Wandering Heart Chapter 6

I wrote this chapter earlier than Chapter 4 and 5. Writing this chapter was supposed to be a healthy and productive defense mechanism of coping with broken heart. However, experience proved that muffled crying on a pillow worked a lot better. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 6 : Hard Habit to Break

(Chicago, 1984)

The world might crashed down, but I would not notice. For that moment, my full attention was very much occupied by long French-manicured fingers that rested on Henry’s crook of elbow. With a grace of a leopard, their owner cascaded down the stairs toward the center of the room, showing luminous ivory skin of her bare back and half of her long legs. She laughed at something he muttered, it was a tinkling sound of a wind chime on a windy summer day. They stopped midway and turned around, giving me a chance to examine her facial feature. Her brows that arched like a rainbow over her honey brown doe’s eyes that protected by thick curly black lashes, now was raised as her date introduced her to a man wearing a black suit. 
I found myself wondering what term he used. My date? My girlfriend? My future submissive-patrician wife? She smiled with slightly plump lips that tinted with a glossy color of peach to the man and shook his palm confidently. Her straight nose, rather square jaw and high cheek-bones were placed very symmetrically on her face; no poet nor scientist would refute the opinion of her beauty. It was as if Aphrodite had given life to Pygmalion’s statue and bequeathed mankind with perfect beauty.

“Be careful, Siregar. Had I not known better, I’d deduced you a homosexual.” Mr. Setiawan was back at my side, carrying two tall stemmed crystal glasses and handed one to me. I received and sipped its simmering golden liquid, quickly taken back my gaze from the couple that had stolen it since the first step of their entrance. Not satisfied with startling me, his stare drilled its way to my face, searching for any emotion that he would later abuse for his delight.

“Ahh… I hate politician’s party.”
He kept himself a silent observer but raised his thick black eyebrows at my whining.

“On screen, they’re pretending to be so conventional, holding religious values, yet they offered expensive alcohol at their parties. Obnoxious Pharisees they are.”

“You did not whine the last time I brought you to the same politician’s party and made you slightly drunk with the same expensive alcohol. It must be related to the man with Aphrodite on his arms. Tsk, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” He cocked his head at Henry and his date/girlfriend/future submissive patrician wife, my attempt at deflection was futile.

“I was actually comparing her to the Pygmalion’s statue.” I argued.
Was I a woman scorned? Had I be the one who was being refused, that William Congreve quote would be appropriate. Since it was the opposite that happened, it was more normal to feel glad or even triumphant for another evidence of my righteous judgment, that Henry was more suitable with someone who looked more fitting to be a politician’s wife. Someday, when he became an elected governor, he would thank me for refusing his proposal and praising my brilliance and foresight in his acceptance speech.

“Well, I think I’ll second that opinion sincerely. Yeah, mine would be a too sensual comparison. The breast, she is lacking of. A proper Goddess of love should have the kind of body that looked like a Spanish guitar waiting gifted fingers to strum her sensitive strings.”

I burst my champagne a little at his description. “Sir, I’m not entirely comfortable with this kind conversation. Anyway, let’s get down to business. Is it positive?” I whispered.

“Well, the brush stroke technique is indeed used only in Dutch art. I sampled the paint, once the chemicals confirmed, nobody would be able to testify otherwise.” He sipped his champagne for the last time before putting it on a passing waiter’s tray. “Now, if you wish to do some business here, you need to mingle and socialize, Siregar. Being a wallflower will not gain you the needed information.”

I looked around and suddenly felt as if I am a clownfish among carnivorous sharks with their long sharp teeth waiting for me to bleed. I was not in my zone. I was used to a subtle prying out information at street food vendors, with these people’s securities, maids or drivers, while laughing whole-heartedly at the rich and famous’ antics. Being with simple people gave me the upper hand and the steering wheel of the conversation.

“Scared?” said the devil with a devious grin as he offered his crook of elbow to me.

“I am, but the show must go on.” I finished my drink with a big gulp, took the elbow he offered and let Mr. Setiawan brought me toward the center of the room. I pasted my most confident smile and hoped that Aisha’s talent would make me looked the way I felt that night, beautiful.

As if he can read my mind, the man at my side whispered, “Don’t worry about your looks. Had you look like rags, like you usually do, I would pretend I don’t know you.” It was a downright compliment when it came out of his mouth. Then he purposefully pulled me to walk the opposite of the couple that attracted my attention earlier.

It seemed that people stopped talking when we got near, stealing glances of my “date” curiously. He did have a history that earned him that look. As earliest as his first month back in Indonesia, John Setiawan shared credit in bringing down a prominent leader of a political party who somehow fooled taxation department with his false financial statement. This achievement garnered him an instant alliance with KPK, the anti-corruption commission. With all those jazz, John Setiawan was a name recognized and regarded with caution, especially among the rich and powerful politician who had built a not-so-loving relationship with his ally.

