“There was not much time for sleep,” Azmi said, “with so much work to be done.”
Deni nodded in agreement, but his brow furrowed and I blinked.
I cringed, flashing on the mass graves. Deni and Azmi hauling bodies out of the muck.
And Deni with no place to go home to after.
Perhaps to change the conversation to something lighter, Azmi said, “Many celebrities were here after the tsunami. I forget their names, but they were from a strange religion to do with science?”
“Scientology?” I guessed.
“Yes! They set up booth and tried to convert Muslims to their way of thinking. One of the famous American movie stars was here!”
Deni laughed for the first time all day. “They were surprised when they were asked to leave Aceh.”
I rubbed my head, embarrassed. How obnoxious. No wonder Dad insisted:
We are here to help with their PTSD, not to comment about religion, customs or anything else. Would we want Indonesians coming to El Angel Miguel and criticizing how we live? Always be respectful.
Then Deni said, “So many Westerners offered to adopt tsunami orphans that the Indonesian government declared no non-Muslims could adopt the children.”
Bapak added, “It was very important, especially after disaster, to keep our culture for the children.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
And then Azmi asked randomly, “You know Arnold Schwarzenegger?” He dipped his fingers in the water bowl and then pantomimed someone shooting a machine gun.
I laughed. “Well, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen some of his old movies.”
After dinner, we took a walk, Deni, Siti, Azmi and me. I was completely aware of Deni’s hand swinging closely to mine as we walked. When we passed a tall, smooth tree with hairy twigs and huge yellow and orange flowers, Deni stopped short. I stayed with him as Azmi and Siti kept walking.
“It is
a jeumpa
tree.
Jeumpa
flowers.” He picked a flower and held it close for me to smell. “You remember the song the little girls sing at the
pesantren?”
Deni asked quietly, his eyes lighting up. “It is the song of their homeland. See?” Deni stroked the smooth bark of the tree. “The song is about this flower. It only grows here. In Aceh.”
I breathed in the sugary scent, taking a mental picture of this moment, this place. I paused on Deni’s face, memorizing the way he was looking at me for when we weren’t together anymore.
He moved a lock of my hair and tucked the flower behind my ear.
BARGAINING
I’d seen some movies where they depict refugee camps, but nothing like this.
After the
jeumpa
tree, we reached a field dotted with hundreds of canvas tents. They were set up on a flat piece of land that must have been dozens of acres.
I couldn’t believe six months after the tsunami, people were still living in tents.
Deni, Siti and Azmi pointed out a bunch of construction sites beyond the camp, telling me stories as tractors moved mud and trucks rolled down the road carrying long pieces of wood. Hammering and sawing buzzed in the distance.
“It looks so different,” Deni said, looking around in amazement. “So changed since I left for Yogyakarta. The reconstruction hadn’t begun.” As we walked, canvas tents were on either side of us, many small ones and a few larger ones. Children were playing outside and then running back inside the tents.
A goat walked by attached to a rope. A skinny boy led the way.
A chicken squawked, and I noticed coops near several of the larger canvas tents. A closer look told me doves were inside.
“Some birds have beautiful singing voices and enter competitions,” Deni told me. “My
ibu
kept doves when I was a boy. She would buy cassette tapes of famous doves singing and play them for our pets so they could learn to copy the beautiful voices.
“We have a folk story that says, ‘A man is only considered a man if he has a house, a wife, a horse, a
keris—
a dagger—and a singing dove in a cage.’” He pointed down the street. “There used to be a bird market a way down the road. I wonder if it is still there.”
A thought hit me as I checked out the long row of dirty cages and noisy birds:
Bird flu.
One of Bev’s warnings and here I was maybe in the heart of it. I asked Deni about the outbreak. He nodded worriedly. “We will stay away from the bird market if you wish.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
His arms swung casually by his sides, but his face drew tense. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I think we should start asking in the tents for my father,” he said quietly.
“Should Azmi and Siti help too?” I said, my voice low.
“They will look and ask too, but still they say they have not heard that my father is alive.”
