By Lily Farid Yulianti and Luna Vidia Matulessy
1
(Static light)
OLDER KALYLA: Take this blank receipt with you! I can wait for your payment, but I’m not going to sign a blank receipt. I will not be part of your scam. Never!
What? You’d better watch what you say! This isn’t a question of me getting a share or not!
Excuse me? You really don’t get it, do you? This is a catering business. What I sell here is food, not my self-respect!
And don’t you ever, ever again send someone to my home to arrange a meeting like you did last night!
Maybe you think I am my mother. Well, you’re wrong! You’re wrong if you think you can trap me because of my background—because of who I am.
But let me be clear: I am a different person from my mother.
What? Do you think because of who I am I should have no self-respect? Is that what you think?
Well, my name is Kalyla. And I am not my mother!
(Lights fade out and dim)
2
On stage is a flour-spattered kitchen table on which are heaped baking pans, a rolling pin, and other cooking implements. There is a mound of rising dough; a pan of flour; different kinds of pastry fillings; and jars of spices, chocolate, and fruit—red and green cherries.
OLDER KALYLA: I was raised in this kitchen. I grew up amid the hustle and bustle around this kitchen table.
I learned to walk holding on to the hem of Mother’s dress as she diced onions, boiled potatoes and minced meat.
At first I watched and then I began to help Ruth—Mother’s helper and my nanny—sift flour and mix up different kinds of dough.
I rested on Mother’s lap, napped on the slickly ironed expanse of her long skirt.
On Ruth’s lap, on her oil-stained sarong that always smelled of spices, I was coddled.
I used to wet my pants—often and most anywhere at all: in my bed, on the sofa, on Mother’s lap, on Ruth’s sarong.
“Little Miss Wet-Her-Pants”! That’s what Ruth called me when I was a girl.
RUTH: Dolo-dolo nona pung bakas kancing di bolsak persis map pulau Jawa… [When you were a girl, those puddles of piddle you made looked just like a map of Java!]
OLDER KALYLA: Ruth did love flour but she was obsessed with the island of Java. Anything beyond her imagination was always connected with Java.
YOUNG KALYLA: Look at this, Ruth … The flour is just like snow.
RUTH: Barang apa lae tu salju kah? Beta seng tau, nona … [What is snow? I don’t know what that is, little Miss.]
OLDER KALYLA: You know, Ruth—that soft and fluffy white stuff in foreign countries that looks like shaved ice. Like the stuff you see in comic books and on television.
RUTH: On television? Sio di Jawa sana ada salju lae ka? [So, is there snow in Java?]
YOUNG KALYLA: (Laughing) Snow in Java? You’re stupid! There’s no snow in Java. Mama! Ruth thinks there’s snow in Java!
MOTHER: Lyla! You must not talk that way. It’s not nice. You must never call an older person stupid.
Don’t laugh at Ruth because she doesn’t know there is no snow in Java. You have to be more sensitive of other people’s feelings.
What if you hurt Ruth’s feelings by calling her stupid? What if Ruth were to get angry with you?
How would you like it if Ruth were to leave us?
If she were to go, who would help me with my cooking and baking? And who would take care of you when I have to go out for business?
That’s right! No one. We’d be here all alone.
You’re a smart and pretty girl, Lyla, but if you laugh at people like you just laughed at Ruth, people will say that you’re bad-mannered. Stuck up!
You must never be stuck up. God forbid that when you’re older you show no regard for other people’s feelings!
No matter how pretty or smart you might be, people will still think you’re bad-mannered.
YOUNG KALYLA: Ruth, what does bad-mannered mean?
RUTH: You know, like that woman …
YOUNG KALYLA: What woman?
RUTH: That woman who took your father away.
YOUNG KALYLA: Are you angry me, Ruth? Don’t be angry. If you don’t want your feelings hurt, I can say that there is snow in Java. I can do that … even though there is no snow there.
RUTH: (Laughing) Nonae, seng apa-apa. Tapi nona, nona seng boleh parlente par bikin orang pu hati sanang. [I’m not angry, Little Miss. You don’t have to pretend something, just to make people feel happy.]
YOUNG KALYLA: But Mama said I’m supposed to mind your feelings.
RUTH: Tapi su seng banar kalau tagal mo jaga orang pung hati, nona seng stori banar. Itu lai seng banar. [That’s fine, but it’s not right to lie to people just to make them happy. No, not right at all!]
3
OLDER KALYLA: For our faithful Ambonese helper, the world was simple: there was right and there was wrong. There was no gray area for Ruth.
Java was the farthest place that Ruth could ever imagine going to. And outside Java, there was nowhere at all.
Even as a girl, she said, Ruth had dreamt of taking a train across Java, traveling from one end to the other.
Just like her grandmother—the wife of a colonial army soldier stationed in Java—had once done.
Ruth’s life was a journey, one that would not end until she set foot in the Javalands—which is what she used to call the island.
Ruth was always sure that one day she would go to Java.
For all the years she lived with us, she never gave up hope of seeing Java through the window of a train.
In our kitchen, Ruth often recalled the story of her life’s journey—one that had brought her here, to this kitchen, and into our lives, but that would, one day, begin again.
