The Birdwoman's Palate Page 9

  “Here, the heroes of the revolution are not dead”—so wrote the poet Hr. Bandaharo of the city of Stalingrad. But on my previous visit I had trouble seeing Surabaya the same way. Sixty years ago, this city’s sons were dying in the streets for country and for freedom. Yet the same streets seemed so unfeeling, so mercantile. It was as if the city was devoid of sacred spaces—spaces to be kept from progress, from the future, so they could continue to honor the past. Sure, there was the Heroes Monument, and the Majapahit Hotel, and the valiant-looking statues scattered throughout the city. But it was all too hot, too chaotic, and I was too weary to pay my respects.

  But now something feels different. The roads seem wider, cleaner, less crowded. There are more sidewalks, more trees. Every aspect of the city, including the majestic, newly restored colonial-era buildings, shaky in their old age but charming nevertheless, leaps out at me. The residential areas near the governor’s and mayor’s houses—beautiful structures, both of them—are lined with mansions and spacious gardens that bespeak an order, a system. The images of sharks and crocodiles found throughout the city—the sura and baya that make up Surabaya’s name—don’t feel like contrived mythology this time around. Even the Red Bridge, where Brigadier Mallaby was killed in the Battle of Surabaya, is impressive in its authority.

  In the background, I hear the voices of my two companions—one growing more coquettish by the minute and the other more annoying.

  We agree that Farish and I should check in at the hotel first and we’ll all meet again in the lobby at ten. After that, we’ll go straight to the hospital. When Farish says “check in,” there’s a rascally glint in his eye.

  But the only thing on my mind is the name of a certain dish—a local specialty of Banyuwangi, not too far away. Rujak Soto.

  “Hey, I’m in Surabaya,” says Bono over the phone. “Just landed.”

  “Great. I’m on the road right now,” I say, looking at my watch. “We’ll be at the hospital in ten minutes. My team and I have to talk to some patients.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I tell him the name of the hotel.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m staying nearby. So where are we going for lunch?”

  I lower my voice because I don’t want my car-mates to think I’m shallow. (As if the only thing I have on the brain is food. Even if it’s true.) “There’s a restaurant that serves Banyuwangi cuisine. It’s in the city center, not far from your hotel. I’m dying to try their rujak soto. And I’ve heard they serve other kinds of rujak as well—ones you can’t find anywhere else.”

  “Oh,” I hear Bono say on the other end. “Rujak soto?”

  As a rule, the word “rujak” doesn’t inspire much enthusiasm in men. Bono is no exception. These beautiful medleys of fresh fruit and vegetables doused in spicy palm-sugar-based sauce are associated with women, with pregnancy cravings, with the emotional sweet-and-sour fieriness of Eve’s daughters. But there’s more to rujak than this. Poor rujak. It’s really not fair.

  “Soto rujak or rujak soto?”

  “Rujak soto.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what they call it. Who am I to argue?”

  “Hmph.”

  Don’t tell me Bono’s getting all Nadezhda on me.

  “There’s a reason I’m asking. Soto rujak is more soupy, like soto. Rujak soto is more like salad, like rujak. At least that’s how it should be, in theory.”

  “All right, all right. Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

  “I will,” says Bono, sounding like he means it. “Text me when you’re finished at the hospital.”

  I’m sure the only reason he’s willing to give the poor dish a try is because of its sotoness.

  “Okay,” I say before hanging up.

  Farish asks me who I was talking to.

  “My boyfriend.”

  This time he spins around a full 180 degrees. His expression is one of total shock.

  “For real?”

  “What do you mean, ‘for real’?”

  “You have a boyfriend? Seriously?”

  I ignore this question.

  When we get to the hospital, I lag behind as Farish and Inda leap out of the car and scramble toward a redbrick structure that looks depressingly empty and abandoned. I imagine the pair of them running up the stairs and kicking open the door to the epidemiology department like two members of a bomb disposal team, or CSI, or fucking Castle and Beckett, racing to save the city from destruction.