“Well. We’re not giving up yet,” I said. “What should I do?”
“You ask, ‘Rahmad—father of Deni.”’ His voice cracked when he said it. My hands sweated nervously for him. This was huge.
“Okay,” I said. “The NGO tents start over there ...”
“NGO?”
“Nongovernment agencies—it’s what World Doctors is.”
The first tent was big and bright yellow. Deni opened the canvas door flap and entered. I followed him in.
A woman, dressed in a powder blue sari and black pants, was sitting behind a small counter. She smiled warmly at us, and Deni asked her something in I assumed Acehnese. People were lined up on the floor, but instead of sitting in chairs, they were resting on bended knees. A woman nursed a young baby, a man held a cloth on his bleeding hand, a couple of kids looked woozy, like they might throw up—their mother was fussing over them. This was obviously a medical tent.
Then a woman came in that I instantly recognized. “Hiya, Sienna, hello, Deni. How are you doing?”
“Amelia,” I said, feeling at ease. She asked too many questions, but maybe she could help us.
“What brings you here?” she asked.
I glanced over at Deni, who was still talking to the woman behind the desk. She was digging through papers while Deni looked on anxiously.
“Deni’s looking for his father.... Well ... he’s asking around to see if anyone has heard from him.”
“His father? Does he have reason to believe his father is alive?”
I nodded. “That’s the reason we came,” I whispered, smelling her vanilla perfume. “Someone is looking for him here.... Don’t say anything to him, please.... I don’t think he wants to talk about it. I mean, unless he asks you about it first.”
“I haven’t heard anyone asking for a Deni, but I’ll keep my ears open, and I won’t say a word.”
“Thanks.”
“While you’re here, would you like to have a look around? Your father will be arriving soon, no?”
My face flushed. “Oh yes. Really soon,” I lied. “Deni? I’m going with Amelia, you want to come?”
“I will catch up,” he said.
I hated leaving him, but I was curious about the NGOs that I’d heard so much about from Dad. So I followed Amelia to the green tent next door, a feeding tent, which was not much more than a line of people waiting for food. A few people worked behind a long table—scooping cups of porridge out of huge tin pots into bowls. One woman handed out one hard-boiled egg to each person in line; another man handed out one biscuit each.
“We try and get fresh fish, fruit and vegetables when we can,” Amelia said. “Today was a bad day,” she added to explain the simple dinner. I thought about the delicious meal we had back at Azmi’s and felt guilty.
Back outside, a Land Rover, just like Azmi’s, screamed by, blaring a siren.
“That’s the ambulance,” Amelia said. “They’re bringing in a new patient. I’ve got to dash—please stop by later if you get a chance, and good luck finding Deni’s dad.” She waved over her shoulder as she ducked back into the medical tent.
A few minutes later Deni met up with me, Azmi and Siti outside. “The Land Rovers are ambulances?” I asked.
“Yes,” Deni said. “They were donated after.”
“Were we driving in an ambulance all day?”
“Ibu works for the clinic sometimes,” Azmi said. “I asked if we could use it. It’s very exciting Deni returned. People who left Aceh do not return.”
A heavy silence fell before I asked Deni, “Did that lady know anything about your father?”
“No.” He shook his head, frustrated. “After all that, no.”
I looked down at the row of tents. If we went together, it would take too long.
“Let’s split up. Me and Siti can take the right side of the street, you and Azmi the left. Okay?”
“Terima kasih,”
he said, using my version, his eyes shining with hope.
I had my script ready to go.
“Rhamad—father of Deni?” I asked at the next tent. The woman dug through papers, just like in the medical tent, and shook her head no. No luck at the second tent either, or the third, fourth, fifth. After a dozen or so, Siti and I met back up with the boys. The setting sun cast a shadow across Deni’s face. I could tell he’d had no luck either.
“We should go toward home soon,” he said regretfully.
I wanted so badly to try and make him feel better. “Don’t give up yet. There are still two more to try,” I said.
