The Mothers' Group (13 page)

Gordon shook his head. ‘
Bules
,' he said, as they continued walking. She stared at him. How did he know that colloquial, slightly derogatory term for Westerners? She certainly hadn't told him.

‘
Bules
not polite,' he said.

She nodded, relieved he thought so too.

After his first stay of one month, Gordon came and went from Pantai Raya every few weeks. She was always disappointed to see him leave and relieved when he returned. She practised her English between his visits and noticed that he, too, had been practising his Indonesian. Their conversations became less staccato, more natural. One morning in July, eight months after they'd first met, Gordon passed her a piece of paper with the words on it:
Umur saya
47 tahun. Made berapa? I am 47 years old. How old are you?

She considered the gap of almost thirty years between them and decided against writing a sentence. Instead, she simply wrote down the numerals:
2-0
.

‘You're twenty?'

She nodded. Then she took up the pen.

Bapak saya berumur 47 tahun juga
, she wrote. But he isn't as white-haired as you, she thought.

He studied the words, checked his dictionary, and then, slowly, penned a translation beneath them.

He laughed aloud. ‘Your father is also forty-seven?'

His fingers flicked over the dictionary's pages, finding more words.

Finally he said, ‘
Saya tua. Rambut saya putih sekali
.'
I am old. My hair
is very white.

She laughed guiltily. Had he read her mind?

His face became serious and he said something in English that she couldn't understand. Then he reached into his back pocket and removed a black leather wallet, producing a dog-eared photograph from one of its compartments. It was a picture of a woman on a beach, holding up a toddler towards the camera. The toddler had the glorious pudginess of most Western babies. The woman was smiling proudly.

Made nodded politely.

‘My wife,' said Gordon, ‘and my daughter.'

She squinted, attempting to maintain a neutral expression as his mouth formed more words. She was only halfway through her cleaning routine, but she had to get away.

‘Made go.' She backed out the door, pulling the trolley behind her.

She heard him call after her, but she didn't look back.

Now that she knew that Gordon had a family, Made didn't want to see him again. She felt foolish. He was old enough to be her father, a Westerner from another world. How had she become so attached to him in a matter of just eight months? They'd shared morning walks, no more than an hour a day together. That was all, she reminded herself. He'd given her no cause to hope. And yet she'd grown accustomed to his presence in her life. She'd looked forward to their conversations, his laughter, his steadying hand as they walked along the beach. When Gordon wasn't in Bali, her life felt empty. But I am just a cleaner, she reminded herself. My destiny is here, at Pantai Raya.

The next time she saw Ketut, she asked if they could swap cleaning zones for the remaining three weeks that Gordon was in Bali.

‘Are you alright?' asked Ketut. She knew Made too well.

‘I've been very stupid.'

‘How stupid?'

Made shook her head. ‘Not
that
stupid.' She knew the kind of trouble Ketut might have in mind. ‘But I'm . . . interested in someone I can't have.'

Ketut lowered her voice. ‘A guest?'

Made nodded.

‘A
bule
?'

Made nodded again.

‘That
is
stupid. They'll fire you for that, you know. Let's swap tomorrow.'

Ketut's cleaning route took Made to the opposite end of the resort, closer to the nightclub and restaurant areas. The guests here were younger and rowdier, leaving their rooms in disorder. Thirty minutes per cottage was a challenge, but at least it kept her mind off Gordon.

She didn't return to the beach in the mornings. Instead, she asked Ketut to take the offering to the banyan tree.

It wasn't the same.

One week later, she was sweeping the patio of Cottage 39, focusing on the rhythmic sound of straw on concrete, when a familiar voice called out to her.

‘Made.'

She turned to see Gordon standing on the pebbled pathway beyond the hedge. The sun was setting behind him.

‘Made,' he repeated. ‘May I speak with you?'

She gestured towards a bamboo pavilion beneath a palm tree, glancing about self-consciously. She hoped Ibu Margono wasn't conducting one of her spot-checks nearby.

