by N.M. Aarons

The air-conditioning hadn’t been fixed for weeks. It still belched out an occasional wisp of cool air – enough for an ephemeral taste of how it should have felt. Effendi sat slumped in his office chair. He wiped his brow and undid another button on his shirt. He was a good-looking man, but this job, and this office, did his appearance no favors. He had begun to grow jaded and frustrated. Lines had formed around his eyes and on his forehead where not long before there had been none. He felt older than his 34 years. It was just as well he had yet to settle down and marry. His job already weighed heavily on him, and he doubted he could handle the added pressure of a family. And of course, he felt burdened by his own personal issues. He fetched himself another cup of coffee, sat down again, and straightened the stack of papers on his desk into perfect alignment. Not one sheet lay in the least askew. He needed the papers to be this way. Then he went over the events relating to the case one more time in his mind. He was almost certain he would arrive at an outcome no different to the one he had reached fifteen minutes previously. Just as when he would repeatedly calculate how much money he had spent each day of that week, or how many days of exercise he had done over the last few months. The results were always the same, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. This case could be different though, he thought. It was not as absolute as the other matters he overly concerned himself with. A case can change – it is fluid. Something new could come to light; I might be struck by something I’ve overlooked. Not this time though. After looking through the papers again, he gulped down the last of his coffee and let out an immense sigh. Why had he followed his father into the police force? There had been other opportunities. Admittedly, he had no connections in other fields – and connections pretty much stood for everything here in Jakarta – but he could at least have tried. Now here he was – on the trail of a dashing foreign soccer player; someone most of Jakarta adored as much for his footballing prowess as for his looks and lifestyle. And he, Effendi, was tasked with apprehending this man and bringing him to some form of justice. This is sure to make me popular, he contemplated with dreaded sarcasm; seeing to it that Persija’s top goal scorer and best player is thrown in jail. To make matters worse, Effendi himself was a fan of both the club and the player. An accountant – why did I not become an accountant? Sure, it would be dull and routine, but without the stress. He found another huge sigh from somewhere within himself. Thoughts of accountancy started him off on his mental money counting procedure again. 40 thousand rupiah on breakfast, 370 thousand on groceries, 10 thousand on chewing gum, 20 thousand on parking, 40 thousand on lunch – 480 thousand rupiah. Not a round figure an accountant would be comfortable with. Let me spend another 20 thousand and I’ll feel much more at ease. He got up and headed for the kiosk outside his building that sold lottery numbers.

The sun rose over orchards of cloves and nutmeg. Franco had gotten used to his routine. He ate a simple breakfast of bubur nasi – rice porridge – with the family, and then made his way to the fields with the stronger members of the community. It was hot, dusty and humid, and the work was grueling. Franco coped well however; after all, he was used to a daily regimen of gym, training ground, and gym again. He had even begun to enjoy his temporary home. His hosts were soft-spoken and humble, unlike his loud-mouthed, obnoxious manager at Persija, Hendro. The man thought he knew all there was to know about the game, but to Franco’s mind he knew next to nothing. Even his Indonesian teammates agreed with him. They would all take the piss out of Hendro whenever his back was turned. At night, Franco stayed in his hosts’ modest wooden dwelling and sometimes passed the time watching television with them. It was one of the few luxuries they possessed. They enjoyed mawkish Indonesian soap operas – not unlike the telenovelas from his own country – which depicted the anguish of the urban affluent; romantic betrayals, business deals gone wrong, petty jealousies. None of it bore any resemblance to where he was now – in a kampung, a tiny hamlet far removed from most modern amenities – but the family would sit glued to the screen, absorbed in the goings-on of some or other overacted cardboard character. What was it that fascinated them so much about these shows; envy, curiosity, or perhaps sheer bewilderment? Franco supposed it wasn’t much different to the fixation some people had for celebrities. And he should know – he was one. The kampung was located on the Talaud Islands, the northernmost area of eastern Indonesia, only hours by boat from the Philippine province of Mindanao. Franco was not there of his own choosing, but rather because of what he’d done. He felt no real guilt for his action. It was a common practice and everyone knew it. As far as Franco was concerned, he had merely been made a convenient scapegoat. As a bule – a foreigner – he was an easy target. Plenty of fingers had been pointed at him, as much to blame him as to absolve his local colleagues – as if they would be incapable of stooping to such levels of bad sportsmanship and greed. His name had been dragged through the mud by the press and he had even been mentioned in Parliament – as an example of a malignant outside influence – since the incident. For Franco, however, it was not the political wranglings and social manipulations of corrupt elites in Jakarta that concerned him most. It was her.

