Jamal was slow to begin. It all started one day when he was washing behind his house. His thoughts drifted. The enclosure surrounding the bath was made of plywood and was a mere inch taller than he was. The babble of kids playing marbles nearby floated over it. A guava tree beyond the enclosure was fruiting. He caught sight of someone – another village youth, Hamid by name. Jamal’s body was still slick with soap when their eyes met. Hamid clumsily scrambled down the tree. Taking his time, Jamal covered his body with a towel. Then he went over and confronted Hamid. Afterwards, he returned to the bath enclosure, still soapy, wondering whether Hamid had ever peeped at his mother and sisters.

Jamal mused that a plywood door was very different from the high metal gates of the houses along Jalan Baru.

‘You can’t spy through those gates,’ he said.

‘And who would you want to spy on?’ teased Ratri.

Jamal confessed that from that point forward he often wondered what life was like behind the gates, and fantasised about making a life on the other side of them. Fancy cars came and went, arousing his curiosity about driving one. He didn’t care to be the owner, he just wanted to try one out. He imagined gripping the steering wheel in the air-conditioned enclosure. He would stare at the scorched, dusty city from behind the tinted windows. Behind them, he would be invisible, an undetected voyeur.

‘Oh, you clearly were born to be a tour guide.’

‘It’s not just the rich who like being tourists,’ Jamal said.

Ratri finally understood what happened to Jamal when Bambang’s vehicle left the garage early one morning. He wasn’t driving the late model Mercedes Benz but rather the historic 1982 red Tiger that was off-limits to Ratri. And in that car sat Jamal. He had found another door.

Jamal returned the next day, beaming. Ratri found him in his small room and he hurried to rise from the mattress. He looked like he was steeling himself for a scolding. His expression quickly turned to surprise when Ratri spoke.

‘You need to remember one tourist tip: no matter what happens, never fall in love.’

Ratri’s warning came too late.

She wasn’t sure if Jamal understood, but at least the advice let him know that she didn’t hate him. On another occasion, he approached her. He hesitated and then hugged her close. He whispered a secret in her ear. In response, she stroked his hair slowly. She never told his secret to anyone.

In the vehicle, Jamal’s skin rubbed against the cool seat. And he felt a soft but firm touch all over. The touch of an experienced driver in full control, in an enclosed space, hidden by the gleaming doors, the tinted glass.

—