Chapter 17

17

I stand up and look around, forcing myself to count breaths as I take in my surroundings. Maybe there’s something here that I can use.

Sturdy, dark-colored shelves line the walls, each of them holding leather-bound books. The room is dominated by the largest office desk I have ever seen. It’s as big as a six-seater dining table, with a chair behind it that’s so large it’s practically a throne. This is where Kristofer conducts his business. Maybe I can find something useful. I don’t know what, but no harm in looking.

I hurry behind the desk and study it. There are two framed photographs on it. One of them is a black-and-white shot of Kristofer and his wife on their wedding day. He’s smiling into the camera, she’s smiling up at him. The other is a more recent picture of his wife. She looks like she’s in her fifties and is lying back on a sun lounger, squinting slightly from the bright sunlight as she laughs into the camera. She looks so gentle and sweet and not at all like the kind of person who would be married to a literal kidnapper.

Maybe I could go to her for help? I observe the picture again, noting the smile lines around her eyes and mouth. She would definitely be sympathetic.

A loud rumble from outside the house interrupts my thoughts. Thunder? I rush to the window, but the sky is clear. More rumbles, like roars deep from the belly of a tiger. I glance down and freeze. Oh god. There’s a whole cavalcade of Jeeps and cars and little trucks, all of them filled to the brim with men. Men hanging out of the windows, their hair flying in the wind, hooting and jeering as the vehicles drive up to the front of the house. The front vehicle, a large Hummer, stops, and Abi appears from the top like the world’s worst jack-in-the-box. He raises a hand, and all the cars start honking.

The noise is deafening. Even from where I stand, three floors up and behind a closed window, the honks from a dozen cars are so loud I feel my eardrums vibrating. I clap my hands over my ears and grit my teeth, willing the cacophony to die down.

People rush out of the house in a confused flurry. When enough of them are gathered out front, Abi lowers his hand. The honks stop. After all that noise, the sudden silence rings in the heavy air, almost painful in its own right. Abi raises a loudspeaker to his mouth.

“Greetings, honored guests. I’m so sorry to disturb your celebration, but I have business to attend to with the master of this house.” His voice is silky soft, and somehow, that’s even more terrifying than if he’d been screaming into the loudspeaker. There’s a quiet, cold rage that’s undeniable, and even from this distance, I shiver, my survival instincts telling me to get far, far away from here.

I don’t care what they’ve told us. This is not normal business practice. This is very clearly mafia shit. I didn’t think I could feel any more terrified, but there’s some noise from the crowd of guests down below and they begin to part like the Red Sea. Kristofer is slicing through the crowd, flanked by guards. But then they go a bit farther away from the house and I can now see that the people flanking Kristofer aren’t guards but my family.

My breath rips out of me in a choked gasp. “No!” But no one can hear me, and I can only watch as Nathan, Ma, Second Aunt, and Fourth Aunt are pushed forward by Kristofer and his men to act as his shield. The only consolation I have is that they look largely unharmed. They’re glaring at Kristofer, and Ma’s and Second Aunt’s hairdos are all messed up, but I can’t spot any bruises on them, and they’re all walking normally and not limping, so that means they’re okay, right?

“Thank you for coming to my Chinese New Year feast, Abraham Lincoln,” Kristofer calls out. He raises his arms and turns back to his guests. “Abraham Lincoln Irawan, everybody!”

A slow, confused scatter of applause starts and peters out almost immediately.

“I’m so honored that you’ve come to my humble abode. Unannounced.” The coldness in Kristofer’s voice is palpable. The skin on my arms breaks out into gooseflesh.

This is not going well. Or maybe it’s going as well as those two psychopaths downstairs want them to go. Clearly, they’re not down there negotiating for a peaceful exchange. They’re here, as Abi had repeatedly said, for war. And I don’t know what that means, exactly, but Abi is here with what looks like a hundred men raring to cause havoc and injury, and my family is caught right in the middle of it. I can’t just stand here and do nothing.

Think, Meddy!

I force myself to gulp in air and step back from the window. Taking that step back is one of the hardest things I’ve done. Everything inside me screeches to stay put so I can follow what’s happening, but I know that standing here watching isn’t going to do anything. I rip my gaze away from the window and look around the study once more. Think! Is there anything in here that I can use against Kristofer? I dart back to the desk and fling open the drawers one by one. I grab papers and scan the words on them before flinging them over my shoulder. Papers flit around the room like dust motes, and still I don’t find anything useful until I reach the last drawer. Which is locked.

