Under Your Wings, page 8
It was the sincerity of her alarm that made it all the more terrible. And though she hastily moved on to another subject, she must have still been feeling repentant when dinner was over because, before retiring upstairs, she said to us by way of goodnight, ‘Have fun in LA, okay? Splurge.’ As if we’d ever been encouraged to do otherwise.
Ba’s usual after-dinner custom was to beat a hasty retreat to his wine cellar, but tonight he lingered long enough to give us limp hugs.
‘Your mother means well,’ he said, voice trailing away, taking its leave in advance of its owner.
His words were hardly consoling. And despite Estella’s attempts to inject our mission with fresh enthusiasm, the horror caused by that exchange with our mother had followed us onto the plane and was crossing the Pacific with us.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ muttered Estella, looking out the window again. ‘To hear Ma talk, you’d think that nothing was ever wrong. That Leonard and I were . . . happy, or something. That everything was fine up until the day he died.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But then again, what should we expect? Isn’t this how the family deals with everything? We’re so good at hiding the bad stuff, we manage to fool ourselves.’ I meant this last sentence as a joke, but there was too much truth in it.
‘We have to find Tante Sandra,’ Estella declared. And I detected a new note in her voice – a combination of resolve and fatigue. She spoke in the same way someone stranded in the desert might about getting out alive: urging herself to succeed despite being weakened already by thirst and heat and the grinning spectre of death.
Silence again. Then, out of nowhere, those words. Hysterical, I would have called them if they hadn’t been uttered in such a soft voice: ‘God, we’re so screwed up, Doll. How did we ever get this way?’
Binge-watching movies dulled our sorrows. Estella dozed off, as did I. We slept through breakfast, as we’d told the flight attendants to let us do, and woke to gentle voices informing us we would be landing soon.
The sun was an angry welt on the horizon when the plane touched down. Nevertheless, our hearts leapt, responding as if it were a sunrise, though we knew it was actually evening and that soon it would be dark. By my newly adjusted watch it was a quarter to five. Outside, the stocky silhouettes of airport workers lumbered around on the tarmac.
It took over an hour for us to get through immigration. And by the time the porter had collected our bags and we stepped outside, it was so dark that it might as well have been the dead of night.
‘I like cold weather,’ Estella remarked with a yawn as we rode the shuttle bus to the car rental lot. She flexed her neck from side to side and adjusted the fur-trimmed collar of her down vest.
‘You do realise that when we were at Berkeley, all you did was complain about the cold.’
‘Northern California is too chilly. Southern California is just right.’
How long had it been since we’d last talked about our college days? They seemed so irrelevant now, so far away and fantastic, that they simply never came up any more. But we were in America again. And whenever I landed on American soil, I felt it, whatever ‘it’ was – the ‘it’ that made me feel like I’d been released from one of those flesh-tinted girdles that fat women wore. My stomach, lungs and heart reinflated. A breeze ran through my ribs, making them tingle and flutter. I felt vulnerable, but also inexplicably hopeful. Endless promise and possibility rose up from the earth and permeated the air.
Since she was far more familiar with the city’s geography, Estella offered to drive to the hotel.
‘What time is it?’ she asked as we loaded our suitcases into our rented sedan.
I told her and she grimaced. ‘Still rush hour,’ she said. Without another word she slipped into the driver’s seat and, avoiding the 405 altogether, drove us north up La Cienega. We had both made regular trips to LA while we were at Berkeley: there had been too many friends and relatives attending school or vacationing in the City of Angels for us not to spend at least a few weeks there every year. But by the end of our sophomore year, Estella had been flying down every other weekend to visit Leonard. And after she and Leonard got married, because her in-laws had a house there, she visited two or three times a year.
We careened past freeway exits and halted for red lights beside stucco-walled strip malls and surprisingly familiar signs: Hollywood Nails, Chik-A-Dee Chicken, Togo’s, Best Buy, Vacuums Plus, Godzilla Sushi. It’s amazing what memories the mind conceals. I recognised them all: the red-letter bubbles of WIG WORLD, the 24-hour Tastee Donuts, the quirky handbag store next door to Reuben’s Deli.