Anggrek was entirely different to any other Indonesian girl Franco had met before. She was not conventionally beautiful but had a playful intelligence that more than made up for this. She was almost always with her niece, Santi. A ten year gap separated them but they looked practically the same age. Both were from modest backgrounds, but they were ambitious, savvy and looking for something different in life. Anggrek had her own opinions and was forthright with them – there was nothing submissive about her. She couldn’t fail to recognize Franco when she saw him at a popular Jakarta nightclub. He’d been a Persija goal-scoring hero for two years, not to mention a pin-up for teenage girls across the city. With a bit of prodding from Santi, Anggrek had approached him. Franco, despite his looks and fame, was by nature quite shy and his Indonesian was still rudimentary at best. With her, though, he felt immediately at ease. Things moved quickly between them and before long she moved into Franco’s centrally-located apartment. Anggrek stayed grounded; her niece remained her best friend, and she would often go out with other old friends and pay visits to family members. This is not to say that the couple shied away from the celebrity spotlight. Franco and Anggrek were often spotted at glamorous gatherings and made frequent appearances in the city’s numerous tabloids. She and Santi would spend hours shopping in the more exclusive of the city’s ubiquitous malls and make regular visits to salons, tinkering with their hair and enjoying pedicures, manicures, massages and facial treatments. Essentially, however, she remained the same girl Franco had first met, and he was happy to indulge her.

Every single meal – whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner or merely a snack – had to be accounted for. Effendi was going over what he’d eaten in the past week. If he got stuck and, for example, couldn’t recall what he’d eaten midday on Tuesday, he would dwell and dwell on it until it came back to him. Only then would he be satisfied. This had nothing to do with any concerns he had over his weight or calorie intake. He was trim and physically healthy. It was just something he needed to do. Having successfully completed this dietary inventory, he was able to focus on the case again. Still, he couldn’t suppress his suspicions as to why he had been assigned this particular job. The reason, of course, was that it was a hot potato of a case. It involved the police, politicians, businessmen, underworld figures and diplomats. It had the potential to become an international issue. Nobody wanted to take responsibility for it, and so it had been shifted onto Effendi. He was known to be an extremely competent and meticulous investigator, but one who didn’t tread on any toes. Effendi soon realized what a thankless task it was – a classic catch 22; solve it and I’ll have the whole Jakarta public against me, their hero locked away, his talents wasted on the shabby prison team; fail to solve it and all the police’s top brass, not to mention the sports minister, are going to come down on me like a ton of bricks. Great! He was giving more and more consideration to what Hendro, Persija’s manager, had told him earlier that day. Ordinarily he would dismiss anything the man had to say – not only was he an insufferable braggart but he’d failed to achieve anything significant with the team during his tenure – but these words had stayed with him. “To find him, you find her. Those two are really in love. I don’t know what he saw in her. There are so many more beautiful girls the bule could have got, but he loved her. You could see it.”
“To find him, you find her. To find him, you find her”, Effendi repeated the words to himself over and over. There was no need to do this. He knew what they meant and understood perfectly the logic behind them. Still, the words echoed around his head to the point where he thought his brain might actually explode. ‘To find him, you find her’. He had in fact met Anggrek not long after Franco disappeared, when she was brought in for questioning. Their session lasted a couple of hours and he had found her charming and sincere. She was also plainly upset about the whole chain of events. She explained that the day Franco was declared a suspect, he had vanished. He had left all his belongings, including his passport and mobile phone, at their apartment and gone. She had not heard from him since. There had been no note, email, or text message, and she had no idea where he was or how to contact him. Effendi believed her but, to be on the safe side, he ordered that she be placed under surveillance for a period. She moved in with her sister’s family and would often go out with her niece. Calls to and from her mobile phone were monitored. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her celebrity lifestyle had been brought to an abrupt end by Franco’s alleged misdeed and subsequent disappearance, but she had seemingly resumed her prior life without any fuss. After a month or so, Effendi called off the surveillance. It was expensive and resources were needed elsewhere – Jakarta’s police force was not that sophisticated. Effendi ‘s mind was elsewhere – he had subconsciously slipped into counting how many times he’d been to visit his lonely, retired father this year (was it three, or four?) when suddenly it occurred to him – ‘To find him, you find her’….Find her!

