The Majesties Page 11

  But no one was more excited than Ma, and in all fairness, I don’t think it was just because Leonard was an Angsono. The courtship gave her a chance to escape the flaccidity that was her marriage, to forget the colorless man that the love of her own life had morphed into. What was it that Tante Sandra had said all those years ago, about our mother living in Tante Margaret’s shadow? I can’t be sure of what she meant, but I’m inclined to think that she must have been referring to the whirlwind that was our aunt’s Old World–trotting love life, which must have made our romance-starved mother positively grind her teeth in envy.

  Our mother’s self-absorption didn’t mean she didn’t love us—but it did affect how she expressed that love. Her views on what would serve us best were always tinted by what would serve her, and what she believed she would want if she were in our shoes. From our mother’s point of view, Estella couldn’t ask for a better catch: a scion of the Sono Jaya empire who showered his girlfriend with gifts and couldn’t bear to have her out of his sight; who, for her birthday, booked out an entire French restaurant so they could dine alone and presented her at the night’s end with seven tiny sky-blue boxes from Tiffany’s—a pair of earrings for each day of the week.

  Our mother practically fainted when Estella told her about it. “How romantic!” she gushed over the phone. “Your father never did anything like that. The nicest thing he gave me when we were dating was a dozen red roses. Oh, and a pearl necklace, but that’s all. Len must be very serious about you, Stell.”

  He was. And what Estella didn’t tell our mother (and what Leonard probably didn’t tell his) was that his present also included a trip to New York and a suite at the Plaza for two. Even if she had, I doubt it would have made a difference. Our mother would have found a way to feign innocence about their impropriety. She was head over heels herself. Even more so when Tante Elise called to say hello and thus discreetly confirm that her son’s interest in Estella was family-sanctioned. The two women began exchanging gifts: gourmet mooncakes in autumn; hotel-bakery Christmas treats in December; Japanese peaches, Ibérico ham, and jars of XO sauce just because.

  From our father we heard not so much as a peep about the whole affair. “Everything all right?” he’d ask whenever our mother put him on the phone, and upon receiving an answer in the affirmative, he’d pass the phone back to her with a faint and receding “Good.”

  During the midyear break, Leonard’s mother and ours organized a joint family dinner in Jakarta. The Angsonos insisted on hosting. Their cook used to be head chef at one of the five-star resorts in Nusa Dua, Bali. As if consciously conforming to stereotype, the mothers chatted amicably while the fathers ate in good-natured silence. Leonard held Estella’s hand under the table. I felt queasy the whole night.

  In the meantime, despite Leonard’s lavish presents and gestures, his behavior continued to worsen. He demanded to know what she was doing at all times. Whenever she tried to get back on track with her studies, he accused her of neglecting him. Still, Estella made no attempt at flight. How could she? With every concern that sprang up, our mother did too, like a vigilant nursemaid, to lay it gently, maternally to rest. Leonard’s obsession with always having Estella at his side, Ma explained, was a healthy jealousy, an indication of his complete devotion. “Would you rather he didn’t care at all about where you went, who you were with?” Ma asked. Similarly, Leonard’s rage over Estella getting her hair cut short into a bob without his permission signaled his knowledge of fashion and style: “Darling, you’re so lucky. It’s so rare to find a man who cares about such things. Your father wouldn’t notice if I decided to cut off my head.” Ma wasn’t even fazed by Leonard’s destruction of Estella’s entomology textbook after Estella had dared to open it while they were watching TV. “I wish your father worried half as much about me overworking myself,” Ma sighed.