Neither of us had ever stayed at the Beverly Tree Plaza before, but we had wanted to avoid running into anyone we knew, so the usual high-profile luxury hotels were all out of the question. Estella had remembered our old high-school friend Nikki mentioning, ages ago, that she’d stayed there when she had her eyelids done. ‘Hello darlings,’ she’d drawled in her inimitable way after the scars had fully healed and she’d made her first wide-eyed debut at our friend Candy’s baby shower.
‘Eeeee!’ our second cousin Hwa had shrieked, clapping her hands in delight and running over to examine Nikki’s eyes. ‘They’re so big! You look like a Japanese manga character!’
Nikki beamed. ‘I know!’
‘Natural-looking too,’ Hwa gushed. Nose to nose with Nikki, she admired the surgeon’s handiwork. ‘The folds are so fine. He must be really top notch.’
‘She.’
Aubrey, Gerry Sukamto’s niece, chimed in. ‘No wonder. Men boast about everything they do, but women are actually good at it.’ We all tittered.
‘Seriously,’ Hwa said, ‘Really good. Not like those botch jobs you see sometimes. You can spot them from a mile away. My sister’s friend got her eyes done in Japan – everyone was raving about Japanese plastic surgery – and the folds in her double eyelids are so thick, they look pregnant.’
More laughter.
‘My dear,’ Aubrey said slyly, ‘you know what you should have said to her? “Darling, I love your eyelids. When are they due?”’ This elicited a fresh roar from the room. Aubrey, blinking innocently, sauntered over to Candy’s pregnant belly and rubbed it. ‘“Darling,” you should have said, “will they be girls or boys?”’
By now, we could barely breathe. Someone slapped Aubrey on the butt in an effort to get her to stop, but Aubrey knew how to work a crowd and she wasn’t quite done. She strutted around, running her hands over her own imaginary baby bump. ‘“Darling,” you should have said, “If one of them is a girl, can you please name her after me?”’
It was Hwa, obsessed by plastic surgery but too fearful to get any done herself, who coaxed the rest of the details out of Nikki, including where she had stayed: the Beverly Tree Plaza, not technically in Beverly Hills but close enough. Its suites were small and on the shabby side, but, importantly, no other Indonesians seemed to be staying there.
‘I don’t care who knows about me fixing my eyelids,’ Nikki had declared, ‘but I didn’t want anyone to see me like that! I looked like an abused racoon! My whole face was swollen and black!’
When we arrived, our room was more or less what we expected, given what Nikki had said. The furniture was opulent, but frayed. The ivory shag carpet looked like it smelled of cat. It was the kind of place where you could imagine rich old ladies taking up residence. I tipped the bellboy, and Estella unlaced her boots and flopped down on the pink chintz sofa.
‘I’m starving,’ she stated.
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘Where do you want to eat dinner?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Barbecue in Koreatown?’
‘Ugh. Too heavy. Also too far.’
‘How about Ramayani in Westwood?’
I stared at her incredulously. ‘You’re joking, right? We just got here. What are you, a villager? Can’t live without Indonesian food for one day?’
‘I was just joking,’ Estella said defensively. ‘Let’s go someplace close by.’
We both fell silent, trying to decipher the yearnings of our stomachs.
‘How about Matsuhisa?’ Estella asked.
‘Funny,’ I said with a smile. ‘I was about to say the same thing.’
Something suddenly came to mind.
‘Will it be all right for you, though?’ I asked.
She laughed – a kind of laugh I hadn’t heard from her for a while. Silvery and easy. It was how she used to laugh, long ago, long before.
‘Don’t be silly, Doll. I’ll be fine.’
Nothing had changed at Matsuhisa. But then again, nothing ever did. Not its cramped foyer or unpretentious interior; not the demographics of the waitstaff: Asian or Eurasian, attractive and young. The same painted silhouettes of diners adorned the walls, frozen mid-gesticulation, teacups glued to lips, chopsticks eternally aloft – easily mistaken for real shadows until you noticed they never moved. Matsuhisa was far humbler in appearance than the offshoots spawned by its owner-chef ’s success. The flashy nouveau Oriental interiors of the branches in New York, Las Vegas and London tried too hard to impress. They were teenage girls in sky-high stilettos, dripping rhinestones and cheap perfume. Matsuhisa was their kimonoed grandmother, ageless, peerless, stolid, unaffected by the passing of time.