RUTH: Bet ni, harus sampai di Jawa nona. Karena kalo bet seng dapa injak itu Tana Jawa, lalu par apa bet barangkat? [I have to go to Java, Little Miss. Because if I never make it there, then why did I ever leave my own island of Ambon?]
YOUNG KALYLA: Well, why didn’t you go straight there at the time?
RUTH: Ooo bet ni mo pi Jawa nona. Waktu itu katong naik kapal barang. Kapal akang singga di mana-mana. Di Tarnate, Tidore, Buton, Kabaena, Salayar. Mar bet salalu mabo lau. Bet sakit seng bae di kapal nona. …trus waktu su balayar mo pi Jawa baru bet rasa, balayar ni akang paling lamae. Seng lai… Beta pi bet pung Om sa di Makassar, lebe dakat.., kalau su kuat, bet barangkat lae pi Jawa. [Oh, I was fully intending to do that, Little Miss. But the cargo ship on which I traveled stopped everywhere—in Ternate, Tidore, Buton, Kabaena, Salayar—and I was always getting seasick. Really bad!
You see, I didn’t know how long the trip would take until I was actually on the ship.
After a while, I just couldn’t take it anymore. So I got off the ship here, in Makassar, where I had an uncle.
Besides, I thought, Makassar isn’t that far from Java. Once I got my legs and stomach back, I’d continue my trip once more.]
OLDER KALYLA: Our home was thus a transit point and Ruth would never let herself forget that her journey had not yet ended.
Ruth’s life was a journey under an open sky. She felt the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. She witnessed the change of seasons. She watched dark clouds as they covered the sky. She basked in the light of a full moon.
Everything was in the open. Nothing was hidden from Ruth.
(Music plays and is followed by the sound of voices coming from a radio or television. Newscasters’ voices tell of the violence—the bloody riots and mass destruction—that has overtaken the island of Ambon. Ruth smacks a slab of dough on the kitchen table as hard as possible, then wields her rolling pin as if it were a weapon.)
RUTH: Kanapa musti baku prangka? Sio katong basudara tu kio.
(She again smacks the slab of dough as hard as possible on the table. Once again, she rolls out the dough.)
Kenapa ka…? Jang lai jua kappa. Sio gandong. Gandong e.
(Music plays.)
Kantong ni basudara. Kampung Salam deng kampung Kristen angka pella. Tagal apa tu? Perkara basar apa yang su biking dara akan cair? Cair lawange, sampe musti baku binci bagini?
Kanapa? Kanapa katong musti baku bunu?
Orang basudara su seng dapa tidur lai. Hidop su deng takotang. Seng tahu, eso ni masih bisa bernapas ka seng.
[Why? Why is there war? We’re family. We’re one family, aren’t we? Oh, my loved ones …
We’ve always been family. It doesn’t matter if we’re Muslim or Christian; we all share the same blood, down through the generations.
So why, why does it have to be like this? What problem could be so great that it could weaken the bonds of blood?
Blood is thicker than water. How much hatred does it take to make it so thin?
Why do they hate each other, as if they are not family?
Why? Why do they have to kill each other like they’re doing now?
They’re all related, all one family, but now they cannot sleep in peace.
They live in fear, not knowing if they’ll still be breathing the next day.]
YOUNG KALYLA: Mama and I don’t hate you, Ruth. We would never fight with you. Even if we don’t pray the same way, you can stay with us here. There’s no reason to be afraid.
RUTH: Sio Nonae. Sakarang su seng mungkin orang macam katong dua ni. Nona Acang beta Obet dudu satu meja. Disini bet tidur sanang. Di sana, bet pung basudara baku bunu. Bet pung hati badara nona. [Now it wouldn’t be possible for two different people like us to sit at the same table. Here, I can sleep in peace but there my family are killing each other. My heart is bleeding.]
OLDER KALYLA: In her sadness and anger at that time of bloody conflict in Ambon, Ruth’s breads became more evenly textured and soft. The breads and rolls that she produced while she watched the violence on television turned out to be the best she ever made. But for me, the strawberry-jelly-filled rolls that she made seemed to contain big clots of blood. My stomach turned whenever I saw them come out of the oven.
At that time, Ruth’s open sky was heavily overcast. But, beneath that cloudy sky, she made her way. Just as Mother did.
But Mother was not like Ruth. She was no open sky. My beautiful mother, who liked to sing in the kitchen, was in fact a dark cave full of secret tunnels.
Mother’s eyes were the mouth of the cave, but the sadness in them was an obstacle not to be passed.
Although I shared all my tears and fears with Mother and Ruth, Mother never once opened herself to me.
Much in the same way that she would never disclose the secrets of her favorite recipes, she never spoke of her past.
Mother was a secret gate with lock upon lock securing the story of her life.
I knew of the cave and the secret door as well because Mother cried whenever she watered the flowers in the garden.
4
Sadness never broke Mother, however. She loved the kitchen. Ruth loved flour. I loved Mother and Ruth.
I grew—and so did our activities in the kitchen: more and more all the time.
In the end, I came to love the kitchen and flour too.
Mother’s catering business grew rapidly.
