Paper Boats Page 4

  “Hey, you’re still here?” asked Kugy, glancing at her watch. It was already past ten.

  “Yeah. Eko’s my ride home, but those two lovebirds need some time to themselves. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Kugy stood and opened the door all the way. “Come in, my good sir!”

  Keenan looked around. He seemed impressed.

  “Surprised? My room is neat, unlike its occupant.”

  “Yeah, I’d never have guessed,” Keenan answered. His eyes came to rest on a framed photo of Kugy’s family.

  “There are a lot of us. We call ourselves ‘The K Family.’ Five kids, and all our names begin with k. This is my oldest brother, Karel, and my older sister, Karin. This is my older brother, Kevin—he’s only a year older than me. And that’s my little sister, Keshia.”

  “Your name is the most unique one, isn’t it?”

  “You mean the strangest!” Kugy laughed. “Seems like my parents had run out of ideas. I guess I’m lucky they didn’t name me Kryptonite or something.”

  “You’re the prettiest one, though.”

  Suddenly, Kugy felt her throat close up. To change the topic, she hastily pointed to the shelf where she kept her comics and fairy tales neatly arranged in rows. “This is just a small part of my collection. There are more in my room at home.”

  “Eko said you like writing fairy tales.”

  “Yeah. It’s been a hobby of mine since I was little.”

  “Have you written a lot?”

  “Quantitatively speaking, yes. But I don’t have a readership. And isn’t that what makes writing meaningful? Having people who read it?” Kugy chuckled. “So far, the only one who gets any enjoyment out of it is me.”

  “How come?”

  “Who wants to read fairy tales?” Kugy laughed again. “If I want readers, maybe I should become a kindergarten teacher. At least I could make them read my stories in class.”

  “A lot of fairy tale writers managed to become famous. And they didn’t have to teach kindergarten to get readers.”

  A small smile appeared on Kugy’s face, as if in reply to that one perpetual question—the answer to which she already knew by heart.

  “Keenan, I’m eighteen. I’m majoring in literature. I want to become a serious writer and to be taken seriously as a writer. I’m surrounded by people who want to win writing contests in magazines for ‘grown-ups,’ or who want to win the Jakarta Arts Council Novel Competition. That’s how you prove you’re a real writer. And in the meantime, my head is filled with characters like Prince Radish, Fairy Celery, and Madam Turmeric the Sorceress. At my age, I should be writing love stories, or stories for teenagers, or stories for adults—”

  “A lot of fairy tales have love in them.”

  “My point is, none of it fits together—my age, my major, my ambitions, what I need to accomplish in order to prove myself, what’s going on inside my head . . .”

  “I still don’t understand.” Keenan folded his arms across his chest.

  “When I was little, wanting to become a fairy tale writer sounded cute. But now that I’m grown up, it just sounds unrealistic and stupid. At the very least, I’ll have to become a serious writer first. Then once I’ve established myself and people begin to see me as a real writer, I can write all the fairy tales I want.”

  “So you want to first become something that you aren’t in order to eventually become who you really are? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. If that’s the path I have to take, then why not?”

  “And you really think those two things fit together?” Keenan asked.

  “In case you didn’t know, there are only a handful of writers who can make a living from writing full-time. Most writers have other jobs—as journalists, or professors, or copywriters at advertising firms. Imagine if you’re an aspiring fairy tale writer! I may be serious about my love for fairy tales, but being a fairy tale writer isn’t a ‘serious’ occupation. A girl’s gotta eat.”

  “You just ate pizza. No problem there, right? You’ll be able to eat.”

  “I have to earn my own living, have a steady income. And then . . . we’ll see.” Kugy’s voice was rising in pitch. “I don’t know what planet you’ve been living on all this time, but on Planet Reality those are the rules of the game.”

  Keenan was quiet. In his mind’s eye he saw the rolled-up canvases that he’d left behind in Amsterdam—his paintings. “You’re right. Those are the rules of the game,” he mumbled.

  The two of them fell silent—long enough for the atmosphere in the room to grow awkward.