  The hospital doesn’t even look like a hospital. A facility, more like it—squalid, low security, a shelter for petty criminals instead of the infirm, the sick instead of the sickly. It even lacks the harsh fluorescent lighting usually associated with heartless functionality. Instead there are broken bulbs, rain-stained walls, and crummy corridors from which I almost expect a zombie or two to pop out. I take a deep breath and try my best to look at ease.

  By the time I join Farish and Inda on the third floor, which in comparison to the rest of the building is better staffed, better lit, and better equipped, they’re already talking with a senior nurse. She doesn’t look very enthused. From the grim expression on her face, it looks as if she’s thinking, I should have just gone through the trouble of taking the final practicum to become a doctor. Then I wouldn’t be stuck having to field questions from these busybodies.

  I overhear them mention “the Mojokerto case.” It happened a few years back, in 2007. A resident of Bangsal in East Java had a fever of over 102 degrees Fahrenheit and a leukocyte count of 1,000 cells per microliter—way below average.

  “The patient’s symptoms back then are almost identical to those of the patient we’ve just brought in,” says the nurse, the expression on her face still sour. “The difference is, back then, there were other patients coming in with similar symptoms. There were a fair number. Now there’s only one. But from what I hear, it’s the same in other areas: only one case here and one case there. Talk about weird.”

  “You mean that there both is and isn’t an outbreak going on at the same time?” Farish asks pointedly.

  The nurse doesn’t respond.

  “Has a blood sample been sent to R&D at SoWeFit headquarters in Jakarta?”

  “Yes, but we’ll only get the results back tomorrow.”

  “Which courier service did you use? Elteha or Caraka?”

  Really. What’s the point of asking a question like that? But I don’t interfere. Let Mr. Hot Stuff feel like a big man.

  “So how many people are undergoing treatment in the special wing?” Farish asks the nurse.

  “Just the girl.”

  “And she was brought in from Malang?”

  “Yes.”

  “But isn’t there a hospital in Malang? Aren’t they also one of the hospitals designated to handle avian flu cases?”

  “Yes, but from what I’ve heard the facilities are inadequate.”

  “Can we look at the patient? We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

  “Sure,” the nurse says as she hurries toward the door. “But don’t take too long.”

  She looks relieved at being able to send us big-city folks somewhere else—where she won’t be responsible for providing us with information that might be wrong, incomplete, or not yet vetted by the hospital admin.

  In the wing set aside for avian flu patients, protocol is, surprisingly, followed to a T. This at least allows for some hope. How many times have I visited other hospitals where people are allowed to come and go as they please? Here, the signs that read “No Public Access” are taken seriously. The door is locked from the inside. In order to enter we have to press a button and get permission from the nurse on duty.

  Once inside, we’re subjected to interrogation. At this stage, the staff is still relatively suspicious of us, as if we’re asking to interview the president himself about the outbreak supposedly sweeping across our archipelago. Then, when they’re convinced we really have been dispatched from the Ministry and not som
e bioterrorist organization, they ask us to wash our hands with antiseptic soap and don special gowns before entering the patients’ rooms. As Inda puts on her gown, I watch Farish discreetly eying the cleavage that pops out of her blouse.

  The coordinator for this wing is also a senior nurse. But she’s much friendlier than her colleague. It’s as if someone has tuned her face to broadcast two rows of white teeth, top and bottom, morning and night, come rain or shine, hell or high water, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year—as if smiling is her only safeguard against disaster. She accompanies us as we visit all the wards. I can tell from her accent that she’s from Malang, and she expresses annoyance at the public hospital there, which “time and time again” lacks perception, “time and time again” lacks initiative, and “time and time again” fails to submit requests to the Regional House of Representatives for increased funding to handle emergencies.

  “Why are almost all the patients they send to us in such terrible condition?” she asks vehemently before answering her own question. “Because of the inadequate treatment they receive before they’re referred to us, despite the fact that the kind of treatment a patient initially receives in such dire situations is critical to ensuring their survival.” Before any of us can respond, she continues. “I happen to be friends with the secretary of economy and finance for the regency of Malang. He told me that he didn’t see a single proposal for increased funding from the local hospitals during the discussions of the draft for the 2013 regional budget. It’s so depressing. And still this happens year after year.”