At first, none of the spectators could quite believe it. There were a few seconds during which they looked around at each other, at the players, at the scoreboard, unable to grasp what had just happened. Then the stadium erupted. Manado United supporters leapt up and down, screaming incoherently and hugging each other in euphoria. Soon the flares started. The noise was deafening, even by Indonesian standards. Unfancied Manado, from the far-flung Minahasa region, were on the verge of winning the Indonesian Super League for the first time. They had needed to win their final match, against Jakarta-based Persija, and the scores were level at 1-1 with a minute to go. Persija were already out of the title race, lying in a lowly sixth position largely ascribed to their manager’s incompetence, but still had pride to play for. They were unlikely to do Manado any favors. A corner was awarded to Manado. It was well taken, swung in towards the mass of bodies in the box. A messy scramble ensued then suddenly, inexplicably, Persija’s forward, their golden boy Franco, lashed the ball into his own net. He had scored with a striker’s precision but, in this case, for the wrong side. Seconds after, the referee blew his whistle. The game was over. Manado had defeated Persija 2-1 and were duly crowned league champions.

Effendi had finally been forced to move office, even if only temporarily. Appeals to have the air-conditioning repaired had fallen on deaf ears. He moved into a smaller room occupied by a female officer, his junior in rank and age. She had made eyes at Effendi before – there weren’t many eligible, good-looking men in the force – and he had flirted with the idea of asking her out on occasion. His move into her office had nothing to do with romantic aspirations however – it was purely practical. He couldn’t concentrate in the stifling heat, and he needed to concentrate. He looked up from his desk at his female colleague. His mind began wandering – how many women have I had sex with over the last few years? Was it four or five? They were all casual affairs – that much he knew. He began the process of recalling each and every sexual encounter he’d had, beginning from a point in time he’d somehow established in his own mind; the name of the woman, where it happened, what preceded it, what it was like, its consequences (if any). He had to be able to remember it all, to have it known that he still knew it, and then to refile it somewhere in his brain. He gave himself some leeway with the precise dates of these liaisons, although if he couldn’t remember just the month, he would feel irritable to the point of not being able to focus on anything else. It took him a while to sort all these trivialities out and he felt almost nauseous once he’d done so. He hated his job. He had never wanted to be in the police force. He was pressured into it by his father whom he now resented for this. Nobody likes policemen – except some police women, he thought looking furtively at his colleague again. He had to stick at it another twenty one years and he’d end up with a decent pension and benefits. Decent by Indonesian standards was far from fantastic, and another twenty one years! Still, he thought, I did have an epiphany of sorts hearing what that buffoon Hendro said. I should be grateful for small mercies. “To find him, you find her.”

There was little doubt that Franco’s goal had been deliberately scored. Everyone agreed on this. In addition to the charges brought against him, Franco could just as easily have been accused of a severe lack of subtlety. He had controlled the ball, taken aim and fairly thundered it into his own goal. Replays from various angles did nothing to suggest it may have been accidental. It was an obvious case of cheating, match-fixing – in this case title-fixing. Despite the controversy, the result stood. Manado United were champions. While pundits, fans and officials agreed on the nature and intention of Franco’s own goal, reactions to it were mixed. Most Persija fans seemed willing to forgive the player, to brush it off even. He had two years’ worth of goal-scoring credit to his name, and there’d been nothing at stake for the team anyway. It wasn’t as if this was a new phenomenon – the Indonesian national team itself had been involved in alleged manipulations of games. Money had been made on Manado’s becoming champions, but equally it had been lost. And herein lay the problem for Franco. His actions may ordinarily have been overlooked or, at the most, earned him a slap on the wrist, but some powerful men in the police, politics and business had bet against Manado’s winning the title. These parties were now determined to prosecute Franco, to make an example out of him while gaining some measure of revenge for their losses in the process.