  “Maybe I’ll go wait outside. Eko might want to go home soon.” Keenan walked toward the door.

  “Wait,” Kugy blurted. “I want to lend you something.” She opened the small cupboard in her desk and took out a thick bundle of A4 paper bound with metal rings.

  Keenan took the bundle. Written on the front cover were the title and author: A Collection of Fairy Tales from the Chest of Wonders by Kugy Karmachameleon.

  “My brother Karel once gave me an old-fashioned chest, the kind that looks like a treasure chest you see in comic books. He said it had been retrieved from a shipwreck and that it once contained scrolls—historical manuscripts—that had been damaged after being underwater for so long. I was so happy to have that chest. And I was determined to fill it with my own manuscripts, so that the chest would be full again. I wrote with all the energy I had. This went on for years. And here is the result. I’d like you to read it. You can return it whenever you’re done.”

  Keenan looked at Kugy. He was at a loss for words. With great care, he stroked the front cover.

  “I’ve never given it to anyone else,” said Kugy slowly. “I don’t know why I feel I should lend it to someone I just met.”

  “Thank you. And sorry if I was—”

  “Only a few years ago I found out that Karel and my father bought the chest in an antique store on Jalan Surabaya in Jakarta. It wasn’t a treasure chest. And it wasn’t from a shipwreck, either. Just like nonexistent Neptune. And my letters . . . the fish probably got a kick out of them. Or they contributed to all the garbage clogging up the rivers.” Kugy gave Keenan a pointed look. “And those are the facts of life on Planet Reality.”

  Keenan found himself at a loss for words again. And once again, the room was enveloped in silence.

  But there was a question nagging at Keenan. “Your full name is Kugy Karmachameleon?”

  “No. It’s Kugy Alisa Nugroho.”

  “They’re not even remotely similar!”

  That night, Keenan stayed up late, immersed in the world of Kugy’s imagination. It swept him far away to the Land of Antigravitia, which hung suspended in a layer of the atmosphere just one step away from the moon. He was taken underground to the home of Joni Sewer, the excavating antlion. He was introduced to the world of vegetables, where Carrotina became a famous ballet dancer.

  Keenan knew the value of the bundle in his hands. Each page breathed such energy, such strong conviction. Kugy had used a computer for most of the manuscript, but she had written much of it by hand as well. On some pages Kugy had even tried to illustrate her own characters.

  Keenan felt a pang of pity when he beheld Kugy’s efforts. The kid’s a fantastic writer, but she can’t draw at all, he thought. He got out a new sketchbook and his art supplies, which he hadn’t unpacked yet, and began drawing with great zeal. All night long, Keenan sketched dozens of drawings, one after another.

  Only when he heard a rooster crowing in the distance did Keenan stop. He realized it was the first time he had ever drawn that much for anyone, much less someone he’d just met yesterday afternoon.

  CHAPTER 5

  A BANANA

  September 1999

  Even at a distance, Kugy could recognize him anywhere—that towering frame, the long hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore a maroon backpack with the letter K emblazoned on it in black. Of all the new male students, he was the only one with long hair. The oth
ers had shaved their heads in keeping with tradition for freshman orientation. He’d decided not to attend orientation rather than lose his ponytail. It was the only real memento he had left from living in Amsterdam. That’s how he saw it.

  “Hey, K!” Kugy called.

  “Hey! Another K!” Keenan gave a loud laugh as he ruffled Kugy’s hair. “Just took a shower, huh?”

  Kugy made a face. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Oh, very. Your hair is still wet and you look a bit shinier than usual.”

  Kugy made another face. “I never thought I’d run into you on campus. If the four of us didn’t go to the midnight movie every Saturday, I don’t think I’d ever see you. You must be busy.”

  Keenan cast a glance around and gave a small shrug. “I’m only on campus when I need to be. I don’t really like hanging out here.”

  No wonder, Kugy almost blurted out. She walked past the economics building, where Keenan attended class almost every day. And almost every day, she craned her neck as she passed by, looking for that maroon backpack with the letter K. Kugy was beginning to suspect that Keenan was taking classes by correspondence.

