“Miss Salma! Wait, Miss! DON’T EAT IT!”
Crash!
Mr. Omar’s hurried footsteps slammed into the cement threshold of the rental property’s front patio.
He was breathing hard, his chest heaving so violently that the top button of his batik shirt had come undone.
His black prayer cap had slipped crookedly over his sweaty forehead.
Behind him, Mamat came stumbling along, bent over and clutching both knees, his face beet red.
Salma set her ceramic cup back on the wooden tray.
She adjusted her instant hijab, rose slowly, and walked toward the half-open door.
“What’s going on, Mr. Omar? Why are you in such a rush?” Salma asked, her voice calm and distant as ever.
“Good grief... Miss Salma.” Mr. Omar braced his hands on his knees, wiping the sweat from his temples with a checkered handkerchief he roughly yanked from his pants pocket.
“Thank goodness... thank goodness I’m not too late! That... chocolate kue balok Husain brought earlier... don’t eat even a piece!”
Salma tilted her head slightly. Her eyes blinked twice. “This kue balok? Why, Mr. Omar?”
“It’s filled, Miss! That Husain put something bad in it!” Mr. Omar shouted, his voice rising through the silence of the second lane.
He pointed repeatedly at the small plate on the living-room floor with his trembling index finger.
“Mamat saw it himself earlier while Husain was preparing the tray at the food stall next door! He put some strange powder in the chocolate batter!”
Mamat, standing beside the bamboo fence, looked up with wide, startled eyes.
His hands spun his baseball cap around and around.
“Uh... well, Boss... Mamat only said Husain was adding extra chocolate powder from a can—”
“Shut up, Mat! Don’t defend him!” Mr. Omar cut him off sharply, shooting Mamat a fierce look.
Mr. Omar turned back to Salma, putting on an expression of deep concern.
“Anyway, it’s dangerous, Miss Salma! That Husain is a shady young man! He’s jealous of me, holding a grudge because I often reprimand him for selling wherever he pleases! He knows you’re renting a place from me, so he wants to set you up and ruin the reputation of my rental properties!”
Salma looked at the small plate on the wooden tray, then shifted her gaze to Mr. Omar.
“Mr. Omar... this cake was handed over right in front of Mr. Ahmad, the neighborhood association head. Mr. Ahmad himself asked Husain to bring it here as a thank-you.”
“Oh, Miss Salma, you’re so innocent...” Mr. Omar patted his chest lightly and took a step over the threshold without asking permission.
“Mr. Ahmad is far too trusting, easily manipulated by a sly young man like Husain! How would Mr. Ahmad know if Husain had ulterior motives? I’m an older man, Miss! I’ve seen everything in Sukamaju. I know the difference between a shrimp hiding behind a rock and an actual rock!”
“But I already ate half a piece, Mr. Omar,” Salma replied flatly, her hands clasped in front of her.
“It only tastes like chocolate and palm sugar.”
“There! You already ate it!” Mr. Omar panicked.
Without removing his footwear, he barged two steps into Salma’s living room.
His bulky shirt filled the tiny, three-meter-wide living room.
Mr. Omar bent down quickly and snatched the small plate holding the remaining kue balok off the wooden tray.
Scrape!
Salma’s hand lifted slightly, as though to stop him from taking the plate, but froze in midair.
“Mr. Omar, please... don’t take it. It would be wasteful to throw it away,” Salma interrupted, her tone a little firmer than usual even though she didn’t raise her voice.
“Nothing is wasteful when it comes to safety, Miss Salma!” Mr. Omar gripped the small plate tightly in his right hand, raising it level with his chest as if it were evidence in a criminal case.
“What if you get a stomachache, feel nauseated, or get dizzy?! Who’ll have to deal with it? Me, as the landlord who’ll be held responsible! I’ll take the plate and cake with me, have them checked at the community clinic, or throw them straight into the main drain!”
Salma didn’t respond.
She stepped half a pace backward toward the corner of the doorway, leaving a wide empty space between herself and Mr. Omar.
Her eyes moved from the small plate in Mr. Omar’s hand to the ceramic floor, now marked with dirty shoeprints from outside.
Mamat peeked over Mr. Omar’s shoulder, scratching his perfectly unitchy head.
“Boss... that kue balok from Ms. Eros’s food stall was bought by Mr. Ahmad with his own money. What if Mr. Ahmad asks about it later?”
“You be quiet, Mamat! Worry about your bicycle chain that’s about to snap!” Mr. Omar barked without looking back.
Mr. Omar looked at Salma again.
Salma’s silence, her emotionless stare without any dramatic outburst, made Mr. Omar clear his throat awkwardly.
He straightened his black prayer cap again.