Music filled my ear as we walked nearer to the grand piano in the middle of the room. Debussy’s Clare de Lune accompanied the eerie romantic atmosphere. We noticed both fathers of the future bride and groom stood several steps away from the grand piano. Mr. Setiawan practically dragged me toward them. He knew how I found my ex boyfriend’s boss irritating.

“I believe congratulation is in order, gentlemen.” He startled both older men by interrupting whatever they were talking about with his greeting. He offered his right hand for a shake.

“Ah, John. How do you do?” Mr. Guntur Hasjim, Henry’s boss, replied cordially, receiving Mr. Setiawan’s hand. He did not even take a look at me, either he was ignoring me or that my ability of hiding myself behind Mr. Setiawan improved tremendously.

“Never better, Sir.” He nodded nonchalantly.

“Ah, Mr. Setiawan, long time, no see, thank you for gracing us with your presence.” They shook hands. “I believe you need to introduce us to the lady at your side.” Said Mr. Rinto Muchsin, the host as well as the father of the bride, while eyeing me.

“Ah, This is Audrey Siregar, a journalist in our magazine,”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Siregar.” He shook my hand, “tell me, have I ever read any of your article?”

How would I possibly know that? I usually dislike it when other person answered a question for me, but I made an exception for this case. I thanked God when Mr. Setiawan took over and answered, “Oh, you must have, Sir. She is one of the most productive journalists we had, even one of the best.”

He patted my shoulder like a proud father, such an expert of faking mannerism was he. So, I did as I trained, smiling with fake-sincerity toward three men around me.

Wariness crept into me when Henry’s boss, Mr. Hasjim sent me a look of loathe for a mere second before he was back with his politician face. He detested me, I comprehend that already after hearing his one too many snide retort.

I felt my palm dampen and the need to go to the nearest toilet coming toward me.

Okay, what should I say at a time like this? Of course I could not say I want to pee like a child, although I suddenly felt an urge to say so.

“Gentleman, if you may excuse me.” I left my tone high, not giving them any reason. I thought it was enough when I saw they nodded their heads simultaneously. I almost ran to the toilet when I remembered 15 cm heels that I wore would cause me a massive humiliation had accident happened.

The ladies’ room was cool, clean and fragrant, so after my business had done, I was tempted to stay ignoring the scary people out there. But I decided to grow up and walked out hesitantly. No more than several steps out of the toilet, I slammed into something hard. I tumbled ungracefully until I was sitting down on the lowest tread of another staircase leading to the second story of Mr. Muchsin’s luxurious house. Humiliating accident prone to happen when one think about it over and over again.

“Watch your step there!” I mumbled angrily. My bum was a little sore even though the soft carpet of staircase had softened my landing.

“I’m really sorry.” A man offered me a hand and I received. Guilt smeared all over his face as he locked my eyes with a kind eye.

“That’s alright. Accident happens.” I took my hand back swiftly.

He watched my face intensely for a moment before he tilted his head to the right, saying, “Hey, do you remember me?”

“Sorry?”

“Two weeks ago, in a bay-side restaurant in North Jakarta? Taxi with faulty lock?”

My heart almost stopped. What were the chances to meet a perfect stranger who happened to share an embarrassing moment in Jakarta for a second time in Bandung, and then share another of that kind of moment? Well, ignore statistic, apparently there is indeed a chance of a lifetime.

“Ah that, I’m so sorry.”

“I said it before, and I said it again, never mind.” He smiled widely. “It seemed that we keep exchanging apologies.”

I chuckled nervously. Apparently I was clueless of how to talk with a guy without snide in his voice. “Excuse me, I have to go.” I turned around on my heels.

“Would you like to have a dinner with me?”

What? What? Where did that come from? Did he just ask me to dinner?

“There’s food here.” I answered tentatively, “and it’s night. So I guess the hosts do let everybody here to have a dinner.”

“No,” now it was his turn to let out a nervous chuckle, “I mean, would you like to go out with me, and then we can have dinner some other time?”

I goggled. Was he serious? Was I being too subtle in refusing? “I don’t even know your name. I don’t see how we can see each other after tonight.”

“Well, my name is Geoffrey, Geoffrey Siagian, but you can call me Geo. And,” He reached to his trouser’s back-pocket, “you can give me your number, then I can call you so we can see each other.”

“I don’t think so.” It was indeed dangerous to hand your phone number to any stranger, Batak or not. “Excuse me, I am needed somewhere else. Goodbye.”