  “What about lunch on campus? Would you be up for that?” asked Kugy.

  “Depends on who’s coming.”

  Kugy shook her head. “Wrong answer. It should be, ‘Depends on who’s paying.’”

  “So lunch is on you?”

  “There’s one place that you have to try. It’s your duty. You can’t call yourself a university student if you haven’t eaten there.”

  “The food’s that good, huh?”

  “No. The food’s that cheap.”

  “Oh. No wonder it’s on you,” murmured Keenan, chuckling softly.

  The bamboo-walled warung was packed to bursting. The people in line were selecting from an assortment of dishes served buffet-style. Keenan paused to read the sign hanging on the front door: “The Hunger No Longer Hut.”

  Once they had gotten their food, Kugy and Keenan sat in a corner near a window, next to a hanging bunch of bananas.

  Keenan was astonished at the mountain of rice on Kugy’s plate, so high it was on the verge of toppling over. “How can someone so little eat so much?” he commented.

  “Studies have shown that along with pedicab driving and ditch digging, jobs involving creativity and writing consume a lot of calories.” She detached two bananas from the bunch near her head.

  Keenan shook his head in astonishment as he watched her. “You really are a surprising creature.”

  “Oh! And I have another surprise! Hold on . . .” Kugy reached into the front pocket of her backpack. “Ta-da!”

  Keenan squinted. “A cell phone?”

  “It’s new!” Kugy laughed. “I paid for it with the sweat of my brow! My story got published. The money was enough to buy a new phone and to treat you to lunch.”

  “Wow, and yet another surprise! Congratulations,” said Keenan. “Can I read the story?”

  Kugy looked bewildered. She felt nervous all of a sudden—though the only reason she had passed Keenan’s building so often was because she had wanted to give him a copy of the magazine with her story in it. She’d been carrying it around with her every day. Kugy fished around in her backpack and handed him a rather creased-looking magazine. “Here. I kept one for you.”

  Keenan took it, his eyes shining. “Kugy Karmachameleon . . . a real author. Wow.”

  Kugy laughed. “Actually, I’ve asked my mom if I can change my name to Karma. No response yet.”

  “Can I tell you something? I think you’re a wonderful writer.”

  Kugy’s face turned red. “You can’t say that. You haven’t even read it.”

  “I’m not talking about your short story. I’m talking about your fairy tales.”

  Suddenly, Kugy didn’t know what to say or do. She realized that something rare was occurring: she felt embarrassed. She really had no idea how to respond. Finally, she detached a third banana, peeled it, and munched with gusto.

  “When are you going to finish eating?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “I like your paintings.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No. But I already like them. Imagine how much I’ll like them when I do see them.” She tried to laugh, but felt her face growing hotter and her speech more nonsensical.

  “In that case, let’s go to my place after lunch so you can see them.”

  Kugy nodded. She couldn’t help but smile. All of a sudden, she was grateful for blurting out what she had. She couldn’t wait for lunch to end.

  Keenan’s boarding house was quite far from campus. It was an old house, built during the Dutch colonial era, and surrounded by leafy trees. In contrast to Kugy’s and Noni’s house, which was very crowded, Keenan’s only had a few residents. The rooms were spacious and the ceilings were high.

  Kugy gasped when Keenan opened the large door and flicked the light switch. Wire railing crisscrossed the ceiling above them, and from the railing dangled little halogen lights that illuminated the places where Keenan had hung his paintings or propped them against the wall on the gray-tiled floor. The room felt desolate because of the small amount of furniture—there was a bed, a small cupboard for clothes with a mini compo stereo system on top of it, and a large desk with Keenan’s art equipment neatly arranged on its surface.

  “You should be majoring in visual arts, not economics,” murmured Kugy as she slowly stepped inside. “And this is more like a gallery than a room in a boarding house.”

