Screeech—screech!
The tires of the public minibus running the Terminal–Sukamaju route scraped across the hot asphalt right in front of the lane leading into Sukamaju.
The dull green-painted wooden sliding door opened with a sharp, grating squeal.
"Stop here, please! Right by the blue umbrella!"
Salma Shakira turned sideways, hugged her canvas tote to her chest, then stepped down from the wobbling metal footboard. Salma stood by the roadside.
The public minibus sped off again, leaving behind a thin cloud of exhaust laced with the smell of gasoline and dry dust in the eight-o'clock morning air.
Salma adjusted the strap on her bag, patted the dust from her skirt, then looked around.
"Oh boy... which way is it?" Salma murmured softly to herself. Her hand slipped into her pocket to make sure the folded scrap of paper was still there.
"Mom said there'd be a food stall when I got off the minibus... but there are just mango trees everywhere."
Across the road, directly beneath the shade of a lush rain tree, stood a wooden cart painted thick black, with a silver sign that read Husain's Coffee Cart.
A thin stream of steam rose from the gooseneck kettle atop a portable stove. A young man in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—Husain—was bent over, rinsing stainless-steel cups in a plastic bucket.
Salma tilted her head, weighing her options.
Her feet began carrying her across the quiet road. From the bend in the lane, a burly middle-aged man in a loose silk batik shirt and black prayer cap came hurrying.
His strides were long, and he was breathing hard.
The man—Mr. Omar—glanced back briefly, as though avoiding something, then hurried forward again.
Crash!
Mr. Omar's elbow clipped the corner of the folding table attached to Husain's cart.
A stainless-steel cup holding leftover rinse water toppled over.
The small spirit level on the table shifted two centimeters.
"Ow! God forgive me!" Mr. Omar stumbled, clutching his waist.
His black prayer cap slid sideways, revealing the wireless earbud in his right ear.
Husain reflexively caught the cup before it hit the ground. "Hey, Mr. Omar. Are you okay?"
Mr. Omar planted his hands on his hips. His face was beet red, his breath coming hard and fast.
Mr. Omar took a step forward and leaned over Husain's lower cart.
"Do you think glaring makes it okay?!" Mr. Omar shouted, his shrill voice cutting through the roar of a passing motorcycle.
"Where were your eyes, Husain?! You set up shop on the roadside and endanger people! My elbow hit a sharp piece of wood! What if it bruises? Are you going to pay for my massage?!"
Husain set the cup back on its saucer.
He picked up a wet chamois cloth and wiped the water splashed across the tabletop.
"Mr. Omar, my cart has been sitting here since seven," Husain replied flatly, his eyes still fixed on the water left on the table.
"You were running from the bend while looking behind you."
"What? Why are you blaming me?!" Mr. Omar slapped his chest with his left palm.
"I'm a senior resident here! The biggest rental-property owner in Sukamaju! You're just squatting by the ditch selling packets of instant coffee! You should've been watching out and secured that wooden edge! What if another resident falls later?!"
Salma had just finished crossing the road when she stopped three meters from the cart.
She watched Mr. Omar continue jabbing a finger toward Husain's face, while Husain merely wrung the chamois cloth into the bucket in a steady rhythm.
Salma drew a deep breath, straightened her light-brown instant hijab, then walked closer.
"Sorry... excuse me, gentlemen," Salma said softly, her voice flowing gently amid the noise of the road.
Mr. Omar stopped ranting.
His neck snapped toward the source of the voice. His eyes, which had been bulging a moment earlier, blinked twice.
His challenging lean over Husain suddenly became an upright stance.
Mr. Omar's right hand quickly straightened his crooked prayer cap.
"Oh... young lady?" Mr. Omar changed his tone. The deep voice that had been barking moments earlier suddenly became soft and slightly, artificially hoarse.
"Oh, I'm sorry, miss. This is... well, I was just disciplining a young man who's a little undisciplined."
Husain glanced up at Salma, then silently went back to wiping the handle of his manual espresso portafilter.
"I'm very sorry to interrupt," Salma said, lowering her head slightly and clasping both hands before her chest.
"Am I disturbing your conversation?"
"Oh, no! Not at all, beautiful miss!" Mr. Omar waved his hand in the air, flashing such a broad smile that his thin mustache lifted.
"You're not disturbing us one bit. It's just a little problem. Big businessmen like me have to inspect the neighborhood from time to time. What brings you here, miss? Are you looking for someone in Sukamaju?"
Salma reached into the pocket of her long dress and pulled out a small folded sheet of paper, its edges somewhat worn.
"Well, sir, I'm looking for the rental property owned by Mr. Omar. Someone at the entrance to the lane said it was somewhere around here. Do you happen to know it?" Mr. Omar's eyes lit up at once. He thumped his chest rather hard.
Smack!