  Leonard detested Estella’s interest in insects especially. He couldn’t understand it, found it childish and unattractive, as unbecoming to a woman, he said, as a fondness for beer or too much makeup. (“I told you it wasn’t ladylike to play with bugs,” affirmed our mother.) I suspect that Leonard disliked Estella’s affinity for bugs all the more because it linked her intimately with me, and he hated me. Yes, I would use that word “hate,” for, as the sentiment grew, it became painfully obvious. Looking back, I’m impressed that he tried to disguise it for so long; I never saw a trace of such restraint ever again. When he first started visiting, he acknowledged my presence, though his lack of genuine interest was plain enough. Then he began to politely ignore me, which in a way I preferred because by that time I wasn’t just wary; I was genuinely frightened. Our mother kept Estella aslumber, swaddling her in gossamer as if for a spider’s snack, but the more I saw of Leonard and his effect on my sister, the more terrified I became. I did try to counter our mother’s efforts—to rouse Estella and open her eyes—but Leonard must have got wind of it because he began to tell my sister he couldn’t stand me at all. If the three of us were in the same room, he would fume and brood and make nasty quips. To him, I must have seemed the devil incarnate: whispering unfavorable things about him into Estella’s ear, exhorting her to get back on track with her studies, encouraging her lurid fascination with disgusting creepy-crawlies, trying—oh, trying!—to tug her away from him, anything to get her away! He had no idea what a poor threat I actually was, how little influence I wielded, how successful he and our mother had been in binding her closer and closer to him.

  * * *

  I still remember the night I knew it was all over for Estella. It was toward the end of our sophomore year, and one of the rare times when she and I were alone together. Leonard’s ridiculousness had reached the point where he refused to let Estella do anything without him—not that she had that many other options. His constant demand for her undivided attention had strangled what little social life she’d had. But that night, Leonard had drunk a tad too much and fallen asleep on our sofa, his baby cheeks quivering with every snore, his slack body bathed in the light of the end credits from the Bruce Willis movie he’d been watching.

  Estella had muted the television and crept to the kitchen, where I was studying, as usual.

  “He’s asleep,” she’d explained, putting her finger to her lips. And she made us hot, sugary ginger drinks from sachets we’d purchased at an Asian grocery store.

  Lowering herself into a chair, she shifted my microeconomics textbook toward her and began flipping through it.

  “I’m taking this class, aren’t I?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” I said with a disconsolate shrug. “You know, the final exam is next week.”

  She sighed as she scanned one page after another. “I’m so behind, I have no idea what’s going on.”

  I averted my eyes and shrugged again.

  When I looked up, I saw that Estella was weeping—quietly, almost hastily, as if she were trying to get through it as quickly as possible. The table where we sat was next to the window, and she pressed her cheek flush against the cool of the glass. Tears slid across her face, following gravity’s tilt.

  “Oh, Stell,” I whispered. “Can’t you leave him?”

  Slowly, she shook her head, rolling it against the glass back and forth as if she didn’t have the energy to lift it even for a moment. And I began to cry too because I knew then how final it was, that I’d lost her for good. Impossible, I thought at the time, and even now, more than a decade later, I think the same thing. How did it happen so quickly? A mere year and a half, and my sister was no longer mine, or hers for that matter—so captive she couldn’t make a break for it even though, deep down, she knew that she should.

  “Gwendolyn. Help,” she whispered.

  “I tried,” I sobbed back.

  Tried, I said. Past tense. I had already admitted defeat.

  “Why do you love him?” I asked, mad at her, at him, at myself. And when she didn’t answer right away, I rephrased the question, voice vibrating with fury. “Look what he’s done to you,
Stell. And think about what he’ll do later. This is only the start. How can you let this happen?”

  She cast a weary glance in the direction of the doorway, beyond which Leonard dozed. “Because he loves me,” she said finally. “He loves me so much. You can’t take love like that for granted. You can’t just throw it away.”

  A shiver ran through me. She didn’t really believe that, did she?

  “It’s not real love, Stell. It can’t be.”

  She was looking out at the garden now, and in the glass I saw a rueful smile flicker across her lips. “What choice do we have about the form love takes?”

  As I lie here on life support, it’s becoming crystal clear to me now—in a way it could never have been in the midst of it, in the thick of our youth. Yes, I see it illuminated and painful to look upon: that dogged faithfulness of Estella’s, which, once implanted, would endure, despite the eventual absence of reciprocation, despite the future revelation of disturbing truths.

