The tune

The tune

By Dewi Anggraeni

The music started and I moved. I felt unnatural at first, sort
of forced, and the music seemed to play on its own, detached from
the flow of my movements. I was grateful for the anonymity
provided by the yellow silk veil that covered my hair and the
lower part of my face. The music began to gain speed, the drums
leading, and I moved around the room in patterns forming the
number 8.

"Uncover your face now," Kaila, my dance instructor, prompted
from the side, "Good, now yank that veil off your head. That's
the girl. Excellent! Throw it, and don't forget number 8 also
with your torso. Lift your arms, higher! That's the girl!..."

I can't recall whether the drums became so overpoweringly loud
that I could no longer hear Kaila's voice, or she had indeed
stopped prompting. I do recall, however, that I seemed to move
involuntarily, as if under a spell. I threw the first veil to
Kaila. She caught it. I unwound the second veil and let it fall
off my shoulders then wound it loosely around my body. The feel
of gentle silk on my belly, my face and when the chiffon skirt
was drawn open, on my thighs, excited me. When the music ground
to a stop, I gracefully dropped myself on the floor, half lying
on my side. The red silk veil seemed suspended in the air for a
moment, then fell gently, covering my shoulder.

The silence only lasted several seconds, then the studio came
alive with the sounds of clapping hands. Kaila and my fellow
dance pupils kindly applauded. I rose, panting.

"I have no doubts. You will dance solo in our performance
night, Mara."

I looked around me, seeking moral support. "Kaila, I've only
been learning for three months! What about Rachel, she's been..."

"Rachel has performed solo twice in our past productions. Your
turn now. Besides, what's the problem? You're not a tyro. You've
performed Javanese dances. And you're a natural dancer. That I
can see. Don't you agree, girls?"

My fellow dance pupils yelled in agreement.

The following day, as I was walking towards the lecture hall,
Rohan, the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who'd occupied my heart
and mind, rushed up and put his arm round my shoulders. I looked
up to him and smiled, then we entered the lecture hall together.

"They want me to dance solo in next month's performance," I
whispered to Rohan, leaning my cheek on his hand.

Rohan tightened his embrace and kissed me on the hair. "That's
cool, Mara. I'm proud of you."

We sat close to each other, after greeting friends around us.
The psychology lecturer stepped in a little while later.

It was Rohan who suggested that I learn Egyptian dance, better
known here as belly dancing. His stepfather is Egyptian, and
Rohan has always been fascinated by Egyptian culture. While I was
born and brought up in Australia, I still retain Indonesian
culture in my blood.

My mother, Ayu Purbasari, a lecturer in this university also,
came to Melbourne 20 years ago, when she was carrying me. Ayu
never concealed the fact that I was born out of wedlock, but
never revealed who my father was. She said she'd tell me when she
was ready. Occasionally I was overcome with curiosity about my
family tree, but I was aware that it was still very much a sore
point with Ayu. Since my early teens, Ayu had regarded me as her
best friend. We were so close that we often sensed each other's
moods even when apart. When my peers began to show signs of
rebellion against their parents, I felt a little left out. It
never occurred to me to rebel against Ayu. I was intensely aware
of the likelihood of hurting her, and I couldn't see the point in
doing so. I did feel offended once or twice by Ayu's occasional
outbursts, but she never really hurt my feelings. Whenever she
was able, she always tried to give me what I wanted. None of our
friends, however, ever said that I was a spoilt child. And thanks
to Ayu also, I don't remember ever feeling inferior socially for
lack of a father.

During my nineteen years, there were only two men who each
nearly became my stepfather. Both times it was Ayu who refused to
marry. Of course I wanted to know the reason. But I was convinced
that one day Ayu would tell me all about it.

When I met Rohan in a students' function, he stared at me
without blinking, it seemed, for a full minute. Normally when a
boy stared at me like that, I'd feel sick. However with Rohan it
was different. His clear blue eyes intoxicated me. When we
finally struck up a conversation, Rohan confessed that this
attention had been drawn to me because he'd thought I was
Egyptian.

"My father is Egyptian," he said.

I laughed, "Your mother must be very, very fair," I said.

He laughed too. "I mean my stepfather. My own father died when
I was very young. My sister Kendra is darker than I am, but not
as dark as you are, Mara."

After seeing me performing a Javanese dance at a students'
party, Rohan said, "Mara, your movements are so graceful you
remind me of an Egyptian dancer. Why don't you learn Egyptian
dance?"

"Why not?" I replied.

