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E-BookEPUB0 - No protectionE-Book
188 Seiten
Englisch
The Emma Presserschienen am16.11.2023
Now's not the time to think. Now's the time to feel. A taxi ride, a train trip, a family photo: in About Us, seemingly unremarkable journeys and mundane objects ripple with the repercussions of past decisions. All is not what it seems at a family wedding, a regretful father risks estranging his daughter, and a young woman is tormented by the cries of a baby that her partner cannot hear. Reda Gaudiamo's characters charm, chafe and confound in a series of intimate snapshots of domestic relationships. With twists shifting from the comically mischievous to the abruptly chilling, this collection is a bold slice of contemporary Indonesian literature.

Reda Gaudiamo is a writer from Jakarta, Indonesia, known for her 'Na Willa' stories. She is also known across Southeast Asia and Europe as a singer and musician through the AriReda duo.mehr
Verfügbare Formate
TaschenbuchKartoniert, Paperback
EUR14,50
E-BookEPUB0 - No protectionE-Book
EUR8,99

Produkt

KlappentextNow's not the time to think. Now's the time to feel. A taxi ride, a train trip, a family photo: in About Us, seemingly unremarkable journeys and mundane objects ripple with the repercussions of past decisions. All is not what it seems at a family wedding, a regretful father risks estranging his daughter, and a young woman is tormented by the cries of a baby that her partner cannot hear. Reda Gaudiamo's characters charm, chafe and confound in a series of intimate snapshots of domestic relationships. With twists shifting from the comically mischievous to the abruptly chilling, this collection is a bold slice of contemporary Indonesian literature.

Reda Gaudiamo is a writer from Jakarta, Indonesia, known for her 'Na Willa' stories. She is also known across Southeast Asia and Europe as a singer and musician through the AriReda duo.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781915628183
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format Hinweis0 - No protection
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2023
Erscheinungsdatum16.11.2023
ReiheThe Emma Press Prose Pamphlets
Seiten188 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse3662 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.13998362
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

Ayah, Dini and Him
1. Ayah1

The rain is heavy outside, rays of sunlight reflecting off the deep puddles that run like rivers down the street. If anyone dared to cross it, they´d be soaked through at once. A year ago, on a stormy night like this, Dini ran away from home, slamming the door behind her. I should have called out to her, pleaded with her to come inside. I could have gone after her, fetched her back home.

I should have reached for her hand, pulled her close and wrapped her shivering body in a towel. I should have told her, Here now, we can put this behind us. We were both angry. Please, forget what I said. Go take a bath before you catch a cold.´ And I can picture her smiling up at me, wiping away her tears.

That´s what I should have done, but it didn´t happen like that. Instead I just sat there, glued to my seat, lips tightly sealed as my fingers gripped the pipe I´d stopped smoking. I didn´t move to go after her, didn´t say a single thing to bring her back. Dini left and didn´t return, and hasn´t stepped foot in this house since that day.

I heard about her graphic design business from friends of hers I ran into at the market. I was glad to know it was going well, that a recent collaboration had paid off. But when it used to rain like this, back when Dini still came home to visit me, she would put out two glasses of sekoteng and snacks made by Bik Nah, our household help. We would sit together and talk, watching the downpour. Listening to the sound of rain was our secret hobby, our favourite pastime. We loved the atmosphere it created; how it was loud and intense, but also calming. Our conversation always ended up on the same topics: art, design, film, sometimes politics and education too.

We made a good team, Dini and I; we were alike in so many ways. What I´d give now to talk to her again, just the two of us watching the rain. But maybe what I want even more than that is for her to find another man to confide in, a partner for the rest of her life.

You know, Dini, when you get married someday, our rainy day chats will have to end. Your future husband might not share our hobby,´ I told her one cloudy evening.

Well, guess what? When I get married, I´m going to choose a man just like you, Ayah. And I won´t let him interfere with my hobbies. He´ll just have to learn to like rainstorms too,´ she said heatedly.

What, you really want to marry a man like me? I´ll tell you this: there is no one like me in the whole universe. And even if there was, where would be the fun in that? You´ll get bored of me eventually.´

She shook her head. I´ll never get bored with you, Ayah. And I will find someone who is just like you. And when I do, I won´t have to spend time getting used to them, because I know I like you already.´

Ah, so you just want the easy option?´

Don´t you want me to be happy?´ She stared at me with her big round eyes, something in her expression reminding me of her mother. She reached out and hugged me, planting a kiss on my cheek. Just you wait and see - my boyfriend will be just like you, Ayah!´ Then she released me. It´s still raining. I want another glass of sekoteng. Do you want more too?´ She got up. I could tell she was bored of all our talk of future husbands.

That wasn´t the first time we´d talked about when she might settle down and find a husband. We often discussed it, though I was always the one who brought it up. But still the subject was never settled, always skidding to a halt at the same point: she would only consider marrying a man like me. I told myself that things would work themselves out, that she´d find someone eventually. I´ll admit I grew impatient though, waiting for that day to arrive.