Anggrek had decided long before she met Franco that she would never again bow to the cruel hand of fate. Her breeziness, her carefree attitude and behavior, concealed a troubled past. She had lost her parents early and cruelly. Her relatives helped where they could but they couldn’t afford her schooling. She quickly became streetwise and shrewd. This didn’t protect her however from a string of lovers who had left her bruised – most emotionally but some physically too. Franco had disappeared, her lifestyle had disappeared, but she would be strong. She would rely on the same instincts she had when she was thirteen and waiting in seedy bars and restaurants. She knew why Franco had left no news, no messages, no clues at all. That way, as much as she was pressed, as much as she may be doubted, she would be able to reveal nothing, because she knew nothing. And then he phoned.

Franco was ready. He’d been visited by his helper two days previously and been told exactly what they would need to do. He knew nothing about his helper. He had a name but Franco suspected it was a false one. In all likelihood, he was a representative or affiliate of the same syndicate that had paid Franco to score the own goal. As Franco understood it, they had gained on two fronts. They’d made a fortune from backing Manado to win the championship and, being a Minahasa-based group, they were also genuine supporters of the team. What’s more, the victory had boosted the morale of the whole area – people were happier, looser with their money – and this could only benefit the syndicate’s activities. The people of Minahasa, in the far northeast of Indonesia, were proud and felt distinct from the rest of the country. Nothing would have given the syndicate more pleasure than beating the capital city’s team, Persija, to bag the title while, at the same time, leaving a bunch of Jakarta bigwigs out of pocket. They owed it to Franco to get him out the country securely. Time spent in an Indonesian prison was no fun at the best of times, and with the jails full of inmates from the poorer rural areas of the country, the bule hero from Jakarta would face a torrid time. Kinship and clan ties were strong in Minahasa, and they’d organized for Franco to be put up in a safe location off the coast of Manado and near to the Philippines. Here he was expected to contribute to daily life, just like everyone else, while waiting to be smuggled across the maritime border. From the Philippines, a path back to his own country could be created fairly easily by greasing the palms of various officials. Tomorrow morning, before dawn, Franco and his helper would make the crossing. That evening, he reflected on his time in Indonesia. He’d been signed by Persija from his local club. There was very little money in his country’s small league and he knew he would never be bought by a European club – he just wasn’t quite good enough. So his best bet in terms of wages was one of the Asian leagues. Big business had been pumping money into these leagues for years now, and their quality, while still leaving a lot to be desired, had improved. Plenty of third-rate, but still talented, players had been brought in from Africa and Latin America. Franco made a good living and was one of the best players in the Indonesian league. He enjoyed a lifestyle he could only have dreamed of in his own country. Still, he had succumbed all too easily when approached about scoring the own goal. The money offered to him had been substantial and his principles had deserted him far too easily. But even now he didn’t really regret the goal. He regretted, rather, having had to remove himself so completely from her life.

Gili Nanggu is a small island off the southwest coast of the Indonesian island of Lombok. Nanggu Beach Bungalows was a small resort on the east side of the island. The bungalows were arranged in four neat rows, the first right on the beach, the last a mere twenty yard stroll to it. It was a mid-range establishment and traditionally attracted a small stream of visitors from around the world. In recent months however, the resort’s reputation had soared. As part of a deal with the resort’s owner, Anggrek had taken over running of the place and also built a laid-back beach bar in front of it. She named it the ‘Orchid Bar’ after the English translation of her own name. Word of mouth spread quickly, and before long more and more guests were making bookings, having heard warm reports about the resort and its new manager. In addition to managing the resort and bar, Anggrek also took an active interest in her guests’ activities. She knew all the island’s hidden trails and secret waterfalls and would often invite visitors on an adventure somewhere off the beaten track. Not finding their destination indicated on the island’s map, many guests would initially be skeptical, though eventually they’d all be won over by Anggrek’s contagious enthusiasm. The island’s boat captains were all fond of her. She had lent money to some and was happy to be paid back in fresh fish. The captains would take her and her guests on snorkeling trips to sites that boats usually wouldn’t visit. While she went out on her day trips, her niece would take care of the resort and its bar. Anggrek would fearlessly swim among strong sea currents and scramble up rock faces barefoot. She struck more timid types as reckless, but she was nimble and dexterous, and confident in her own abilities. In the evening, she traded the tomboy in her for the role of hospitable, graceful host, and pulled this off perfectly too. More than a few guests, men and women alike, had fallen in love, to some degree or another, with her. Although it was a far cry from where she came, Anggrek had grown to love her new home and the wildness of her surroundings.

