Ratri made no attempt to stem the flow of gossip. After all, her husband was the director of a government agency. His case would be followed by a series of disclosures that would come one after the other, like toppling dominoes. Invisible hands, Ratri was sure, would turn off the tap. Which is exactly how it transpired. There was a national sense of crisis. But lurid fascination over the mingling of sex and politics was soon diverted to a parade of the usual problems. Ratri felt no need to share her secrets with anyone. She had predicted the tragic end would arrive soon enough. The Mercedes Tiger was cursed.

—

Several luxury cars were stored in Bambang’s garage. For official occasions – trips to the office, inaugurations, weddings – Bambang drove his latest model Mercedes Benz. There was also a black Volvo. Its sleek elegance proclaimed Bambang’s rank among high officials, ministers and even summit participants. But the 1982 Mercedes Tiger had a special status: it was Bambang’s first car and was therefore historic. He treated it lovingly, only using it on special occasions. A toy imbued with nostalgia for youth. Bambang didn’t let anyone else touch it, not even his chauffeur.

Six months earlier, a series of events had made Ratri think the car would no longer leave the garage. Bambang came home drenched in sweat after a drive. Their maid, Milah, discovered bloodstains on a tyre. Bambang had apparently hit a cat, something that had never happened in all the time Ratri had known her husband. Bambang always drove smoothly, was always in full control. Ratri didn’t ask any questions because Bambang never explained anything to her.

After a while, Ratri started to have a bad feeling about the car. And, a few months before Bambang’s death, she found her proof. She surreptitiously took the key from her husband’s room when he was at the office and drove the vehicle to her boutique. Everything was fine until she pulled over and turned the motor off. She pressed the button on the key for the automatic lock. Click. The door was ready to be opened. However, unbidden, the four buttons dropped back down. Click. Click. Click. Click. It was as if a gang of invisible, rascally kids was teasing her. The doors locked again. Ratri pushed the button several times in vain. Panic set in. She looked out, hoping for a passing security guard. She looked to the right. To the left. In the rear-view mirror. She gasped. Someone was in the back seat.

—

Ratri and Bambang lived in a lavish, multi-storey residence with a spacious yard and high walls. A suburban castle. They moved there for a simple reason: such a palace was impossible in the city. A single road connected their neighbourhood to downtown. Jalan Baru, the new road and only access to the highway, was now being paved.