I paced back to my patron tonight who stayed where I left him. Now, he was talking with Mr. Hasjim and a woman that I recognized as his wife.
 “Audrey, “ Mr. Hasjim refered as soon as I back at my spot, “did you meet Henry in this party?”

“No, I did not. Is he here?” I kept my voice level, pretending ignorance. Please don’t make him call Henry, oh God…

“Of course. He is my most trusted staff, my party, his party.” His eyes challenged me as I would refute that statement. Oh, I hate this controlling old man.

Suddenly behind Mr. Hasjim back I saw the taxi-guy walking toward me. What’s his name? Oh yeah, Geoffrey. His eyes was locked with mine, his walk poised, while somehow I felt panicked. Then he stopped and I saw him sitting down in front of the grand piano. So, he was the pianist. I felt silly now.

“… right, Audrey?”

Mr. Hasjim was asking me something while my thought was occupied. I did not know what to do but just smiled and nodded.

“Ah, here he is.” He raised his glass at someone behind me, so I turned around and my eyes met the cinnamon orbs that I had been ignoring for weeks.

Fortunately for me, he left his date somewhere. I hated to feel how I would stand pale in comparison to her ethereal beauty. She probably woke up already with her luminous skin, scratch her head to get her sexy/messy hair, and conquered the hearts of men just by batting her long eyelashes, while it took an army of make-up artist (one Aisha’s was worth a batalyon) to make me look decent. 

“Audrey, Mr. Setiawan, glad to see you here.” The look in his face was stoic as usual, his voice professional and distant. I hate wondering whether there's any emotion behind that mask or that he was indeed somebody devoid of intense emotion.

“Henry.” I nodded at him and then turned around back to facing Mr. Hasjim. With Mr. Setiawan’s prompt, they started talking about government’s plan to buy a highly advanced submarine from Russia to guard the northern border from Malaysian invasion. Mr. Hasjim and his fellow brainless cronies of the representative has been disproving the financial request. My usual self would probe him with attacking questions, but again, my attention was elsewhere.

The last time I had a relationship was at my sophomore year, with someone from different university, town and social group which I met in a journalism student camp. When we ended the relationship, it was as easy as deleting a complete stranger out of Facebook friendlist. However, now was a perfect example of “the-awkward-moment-when-meeting-my-ex”. My survival instinct told me to choose flight instead of fight.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get a drink.” Without waiting for their response, I started walking farther from them before spotting a table with variety of drinks placed nearby the door leading to the garden.

 I decided that a simple orange juice would calm my nerves when a baritone voice startled me, “The convention actually would allow you to stay where you were and let us get a drink for you, Audrey.”

What was it with men and their know-it-all attitude?

“Well, you know that I’m a woman who like to choose her own drink.”

“Hmm… That’s quite deep, don’t you think?”

I shrugged and suddenly walked away to the candle-lit garden, wishing that in said social convention, my action was regarded as a cue of wanting to be alone. Then again, my ignorance of this matter only proved my ill-upbringing, for Henry perceived the hint differently.

“Why are you following me? I believe Mr. Hasjim needed you to… to… to tend that beautiful creature who hung on your arms earlier this night.” I shocked myself when I heard myself spoke that sentence. Where that come from was beyond me. I even stuttered!

There must be another social convention who forced him to disregard statements that would make a lady embarrass herself, because he only raised one of his eyebrow before he opened his lips almost menacingly, “You, Audrey, owed me an explanation.”

“Did I? of what?” Was all I get to reply before the lamps were off and sudden darkness surrounded me. My eyes quickly adapted and allowed me to see that nobody reacted to the oddity of the circumstance. Guests seemed to assume this as something planned by the event organizer, most probably, to spotlight the entrance of the engaged couple. One by one left the garden to enter the hall, expecting the party to reach its climax, leaving me alone with Henry on the garden.

This awareness brought my attention back to the person standing beside me, and before I realized, I was captured by his eyes. The flickering glow of the candles that lit up my surrounding was reflected in his clear cinnamon eyes, sparkling like hundreds of fireflies trapped in those orbs. They begged me to describe them with something more than frigid or aloof, my usual adjectives to described them. For this moment, they were lively, sultry, mysterious, exotic, and even dangerous.

My train of thought stopped abruptly when a scream of thousands of decible forced itself into my consciousness. My journalist instinct take over me and I ran back to the hall. Neither the pain nor the fear of tumbling down successfully prevented me from doing so. It told me that this must be related to the painting hanging well above the staircase.

The lights went on again abruptly when I arrived at the middle of the room, blinding me for a moment, my palm went to my eyes for extra protection. When I regain my full sight, I found no painting where it should belonged.

R&R pretty please... (batting eyelashes)