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By
the
end
of
the
week
,
I
’
d
photocopied
several
of
the
old
manuscripts
.
Every
day
,
Ketut
called
his
wife
over
and
showed
her
the
new
copies
and
he
was
overjoyed
.
Her
facial
expression
didn
’
t
change
at
all
,
but
she
studied
the
evidence
thoroughly
.
And
the
next
Monday
when
I
came
to
visit
,
Nyomo
brought
me
hot
coffee
,
served
in
a
jelly
jar
.
I
watched
her
carry
the
drink
across
the
courtyard
on
a
china
saucer
,
limping
slowly
on
the
long
journey
from
her
kitchen
to
Ketut
’
s
porch
.
I
assumed
the
coffee
was
intended
for
Ketut
,
but
,
no
-
he
’
d
already
had
his
coffee
.
This
was
for
me
.
She
’
d
prepared
it
for
me
.
I
tried
to
thank
her
but
she
looked
annoyed
at
my
thanks
,
kind
of
swatted
me
away
the
way
she
swats
away
the
rooster
who
always
tries
to
stand
on
her
outdoor
kitchen
table
when
she
’
s
preparing
lunch
.
But
the
next
day
she
brought
me
a
glass
of
coffee
and
a
bowl
of
sugar
on
the
side
.
And
the
next
day
it
was
a
glass
of
coffee
,
a
bowl
of
sugar
and
a
cold
boiled
potato
.
Every
day
that
week
,
she
added
a
new
treat
.
This
was
starting
to
feel
like
that
childhood
car
trip
alphabet
-
memory
game
:
"
I
’
m
going
to
Grandma
’
s
house
,
and
I
’
m
bringing
an
apple
…
I
’
m
going
to
Grandma
’
s
house
and
I
’
m
bringing
an
apple
and
a
balloon
…
I
’
m
going
to
Grandma
’
s
house
and
I
’
m
bringing
an
apple
,
a
balloon
,
a
cup
of
coffee
in
a
jelly
glass
,
a
bowl
of
sugar
and
a
cold
potato
…
"
Then
,
yesterday
,
I
was
standing
in
the
courtyard
,
saying
my
good
-
byes
to
Ketut
,
and
Nyomo
came
shuffling
past
with
her
broom
,
sweeping
and
pretending
not
to
be
paying
attention
to
everything
that
happens
in
her
empire
I
had
my
hands
clasped
behind
my
back
as
I
was
standing
there
,
and
she
came
up
behind
me
and
took
one
of
my
hands
in
hers
.
She
fumbled
through
my
hand
like
she
was
trying
to
untumble
the
combination
on
a
lock
and
she
found
my
index
finger
.
Then
she
wrapped
her
whole
big
,
hard
fist
around
that
finger
and
gave
me
this
deep
,
long
squeeze
.
I
could
feel
her
love
pulsing
through
her
power
grip
,
right
up
into
my
arm
and
all
the
way
down
into
my
guts
.
Then
she
dropped
my
hand
and
limped
away
arthritically
,
saying
not
a
single
word
,
continuing
her
sweeping
as
though
nothing
had
happened
.
While
I
stood
there
quietly
drowning
in
two
rivers
of
happiness
at
the
same
time
.
I
have
a
new
friend
.
His
name
is
Yudhi
,
which
is
pronounced
"
You
-
Day
.
"
He
’
s
Indonesian
,
originally
from
Java
.
I
got
to
know
him
because
he
rented
my
house
to
me
;
he
’
s
working
for
the
Englishwoman
who
owns
the
place
,
looking
after
her
property
while
she
’
s
away
in
London
for
the
summer
.
Yudhi
is
twenty
-
seven
years
old
and
stocky
in
build
and
talks
kind
of
like
a
southern
California
surfer
.
He
calls
me
"
man
"
and
"
dude
"
all
the
time
.
He
’
s
got
a
smile
that
could
stop
crime
,
and
he
’
s
got
a
long
,
complicated
life
story
for
somebody
so
young
.
He
was
born
in
Jakarta
;
his
mother
was
a
housewife
,
his
father
an
Indonesian
fan
of
Elvis
who
owned
a
small
air
-
conditioning
and
refrigeration
business
.
