After passing through Ratri’s house gates, Jamal made his way through a series of doors. But his life really changed after the door of the Mercedes Tiger opened.

Compliant with her husband’s wishes, Ratri continued to accompany Bambang to weddings. She obeyed unwritten rules in front of officials’ wives, fulfilling her obligations, invoking Bambang’s name. Oh, he’s so busy lately. Last week he was out of town, inaugurating something or other.

But, except for official ceremonies, it was now Jamal who stood at Bambang’s side. He no longer wore the sweatshirt and jeans that Ratri gave him, but black trousers, a shirt and a black leather jacket that made him look older than his years. Now he smoked Lucky Strikes and used a Zippo lighter bearing a Los Angeles Lakers logo, which Bambang had bought while visiting Anton. Jamal appeared to be doing important work for Bambang, but at home he still happily lathered his boss’s beloved Tiger, polishing it until it sparkled, caressing its smooth doors.

Ratri couldn’t say for certain what Jamal did away from the house. She also didn’t know which had ensnared Jamal more: Bambang, or a door opened just for him. But she smelled danger. She was anxious when he came home late. Jamal pooh-poohed her concerns, drunk on love.

‘So, you’ve become one of his thugs, huh?’

Jamal looked dazed by Ratri’s interrogation. He sighed and then, with a far-off expression, said slowly, ‘Mr Bambang drives so smoothly. You should see how he handles the steering wheel, takes charge of the gears.’

The danger that Ratri had sniffed from the beginning became concrete one sunshiny morning. Ratri called Jamal to her room. Unusually, she let him see her with her hair in disarray. Her eyes were swollen. She tossed the morning paper towards Jamal.

Headlines on the front page blared out the death of a young solicitor. The publicity-hungry lawyer had been found dead in his car, stabbed seven times. Police suspected that several people had been in on the murder. One of them had rashly left behind a Zippo lighter with a Los Angeles Lakers emblem.

‘Really, really stupid,’ Ratri muttered.

For some time, Jamal remained frozen. Ratri refused to ask him why – his love for Bambang, or for doors. Both were now equally nauseating. Jamal had become a fugitive. And Bambang despised carelessness.

Jamal couldn’t stay there. Ratri asked him to leave.

‘But Mr Bambang loves me,’ Jamal protested. It was clear he didn’t want to leave the house, not through any door.

‘Bullshit,’ snorted Ratri. She jerked Jamal’s hand, pulling him out of the room. Her knees were shaking as she went down the stairs beside him. She emptied his wardrobe and packed his clothes.

‘Get as far away as possible,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to your mother’s. And don’t even think of coming back here.’ Then she slammed the door.

—