"Praise be to God! Opportunity really does find its way to you!" Mr. Omar declared, his voice rising again, this time full of pride.
"You're looking for Mr. Omar? Well, here I am! I'm the man himself! Omar Al-Murtadha, owner of more than a dozen of Sukamaju's most exclusive rental units!"
Salma slowly widened her eyes, then smiled politely. "Oh, you're Mr. Omar? Thank goodness, I found you right away."
"Yes, miss! What a coincidence!" Mr. Omar turned his back to Husain, completely ignoring the coffee cart.
He took half a step closer to Salma, but Salma discreetly moved half a step back to maintain her distance.
"Which unit would you like to see? The two-bedroom near the mosque, or the one near the main road? Come on, I'll show you right now. We can take my car at the end of the lane, or would you rather take a leisurely walk while I point out Sukamaju's boundaries?"
Husain stopped wiping. "Mr. Omar, you haven't paid for the hot tea you ordered."
Mr. Omar whipped around with a sharp glare, then roughly reached into his pants pocket.
He pulled out a worn twenty-thousand-rupiah bill and tossed it onto Husain's cart.
"Keep the change and buy yourself a magnifying glass, so you can keep a better eye out!" Mr. Omar snapped before turning back to show Salma his friendly smile.
"Come on, miss... what was your name again?"
"Salma, sir. Salma Shakira."
"Well then, Miss Salma, let's go see the place now. We'll walk; it's only two hundred meters from here. The morning air is still good for your health." Mr. Omar beckoned invitingly and set off ahead of her to lead the way.
Salma glanced back at Husain and gave him a small nod goodbye.
Husain merely returned the brief nod, swept the bill off the table, and put it in a tin box.
"Let's go, sir," Salma said, following behind Mr. Omar at a safe distance of two steps.
Their footsteps crossed a narrow asphalt path whose edges were still damp from the previous night's rain.
Sukamaju was beginning to stir.
On the left, residents' yards were decorated with clotheslines of laundry swaying in the breeze.
On the right, rows of banana trees separated the neighborhood road from a small stretch of rice fields.
"My rental units, Miss Salma, are the finest in this entire subdistrict," Mr. Omar said without being asked, waving his hands in the air to punctuate every sentence.
"The roofs are made of light-gauge steel. No leaks, no termites. The water comes from an artesian well, clear as bottled mineral water. That's why the people who rent from me are generally the cream of the crop."
Salma listened while maintaining a steady pace.
"Thank goodness the water runs well, sir. I need it for washing clothes and cooking every day."
"It definitely runs well! If a faucet gets clogged, just call Mamat. One of my residents can do anything; give him a job and it's done in no time," Mr. Omar continued proudly.
"But that's the thing, Miss Salma... living in Sukamaju means you have to be careful about who you associate with. Not everyone here has good intentions."
Salma tilted her head. "What do you mean, sir?"
"Like that young coffee seller," Mr. Omar hissed softly, lowering his voice as though he were revealing a state secret.
"That Husain. He's young but stubborn. Sets up by the roadside, makes a mess, refuses to follow rules. When an older man like me gives him advice, he talks back. If you can, Miss Salma, don't buy coffee there too often. It's not hygienic."
Salma stared at Mr. Omar's back as he walked leaning forward. Her hand tightened around the strap of her canvas tote.
"Oh... I see, sir."
"Exactly! Trust me," Mr. Omar chuckled. "By the way, Miss Salma, where did you move here from? Why are you by yourself? Where's your luggage?"
"I'm from Garut, sir. The larger items will be brought later in a pickup truck once I decide on the unit and sign the lease. For now, I only brought a bag of clothes."
"Oh, you're from Garut! No wonder you speak so sweetly, and you have such a lovely, serene face," Mr. Omar said, openly flattering her.
They reached a small three-way intersection.
On the corner stood a simple food stall with a white cloth banner reading Mrs. Eros & Mr. Amin's Food Stall.
In front of the stall, a middle-aged, brown-skinned man—Mr. Amin—was sweeping dry leaves from the yard with a twig broom.
Swish... swish... swish...
"Good morning, sir!" Salma greeted him spontaneously and warmly as they passed the stall.
Mr. Amin stopped sweeping, looked up, and gave her a warm smile that made the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stand out.
"Oh, hello, miss... Are you new around here?"
"Yes, sir. I'm Salma."
"Amin, miss. My wife and I own this food stall. If you're hungry, stop by. We've got some freshly cooked vegetable stew."
"Yes, Mr. Amin. Thank you very much," Salma replied politely.
Mr. Omar frowned at the brief exchange. He quickened his pace.
"Come on, Miss Salma, we're almost there. Don't linger in the road; there's a lot of dust."
They turned right into a narrower lane lined with low concrete fences.
At the end of the lane stood a neat row of buildings with mint-green wooden doors.