The hotel concierge told us he hadn’t been able to get us a reservation before 8.30 but by the time we’d showered off the stale smell of the plane, changed into fresh clothes and driven over, we were twenty minutes late. The service was as good as we remembered. The hostess apologised even though the lateness was our fault and told us our table would be ready in a jiffy. As we stood listening to the chatter wafting around the corner from the dining area, I felt Estella’s spirit curl and tighten like a prawn in a steamer.
‘We can leave, you know,’ I offered.
‘No, I want to stay,’ she said. ‘It’ll be good for me. Besides, I’m not as brittle as you all think.’
We tried to push it from our minds. I made a lame joke about the display of Matsuhisa-brand salad dressings being there since the dawn of time. She made a lame attempt to laugh. It was no use of course. The memory crept in at the corners. The blasts of cold air from the front door, constantly opening and shutting, carried in the querulous voice of Leonard’s mother, fearing the wind would make her ill. The hostess guiding us to our table grew bustier and blonde, transforming into the woman Leonard had ogled that night. Even what we ordered, which was what we always ordered, were the same dishes that had witnessed Estella’s public shame – the yellowtail with jalapeño, the miso cod, the creamy spicy crab. Our table for two flanking the wall offered a prime vantage point from which to survey that other table where our former selves were seated; Leonard’s parents to the left, our parents and me to the right, and Leonard and Estella seated across from each other in the middle, the thin line along which our two clans blurred into one.
It had been the worst of the bad times. Leonard had reached the apex of his cruelty, which had corresponded to the apex of his financial success. The Angsono family conglomerate, Sono Jaya, had made a successful incursion into instant-noodle territory. Share prices had skyrocketed and an era of expansion had begun – for the business and for Leonard’s physical person. Around the same time, he had hired a personal body-building trainer. Under diligent daily tutelage and a steady diet of protein shakes, Leonard had grown as hulking as a healthy water buffalo.
The transformation from man to beast had brought about some seemingly desirable changes: he drank much less and stopped staying out so late. But for the most part, the metamorphosis had been terrifying. How the chest and arms of his polo shirt had bulged that night, the embroidered polo player on his left pectoral muscle twitching, as if with suppressed excitement or fury. How all his veins protruded and throbbed, in time, it seemed, to the beating of an enormous horse’s heart. Perhaps most unnerving was his face, naturally baby-like with soft lips and cushiony cheeks, sitting atop that incongruously muscular body.
It had been right before Christmas – that and summer were the two high seasons for Indonesians who owned houses or condos in LA. The air was crisp and deliciously un-tropical. The business year was drawing to a close and all the important projects had been wrapped up or put on hiatus so their energy could be bottled for the first quarter of the new year. The sales were on and the shopping was good. The atmosphere was wonderfully festive. Christmas-light-trimmed houses and bushes twinkled good cheer. The velvety voice of Bing Crosby could be heard everywhere, reminding listeners that Santa Claus was coming to town.
Our two families, yoked together now for three years through Estella and Leonard’s marriage, were starting to settle into a certain familiarity with each other, even if the couple’s relationship showed strain. My parents and I often came to LA for the holidays, but this time we accepted the Angsonos’ invitation for us to stay with them in their house.
Leonard’s mother, Tante Elise, had done it up beautifully, in a combination of light woods and quaint French country prints. Naturally, whenever she and her husband came, they brought their housekeeper from Jakarta – the faithful, stocky, 4-foot-high Rina. But the size of their Los Angeles house demanded its own year-round maintenance, and this was taken care of by a large-bosomed, sandy-haired woman named Patty, who, in return for a decent salary, and free room and board in the house itself, was more than happy to keep things shipshape. She oversaw gardeners, scheduled repairs, and whipped up Western-style food whenever the Angsonos came to stay. Her repertoire was wonderfully American: blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon for breakfast; buttery grilled cheese sandwiches and ranch-dressed salads for lunch; crisp-edged lasagnes and tender meatloaves for dinner; and endless trays of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. As delicious and charming as Patty’s food was, there was only so much Western food a person could stand to eat; so Patty alternated cooking responsibilities with Rina, whose repertoire consisted of familiar home-style dishes – spicy curries and sweet dark stews; noodle soups, fried rice and stir-fries; fried chicken, fried fish, fried tofu, fried tempeh and, if she found the right bananas at the Asian supermarket, fried banana fritters.