Effendi was not looking forward to meeting Hendro again. He stepped into Persija’s offices as he would when entering a morgue to inspect a murder victim. Pictures of players, past and present, lined the walls. He stopped at the picture of a long-retired player and tried to remember the details of his career; how long he’d played, how many goals he’d scored. Effendi stood there a good while staring at the picture. A cleaner walked by and gave him an odd look – he appeared to be in some form of trance. Eventually, Effendi had it all worked out, and headed to Hendro’s office. The manager had the television on. He was watching a game and scribbling on a notepad. When he saw Effendi, he declared, without any prior greeting, “This is going to be the new formation; the right one! Next season, the results will prove this – with or without the bule.” Effendi was too weary even to smirk or raise an eyebrow. “Talking about Franco, when we met last you said that I should find her. What did you mean by that? You see, I already found her, I spoke to her, I had her followed. I know where she is. Why should I have to find her again?” Hendro was not one for nuance or guarding secrets – or politeness for that matter, “I would have told you last time we met, if you’d asked. Some detective you are haha!” He went on to tell Effendi how he’d overheard one of his players speaking in the dressing room. This player had got to know Anggrek’s niece at parties both had attended. “Who knows what kind of friends they are,” Hendro sniggered. The niece, unwisely, told the player in confidence that Franco had phoned her aunt recently. She said that her aunt knew where he was and what he planned to do. Effendi wasn’t as excited as he should have been at this news. Half of him, perhaps more, didn’t want the man caught. Nine-tenths of him had had it with police work altogether. “So where is he and what are his plans?” he asked, drawing on the last dregs of his detective’s acumen. “That I don’t know,” Hendro replied. Effendi closed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks and spluttered out all the air in them in frustration.

Nanggu Beach Bungalows rarely received local Indonesian guests, and if it did this was almost exclusively on weekends when groups of mainlanders would make their way to the island for the day. Santi had thought, then, that this booking was strange. Her hunch was not at all dispelled when he arrived. He was a smart, clean-cut man in his early thirties. He was very well-dressed – she doubted he was from nearby rustic Lombok. When he spoke, she immediately recognized the Jakarta accent she shared with him. “Cute,” she said to her friend after he’d checked in. That evening, they spoke some more at the bar. He ordered a few bintang beers and they chatted about Jakarta. They got on well – Santi seldom had the chance to speak to someone with whom she had much in common and who was so courteous. He took occasional deep breaths, as if to inhale the atmosphere of the island. Santi found it endearing; she knew how hard life in the big city could be. He ordered a meal and more drinks and insisted on buying her a few. “Please,” he said. “Indulge me. I never have the chance to relax like this.” Then he surprised her. He asked about her aunt.

Franco and his helper boarded the small boat in the dark. Some hours later, when they disembarked at a port on the Mindanao coast, there was one guard on duty. It seemed like he’d been expecting the two of them. Some words passed between the helper and the guard, and then a few notes. A battered car with a driver awaited them. Anything more ostentatious would be sure to attract attention in rural Mindanao. They headed, slowly and very carefully, towards the provincial capital, Davao, where a new passport and flight out of the country had been arranged. He was on his way to safety. His reputation was irreparable and he would never be allowed back into Indonesia. That didn’t matter – he’d made enough money from his time there and from the infamous own goal to set himself up nicely back home. He was bored of football anyway. But whenever he thought of Anggrek, his mouth turned dry and his stomach tensed in pain. He had had to phone her. He needed to hear her voice one last time.

