizing that a great love
story was once spun out on this very spot between La Mayeur and a
young beautiful Balinese dancer, Ni Polok.

Later, I went on to explore other parts of the museum.
Unknowingly, I entered a tiny study room through a narrow but
nicely carved wooden door. It was dim and stuffy inside; dark
colored carvings decorating the place made it even dimmer.

But something caught my eyes. A framed photo placed on the
bookshelf near a small window; the light from outside showed
clearly a half-naked woman. I was immediately captivated by her.
I moved closer and gazed at her sensual face and her beautiful
body with smooth shoulders and lovely long arms.

But I couldn't keep my eyes off her alluring bare breasts in
front of me. It was intriguingly seductive alone with a half
naked woman in a darkened room. I couldn't suppress my urge; my
fingers reached out to the photo and I touched her lightly.

A strange tingling feeling coursed through my body, as if I
had caressed her tender nape and fondled her breasts. I don't
know for how long I stood motionlessly in front of that woman,
letting my wondering mind drift into the old romantic world of Ni
Polok.

It was the chattering sound of some women outside the window
that finally disrupted and jolted me from my semi-trance, leaving
a slight dizziness in my head. But the morning sun and the fresh
sea breeze soon revitalized me.

As I was resting on the steps of a building, I saw a woman
walking toward me. At first, she looked familiar so I waited for
her to come closer, but the closer she came, the more uncertain I
became. She appeared so much older and thinner than the last time
I saw her.

Her thin gaunt face was almost expressionless. Her tired
looking eyes refused to look at me as she moved slowly and
stiffly, her bony shoulders and thin arms particularly
noticeable.

I nearly suffocated on seeing her flattened sagging breasts
hidden timidly under her shabby-looking clothes as she walked
past in front of me. I was so stunned by her sad and pitiful
appearance. I cried in my heart for her.

Perhaps, the intoxicating fragrance of cempaka flowers
affected me. I felt again some drowsiness but I made an effort to
get up and run after her. I asked gently if I could take a photo
of her for my own memories.

When I aimed the camera at her and looked through the
viewfinder, strangely, I saw the old sad looking woman's fuzzy
image start to fade away. In its place, a vibrant young beautiful
woman danced into view accompanied by a deafening cacophony of
Gamelan music.

Her fluid, graceful, and sweeping movements circled the moon-
lit small stage surrounded by tall cempaka and bougainvillea
trees. The flickering flames of the bamboo torches planted in the
darkness cast a magical spell over me.

I was hypnotized and transfixed by her swaying body and
quivering shoulders. Her lovely long arms were raised high above
her head with her slender fingers twisting in the warm night air.

Then without warning the gamelan music came to a sudden stop;
silence fell upon the stage. The dancer paused. I seized that
rare moment to catch the profile of her sensual face with a faint
touch of arrogance from the corner of her sparkling eyes. I saw
her pale shoulders partly covered by her thick black long hair,
and her firm breasts heaving softly under her colorful costume.
In a twinkle of an eye, she disappeared into the darkness.

Some years later, the sad news of her death reached me. I knew
that she had finally lost her fierce battle against her cruel,
mean, unforgiving and merciless enemy; the passage of time. Since
then I have not been back to that museum, but her sweet and
sorrowful impressions return to me again and again. Indeed, that
photo of her on that bookshelf still haunts me to this day.