The four of us walked together through the crowds of people, past chickens and bicycles, in the dusky heat toward a bright orange tent that read REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH.
The boys went across the way into the Red Cross tent, and Siti decided to wait outside. I ducked under the yellow tent’s simple flap. I squeezed my fists tight.
Come on, be the one.
A few girls walked in after me, one carrying a toddler on her hip. They joined a line of women and teenage girls kneeling along the canvas. The tent was set up much like the medical tent. A sleepy-looking woman was sitting behind a card table.
I waited my turn in line. When she asked me if I needed help, I said, “I’m looking, well, my friend is looking for his father ... Rahmad, father of Deni, does that sound familiar?”
She blinked, suddenly wide awake. “Rahmad? Father of Deni?”
“You know him? My friend Deni ... he’s been living at an orphanage in Yogyakarta. Someone called him, from an NGO here, we just don’t know which one....”
Her head tilted to the side as she looked me over. “You’re American?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
She leaned closer. “How old is your friend?”
“Seventeen,” I said.
Her lips closed tightly before she permitted them to open again. “Come back tomorrow.”
“So? Do you know something about him?”
Her eyes flashed wildly, but she said in a calm voice, “Tomorrow, you return.”
I didn’t know what to tell Deni. The woman didn’t tell me anything, but it was obvious she knew
something.
I decided it was better not to get Deni’s hopes up based on a strange woman’s odd behavior. I’d just go back tomorrow like she said.
It was late by the time we walked the long way back to Siti and Azmi’s house, and everything was dark and still. I felt Azmi’s and Siti’s curious eyes on us as we walked home in the dark and again now in the front room. Siti excused herself, and then Azmi and Deni spoke intensely in their language that I didn’t understand.
I stood there awkwardly while they talked, staring at two thin mats that replaced the bamboo tea spread on the floor, the yellow moon glowing outside the open window.
Azmi finally left the room, shooting me his standard hang loose.
I raised my eyebrows at Deni. “What was that all about?” I asked.
“He’s wondering about you. About us.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Raking his fingers through his hair, he shrugged.
“So that’s it? I’m a shrug to you?” I teased.
“Yes,” he teased back. “That is all.”
The room was steamy hot. “Who is sleeping here?” I asked, gesturing toward the bamboo mats.
“You,” he said. “And Siti.”
“Where will you sleep?” I asked him, biting my lip.
“With Azmi,” he said, but didn’t break my gaze. “In the other room.”
I was suddenly very aware that this was our last night together.
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” I whispered.
He lowered his dark eyelashes. “You have special plans for us?”
I couldn’t help but smile back. After the day we’d had, we could use a nice night.
“Maybe ...”
“Ibu and Bapak. They are here. Siti will return after her prayers. And Azmi will be waiting for me.” He looked at me questioningly but moved closer, our chests nearly touching in the shadowed room.
“Then we don’t have much time,” I whispered. I threw my arms around his neck. He pulled me in close. I wanted the whole night together. I wanted everything. But this was what I had: one moment, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I said.
“Then stay.” His voice in my ear was hushed but intense. “You don’t have to go.”
“I can’t.... My dad is probably worried sick. I have to go back.”
I listened for footsteps as he pulled back a bit. He cupped my face in his hands.
“Then I’ll fly to America. I’ll help rebuild my home and I will save money. Sienna, I promise. I will find you.”
I ran my hands down his arms, laced my fingers through his. Invited his face to mine.
His hands roamed down my back, clutching me to him. Hard. Desperate. I reached under his damp T-shirt, covered his heart with my hand. His lips found mine and didn’t stop and didn’t stop and didn’t stop until we heard a clanging in the other room and knew our time was running out.
I kissed his scar, his neck, his ear. “Find me,” I whispered back.
DAY TEN
DEATH
Roosters and the call to prayer woke me at dawn.
My neck was sore. Siti snored quietly beside me. I wanted so badly to turn her into Deni. Most of the night I lay awake in a hot sweat, thinking of him. Remembering his promise:
I will find you.