At the second meeting, Raka arrived carrying a marker, three event proposals, and the conviction that he would not get involved in anyone's love life.
That conviction lasted seven minutes.
“Welcome to Bertasbih,” said one of the organizers. “This program is for singles who want to improve themselves and contribute to the community.”
“Great,” Raka whispered to Fikri. “There’s no partner-introduction session.”
Fikri nodded far too quickly. “Nothing official.”
“Why are you answering like someone who’s hiding something?”
“Because I’m hiding something.”
Raka didn't get a chance to ask what when Fikri pushed him forward. Five minutes later, he had already been appointed coordinator of the group games.
“What kind of games?” Raka asked.
“Games that help the participants get to know one another.”
“That’s the definition of a matchmaking service.”
“Not if there are essential-goods packages involved.”
Nisa arrived carrying two boxes of books. “Are you two done arguing, or are you just warming up?”
“Raka’s explaining that this event is vulnerable to misinterpretation,” Fikri said.
“In that case, he’d be perfect as the emcee.”
Raka turned to her. “Me?”
“You’re good at explaining things in a way that makes people believe you know what you’re doing.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Not necessarily.”
The participants were divided into several groups to survey the residents’ needs. Raka ended up in a group with Nisa, Sari, and two college students who were too shy to look at each other. Sari immediately handed out the forms.
“We’re visiting the houses in the back alley,” she said. “Ask about their needs. Don’t offer help we can’t provide.”
Raka raised his hand. “What if someone asks for a life partner?”
Without looking at him, Sari replied, “You can offer them Fikri’s number.”
Fikri, who was lifting a box, choked.
They walked through the alley as the sun began to set. At the first house, an elderly woman asked for medicine for her husband. At the second, a little girl showed them a schoolbook whose cover was almost falling off. At the third, they met Mr. Harun, a clockmaker whose shop was at risk of closing because business was so slow.
Raka was usually good at talking to people. But in those houses, words felt too small. He chose to take notes, carry things, and fix the broken strap on a child’s bag.
Nisa watched him.
“What?” Raka asked.
“So you can be quiet after all.”
“I can. It just costs extra.”
“How much?”
“Two servings of chicken noodles.”
“Cheap.”
“I’m running a sale.”
Nisa gave a small smile. Not a big laugh, not a reaction he could show off to Fikri. Just a brief smile that made Raka forget what he was going to say next.
That afternoon, they returned to the mosque with a list of needs far longer than the available funds. The organizers gathered together. Several proposals were rejected because of the budget. Raka suggested that they write a fundraising post through the travel agency where he worked.
“Can you do that?” Nisa asked.
“We can try.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Raka fell silent. “I’ll keep at it until we can.”
Nisa nodded. “Now that’s an answer.”
The night grew late. After everyone had gone home, Raka was still attaching labels to the books. Nisa turned off the lights in the reading room one by one.
“You don’t have to wait,” she said.
“I’m not waiting. I’m making sure these books don’t run away.”
“Books can’t run away.”
“Not necessarily. Romance novels usually have minds of their own.”
Nisa sat across from him. “Why did you join this program?”
“Fikri forced me.”
“That’s why you came. Not why you stayed.”
Raka looked at the label in his hand. He wanted to answer with a joke. But Nisa’s question left him no room to slip through.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’m looking for something I can’t finish by typing.”
Nisa didn’t press him for more. She only said, “I hope you find it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll have to keep looking.”
When Raka got home, Fikri had already sent him a message.
Tomorrow there’s a small meeting. I’ve already put you and Nisa in charge of the fundraising campaign.
Raka replied:
I’m going to kill you.
Fikri answered:
Don’t. That’s a sin. Besides, you should be thanking me.
Raka put his phone away. For the first time, he felt that a meeting wasn’t entirely bad.
Of course, he had no idea that tomorrow’s meeting would bring him face-to-face with Nisa’s past—and a man named Faris who arrived with an offer of help far too generous to be called a coincidence.