Gordon touched her forearm and she flinched.

‘
Made yang manis
. . .' he began.
Sweet Made.

She blushed.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and began to read aloud.

‘
Saya minta ma'af karena mengejutkan Made minggu yang lalu.
'

I'm sorry I startled you last week.

She refused to meet his gaze. He continued reading.

‘
Isteri dan anak perempuan saya mati dalam kecelakaan. Sudah lama
kecelakaan itu. Saya masih membawa foto mereka dalam dompet saya
.'

She searched his face.

My wife is dead. So is my daughter. It was a terrible accident, a long time
ago. I still carry a photograph of them in my wallet
.

His eyes glistened.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. She cupped her hands around his, brown on white.

They sat in the pavilion, their hands entwined, until darkness closed in around them.

A fortnight later, Gordon asked Made to marry him. The moment had a dreamlike quality to it. One moment she was cleaning the wash basin, the next she was out on the patio, watching him unfurl an enormous sheet of drafting paper inscribed with the words: ‘
Nikahlah aku, Made
.'

Marry me, Made.

He caught her hands in his and murmured, ‘I love you.'

She looked into his face and thought of her family. Her hard-working mother. Her intelligent sister. Her dead brother. Her dispirited father. Her dear grandmother. It was as if they were all standing alongside her, observing this moment. She didn't feel for Gordon the kind of topsy-turvy flutterings she'd felt when walking past Kadek in the village, but eight months had shown her that Gordon was kind, honest and hard-working. Kadek was handsome, but his prospects were limited to the one-acre patch behind his family's compound. Gordon, she knew, offered much more.

‘
Gordon perlu minta izin bapakku dulu
.'
You must ask my father first
.

Gordon nodded. ‘When?'

‘
Besok
.'

Tomorrow was Tuesday, her day off. They could travel to the village together.

The presence of a
bule
prompted half the village to find a reason to drop by. In the end, her sister Komang was assigned the task of standing at the compound's gate, turning them away.

‘He has important business with my father,' explained Komang, not untruthfully. ‘Please come back later.'

They sat on the tiles of the central pavilion, looking at each other. Her mother served glasses of hot tea, trembling as she did. She'd never met a Westerner before. Her father squatted on his heels, sizing up Gordon through columns of smoke exhaled through his nostrils. After Gordon had drunk half his tea, her father leaned over and offered him a cigarette.

‘No, thank you,' Gordon said, waving it away with his left hand.

Made could see that her father was offended.

‘
Orang asing tidak merokok
,' Made explained.
Foreigners don't smoke.

Her father grunted. ‘What's this visit about, then?'

Made nodded at Gordon, just as they'd agreed. It was time.

‘Mr Putu,' said Gordon, his expression serious, ‘I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage.'

Her father's eyes narrowed. Her mother looked from one to the other.

‘
Bilang apa, dia?
' asked her father.
What did he say?

‘He asked your permission to marry me,' Made replied.

Her mother's hands flew to her mouth. Her father's eyes widened in surprise. Made knew from the telltale rustle of her sarong that Komang was listening around the corner in the cooking area.

Slowly, her father began to smile.

It was her mother who spoke first. ‘You don't have to do this, Made.'

Made glanced at Gordon, relieved that he couldn't understand.

‘He's not forcing me to,' she replied.

Her mother looked unconvinced.

‘But he is an old man,' she said. ‘
Look
at him. You would do better to choose someone closer to your age.'

‘Better?' snapped her father. ‘You think it's better for Made to marry Kadek from up the road, just because he's young? No, that is not better.'

Her father dragged on the end of his cigarette, then flicked it out into the yard. ‘I think Made is showing great wisdom with this choice. Indeed she is.'

Made shifted on her cushion. Her father's tone made her uneasy.

Gordon turned to her. ‘Is everything alright?'

‘You tell him that I grant my permission for him to marry you,' said her father. His lips curled into a fixed smile. ‘But you tell him also, it will be a great sadness for us to lose our eldest child. He will want to take you away to his country, no? I hope he is prepared to . . . compensate us for our loss.'