I put on the CD Kaila lent me. But I'd forgotten whether it
was the second or the third number, so I tried the second number
first.

As soon as the music began to fill the room I had goose
pimples. No, I'd never heard it in the class. Not in the class.
But the tune was so familiar. All my nerve ends responded to it.
I wracked my brain trying to recall where I'd heard it. When Ayu
stepped in, she found me on the floor hiding my head between my
knees.

I lifted my head quickly when a warm hand touched the back of
my neck. "Oh, Muumm! You gave me a fright!"

We looked at each other. Ayu's moist eyes momentarily glinted.

"Mum, have I ever heard this tune?" I asked.

Ayu sat beside me, running her fingers through my hair, "Not
as far as I know. Why, darling?"

I found myself unable to describe how I felt. Words just
weren't powerful enough. Seeing me frowning, Ayu took my hand and
held it in hers, saying, "Mara, this tune was often played in
Indonesia when I was young. It is very possible that I've hummed
it once or twice." Her voice was flat. I felt she was hiding
something from me, but I wasn't sure.

"Is there a name to it?"

Ayu was silent for a moment, then replied, "Ya, Moustafa, Ya
Moustafa," while getting up.

"Moustafa, who?"

"That's the name of the song, Ya Moustafa, Ya Moustafa," she
said, spelling the key word.

"Moustafa," I mumbled, "the name rings a bell!"

"Very likely. Moustafa is a common Moslem name, just like John
or Jim in the English speaking world."

"Mum," I said suddenly, "Kaila lent this CD for me to
practice. She actually nominated a different number. But after
hearing that one, I feel I want to dance to that tune. It seems
just right. It seems to have reached my soul. I'm sure my
movements will be more harmonious with the music."

Ayu gazed at me before forcing a smile. "As you please,
sweetheart," she said, walking away towards the kitchen.

At the house Rohan shared with two of his friends, I showed
him my costume. Rohan held it, caressed it, then lifted a flimsy
blue skirt from among it. He then looked at it, seemingly
entranced.

"For goodness' sake Rohan, it's only the costume, not the
dancer!" I said.

"Bring the dancer here!" Rohan roared, hamming the lewd
expression of a nightclub gangster. He threw the skirt aside,
then roughly grabbed my waist. His blue eyes were suddenly
looking straight into mine, and, without warning, he kissed me
lustfully, forcing his tongue into my mouth.

I quickly broke free. Infatuated as I was with Rohan, I was
repelled by the way he treated me. He made me feel cheap. Wiping
my mouth, I took several steps backwards and looked at him,
annoyed.

Rohan realized his mistake and took control of himself. "I'm
sorry Mara. I don't know what came over me. The costume...was so
suggestive. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

That melted my irritation. Seeing him so pale and upset I
rushed to him and held his arms, then leant my head on his chest.
He didn't respond. Feeling awkward, I stepped back again.

The tense atmosphere was still thick when I left. We had been
sitting stiffly away from each other, as if we each suspected the
other of leprosy.

At home, I told Ayu what had happened. She listened
attentively, then looked out the window, deep in thought. When
she turned to look at me again, her face was serious.

"Mara, have you slept with Rohan?" she asked.

"No," I replied truthfully. "But we nearly did, several
times."

"Mara," said Ayu, "You probably think you're old enough for
it. I can't stop you. Even if I tried, if you wanted to do it, I
wouldn't be able to police you around the clock. You have to be
able to look after yourself."

I reached out to hug her. Poor Ayu. She no doubt feared that
what had happened to her would happen to me. "Mum," I said
soothingly. "Don't worry, I know how to look after myself."

"Alright sweetheart. Just don't weaken. The consequences can
be..."

"I know, Mum."

I remembered that when I'd been a small child, Ayu had had a
black sleeveless tight Lurex top. I imagined that if I cut it
short, I'd be able to use it as the top part of my costume. I
went to look for it in her wardrobe. When I didn't find it, I
began to look in the trunks where Ayu kept her old clothes. There
I was lost in the childhood game of dressing up. I tried numerous
clothes, matching this with that. Suddenly my hand touched
something hard. I pulled it out. A rather tattered brown covered
book came away in my hand. I opened it and looked at the first
page of Ayu's old diary.

My heart was beating fast, my hands felt cold and numb.
Swallowing, I began to turn the pages. Some parts were written in
Indonesian and some in English. Guilt almost made me close the
book and return it where I'd found it. But before I did, a
sentence in English caught my attention. I read, and read ...

