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).