There were four doors in one long building.
"Here we are!" Mr. Omar spread both arms in a grand gesture.
"Sukamaju Asri Rental Property, Unit Three. The vacant unit is the second door from the left."
Mr. Omar reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a ring of house keys attached to a large metal keychain.
He crossed the clean concrete forecourt to the second door, then inserted a key into the lock.
Click.
The doorknob turned.
The wooden door swung wide, revealing a small three-by-three-meter living room with spotless white tile flooring.
In one corner was a door leading to a bedroom and a narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and the bathroom in back.
"Go ahead and come in, Miss Salma. Take a look around and check the cleanliness first. Mamat just swept it yesterday," Mr. Omar said, standing in the doorway and making room for her.
Salma stepped inside slowly.
The room felt somewhat stuffy from having been closed up, but overall it looked well maintained.
Salma walked to the front window and tried sliding its latch.
Creak.
The window opened, letting in the morning breeze along with the scent of soil and wet leaves from the yard outside.
Salma checked the corners of the ceiling, making sure there were no thick cobwebs or signs of water damage.
"What do you think, miss? Nice, right?" Mr. Omar asked, still standing near the door.
"The rent is cheap for amenities this good. Only one million two hundred thousand rupiah a month. That already includes the neighborhood sanitation fee."
Salma turned to look at Mr. Omar.
"You said the water runs well, right, sir? May I try turning on the faucet in back?"
"Of course! Go right ahead! Check the kitchen yourself."
Salma walked past Mr. Omar toward the back of the rental property.
The small kitchen had a gray porcelain-topped cement counter with a stove and a black plastic bucket beneath an iron faucet.
Salma turned the faucet handle.
Rumble... gush!
Clear water poured forcefully into the bottom of the plastic bucket, overflowing and filling the small room with a tinkling sound.
Salma turned the faucet off again and let the last few drops fall.
Salma nodded slowly. "The water is good—clear and odorless." "Didn't I tell you, Miss Salma?!" Mr. Omar's voice came from the front room.
"Mr. Omar never lies about the quality of his rental properties. So? Does it work for you?"
Salma returned to the front room and stood two meters in front of Mr. Omar. "I like the place, sir. It's clean and quiet. But about the rent... could we discuss the price again? My mother told me to look for something under one million ten thousand, if possible, because I haven't fully recouped my business capital yet."
Mr. Omar folded his arms across his chest and tapped his fingers against his elbow.
His eyes studied Salma's hopeful face.
Mr. Omar never gave other residents so much as a penny's discount. But as he looked into the polite eyes of the girl before him, his stiff expression gradually softened.
"Ahem... well, the standard price here really is that much, miss. It never goes lower," Mr. Omar said, clearing his throat and adjusting his collar.
"But... since you seem like such a nice, polite girl, and it's your first time making your way in the world here in Sukamaju... all right. I'll give you a special price for a new neighbor."
"How much, sir?"
"One million even. I'll cover the fifty thousand for the sanitation fee during the first month. How's that?"
Salma's eyes lit up. She clasped both hands before her chest. "Thank you so much, Mr. Omar. You're very kind."
Mr. Omar laughed proudly, puffing out his chest.
"Haha! Oh, it's nothing, miss. For Mr. Omar, the comfort of his tenants comes first. So, it's a deal?"
"Yes, sir. I'll take this unit. Here's a five-hundred-thousand-rupiah down payment to hold it. I'll pay the rest tomorrow when my belongings arrive."
Salma took her wallet from her bag and handed him several neat hundred-thousand-rupiah bills.
Mr. Omar accepted the money briskly, counted it at a glance, then slipped it into his shirt pocket.
"Excellent! I'll give you one of the unit's keys. I'll keep the other as an emergency spare."
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Outside, the sound of a bicycle bell rang loudly.
A man in a gray T-shirt and slightly sagging cloth shorts stopped his bicycle right in front of the rental property's forecourt.
His face was slick with sweat, and his baseball cap was on backward. The man—Mamat—jumped off the bicycle, making it topple sideways and slam into the ground.
Thud!
"Ow! Mamat's old bicycle fell over again!" Mamat shouted loudly to himself, unconcerned that there was no one else in the forecourt. He casually picked up his bicycle, straightened the crooked handlebars, then dragged one foot as he walked into the rental property.
"Mr. Omar! Big Boss!" Mamat called excitedly as soon as he saw Mr. Omar in the living room.
"I've been looking all over for you at Mrs. Eros's food stall! Mr. Ahmad is looking for you! He says there's an emergency meeting about cleaning the drain in Lane Two!"
Mr. Omar glared, his face souring instantly now that Mamat had interrupted his business moment.
"Mamat, for crying out loud! You show up and make a racket! You knock your bike around and start yelling! Can't you see I have a guest?!"