“Good evening Detective.” Anggrek greeted Effendi, shoeless and wrapped in a sarong. “Good evening Mbak Anggrek,” he replied using the polite local term for a young lady. “You know why I’ve come, I presume.” Santi looked on, disappointed that the guest had turned out to be a policeman and despairing that she may have put her aunt in a difficult position.
“I know,” said Anggrek.
“Mbak, you look different from when we last met.”
“Yes. I am not the same glamorous celebrity I was in Jakarta. I have grown my hair. It is wild now,” she laughed. “I also have a dark tan, and I dress and act like an island girl. Ask my guests.” She gestured towards a table full of foreign visitors who nodded in agreement. “Jungle girl,” one of them said in English.
It was Effendi’s turn to laugh. “But why here Mbak Anggrek?”
She began to explain her story, honestly and in full. There was no longer any need to hide anything. After Franco had phoned and told her his whereabouts, a few months back, she realized she was in a complicated position. She told her niece that Franco had phoned but didn’t tell her, or anyone else, where he was or where he was going. Effendi was also happy to dispense with the cloak and daggers. “That is how I knew to look for you. I know he phoned you. But I didn’t think it would take me this long, and bring me this far, to find you.”
“I am sorry for your troubles detective. So you knew he phoned huh? Ah, blabbermouth here!” Anggrek looked at Santi, who blushed deeply. Effendi and Anggrek both laughed. “Some more drinks ladies?”
“I don’t drink anymore,” said Anggrek, “but Santi will have another one. She is still a party girl at heart.” Effendi ordered two more beers and let Anggrek finish her story. If she were to be questioned again, she knew she wouldn’t be able to lie. She was a terrible liar. She would give the game away and Franco would be caught. She had to go somewhere to buy some time until he got out of Indonesia to safety. She had an old friend on Gili Nanggu from her younger days working bars, and thought it was as good a place as any. With some money she had saved, she opened a bar on the island. She was lucky to have found a good business partner, and her business was doing well. It appeared she would be on the island a lot longer than she’d expected. “I am very sorry detective. I know you’ve been looking for me for a long time so you can get me to tell you where Franco is. I have dragged you all the way to this primitive island. You probably feel very uncomfortable here; out of the city, out of your office. There are no bad guys here for you to catch. But I am going to disappoint you again. I heard news yesterday that Franco is out of Indonesia and safe.” It was hard to tell whether Anggrek was getting pleasure out of telling this to Effendi, or feeling sorry for the man. Effendi said nothing for a long while. Instead, he looked intently at his beer. Anggrek had no way of knowing what he was really thinking. He was trying to recall how many Indonesian islands he had actually visited – had it been eight or nine? And in which order had he visited them? When he finally had this unrelated issue figured out in his head, he began to wonder if any of the islands he’d visited were as nice as this one. Probably not, he concluded. Eventually, Effendi spoke. “Mbak Anggrek. You do not disappoint me at all. In fact, your news has made me happy. I had no real interest in seeing your friend caught. He made a mistake. He is human after all. I am not a noble man myself. What’s more, I am a big fan of his.” Anggrek and Santi both seemed surprised. Was this really a policeman saying this? Effendi continued, “I have been thinking for a long time about changing my life. I have no love for the police. My job and the city make my mind, how should I say, a little clogged up.”

Anggrek heard from Franco only twice more. Distance and separation took their toll. He eventually met a girl from his own country and settled down to start a family. He wasn’t forgotten in Jakarta however. His picture still hung in Persija’s offices, his own goal seemingly a source of twisted pride to the club’s many supporters. The Orchid Bar continued to thrive and Anggrek’s thirst for adventure grew further, even as she won the hearts of many unsuspecting travelers. Santi worked diligently, but could often be seen laughing and chatting with the affable handyman who did all the odd jobs around the resort. He would joke with the guests about coconuts falling on their heads and amazed them with his ability to erect a hammock on their veranda in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, they noticed him in a bit of a daze as if struggling to grasp something beyond his reach. They put this down to his hard work in the heat. Nobody at all suspected that, in another life, he had been a Jakarta police detective.

Note on the work of the Author of The Detective, the Footballer and the Orchid:

The Detective, The Footballer and the Orchid is not N.M. Aaron’s first piece of work published in Eastlit. He also had the story Chained published in the June issue.