  As if they were at an exhibition, Keenan took Kugy around the room to look at his paintings. “This one is called Sunset from the Rooftop. This one is called Heart of Bliss. This is The Shady Morning. And this one—Silent Confession. And this—”

  “Is the weirdest-looking one,” Kugy finished, pointing to a painting that consisted only of gradations of color and fine lines like wisps of cotton. “The others all have people in them. But not this one.”

  “Guess what it’s called.”

  “Mission Impossible. Come on, you’re crazy. How am I supposed to guess what it’s called?”

  “With this painting, you can’t think. You have to feel. What do you feel when you look at it? That’s the title.”

  Kugy studied the painting closely, then closed her eyes for a long time. Keenan heard her exhale and in a half whisper she uttered, “Freedom.”

  It was Keenan’s turn to be amazed. Slowly, he picked up the painting, which was sitting on the floor, turned it around, and pointed to the title printed on the back.

  Kugy’s jaw dropped. “Freedom?”

  “I swear . . . I never thought you’d guess it.” Keenan scratched his head. “What a strange coincidence.”

  Kugy shook her head. “I don’t believe in coincidences. It must be because we’re both Neptune’s envoys equipped with telepathic powers. But before we were sent to Earth, our memories were erased. Just to make it all even cooler.” She spoke confidently.

  Keenan nodded. “It’s a plausible theory.”

  “I do have a question. And I don’t want to use my telepathic abilities . . .” Kugy grinned. “What is this a painting of?”

  “It’s from the perspective of a bird flying through the air. It sees no limits. It sees no barriers. There’s nothing tying it down to earth. It’s free. Completely free.”

  Kugy’s gaze had been fixed on the painting, but now she turned slowly toward Keenan. “When did you paint this?”

  “After I passed the state university entrance exam.”

  “You’re . . . you’re being forced to attend university, aren’t you?” She was unsure whether it was appropriate to ask the question, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Keenan returned Kugy’s gaze, a bitter smile spreading across his face. “Nothing fits together,” he said curtly. “What I’m passionate about, my ambitions, my parents’ wishes . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe I have to do what you were talking about. Maybe we do have to become something we’re not so we can be
ourselves one day.”

  Kugy’s thoughts returned to that moment in her room at the boarding house. Only now did she understand that Keenan had actually been talking about himself. And once again the same silence was present in their midst.

  “And because you successfully guessed the title of this painting, I have a present to give you.” The expression on Keenan’s face was warm once more.

  “That wasn’t a guess, you know. Are you saying you don’t believe we have a telepathic connection? Because—”

  Kugy’s chatter suddenly ceased. Keenan was holding out an open sketchbook. She took it from Keenan’s hands and flipped through page after page. “This . . . ?”

  Keenan pointed to the drawings one by one. “Prince Radish . . . Fairy Celery . . . Carrotina . . . Madam Turmeric . . . Joni Sewer . . . Hopa-Hopi . . . and this is the valley where they live . . .” Keenan sounded excited as he explained. Suddenly, a drop of water splashed onto the page. Keenan looked up to find Kugy in tears.

  “Oh gosh. Sorry,” said Kugy, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks. “The drawings. They’re perfect, aren’t they? Sorry . . .”

  “No, no. Don’t be sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?” Keenan sounded worried.

  Kugy sobbed, half laughing, half crying. “I’m such a softy. But never in my life has anyone illustrated my fairy tales. And they’re so beautiful, too. I-I don’t know what to say . . .”

  Keenan smiled. “It’s your stories that are beautiful. They’re inspiring. They’re what moved me to make these sketches.”

  “Can I borrow this?” Kugy held the book to her chest hopefully.

  “The book’s yours. Take it.”

  Nothing could have prevented Kugy from hugging Keenan. The sudden embrace lasted only for two seconds before Kugy drew away, her face bright red. “Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  The two of them were quiet, partly out of embarrassment and partly because they didn’t know what to do, until at last, Kugy broke the awkwardness by reaching into the pocket of her baggy pants.

  “For now, all I can give you is this.”

  Keenan took what Kugy was offering him—a banana from the Hunger No Longer Hut. “Okay. I think we’re even,” he said with a small smile.