“Miss Salma... listen to my advice, okay?” Mr. Omar’s voice softened again, trying to sound like a patient protector.
“Husain isn’t a good kid. He looks quiet and diligent about going to the mosque, but deep down he’s stubborn and has no manners toward his elders. Don’t be quick to trust smiles or acts of kindness from young men like that around this neighborhood. If you need anything, food, or protection, come straight to Mr. Omar’s house. Understand, Miss?”
Salma lowered her head slightly. Her lips remained tightly pressed together. Not a single word came out.
Mr. Omar waited two seconds, but when Salma continued standing there like a statue without offering either an objection or agreement, he gave a short cough.
Ahem!
“Well, then. I’ll keep this plate safe for now,” Mr. Omar said, clutching the brown plate tightly against his chest.
“Get some rest, Miss Salma. If you start feeling nauseated, call Mamat right away. Mamat! Come with me!”
“Uh... yes, Boss! Right away!” Mamat answered in surprise, hurriedly grabbing his patrol stick and bicycle again.
Mr. Omar turned and strode out of rental property number two, carrying the plate of leftover kue balok with long, purposeful steps as if he were transporting priceless evidence.
Mamat followed behind, repeatedly looking back at Salma with an apologetic expression and a series of hand gestures whose meaning was impossible to decipher.
“Take care, Miss Salma... sorry, Miss!” Mamat called from a distance before disappearing around the lane’s bend.
The rental property fell quiet again.
Salma stood alone in the middle of the living room.
The late-afternoon air, ten minutes short of two o’clock, carried warmth in through the open window.
On the white ceramic floor, the little wooden tray now held only one ceramic cup with half a serving of palm-sugar milk coffee that had begun to cool.
Its saucer looked empty without the small plate.
Salma reached into the pocket of her long dress and took out a small tissue, then bent down to wipe away the dull dirt tracks Mr. Omar’s shoes had left on the floor.
Scrub... scrub...
“Ugh... dirty again,” Salma murmured softly to herself.
She crumpled the filthy tissue and put it in the small plastic trash bag by the door.
“And I just swept.”
Salma walked to the window and held on to its mint-green-painted wooden frame.
From where she stood, she could see a small banana grove and the corrugated metal roof of the neighborhood association hall in the distance.
Salma looked back at the coffee cup on the tray.
She reached out and picked up the ceramic cup, which was no longer steaming.
She drank the last of the palm-sugar milk coffee Husain had made, down to the final sip.
Gulp.
The sweetness still lingered at the back of her throat.
“It was delicious... and the cake was crisp on the outside, too,” Salma said softly, her voice nearly swallowed by the rush of the afternoon wind.
She set the empty cup back on the tray. “Why did he have to say it was poisoned?”
She carried the wooden tray to the back kitchen. The faucet was turned on full blast.
Salma rinsed the neighborhood association official’s ceramic cup until it was clean, dried it with a cloth, and set it neatly on the kitchen’s cement counter.
After finishing in the kitchen, Salma walked into the bedroom.
The tiny room contained only one folding foam mattress, which Mr. Omar had prepared that morning, and her large canvas tote lying in the corner.
Salma pulled over the canvas tote, took out several pieces of clothing, and arranged them neatly on top of the two-door plastic wardrobe in the corner of the room.
When her hand reached into the very bottom of the canvas tote, her fingers touched a notebook with a faded batik-cloth cover—the recipe book and financial records for her business back in Garut.
Salma slipped the book beneath the pile of clothes, then sat with her back against the bedroom wall.
The sun continued shifting westward.
Golden-yellow rays began to pierce through the ventilation holes above the door.
Chirp... chirp... chirp...
The sound of grass crickets from the yard outside began to answer one another.
The time was ten minutes past three in the afternoon.
Salma got up, took her prayer garment and sarong, and went to the bathroom to perform ablution before the Asr prayer.
Cold water from the artesian well at Mr. Omar’s rental property poured over her face and hands, washing away the remnants of the afternoon heat.
After completing her prayer on the thin prayer mat she had brought from home, Salma carefully folded her prayer garment.
She stood at the front door of the rental property, intending to return the wooden tray and empty ceramic cup to the neighborhood association hall or to Husain’s cart.
But just as Salma lifted the wooden tray, heavy, measured footsteps sounded from the outer lane.
They weren’t Mr. Omar’s hurried footsteps, nor Mamat’s dragging ones.
Salma peered out from behind the door.
At the end of the footpath, Husain was walking alone.
The young man was no longer pushing his coffee cart.
He wore a plain black T-shirt and dark cloth pants, carrying a small wooden toolbox in his right hand and a plastic bucket in his left.
