“You’re in luck, you know. This is happening at the best time,” Otto told her. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. These little gestures were the most life Melati had seen in her instructor outside of dance. He was almost boyish, but for the way his strong legs filled his trousers and the salt-and-pepper hairs that combed over his rippling forearms. Still, the way his eyes caught the light through the plane window revealed to her for the first time some other color in his irises than flint gray. She also never knew he had a gold-capped incisor, because apparently nothing in the last several weeks had given him reason to smile this broadly. Melati felt a little naive, having taken the expat at face value, not having enough curiosity to try to see beyond how he chose to present himself. She interpreted this as a lack of curiosity on her part, rather than as Otto being intentionally deceptive and withholding his true self.
Her eyes slid off his grinning cheekbones and out the window. She had never been on a passenger jet before, only a few puddle-jumpers and long, dilapidated boats that heaved to one side, when her family had call to visit Bali or Lombok a few years ago. This, however, was almost entirely unlike anything she’d experienced before. The VIP bus up to Surabaya, she’d done that, yes, but she hadn’t been in Juanda International Airport before. It looked like a glimpse of futuristic life, a movie on TV, or what she pictured the rest of the world took for granted. Even though it was an important part of her island, the airport smelled wrong: the heady fumes of jet fuel, the sting of formaldehyde preserving Western clothing for sale in every other shop, and a great preponderance of cleaning fluid like she’d never seen before in her own town. The airport was less a hub connecting Jogjakarta to the world and more an invasion, the colonial outpost of a rapacious mentality of consumption and conversion.
But Otto had insisted on performing in Berlin. He’d made some calls and rattled off a stream of names—“My good friend Karlheinz at Neustart Kultur has been eager to hear from me,” he’d told her, eyes glinting again, “and we can reserve a space for a week at Katapult.”—that he clearly expected to mean something to her. She was happy to see him so happy, but as he got happier she realized that she would be lifted away from her community, buoyed only on his happiness.
Her mother was pleased to see that the girl would get some exposure to the larger world, “the better to hone your appreciation for your own people and heritage.” Not so her father, who wondered aloud whether this was really necessary. He had followed her dancing closely, peeking with one rheumy eye through a dirty window to see the tussle between rasa, German traditionalism, and the influence of hip-hop. As far as he was concerned, Melati was only getting closer to performing with him, father and daughter, for evenings of gamelan, wayang kulit, and bedhaya like no one had seen in a long time. “Just come back to me in one piece,” he urged, cupping her jaw in his wrinkled hands, before hiding himself in his room for a full day until she left.
Otto’s hand clapped to her knee, snapping her out of her reverie. He grinned at her as though expecting her to mirror his excitement, then fumbled with his chest pocket. “Here, you’ll need this for takeoff and landing.” He handed her half a stick of foil-wrapped gum, something that smelled like bananas over the jet exhaust in the cold cabin air.
“Why does it have to be so cold in here?” she asked him. Rather than explain, he half-rose and flagged down a stewardess to ask for a blanket. Embarrassed at the attention and the hassle, Melati tried to swat him back down into his seat, but the German got his way and soon the top half of her was bundled in something more like a shawl than a blanket. He even shut off the direct stream of air shooting at her head, something she had dismissed as an artifact of the plane. This was easy to do: after transitioning from the familiar setting of Surabaya to the glassy, glossy, futuristic interior of the airport, walking aboard this immense plane was tantamount to surrendering herself to the god of technology and the religion of other nations’ culture. She wondered whether she would see her family again, and if she did, whether it would truly be herself who returned from Germany.
When she woke up—she did not recall falling asleep, only Otto rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms—they had touched down at Berlin Brandenberg Airport. If she had been impressed by the international hub in Surabaya, it was nothing to the awe she experienced in this location. Everything was so spacious, everything was at right angles, all the materials were golden wood doing things she’d never seen before, facing off with large, hollow rectangles of concrete or something like it. She saw a large, gold-plated sports car mounted on a glowing dais, then a black car and another one deep-green, all on their little altars. Was the airport so large they needed to race around in it? Apparently not, since there was also a train that drove straight into the building. Just when she was about to pass out from the strange concepts, a familiar sight brought her back down to earth: Otto bought her a cup of coffee at Starbucks, which wasn’t good but it was comforting.
In a taxi they raced out through a brown, crinkly landscape, surprisingly plain after the opulent cathedral of the airport. “Raced” was an understatement: more like they flew too low to the ground up BAB 113 toward Berlin. Melati buried her face in Otto’s shoulder, waiting for a wheel to spin off the car or a cow to stumble in their way, which would surely be the end of all of them. He only chuckled at her, wrapping his strong, warm arms around her shoulders. Her folded hands, under her chin, rested upon his pectoral muscle, through which she could hear his heart beating lazily, uneventfully. That he could take this ungodly speed so naturally, that he thought nothing of those exciting angles and innovative concepts of lighting in the airport … these told Melati even more about the wry, knotted little man who had intruded on her life with his angular dance style and sense of rightness.