  My sister, by the age of twenty, had been colonized—by Leonard now, but by our family long before. And it might not have turned out badly in the end if any of them had recognized that loyalty for the rare prize it was. Instead, they wound her love up and set it going without a second thought, never considering that it would tick on even if they forgot about her, like some lonely clock at the world’s end with no one to tell the hours and minutes to.

  “Doll,” she murmured. “I’m sorry for how all this has turned out.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Stell,” I whimpered, partly scoffing, partly scared.

  “No, Doll. Listen to me.” Her voice was still low, but sharper, more urgent. “I’m sorry we can’t be together anymore. Not really. Not in the way we always have been.”

  I shook my head, though I knew it was true. She leaned forward and gripped my hand. “I’ll miss you, Doll.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” I echoed, sealing my surrender and hers.

  How surreal it all seems now, and how dramatic, but could it have ever been anything else? When you’re barely out of adolescence, life is pitched at an intensity you rarely experience again. That night, Leonard snored on for another two hours before suddenly snorting awake and calling for Estella. Until then, she sat with me and we read together, she comprehending what she could of consumer surplus, then of the insect vascular system.

  That was the last real moment we shared as sisters before the marriage. The next day, Estella’s awareness of doom had been submerged. She submitted to Leonard’s fondlings absentmindedly; she took his temper tantrums in her stride. When summer vacation came around, the two mothers decided it was out of the question to separate Leonard and Estella for even a day. At the invitation of our family, Leonard joined us on a two-week cruise around Northern Europe. He strolled on the deck every sun-bathed evening, arm in arm with Estella and our mother. He joined our uncles and father for blackjack and baccarat every night in the ship’s casino. Afterward, Estella stayed in Los Angeles for three weeks with the Angsonos, lunching and shopping with Leonard and his family on Rodeo Drive, accompanying Leonard’s mother to galleries to select art for the house his parents had recently bought.

  Once back in Jakarta, Leonard and Estella exchanged visits often, sometimes staying at each other’s place for several days at a time (in separate bedrooms of course—whatever the families might have guessed about the extent of Leonard and Estella’s premarital intimacy, they didn’t want to encourage it). It was Leonard’s last summer before graduation, and he really should have been doing another internship to prepare him for his entry into the family business. Even our cousin Ricky had been bundled off to do a stint at the not-yet-defunct Barings in Singapore. But Leonard was an only child, spoiled rotten by his mother and unchecked by his father, who, though not indulgent, left Leonard’s rearing in the care of his wife. And so Leonard chose to wallow in idleness and made Estella wallow there as well, reducing their lives to an interminable series of movie watchings, mall frequentings, swimming pool circlings, and lazy lunches and dinners.

  Miraculously, Estella scraped by with straight Ds rather than flunking entirely. (I, on the other hand, got straight As thanks to all the free time I had.) The new school year began, and their relationship-by-commute resumed, but with one difference: Leonard proposed, a month after classes started. They were to be married after his graduation, in spring the following year. Naturally both sets of parents knew before Estella did. Naturally the proposal fulfilled all the requirements for “romantic”: an enormous diamond ring from Cartier, selected by Leonard’s mother; an expensive candlelit dinner at the French Laundry in the Napa Valley; Leonard down on one knee. Swept up in planning for the wedding, Estella neglected schoolwork completely, which wasn’t a problem, since after the marriage, at Leonard’s insistence, she would discontinue her studies altogether.

  To my parents’ credit, they put up resistance on this matter. Our father, bookish in his life before our mother, was the closest to outraged we’d ever seen. Our university-educated mother was indignant as well. It was a serious matter, so she took it up directly with Leonard’s folks to see if they could reason with their son. But Tante Elise only offered profound apologies. There was no changing Leonard’s mind, she said. And besides, perhaps he had a point. Estella attending Berkeley while Leonard was working in Jakarta would be disruptive at a time when they should be laying the foundation for the rest of their life together. She could resume her education in later years after the couple was firmly on their feet. Anyway (and this Leonard’s mother said gently), it wasn’t as if Estella was doing well in school. Didn’t it make more sense for Estella to return to studying when she was more settled, when she wouldn’t be distracted by the glorious tumult of young love? She herself had married Leonard’s father straight out of high school, and she had no regrets. Our mother, I’m ashamed to say, allowed herself to be bullied into agreement, and she in turn extracted resigned compliance from my father. The Angsono–Sulinado alliance was on the verge of being complete, and it was too late to stand in its way.