Primal rage takes over. It’s locked because there’s something valuable in it. I know it. I take the handle in both hands and yank as hard as I can, nearly squishing my fingers in the process. With a yelp, I let go. My frustration boils over and I kick the drawer with an enraged shriek. Then I gather my shirt, wrap it around the handle to give myself a better grip, prop one foot against the table, and pull again, this time putting my entire body weight behind me.

It doesn’t budge.

I’m sweating, panting like an animal. Panic is so close to taking over all of me, but I force myself to stop and think. Clearly the lock is made of some strong metal. But the desk itself is wood. Maybe . . .

I crouch down onto my hands and knees and peer underneath the desk. And sure enough, the bottom is wood. Yes! The fury and anxiety inside me give me renewed strength, and with a huge bellow, I push the desk over. It falls with a floor-shaking thump. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I don’t even wait for the dust to settle before I aim a swift kick at the bottom of the drawer. The thin wood cracks. I take a breath and kick again, and this time, the heel of my shoe goes right through the wood sheet. With a victory cry, I scramble to it and rip away at the crack, ignoring the sharp pain of splinters digging into my palms. I wiggle my fingers deep inside the drawer until they find a sheaf of papers and pull them out of the crack.

Okay, what is it? What’s so important about these documents that Kristofer had to keep them locked away?

In the silence, my ragged breath sounds so loud. I flip through the papers, scanning the words as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast at all, given they’re all in Indonesian.

To: Kristofer Kolumbes Hermansah

Date: 12th October 2019

Re: Complaint No. 7612-HUX

Dear Mr. Hermansah,

In accordance to something-legal-something-something, all developmental work at the property at Jln. Cideng Raya Nomor 10, Jakarta Utara, is halted until further notice. Please refer to something-more-legal-speak. If there are any complaints, something-something-something.

Okay, clearly, my understanding of Indonesian legal documents is abysmal. Am I missing something here though? This just sounds like a notice to stop building something. Why did it need to be under lock and key? I go to the next document.

Complaint Number: 8253-TSG

Date: 8th August 2015

To: Kristofer Kolumbes Hermansah

Your complaint regarding the property at Jln. Tulodong No. 1, Jakarta Selatan, is currently under review. A something-something-official officer will be in touch with you in the next ten business days.

Another complaint? But this one looks like it came from Kristofer. I’m so confused right now. I take out my phone and open up a search window. I pause for a second, unsure what to look for. Finally, I Google the address “Jln. Tulodong No. 1, Jakarta Selatan.”

The first hit is the official website for a huge skyscraper. The byline says: Jakarta’s Premier Office Building. I click on the site, scroll down the page, which is filled with impressive pictures of the eighty-floor steel and glass structure, all the way to the bottom, where there is a line saying: Owned by ABLIN Corp.

ABLIN. Abraham Lincoln.

So the property at Jln. Tulodong is a skyscraper owned by Abi, and when he was in the middle of building said skyscraper, Kristofer had lodged a complaint to the building regulations ministry to sabotage him. I Google the address on the other letter, and sure enough, it comes up with a hotel that’s owned by Kristofer’s company. I sift through the other documents, all of them in the same vein. Complaint after complaint after complaint. These two men consistently, doggedly reporting each other to the regulations board to try to disrupt each other’s businesses. And, more than that, there are other documents—ones showing how Kristofer had tried to outbid Abi on a plot of land, another showing that Abi had made a merger with a company Kristofer had been eyeing, and so on. They go back as far as thirty years ago.

Hopelessness threatens to crush me. This war was a long time coming. I’d had an inkling before coming here that there’s history between Abi and Kristofer, but I hadn’t known, would never have guessed, how deep their hatred toward each other runs. It was inevitable, then, after decades of subterfuge, for things to escalate to this point. I can’t see any possibilities that would lead to the two men backing down.

But right on the tail of hopelessness comes the anger in a surprisingly strong wave. My hands ball into fists, paper crackling underneath them. These two men. These two selfish, childish, petty men. No, not men. They’re boys. Boys who think the world is their playground, who think that sabotaging each other’s businesses is part of playtime. Maybe it was. Maybe when it all started, they were legit rivals. But over the years, it has festered into something more, something resembling hatred, and now they’ve dragged my family into this twisted game of theirs. How dare they? They must not care for anyone else but themselves. Bastards.

I storm out of the study, a battle rhythm pounding in my head. But as soon as I get into the hallway, uncertainty clutches at my stomach. What am I doing? What’s my plan? Am I about to go down and tell Kristofer and Abi off?

Yes.

In Kristofer’s own house?

Uh-huh.

Surrounded by his men?