Husain walked with his gaze fixed straight ahead, apparently heading toward Al-Lathif Mosque in the next lane.
Husain’s steps paused directly in front of Salma’s rental-property fence. His eyes flicked toward the open door, taking in Salma holding the wooden tray and empty cup.
Husain stopped completely, shifting the wooden toolbox into his left hand alongside the bucket.
“Is the cup empty?” Husain asked curtly from behind the bamboo fence, his voice flat amid the rush of the evening wind.
Salma stepped three paces out onto the patio, holding the wooden tray with both hands.
“Yes, Mr. Husain. The coffee was delicious. Thank you so much.”
Husain looked at the tray in Salma’s hands.
His eyes settled on the wooden saucer, now empty without the small plate and kue balok. Husain didn’t ask where the plate and cake had gone. He simply stared at the empty space on the tray for two seconds, then looked back at Salma’s face.
“Yeah,” Husain answered briefly.
Salma hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer to the bamboo fence.
“Mr. Husain... the small plate—”
“Mr. Omar took it, right?” Husain cut in calmly, without a trace of surprise or anger in his voice.
Salma fell silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“Yes. Mr. Omar said... he said there was something wrong with the cake.”
Husain exhaled softly through his nose—not a frustrated sigh, merely a release of air into the evening.
His hand adjusted its grip on the wooden toolbox.
“That’s just how Mr. Omar is,” Husain said flatly.
“Whenever food from me enters this neighborhood, he always says there’s something wrong with it. He even snatched Mr. Ahmad’s martabak once, right when it was about to be eaten.”
Salma held back a faint smile that nearly escaped her lips. “Oh... so it’s not just my cake?”
“No.” Husain gave a brief shake of his head. “I’ll ask for the plate from his house when I pass by on my way home.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Husain. I feel bad for you and Mr. Ahmad,” Salma said remorsefully.
“It’s okay. I’ll make more once the oven at home has been repaired,” Husain replied innocently.
He extended his right hand across the bamboo fence.
“Give me the cup. I’ll take it to the food stall while I’m at it.”
Salma handed Husain the empty ceramic cup and wooden tray.
Their fingertips lightly brushed over the wooden tray, making Husain quickly shift his grip toward its edge.
“Thank you, Mr. Husain,” Salma said.
“You’re welcome.” Husain tucked the wooden tray under his armpit and took hold of the toolbox and bucket again.
“I’m going to the mosque first. Mr. Qasim asked me to fix a leaking faucet at the ablution area.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Husain.”
Husain turned and walked down the narrow lane toward Al-Lathif Mosque.
His broad back, covered by the black T-shirt, moved steadily farther away, leaving behind the fragrant scent of coffee and a faint aroma of burning wood in Sukamaju’s evening air.
Salma stood beside the bamboo fence, watching the young man’s back until it disappeared around the bend by the mosque lane.
“He doesn’t seem scary after all...” Salma murmured softly to herself. “He’s just... not much of a talker.”
She turned to go back inside the rental property, but behind a large mango tree at the corner of the third lane, a figure was peeking out from behind the trunk.
It was Mr. Amin, the food-stall owner.
Mr. Amin held a small hoe, his eyes darting uncertainly toward Salma’s rental property, then toward the mosque lane where Husain had just gone.
Salma noticed Mr. Amin and politely called out from the patio.
“Mr. Amin! Where are you headed?”
Mr. Amin jumped and stepped out from behind the mango tree, scratching the back of his neck even though it didn’t itch.
He approached Salma’s patio with hesitant steps.
“Uh... Miss Salma,” Mr. Amin greeted her in a half-whisper. “Miss Salma... what did Husain say to you earlier?”
Salma blinked in confusion. “He didn’t say anything, Mr. Amin. He just came to pick up the coffee cup.”
Mr. Amin looked left and right, making sure no other residents or Mr. Omar were passing by.
He took a step closer to the fence.
“Miss Salma...” Mr. Amin said with an extremely serious expression. “You need to be careful. Mr. Omar just went around the lanes telling the women that Husain wants to poison the new resident with kue balok. But... that’s not actually the main problem.”
Salma pulled the curtain across the doorway as the wind blew it aside. “What do you mean, Mr. Amin?”
Mr. Amin sighed softly, the sound heavy.
“The problem is... Mr. Omar is holding an emergency residents’ meeting at his house tonight. He says he wants to discuss driving Husain’s coffee cart out of Sukamaju!”
Salma’s eyes widened at the news, and before she could ask the real reason behind the sudden meeting, someone abruptly threw a thick, nameless brown envelope from behind the bushes beneath the mango tree. It landed squarely on Salma’s foot.