At Christmas, Patty was in her element. She bustled around in boxy cardigans adorned with elves and bobbly reindeer noses and ribbons. Garlands of fake fir studded with velveteen bows and glitter-dipped pinecones materialised on the stairway banisters. A wreath attached itself to the front door. A Christmas tree complete with lights and metallic balls and bronze tinsel sprang up overnight in the living room. The gas fireplace blazed from sundown to whatever time Patty decided to turn in for the night. Bowls of itty-bitty candy canes and seasonal Hershey’s Kisses littered every table, counter and shelf. It was the season to set aside differences and, accordingly, jars of swarthy molasses crinkles rubbed shoulders with jars of men and women of the gingerbread persuasion. And thrown into the mix were tins of blond snowflake-shaped sugar cookies iced in blue, points tipped with tiny silver balls of dubious edibility.
In short, during the holiday season especially, Patty ensured that the Angsono house looked, smelled and felt like the houses of white people. I wouldn’t be surprised if Patty was bringing to life her own private fantasy of all-American life as she thought it ought to be. (I dimly remember what she mentioned in passing to me once about a shiftless ex-husband, an estranged daughter, and a dingy former apartment with bad mould and faulty plumbing.) Leonard’s family loved it. We loved it. All our Indonesian friends loved it. And the handful of American friends who Leonard’s parents entertained took it for granted – they were made to feel unconsciously at ease in a way that would have been impossible if not for the invisible hand of Patty.
So you see, two weeks of Yuletide comfort and joy, of inhabiting an environment that radiated happiness and warmth, had lulled us into a contented stupor that made that night’s awakening at Matsuhisa all the more wrenching, as sudden as a lightning bolt on a clear day, and triggered by virtually nothing: a woman, Nordic in bone structure and good looks, passing our table and catching Leonard’s appreciative gaze; Leonard’s hand, as he reached for his green tea brushing almost imperceptibly against her hip. Nothing, really. And yet, Estella flashed, scrawling her temper across the sky.
‘What, two women aren’t enough for you? Why don’t you add her to your harem?’
Our mother’s warning not to air dirty laundry in public came flat and low: ‘Stell.’
Leonard eased his massive back into his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he responded coolly. ‘Anyway, how do you know it’s just the two of you?’
My sister’s hand cracked against his cheek, a blur of manicured scarlet and diamond and gold. And then Leonard had simply taken her wrist in his and squeezed. The pink jolt that raced up her arm forced her mouth into an inaudible shriek.
‘Len, don’t,’ his father said low and sharp, rising to his feet. ‘Not here, Len. Not here.’ He sounded as if he were addressing a dog.
Ma squealed in spite of herself, hitting my father frantically on the shoulder. ‘Rudy! Stop it! Get him to stop it!’
Abruptly, Leonard let go. We all resumed eating. Estella, still tender, nursed her tea in silence. After five minutes, maybe seven, conversation about everyone’s plans for the next few days recommenced: appointments with doctors in Beverly Hills; golf for the men; shopping for the women; meals with the friends from home who were also in town.
Nonetheless, our parents were obviously shocked by the whole thing. I wasn’t. Some part of me had been expecting this all along. The eruption of physical violence had only been a matter of time, and not just because of the notes Estella had found in his briefcase. Those too had been part of the inevitable progression of their relationship into what it had been fated to become from the start. Estella and our parents had simply chosen to deceive themselves, while I never had.
The families had taken two separate cars to the restaurant, and after our mother won the fight over the bill – Leonard’s parents had the tact to let her win, to let our family regain some face, appear in control – she announced that she and our father were taking Estella and me to that new gelato parlour all our LA-savvy friends had been raving about. Leonard could go back home with his parents and we’d meet them at the house. She said all this pleasantly, smoothly, as if nothing had happened.