Okay, maybe I need to rethink this for a bit. What I need is some form of protection. A weapon. I gnaw on my lower lip. It feels as though my mind is moving so fast, crashing in every direction, that I can’t even really tell what makes sense and what doesn’t. Yes, I need a weapon. I glance back at the study, then think better of it and go instead into Kristofer’s bedroom. I’m willing to bet that Kristofer is the kind of guy who sleeps with a gun under his pillow.

The master bedroom is, as one would expect, exquisite. I rush past the chaise lounge and baby grand and go straight to the bed, pulling the rows of pillows off frantically. Nothing. No guns. Damn it. Bedside tables! I wrench open the drawer from the left bedside table and find only a couple of paperback novels and a pair of reading glasses. Really? Kristofer’s the kind of guy who reads in bed? I run to the other side of the bed and yank out the drawer of the other table. This one contains a hardcover book. With a cry of frustration, I pick up the book, intending to fling it across the room—let Kristofer come back to a destroyed room, then—but something flutters out from between the pages.

It’s a letter, written in shaky handwriting, as though whoever wrote it was a millennial who’s always on their phone and has forgotten how to handwrite. Or maybe they were in pain.

My dear Kris,

Thank you for being a wonderful husband and father. You have done your duty, I have no complaints as your wife for the past thirty-six years, aside from your snoring. I know you have learned to love me over the years, though never quite as passionately as I loved you, but you did your best, and you took care to never let the children see. But I know, and you know, that your heart was never mine. I used to hate her for it, but now I am thankful to her. Because the love you had and still have for her has made you the best husband I could have wished for. Go to her, my love. Well, not right away—what will people think? Wait a year, then go to her. With flowers. Don’t be a fool.

Love,

Marjie

I gaze down at the letter in my hands for what feels like an eternity. Marjie. Those photos I saw in Kristofer’s study. The wedding picture where he was looking into the camera and his bride was gazing with open adoration up at him. “Though never quite as passionately as I loved you.” A thin sob catches in my throat. This is a letter from his wife. His dead wife. Telling him that she knew for over thirty years that he had always been in love with someone else. God, this is awful. My heart aches for this woman I have never, and will never, meet. Something tells me that if she were still around, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

“Marjie,” I whisper, “what the hell do I do?”

As though she were in the room with me, I feel a sense of calm wash over me, even if only for a moment. I close my eyes, calming my mind, calling it to stay still and not thrash about. I need to save my family, yes, but me panicking isn’t going to achieve that. Don’t be a fool, Marjie told Kristofer, and yeah, I hear you on that, Marjie. My breath releases in a long sigh. In spite of everything, I feel sorry for Kristofer. The letter has shown me a new side of him. Poor Marjie, loving someone for over thirty years, knowing that she was never his first choice. And poor Kristofer, in love with another woman this whole time. That’s a long time to pine for someone. He must’ve been in his teens when he fell in love with her.

Teens.

Julia Child’s words flash across my mind like lightning. We were teens, the three of us, and living together at our guardian’s house. Kristofer was a strapping lad. You should’ve seen him. But, of course, he turned out to be a petty child.

The years of rivalry with Abi. Kristofer going out of his way to actively sabotage Abi’s business. It’s not a normal way to behave, not even toward a business rival. There has to be something more personal behind it, and this is it. A love triangle.

Of course. When they were teens, Kristofer must have been in love with Julia Child, but then she dated Abi—

No. He wouldn’t have dated her, because Abi had always been in love with someone else. Second Aunt.

So Kristofer was in love with Julia Child, but he thought that she and Abi were an item, when in reality, Abi was mooning after Second Aunt. Kristofer must have had a fight with Julia Child after that, and they’d gone their separate ways, and since then, the three of them have been in this toxic rivalry that has bled into their businesses.

Could this be true? Could all of this mess really have been born out of this strange love—not love triangle but love square? It seems too ridiculous to be true.

Who am I kidding? Literal wars have been fought, countless lives ended, over sillier reasons. Love is perhaps the only thing worth fighting over. And it isn’t just love, is it? For years, they’ve lived in a tenuous peace, Julia Child avoiding Abi and Kristofer while the two men kept their battles strictly to business. Years and years of passive-aggressive acts, and it only came to a head because of me and my family. If we hadn’t come here, if Fourth Aunt hadn’t called Abi to join our Chinese New Year celebration, if we hadn’t let Rochelle take the special red packet, if we hadn’t body slammed her for it . . . Every step of the way, our involvement was what pushed this conflict into erupting. In a way, this mess we’re in is very much our own fault. And it’s time I clean it up.