  “But even if there were such proposals, would they receive any support?” asks Farish.

  “My friend says he’s positive they’d receive support—especially since suspected cases of avian flu are on the rise in Malang. The only problem is that these hospitals have no initiative. Zilch.”

  “Well,” I can’t help but interject, “as you say, the cases are suspected, not confirmed.”

  The nurse seems momentarily taken aback, but not for long.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t improve our facilities to anticipate the real thing.”

  “But there’s only one suspected case at the moment.” Again, I can’t help it, though I intend it to sound more like a reminder than a reprimand.

  “Are you saying we need to have lots of suspected cases before we do anything about it?”

  So she’s one of those seasoned senior nurses trained in internalizing an officially imposed institutional myth and voicing it as though it were her own, contradictions be damned. I shoot a quick glance at Castle and Beckett, who are suddenly quiet as mice—Can you geniuses help me? But they can’t; they won’t.

  I let it go, even if the institutional thinking is clearly absurd. Are we missing something?

  “I bet they have more suspected avian flu patients inside,” Farish whispers. “It’s just that they’ve all been injected with an invisible serum so we can’t see them. If they have no patients, there’s no justifying the wing at all. There’s no point to the facilities, there’s no point to the corruption, everybody’s out of work.” And before I have the chance to open my mouth, he says, “And if the right honorable secretary of economy and finance of Malang is apparently aware of the situation, why doesn’t the secretary propose a solution to the hospitals’ problems himself? Especially if the depressing situation repeats itself year after year? Couldn’t he have done so through an informal channel like his good friend standing before us?”

  I’m too tired to argue. In this country, asking which member or division of the civil service is most at fault is equivalent to asking which came first, the chicken or the egg. Inappropriate joke, I know, but there you go. That’s how low I’ve been brought.

  My headache returns. Soon afterward, we’re gathered around the bed of a young girl. She looks weak.

  “Her condition is quite serious,” whispers the senior nurse. “She was only brought to us five days after she began showing signs of fever. I’m not sure if she’s going to make it.”

  The patient’s name is Nuraini. She’s fourteen. According to the report I’m reading, she has all the symptoms typically associated with avian flu: high fever, difficulty breathing, stomach pain, diarrhea. She’s very thin, as if her body is being gnawed away from the inside out, and she has no energy to resist. Once again I’m ashamed because even at a time like this I find myself thinking of all the things she can no longer enjoy: smell, color, texture, taste, not to mention life itself.

  Fifteen minutes later I leave the wing so I can text Bono: Another 45 minutes, Bon. When Bono texts back with an okay, I feel a little calmer, despite the fact that my stomach has begun to protest and is making the kind of gurgling sounds you hear in a sci-fi film. Maybe it’s better if I stay out here for a while.

  A moment later I realize there’s an old man sitting beside me. The look of complete and utter devastation on his face compels me to speak.

  “Who are you waiting for, sir?”

  “My daughter,” says the old man, pointing feebly toward the wing.

  “Nuraini?”

  The man nods. His eyes are tired.

  “I don’t have any family or friends here. Every night I sleep on this bench.” He says “don’t” in a thick rural Javanese accent: n’don’t.

  “Sorry, sir,” I say, lapsing into the automatic Javanism of apologizing before asking an awkward question. “If I may ask—what is your name?”

  “Nurhasan.”

  “Mr. Nurhasan, sir, may I ask when Nuraini began to feel sick?”

  “About twelve days ago. She was burnin’ up. Two days later the fever still didn’t go down so we brought her to the health clinic near our house. But her condition got worse and worse, and she started hallucinating. Then they took her to Kanjuruhan Hospital. She was there for three days, but then, well, she just got worse. Only then did the doctor there say it’d be better to send her to Surabaya.”

  “Why wasn’t she referred immediately to Surabaya, sir? Or to the main hospital in Malang? Why keep her for three days in Kanjuruhan? The hospital isn’t equipped to handle patients suspected of having avian flu. The procedure to follow in these situations should be more than clear.”