Still, she did take comfort in crushing that hard little body between her thighs. That was a pleasant thought, and she let her mind’s eye fly back a week, returning to the sight of his strong little arms, shimmering with her juices, struggling to part her huge, thick labia. The determination with which he widened her vulva, no matter how he slipped and fumbled in her lubrication, really touched and excited her. The little man wanted inside, and she wanted to feel him, give him a good, hard squeeze with her femininity and teach him a lesson.
Soon, the taxi dumped them off at their hotel, and it was Otto’s show abruptly. He jabbered away in his tongue, had someone else grab their bags (of which Melati had only needed one, yet Otto insisted she bring a second for souvenirs), and then they piled into their room, smelling of soap and linen and missing the mosquito spray, but neither did it have any mosquitos, so Melati would learn to adjust. Even more, now, Otto was more Otto and less her dance instructor, as if his own Germanic rasa had been recharged by the environment. He chucked her under the chin, slapped her buttock, and offered her a steady stream of fruit juices, chocolates, snack crackers, time alone in the shower, time with him in the shower, or anything else she could want. “Rest up,” he insisted, “and expect the jet lag to disable you for half a day.” Whatever that meant. In the end, she did let him know that it was okay for him to step out and meet his contacts, while she curled up under a pile of brocaded quilts and tried to block out the stern jabber of the TV set.
She woke up while it was dark out, whether morning or night she couldn’t tell. Otto was not with her, though his folded clothes on the chair across from the bed told her that he’d been here. The TV was off and there was yet another bottle of fruit soda on the nightstand. At least it tasted like real fruit, for which she was grateful. The Western goods she’d had in Jogja all tasted like chemicals, so maybe they hadn’t come from Germany.
Apparently she’d passed out again and Otto, barely able to contain his excitement, had really strained himself by letting her sleep in until 4 p.m. This must be what he meant by jet lag.
They toured the facility at Katapult, which looked both spacious and professional, and like something where children would practice. “This is where we’re dancing tomorrow?”
“Tonight,” he said. “You lost a full day. We have four hours to run through the routine, if we were going to. Rather, I think would be easier on you to give you leave to perform however you’re most comfortable. Exercise your own rasa.” He rubbed her shoulder and stepped away to talk to a tall, lean man in a shirt and pants that hung on him like curtains. Melati was fascinated by his look and could only respond with “yes” and “no” when he wanted to learn about her performance. Otto assured him, “It will be all her tonight. Tomorrow, I will step in and interfere and make her miserable, but tonight I think we should learn more about the girl, as she chooses to teach us.” He winked at her then, which surprised her so much she let out a yelp.
They went out to dinner before the show. He assured her that it was not a fancy repast, but the bone meal soup was much richer than what she was used to. The bread was excellent, however, so much so it almost made her cry. She tried a sip of red wine and found she liked it; he shoved a small shot glass of transparent liquid over to her, but the way he and his friends leered in anticipation told her she’d better not try it. Melati didn’t understand why they all needed to point out how late she’d slept today. If Otto could explain the concept of jet lag to her, surely they could all grasp it as well.
It never occurred to her to be self-conscious about her clothes, but during a quiet moment she looked around the restaurant at how people dressed in Berlin. It was a lot like how the warang asing dressed in Jogja, but more so: more layers, heavier fabrics, longer sleeves and pants, and less color than they displayed back home. She liked her sarong well enough, but she wondered whether it stood out so very badly; she planned to ask Otto tomorrow to take her shopping for jeans, at least.
Melati had felt rushed when Otto asked her a few times whether she was done with her meal, yet everyone else apparently agreed to leave the restaurant at once and show up at the studio before 7 p.m., the time they’d tossed around over her head. Though she didn’t know Otto’s friends very well, their voices were surprisingly stern as they reminded her that they had to be there at 7 p.m. to be ready for the show by 8 p.m. “I’m not a child,” she insisted, understanding their words through Otto’s translation, but if anything their tone tightened toward her. She tried to remember and pronounce their surnames, which was tricky for her as the sounds and patterns eluded her, yet they perpetually reminded her to address them by their given names. Melati couldn’t help but wonder if this trip was a tremendous mistake. Several times she looked to her instructor for advice or support, but he was always turned toward someone else, speaking faster than she’d ever seen him do before.
Katapult stood among a block of stern, identical buildings in light yellow, light orange, and shades of gray. It was difficult for her to imagine people living in these, unlike the open-front homes in her neighborhood, where families lounged in their exposure to their environment. There was one red car parked on the side of the road, practically glowing with individuality in a line of off-white, silver, gray, and black cars as far as she could see. Otto’s friends crowded around him as they walked up the sidewalk and let themselves into the building. She appreciated Karlheinz holding the door open for her, even if he no longer made eye contact with her. Otto introduced Melati to the director of the studio, who clasped her hands together, gave a short bow, and said “namaste.” Melati supposed this was just her personal style.
“Why did we have to rush here,” she asked Otto, when they had a moment alone.
“You were taking your time with your meal,” he said. There was no special tone in his voice, but it sounded like he was assuming she knew something she didn’t.
“I thought you said we had to be here at 7 p.m.”
“Yes, and so we had to hurry to get here by 7 p.m.”