Made swallowed. She didn't know how to translate his words into English, and she didn't want to.

‘Well?' her father demanded. ‘Tell him.'

Her mother stood up and began collecting glasses. Then she stopped, walked over to Gordon and sank to her knees in front of him.

‘You tell him,' she said, looking up into Gordon's face, ‘my only wish is for my daughter's happiness.' She glared at her husband, then rose to her feet and stepped into the yard.

Made turned to Gordon, who was looking from one to another.

‘Mother say, she happy if Made happy.' She hesitated, struggling to find the right words in English. ‘But father say . . . you take Made to Australia, family have the money problem.'

Gordon looked thoughtful. He nodded at her father.

‘We'll return to Bali regularly,' he said, glancing around the compound. ‘And we can help your family with money. I will make sure that we do. Please thank your father.'

Made smiled at him, relieved.

She turned to her father. ‘Gordon thanks you for your permission, and promises to help our family by sending money from Australia.'

Marrying a
bule
seemed to open bureaucratic doors far more easily than if Gordon had been Indonesian. With the help of an immigration lawyer, a stern Javanese man named Jono Sugianto, the whole thing was arranged in less than three weeks. At their first meeting in his stuffy, windowless office in Denpasar, Jono described the raft of documentation required to legitimise their marriage.

‘You'll both need to lodge a Notice of Intention to Marry with the Civil Registry Office in Sanur,' he said, twirling his pen between thumb and forefinger. ‘Then for you, sir, a Letter of No Impediment signed by an Australian consular official and a Certificate of Police Registration.' Jono turned to Made. ‘As for you, we need a Letter of No Prior Marriage signed by the head of your village and . . .' He coughed discreetly. ‘I assume you're under the age of twenty-one?'

‘I'm twenty-one next month,' she said.

‘Then you'll still need a Letter of Parental Consent signed by your father.'

Made was baffled by the terminology, but impressed by Jono's capacity to switch seamlessly between Indonesian and English.

‘I can arrange it all, of course, for an appropriate fee,' Jono added. He mopped his brow with a starched white handkerchief.

Gordon leaned forward. ‘Yes, I wondered about the cost.'

Jono batted the air as if swatting a mosquito. ‘No, no. We can discuss that later. First, according to the law, marriage in Indonesia is legitimate only if it has been performed according to the laws of the respective religious beliefs of the parties concerned.'

Made waited for an explanation.

Jono looked at them. ‘You two will have to make a decision now about who's going to convert. Will you become a Christian, Made, or will Gordon become a Hindu?'

Made frowned. She hadn't considered matters of religion. As Jono translated his words into English for Gordon, she stared at her hands. She had no idea of Gordon's religious beliefs, but she was quite sure of one thing: he wasn't a Hindu.

Gordon sat back in his chair, digesting Jono's words.

Eventually, he leaned forward. ‘Well,' he said, ‘that's easy. I'll become a Hindu.' He turned to Made. ‘I know how important your religion is to you, but I'm an agnostic.'

Made hadn't heard of that religion before.

‘It means he's undecided,' Jono explained. ‘He doesn't have a religion, so he'll convert to yours.'

In Indonesia, this was practically unheard of.
Everyone
had a religion.

She turned to Gordon. ‘Why you have no god?'

Gordon sat silent for a moment. ‘When my wife died, I stopped believing in God.' He shrugged. ‘Life is too unfair. I can't pretend to believe, Made.'

She nodded, remembering the long days she had spent at the village temple during Wayan's illness, praying for his recovery. All to no avail.

‘You be Hindu now?' she asked, under no illusion that his conversion was anything but nominal.

Gordon smiled. ‘A Hindu for you, and for the Civil Registry Office.'

His lack of belief troubled her. She wanted to take his hand and tell him that faith in God wasn't baseless, that life wasn't random. That amid all the suffering and pain of life, every being that crept, crawled and strode across the earth actually sang its praises to the Creator.