Mamat only then noticed Salma standing in the corner of the room. His eyes blinked rapidly three times.
Mamat immediately tugged his baseball cap around to the front, then bowed stiffly with a broad, somewhat strange smile.
"Oh... sorry, miss. Mamat didn't know we had an honored guest," Mamat said with exaggerated flair, smoothing down his dingy shirt.
"I'm Mamat, miss. The expert staffer, personal assistant, and all-purpose hero of Sukamaju. If you need help hauling water jugs, painting walls, or chasing out rats, just say Mamat's name three times!"
Salma held back a small laugh at the man's antics, then nodded politely.
"I'm Salma, Mamat. I'm the new tenant here."
"Whoa, a new tenant! Sukamaju's really getting lively!" Mamat clapped once.
Then he stage-whispered toward Mr. Omar, unfortunately still loud enough for Salma to hear clearly.
"Boss... how'd you land such a pretty tenant? She's nothing like the scary one at the end of Lane Three who likes throwing soapy water!"
"Mamat! Watch your mouth!" Mr. Omar snapped angrily, waving him away.
"Now get going! Tell Mr. Ahmad I'll be there shortly! You're interrupting my business!"
"Yes, Big Boss! Consider it done!" Mamat saluted excessively, clicking his heels together.
But when he turned to leave, the loose hem of his shorts caught on the doorstop at the bottom of the doorway.
Riiip!
"Ow!" Mamat nearly pitched forward into the forecourt, but managed to steady himself by grabbing the porch post.
"All clear! No casualties! The door's safe!" he shouted without the slightest embarrassment, then jogged over to his bicycle and pedaled away at full speed.
Ring-ring!
Salma and Mr. Omar watched Mamat leave.
Mr. Omar shook his head and rubbed his chest.
"Don't be surprised by Mamat, Miss Salma," Mr. Omar whispered sympathetically. "He's been like that forever. Careless as they come, but if you give him an errand, he works fast. That's why the residents here still keep him around."
"It's okay, sir. Mamat seems friendly and funny," Salma answered honestly.
"All right, Miss Salma. Since you have the key now, I'll be going to meet Mr. Ahmad at the neighborhood association hall. If anything comes up, or if any of the amenities are lacking, just call me. My house is the big one in front with the black iron fence."
"All right, Mr. Omar. Thank you very much for your help today."
Mr. Omar nodded with satisfaction and walked out of the rental property with his chest puffed out, feeling as though he had just closed the best transaction of the day.
Salma stood in the doorway, watching Mr. Omar's back grow smaller as he made his way down the lane.
After the wealthy man disappeared around the bend, the rental property suddenly fell silent.
The only sounds were sparrows chirping on the corrugated-metal roof and the breeze rustling the mango-tree leaves in the front yard.
Salma took a deep breath, absorbing the scent of old wood and fresh paint in her new home.
She set her canvas tote in the corner of the living room, then sat cross-legged on the cold tile floor.
Her hand slipped into her pocket and pulled out her little wallet.
Salma counted the bills she had left.
"I have a hundred and forty thousand left..." Salma murmured softly to herself.
Her left hand rubbed her stomach, which suddenly growled loudly.
Grrrrr.
Salma smiled faintly.
"I'm hungry. I haven't had breakfast yet. I only had some leftover hot tea at the terminal."
She remembered the words of the middle-aged man who had been sweeping the yard—Mr. Amin. Mrs. Eros & Mr. Amin's Food Stall. Freshly cooked vegetable stew.
"Maybe I'll go to the food stall out front and buy a packet of rice," Salma thought. Salma rose from her seat, straightened her long dress, and walked toward the front door.
As her hand reached to lock the doorknob from outside, her eyes caught a small object lying on the concrete forecourt, right near the spot where Mamat had fallen.
Salma bent down and picked it up.
It was a small black leather wallet with worn silver corners.
Salma opened it briefly, with no intention of prying, merely looking for an identification card to confirm its owner's identity.
Inside the transparent plastic slot was an Indonesian ID card in the name of Ahmad Subagja—Position: Head of Neighborhood Association RT 04 / Community Sector RW 02, Sukamaju.
Behind the ID card was a thick brown envelope stamped SUKAMAJU NEIGHBORHOOD ASSOCIATION FUNDS. Half of its seal had already come undone, revealing a fairly thick stack of fifty-thousand-rupiah bills.
Salma gripped the wallet with both hands. Her eyes slowly widened.
"This is... the neighborhood head's wallet? How did it end up in Mr. Omar's rental property's forecourt?" Suddenly, hurried footsteps sounded from the lane out front.
Someone was running back toward the rental property.
Salma looked up and stood frozen in front of the half-open rental-property door, the neighborhood association funds wallet in her hand, as the shadow of a man holding a patrol stick appeared at the end of the lane.