As I was otherwise detained in England, she related, she needed to find somebody to impregnate her, and so Ritchie was her man of choice. Now, evidently she didn’t think he would be up (in a manner of speaking) for this, and so she gave him a ‘magic potion’ which made him act in the, er, required manner.
Anyway, conception was achieved (although whether this was at the first try or not is sadly unrecorded) and William was the result of it all.
And yet … it still wasn’t the end. So, why? Why and how could someone, anyone, put up with such behaviour, such blatant disrespect and downright absurdity? I wish I could answer that. I wish I knew.
Oh yes, I tried to leave her on a number of occasions or else tried to persuade her to go, but it never worked. Either she bluntly refused to go, or else I had a change of heart and decided that I did love her still and I did want things to be ok again.
My problem was I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of either my love for her or of the memory of the times we shared together. I suppose I also couldn’t let go from hoping that somehow, someday we would have that back again.
I guess this is what having Alzheimer’s disease must be like. I mean, I spent most of my time in a fog-like trance with short spells of clarity and lucidity when I was able to see things as they really were and as other people surely did. In short, I could see her lies for what they were and the fool that I was.
They never lasted long though, these spells. All too soon I was once again lost in a fog of confusion and self-delusion where I convinced myself that everything was fine and she was telling me the truth and that we had a marriage in more than just name alone.
I would go from day to day coping with other aspects of my life – my work, fitness, etc. – and nobody except those closest to me ever suspected anything out of the ordinary. Most people never began to imagine my situation.
Yet even the very small number of people who did know what was going on, those who were the closest to me in Jakarta and to whom I told some, if not everything, of what’d been going on, were unable to assist or advise me in any meaningful way. Nobody could get through to me. Nobody could truly understand what was happening or, more pertinently, why I was allowing these things to happen.
The only explanation I can give to this day is that I felt like this was it. This was my life; the cards I had been dealt with were these and nothing was ever going to change.
Coffee Plus Café, Plaza Indonesia, Jakarta, 2006
Back in the café, on my first date, I was approaching the end of my tale of woe.
I told her how Ritchie was no longer here on a permanent basis. He had a job the other side of Jakarta and rented a room, or kost, closer to his office, only returning sporadically. Yossy still slept in the other room together with the maid and the two children, while I continued to sleep alone in ‘my room’. This arrangement suited us both for now, and I no longer asked her to spend any time with me in that way.
I hadn’t been living the life of a monk, though, and I believed the only way I might ever be in a position to alter my life was by meeting someone through these illicit trysts who I could care for. It didn’t exactly fill me with pride, being unfaithful in this way, but I rationalised it on the basis of ‘needs must’. After all, Yoss and I had not had any sort of physical relationship pretty much since Tess was born.
I had had a few relationships with other girls over the previous few months, and some had meant more than others to me. Some had been brief liaisons, unsavoury and unsatisfactory, but one had left an indelible mark on me, as I explained now in the café.
A short-lived affair with one particular young lady knocked me sideways, as what started as just another roll in the hay got a bit out of hand when I developed feelings for her. It all ended up a bit messy and bounced me off-kilter, to tell the truth.
But back to Yossy: I wished she would just go. I wished she would be strong and make a decision to leave me and to be with Ritchie or to live her life alone, or whatever, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t go even if I tried to kick her out. She said she had no money to go anywhere else and if I insisted on her leaving she would take Tess and go and live in a village somewhere and my daughter would suffer as a result.
She knew I couldn’t accept that and so on it went.
2
Sari’s Story
She called me a bule-mania. I am not a bule-mania, am I? I don’t think I am. I just like bules, that’s all. I think she was cruel to say that. It is the same as calling me a bad girl, and I am not a bad girl, I think.
Do you know what a bule-mania is? Do you know what a bule is? I will tell you. Bule is the name people here in Indonesia give to white men or ladies, expatriates. We call them bule because this word is similar to albino and we think their white skin makes them look like albinos. Some of them don’t like to be called bule and they say it