The
family
was
Christian
-
an
oddity
in
this
part
of
the
world
,
and
Yudhi
tells
entertaining
stories
about
being
mocked
by
the
neighborhood
Muslim
kids
for
such
shortcomings
as
"
You
eat
pork
!
"
and
"
You
love
Jesus
!
"
Yudhi
wasn
’
t
bothered
by
the
teasing
;
Yudhi
,
by
nature
,
isn
’
t
bothered
by
much
.
His
mom
,
however
,
didn
’
t
like
him
hanging
around
with
the
Muslim
kids
,
mostly
on
account
of
the
fact
that
they
were
always
barefoot
,
which
Yudhi
also
liked
to
be
,
but
she
thought
it
was
unhygienic
,
so
she
gave
her
son
a
choice
-
he
could
either
wear
shoes
and
play
outside
,
or
he
could
stay
barefoot
and
remain
indoors
.
Yudhi
doesn
’
t
like
wearing
shoes
,
so
he
spent
a
big
chunk
of
his
childhood
and
adolescence
life
in
his
bedroom
,
and
that
’
s
where
he
learned
how
to
play
the
guitar
.
Barefoot
.
The
guy
has
a
musical
ear
like
maybe
nobody
I
’
ve
ever
met
.
He
’
s
beautiful
with
the
guitar
,
never
had
lessons
but
understands
melody
and
harmony
like
they
were
the
kid
sisters
he
grew
up
with
.
He
makes
these
East
-
West
blends
of
music
that
combine
classical
Indonesian
lullabies
with
reggae
groove
and
early
-
days
Stevie
Wonder
funk
-
it
’
s
hard
to
explain
,
but
he
should
be
famous
.
I
never
knew
anybody
who
heard
Yudhi
’
s
music
who
didn
’
t
think
he
should
be
famous
.
Here
’
s
what
he
always
wanted
to
do
most
of
all
-
live
in
America
and
work
in
show
business
.
The
world
’
s
shared
dream
.
So
when
Yudhi
was
still
a
Javanese
teenager
,
he
somehow
talked
himself
into
a
job
(
speaking
hardly
any
English
yet
)
on
a
Carnival
Cruise
Lines
ship
,
thereby
casting
himself
out
of
his
narrow
Jakarta
environs
and
into
the
big
,
blue
world
.
The
job
Yudhi
got
on
the
cruise
ship
was
one
of
those
insane
jobs
for
industrious
immigrants
-
living
belowdecks
,
working
twelve
hours
a
day
,
one
day
off
a
month
,
cleaning
.
His
fellow
workers
were
Filipinos
and
Indonesians
.
The
Indonesians
and
the
Filipinos
slept
and
ate
in
separate
quarters
of
the
boat
,
never
mingling
(
Muslims
vs
.
Christians
,
don
’
t
you
know
)
,
but
Yudhi
,
in
typical
fashion
,
befriended
everybody
and
became
a
kind
of
emissary
between
the
two
groups
of
Asian
laborers
.
He
saw
more
similarities
than
differences
between
these
maids
and
custodians
and
dishwashers
,
all
of
whom
were
working
bottomless
hours
in
order
to
send
a
hundred
dollars
or
so
a
month
back
to
their
families
at
home
.
The
first
time
the
cruise
ship
sailed
into
New
York
Harbor
,
Yudhi
stayed
up
all
night
,
perched
on
the
highest
deck
,
watching
the
city
skyline
appear
over
the
horizon
,
heart
hammering
with
excitement
.
Hours
later
,
he
got
off
the
ship
in
New
York
and
hailed
a
yellow
cab
,
just
like
in
the
movies
.
When
the
recent
African
immigrant
driving
the
taxi
asked
where
he
’
d
like
to
go
,
Yudhi
said
,
"
Anywhere
,
man
-
just
drive
me
around
.
I
want
to
see
everything
.
"
A
few
months
later
the
ship
came
to
New
York
City
again
,
and
this
time
Yudhi
disembarked
for
good
.
His
contract
was
up
with
the
cruise
line
and
he
wanted
to
live
in
America
now
.