Melati didn’t even know how to frame her question. When something started at 7 p.m., you showed up after that. There was a divide forming between her and her dance instructor, and she didn’t know why.
They examined the room where the performance would take place; already, people who looked like they were dressed for the restaurant were showing up, regarding Melati and her clothes with strange grins. “Should I be wearing something different for the show?” she asked Otto.
“Nein, you’re beautiful, liebchen. Just as you are, that is how you should dress and how you should dance tonight.”
She looked up at the ceiling. “I think I shouldn’t invite the naga tonight.”
He looked up as well, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps not. Tomorrow’s performance shall be outdoors. I should have thought of this.” He laughed and shrugged, rubbed her shoulder with one strong palm. That gesture, at least, was comforting. “Pardon my forgetting. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem quite real to me, I’m still adjusting.”
The show, unfortunately, did not go so well. Without summoning the naga, it seemed there was little point to her dance, and if there was little point to it, then she need not adhere strictly to bedhaya style. But when she spread her legs, slapped her soles on the floor, and began twerking to the music, the audience did not seem pleased at all. Women conferred with men and Karlheinz guided Otto behind the crowd for a quick discussion. It’s not like it was easy to dance to this musical selection, anyway. Melati hadn’t been consulted, and the house DJ was playing selections of K-pop and Bollywood, which didn’t make sense to her at all. There was no rasa here, with the foreign music and the unhappy people ringing the room. The only remotely familiar thing to this environment were the glossy stone floors, thankfully. She tried to control her breathing and lapsed into the stiff, angular procession of steps that Otto had hammered into her the past few weeks, hoping these would please the attendees. Instead, she caught Otto’s expression in the back of the room. He wasn’t smiling and his eyes no longer glittered. If anything, it looked like he had something important to say to her, but now was not the time.
After an agonizing hour, the show had concluded and the jarring music was stilled. Whatever the attendees were expecting, it was clear they hadn’t received it, as they collected their coats in silence and found other things to look at, in this large, white, spartan room. When they had to walk by Melati, they either wished her goodnight in their own tongue or, weirdly, told her “namaste” like the director. One person slipped an “ooga-booga” at her but turned and left before she could react.
Germans be damned, she needed Otto now. She slipped through two rows of metal folding chairs and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the red-faced Karlheinz. “What is the meaning of this?” Otto hissed at her, after frantically apologizing to his friend.
“I want to go back to the hotel,” she said. “I feel sick.”
“You should feel sick! What happened in that performance? I couldn’t recognize anything you were doing, except for that ungodly thing with your posterior. I should have forbidden you from those moves. I thought you had more sense than that.”
Melati frowned darkly. “What was that music? We’ve never practiced to anything like that before, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.”
“You couldn’t use your, your, your rasa to pull you through that Asian musical selection? How different could it be, really?” He chortled, briefly.
She felt like she’d been slapped. Words wouldn’t come to her throat anymore. She turned away and stalked off to where she thought remembered the exits were. Her instructor rushed up from behind, grabbed her arm, and at her glance released it as though it burned him. “What has gotten into you? It’s like you’ve forgotten everything we’ve been working on for all these weeks. Worse, it’s like you’ve forgotten who you are.”
“Why, because I didn’t put on my amusing little show for your gawking friends, staring at the funny little brown girl?”
He took a step back. “Oh, that’s not it at all. They're not like that at all.”
“The music? Namaste? Making me dress up unlike everyone else in the city? This whole night was a disaster, and I don’t think I want to dance here again.”
“We’ve booked three more days! You can’t back out now.” Now, finally, his face melted from the uncharacteristic amusement Berlin brought out in him and stiffened into the scrutinizing, judgmental expression that had followed her around the gymnasium.
“You can’t make me, Otto.” She smiled darkly at him. “You really can’t make me. You know what I mean. I won’t do anything I don’t want to, and no one in this bizarre city can make me.” The idea of kicking in all those glass and concrete buildings was suddenly very appealing.
He nudged up his tiny glasses and sucked a long breath in through his nostrils. “I’ll get us a cab.” He waved off his friend without a second glance and offered Melati his elbow, and they made their way out to the street.
Lights glowed on their faces in bursts as they rode back to the hotel. “I won’t do that again, Otto. That was humiliating. It’s like I was supposed to act like I usually am, but everyone treated me like … I don’t know how to describe it.”
He raised his palm. “Okay, tell me what you need from me.”
She was momentarily overwhelmed by everything that came to mind. “Don’t rush me when I’m eating. If you need me somewhere before 7 p.m., don’t tell me to be there at 7 p.m.”
His eyes blinked behind the little lenses, and slowly he nodded. “When someone gives you their first name, you have to use it.”
“But … they’re older than me.”
He shrugged. “You have to. It’s polite. And when you need something, liebchen, I need you to tell me what that is.”
“You know me well enough by now.”
“Melati, please.” He pinched her chin and turned her toward me. “That’s not how we work here. I need you to tell me, clearly.”
“I’ll try to remember.” She pouted and watched the boxy, washed out buildings sailing past the window. “And we need to talk about the music. What the hell was that.”
She felt his warm palm clasp her thigh, and she rested her hand upon his.