  “Oh, I n’don’t understand all that. N’don’t understand what went wrong. Maybe they just thought she had wind in the body and that they could handle it themselves.”

  I try not to wince at the mention of “wind in the body,” which is what people say when someone has the chills. It’s a common diagnosis, but folk nonsense nonetheless.

  “But all the health clinics and hospitals are supposed to know how to detect the symptoms of avian flu immediately. They’ve all been given directives—”

  I stop because I suddenly realize that the last thing this poor old man needs is to be made more miserable. What he needs are hope and encouragement.

  “Sir, if I may ask another question: Before your daughter began showing signs of fever, did she have contact with any birds? Geese, chickens, ducks?”

  “No. Not directly. But I’ve thrown away chicken carcasses behind our house before.”

  “Chickens? No ducks?”

  “Yes, chickens. Wait. And ducks.”

  “Is it possible that your daughter came into contact with any chicken droppings? Or duck droppings?”

  Suddenly the old man’s eyes are wet. “Oh God. If this is my fault, I n’don’t think I could live with myself.”

  And with that, he begins reciting verses from the Qur’an and retreats into himself, into the fate ordained for him and his daughter by God.

  An old man, a stranger, is so thin and broken. And I feel so sad for him. So sad that for a few seconds I feel wobbly, unsure whether to stand up or stay in my seat. He hasn’t even asked me who I am, where I’m from, why I’m asking him all these questions. Yet I know it’s time for me to go, for me to also retreat into myself, to get back to work, if work helps anything, if it helps make things better, for him and for me and for his daug
hter.

  I comb my memory for something Irma once said: “You know what they say about doctors. They’re cold, aloof, callous. They have to dull their feelings so they can remain objective and not get too emotionally involved with their patients. And yet they have the power to heal at least one person a day.”

  Try to imagine what people must say about “outbreak experts” like us. We speak with patients and their families, but we bring no treatment with us, no healing. We come with our notebooks to beds where patients lie prone and feeble, and we bombard them with questions about what happened, how it came to be this way or that, like bumbling police inspectors in pursuit of a criminal mastermind. But we can’t catch the culprit or bring the wrongdoer to justice. All we can say is, next time be sure to keep your chickens in good health and don’t forget to wash your hands.

  Next time. If there is a next time.

  Just as I’m about to push the button to re-enter the wing, Farish and Inda emerge. I hear the senior nurse behind them: “Thank you so much for visiting. Don’t forget to send us a copy of your report, okay?”

  “Damn, I’m starving,” Farish mutters.

  8

  BOTOK PAKIS AND RUJAK SOTO

  From behind a plate of Rujak Cingur, so pungent it makes me dizzy, I watch Farish stare at Bono sitting beside me—as if this Bono person has just dropped out of the sky and Farish isn’t quite sure whether he’s human or not. This Bono person, on the other hand, is completely unaware of Farish’s presence; he has eyes only for the bowl of rujak soto in front of him.

  There isn’t a square inch of the table that isn’t covered with food. There’s the house specialty, which, it turns out, is just your usual rujak cingur—fresh vegetables, fruits, and tofu, plus slices of boiled cow snout topped with a salty-sour dressing. There’s also Rujak Tolet, a fruit-heavy rujak with a dressing made of palm sugar, sweet soy sauce, and garlic; a dish unfamiliar to me called Rujak Deham, fruit slivers and bean sprouts doused in salty dressing; and Rujak Cempling, fruits served in a clear coconut-water-based sauce. And there’s more: Nasi Soto Babat (tripe soup with rice), Nasi Empal (sweet-spicy fried beef and rice), and who knows how many different varieties of botok, along with kerupuk (prawn crackers, tapioca crackers, fish crackers), deep-fried tofu puffs, crumbed risoles, crispy pastel puffs, sticky lemper dumplings, and croquettes, all selected by Bono from the glass display case near the cash register, as if he were the rich wife of a high-ranking bureaucrat in a shoe store ordering every model in twelve different colors. Even I, with my secret desire to try everything this humble eatery has to offer, am a bit embarrassed at this theater of excess. After all, my mother taught me to always finish the food on my plate.