Dini never brought up the word boyfriend´ or mentioned any relationships. I knew she had lots of male friends, though she never seemed to pay them much attention. Now she was twenty-five and had finished her studies the previous year, I wondered whether she would finally start to show some interest. She might have seemed indifferent to the idea, but it nagged at me all the time, until one day I began to suspect that there might be someone after all.

I don´t recall exactly when, but at some point a particular name began to crop up in Dini´s life. While Dini´s other male friends rarely came up in conversation, this man was mentioned more and more often.

Every Saturday, and sometimes on a Friday afternoon when Dini was able to finish work at her studio in Jakarta early, she would come home to Bogor to visit me. But now the evenings we spent together, catching up on each other´s lives as we walked the quiet streets of Sempur, were shared by the three of us. Me, Dini, and him.

We could still talk about the same things, because he claimed to have the same interests as Dini and me. But when our talk drifted onto the topic of graphic design, he began to dominate the conversation, like he couldn´t contain his opinions a moment longer. Knowing the field quite well, I didn´t buy everything he said, whereas Dini, who´d studied visual and graphic design for years at the Institute of Technology in Bandung, couldn´t stop asking him questions, hanging off his every word.

What had happened to my bright girl who could think for herself? Had she forgotten everything she´d learned? Dini lapped up every supposed fact and figure that fell from his mouth. I grew tired of his foolishness, tired of watching Dini say Oh!´ and Wow!´ and Really?´ over and over, like she was stuck on repeat. Once, when my ears were unable to listen to him rattle on a moment longer, I excused myself early, hoping that Dini would take the hint and ask him to call it a night. But without me there, their conversation became even more lively, his voice growing in volume as he told story after story.

Back in my room, I could still hear Dini´s laughter. Rage thumped in my chest as I thought about how he´d deliberately and skilfully ejected me from the conversation with his tedious talk about graphic design, and then moved on to other topics once I´d gone. I was going to have to keep an eye on him, that was for sure.

Lying awake in the middle of the night, I listened to the sound of Dini´s laughter as it carried through the house. Though the room was dark, I saw my bedroom door slowly open as Dini peered inside. I quickly shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep, until I heard the door swing shut again.

You´d better stay with me, Yos,´ she whispered, failing to suppress a giggle. Ayah is fast asleep and snoring already.´

Snoring? Me? How dare you, Dini!
2. Dini

It´s hot as a sauna outside, though it´s been raining for four solid days now. Luckily Bang Ucup helped me check the roof of my studio last week, or there might have been trouble.

The din of water falling on the rooftops tells me the rain is still heavy. But with the street empty of people, it´s also eerily quiet. As I sit and listen to the rain, coffee growing cold, my thoughts drift to Ayah. I picture him sitting in the living room of our family home, sipping on a glass of sekoteng, a plate of fried sweet bananas on the table beside him. I wonder if he still enjoys a good rainstorm like we used to.

This wasn´t always our favourite pastime. It began twelve days after Ibu, my mother, was buried. When the rain that had started early in the morning showed no sign of stopping, Ayah decided to stay home for the day. I remember he sat in the living room flipping through an old magazine of Ibu´s, his gaze occasionally drifting to stare out the window. With no interesting books to read, I resorted to playing Autumn Leaves´ - Ibu´s favourite song, which I knew by heart - on the piano till I got bored.

I sat down next to Ayah. Unable to find any words, neither of us said anything for a while, until we both took a breath at the same time. Ayah smiled at me before he began to talk.

It´s so calm, isn´t it, Dini?´

Yes, Ayah. I can´t stop thinking about Ibu. Are you thinking about her too?´

He nodded. Come, tell me a story, Din.´

His request surprised me. What kind of story, Ayah?´

Anything you like. You used to love chatting with your mother. What kind of things did you share with her?´

It felt strange, talking to Ayah like that. It was as though I was in front of a stranger - I didn´t know what to say. But he was patient, encouraging me to try talking to him instead now that Ibu was gone.

And so I began to share every bit of my life with him: stories about my school friends, the stern teachers, my ever-growing pile of homework, and my worries about the upcoming exams. When it was his turn, he told me about his work, letting me into the art world I had always been so curious about.

Ibu had always told me that Ayah´s job was boring, though Ayah did his best to defend it, trying to convince me of its appeal. He would often keep himself busy in the room Ibu nicknamed his warehouse´, though Ayah had made a sign saying studio´ and fixed it to the door. Sometimes his friends would come and visit his studio, to take a look at his work. I could tell that this made him happy because of the smile on his face after...
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Autor

Reda Gaudiamo is a writer from Jakarta, Indonesia, known for her 'Na Willa' stories. She is also known across Southeast Asia and Europe as a singer and musician through the AriReda duo.
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