"After the meeting with Rita I rushed home. At first I wanted
to kill myself. Oh God! Is this your punishment? I still heard
Rita's resigned voice, 'When I found out that Wahyuni was also
carrying his child, I went straight to my doctor to terminate my
pregnancy. I cut myself clean from any trace of him. He did try
to contact me, several times, but I'd made up my mind. Two months
after that I heard that Wahyuni'd committed suicide, she took an
overdose...'"

"How am I going to tell Grandma about me and M, who has had a
string of women victims? No, I can't. Grandma has brought me up
and blown her savings to educate me."

I heard the front door open, then Ayu's steps. I quickly
returned the diary to the bottom of the trunk, threw some old
clothes on it, then closed the trunk silently. Pretending to be
looking for an item of clothing, I answered Ayu's call, "I'm
here, Mum. Where on earth is your red blouse?"

So my father's name started with M. How many Indonesian names
did I know started with M? I didn't have time to dwell on this
thought, because Ayu appeared in the door. "You won't find it
there. I've got it on," she said, talking her jacket off.

During the next few days I was preoccupied with my coming
performance, yet the discovery about my father hovered in and out
of my consciousness.

From the stage I saw Ayu sitting in the front row. Even in
darkness I was able to tell how proud she was of me. After
several rounds I cast a glance again at the audience. In the
third row, a little to the side I saw Rohan, seemingly pleased
and excited. Beside him was a middle-aged man with graying hair.
When I threw my veil at the audience, I intentionally threw it at
Ayu, who caught it with a grin. As I slowly began to move back
towards the center of the stage I saw the face of the middle-aged
man beside Rohan. He craned his neck forward, and his eyes were
glued on Ayu. His expression struck me, oh God, he looked like
someone who had just seen a ghost. The tune of Ya Moustafa seemed
to rise to a deafening pitch. My legs felt weak, but I continued
dancing. I no longer remembered the original choreography, and I
danced driven by pain and emotion. My whole body ached, with each
nerve seeming to be frayed. When the music stopped and the
curtains fell, Kaila had to lift me off the floor. My face was
drenched with tears. I was only faintly aware of Kaila's and the
other girls' praises. I went straight to the changing room. Rohan
was waiting for me with a bouquet of red roses. I ignored his
kiss and pushed him away, asking "Rohan, what's your father's
name? That was him, sitting beside you in the theater?"

"Yes. His name is Moustafa Haquim. Why?"

I lost control. I burst into tears again and nearly shrieked
with emotion. Luckily Ayu walked in. I ran to hug her, unable to
utter a single word. When I lifted my face and turned to look at
Rohan, Moustafa Haquim was standing by him. His face was white,
his eyes red. I turned to Ayu again. Her eyes glazed over, as if
she were no longer there. Her cheeks lost color and her lips
became blue. Suddenly Rohan rushed across and caught her before
she fainted.

I looked intently at my mother's face on the white pillow.
Overcome with affection, I caressed her wavy hair. When she
opened her eyes, she looked happy to see me.

"Are they still here?" asked Ayu. I shook my head.

"Mara. That's him. Moustafa Haquim. I was so angry with him. I
hated him so much I thought I'd be able to forget him in no time.
But in reality, he haunted me all my life, so much so that I
couldn't develop a normal relationship with any other man."

I clasped her hand in mine, then rubbed my cheek on the back
of it. "How do you feel now? Towards him, I mean."

"I don't know. But however I feel towards him has no
consequences with the present situation. I won't come between you
and Rohan."

My eyes felt warm again. "Mum," I said, "The irony is,
according to Moustafa, you were the one he really loved. That was
why he requested a posting in Australia, to find you. When his
government rejected his request, he left the diplomatic corps,
and came to Australia under his own steam. Then when he arrived
here he couldn't gather enough courage to contact you. He hadn't
realized you were pregnant."

Ayu smiled bitterly. "That's all old story, Mara. It's
different now."

I didn't know exactly what she meant. But I didn't want to
disturb her further. As before, I'd wait until she was ready to
explain everything to me.

Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta, Indonesia. She lives in
Melbourne with her husband and two children. She was the
Australian correspondent for the former Tempo magazine, and now
writes for The Jakarta Post, Forum Keadilan, and other
publications in Indonesia and Australia. Combining her skills as
a journalist and novelist, her works have been published in both
languages, in Australia and Indonesia. She has three books
published in Australia: two novels, The Root of All Evil (1987)
and Parallel Forces (1988), and the third, a trilogy of novellas,
Stories of Indian Pacific (1993).