  * * *

  Estella and Leonard tied the knot in July 1993, in a midmorning ceremony for close relatives and friends at Leonard’s family’s church—an enormous three-spired cathedral in central Jakarta. A traditional Chinese tea ceremony was conducted for both families in the early evening, followed by a dinner reception for a thousand guests—nothing in comparison to the over-the-top weddings of this day and age, but more than respectable by early-nineties standards.

  The reception was held in one of the luxury hotels the Angsonos owned shares in—I confess, I’ve forgotten which one. I was a wreck that night; I’d been sleeping poorly for weeks and had barely eaten for days. I’m surprised I can recall anything at all. But I do remember the ballroom was enormous, with large glass doors that opened out onto a manicured garden through which peacocks freely roamed. From my recollection of the heavy wooden beams and gilt Javanese carvings that graced the ceilings, I infer the hotel must have been one of the older ones in the city—a grand relic of the 1970s, past its prime but imposing nevertheless.

  Even when one spends so much time sifting through the past, certain memories are bound to be more vivid than others. Two scenes from that night stand out in my mind. The first, to my embarrassment, is a portrait of self-indulgence: Me standing in the bathroom of a hotel room just after the tea ceremony, crying myself completely dry so I will be bankrupt of tears for the remainder of the night. My face is a mess and my eyes look like they’re hemorrhaging ink, but I’ll wash up and ring the professional makeup artist we’re keeping on call for an emergency redo. In the meantime, the salt water running down my cheeks feels good. Refreshing, even though my foundation is caked on so thick I’m surprised I can sense anything at all on the surface of my skin.

  The second scene is more sinister, sparked by a bloodcurdling scream from the garden beyond the ballroom’s glass doors. There’s a flurry of activity: security guards and waitstaff flocking to the area, along with the bold
er and more curious of the guests. When it’s clear that whatever caused the kerfuffle isn’t dangerous enough to warrant an evacuation, I surprise myself by trotting outside to take a look before anyone can stop me. It’s by the footpath on the far side of the lawn, and not so much “it,” but “they.” Many pieces. Chunks of meat, slimy and bloody and plumaged in iridescent blue. The victim’s tail feathers are strewn around and on top of the pile of flesh, as are the organs—a riot of violated beauty. To cap it all off, a very long, fine-looking feather has been skewered erect into the center of the heap, its gold-rimmed iris of indigo and turquoise gleaming in the dim garden lights like an incongruously merry eye, its delicate green hairs waving back and forth like a baby palm frond in the night breeze. In the distance are two running figures, looming closer, holding a plastic tarp stretched between them, as if the peacock is still alive and they’re trying to bring it into captivity. Only as the tarp descends over the heap do I catch a glimpse of the message propped at its base, scrawled on cardboard in marker, or possibly blood.

  POTONG ORANG CINA MASAK DI KUALI

  The opening lines of that ubiquitous children’s song about slaughtering a goose, but with “Chinaman” substituted for the bird to be chopped up and cooked in the pot.

  Someone escorts me back into the ballroom.

  I don’t know if they ever caught the culprit. If I had to guess, it was probably a nobody nursing a grudge—a disgruntled low-level employee, perhaps, whose toe had been crushed by the great rolling wheels of one of our families’ businesses. This was the kind of thing that would have been attended to without bothering the women of the families, or, beyond a certain point, the men. Our grandfather or one of our uncles might have politely asked a non-Chinese, pribumi acquaintance to “look into it”—perhaps a high-ranking officer in the Jakarta police force. Or if the Angsonos had handled it, they might have approached one of the army officials they knew.