So beautiful and carefree, Mother always smiled patiently when dealing with her customers’ demands.
Every day there was flour to be sifted, butter to be melted, bars of chocolate to be shaved, chicken meat to be shredded, red chilies to be ground.
Every day, the kitchen filled our lives. Every day brought with it a new culinary creation.
Ruth, Mother, and I immersed ourselves in our work in our beloved kitchen.
As our work increased so too did the number of people in uniform who came to our house.
The telephone rang almost nonstop with orders for meal packages for meetings. Every day, there was a meeting here, a meeting there.
RUTH: Orang-orang kantor ini, dong makang gaji par rapat ka par karja? [Are those government guys paid for meetings or for work?]
OLDER KALYLA: … so said Ruth at the time.
The people in uniforms were civil servants whose job it was to negotiate catering services. Scam artists, one and all!
They came with blank receipts; asked for a special discount; submitted their next order; gave Mother another blank receipt; put in another order; and so on and so forth, like a never-stopping windmill.
They’d bow superciliously, narrow their eyes, and cough. Some would pretend to be busy with their calculators, punching in numbers like grade school students preparing for a mathematics examination.
And then they’d say: “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Andis, the budget for the meeting is only five million rupiah. Is a discount possible?
Or: “Excuse me, Mrs. Andis, could we pay for the next three months at the same time, combine it with the food budget for meetings for the next two months? There will be a little percentage in it for you …”
Or this: “Could you leave the receipt blank? That’s possible, isn’t it? For the following meeting, we’ll be sure to use your catering service again …”
RUTH: Eh, itu orang-orang kantor, selalu saja mo minta potong harga, dorang ni nona, kasta makang pancuri. Jang bagitu kalo nona besar trus karja kantor, nona seng boleh jadi orang macam bagini. Jang sampe tagal mo kepeng nona making pancuri. [Those kinds of people, they’re always asking for discounts. The thieves! When you grow up Little Miss, if you work in an office, you are not to be like them. Don’t ever take what’s not your own.
OLDER KALYLA: Until one day …
The two windows in the kitchen, which usually revealed an expanse of blue sky, now showed rolling dark clouds.
The air was filled with a mad clanking of pots and pans.
From the corners of the kitchen, cockroaches emerged, bringing with them bad news.
Broccoli, carrots, cabbages, tomatoes, and green beans rotted and began to smell.
My beautiful mother, who loved our kitchen so much, who sang as she created dishes with an equal measure of love and skill, was now mincing meat with her jaws locked shut.
The more onions she diced, the more she cried.
Every once in a while, over the hissing of oil in the fryer, you could hear her growl.
Ruth, meanwhile, chose to bury her head in the flour bucket.
MOTHER: Take care of those food orders!
Only once before in my life had I heard Mother speak in such a tone. That was the time she kicked my father out of the house for having secretly taken another wife.
The sound of them fighting in the bedroom was audible in the kitchen.
… which is where Ruth had sat me down, here, at this table, to calm me with a whole jar of chocolate candy.
The chocolate melted in my hands.
Ruth didn’t lift a finger to prevent me from eating as much chocolate as I wanted.
Then, after the screaming voices had finally died, Father came to the kitchen and hugged me. Very hard. Then he left.
He never set foot in our house again. I never liked chocolate after that either.
YOUNG KALYLA: What’s wrong, Mama?
OLDER KALYLA: She didn’t reply.
YOUNG KALYLA: What is it, Ma?
OLDER KALYLA: Mother was indeed a dark cave, a claustrophobic place that provided no illumination for my questions at all. My questions bounced off the caves of the wall, coming back to me in the same form: as questions.
Only with Mother and Ruth could I share my every pain or pleasure. But Mother never shared those same feelings with me.
YOUNG KALYLA: What’s happening, Ruth?
OLDER KALYLA: She said nothing either.
A rumor had begun to spread, causing our large refrigerator to heave a sigh of sadness.
The atmosphere in the kitchen was like boiling oil in a pan, sizzling and hot.
The rumor was that Mother was the mistress of a high-government official—that being why she had been able to secure catering orders from numerous government offices. It crept across the kitchen ceiling, turning into soot and char, black and disgusting.
I came home crying one evening. I huddled beneath the kitchen table.
YOUNG KALYLA: I heard the owner of the food stall say bad things about Mama.
RUTH: What did he say?
YOUNG KALYLA: That Mama is some big shot’s mistress.
OLDER KALYLA: Ruth said nothing but her face darkened.
Half running, she left the house and went to the end of the road, where the food stall was located.
From where I was standing beside the fence of our yard, I could see her put her hands on her hips and point her finger in the face of the food stall owner.
After that she strutted, head high, back to the house.
In the end, I gave up and stopped my wheedling, stopped trying to figure out a way into Mother’s secret cave; stopped trying to think about the dark foreboding that seemed to hover in Mother’s eyes.
I decided not to try to uncover Mother’s secrets. By doing so I might have found myself trapped in the secret tunnels of my mother’s dark cave.
I said, Enough! To hell with rumors. I have orders to fill!
(Lights fade and die.)
Translated by John H. McGlynn