“No,” Alain says, smiling. “I studied chemistry here. I thought I was going to be a scientist, but it wasn’t my calling, after all.”
Mebel would be lying if she said she wasn’t intimidated bythis piece of information. She’d thought about Alain as a chef all this time, and now it turns out he’s an Oxford graduate who studied science.
“Are you having to recalibrate your opinion of me as the help?” Alain says.
“Yes!”
Alain laughs, the sound slightly muted in the damp night air, but lovely all the same. “God, I love your honesty.”
Pemberton College is made up of two buildings, both wrapped around quads. They are built in the classic ornate Oxfordian style, out of yellow sandstone, with classical decorative pieces adorning them. It’s a gorgeous, somber place that causes one to pause as soon as they get inside and think of the magnitude of its history. Alain leads Mebel into a doorway, and the sound of their footsteps turns from the crunching of gravel to thuds against old hardwood floors. They’re inside a dark hallway, the wood-paneled walls hung with oil paintings. They walk up a flight of stairs, and Mebel marvels at the stained glass on these walls, depicting an angel carrying a sword surrounded by flowers. Once again, Mebel feels the weight of the history of the college heavy around her. She has never felt so far removed from Jakarta.
Then they step through another doorway, and Mebel’s breath catches in her throat, because they are suddenly out in what seems like a secret garden. A garden full of flowers tucked into the side of the college.
“Oh my goodness,” Mebel gasps.
There is a small table near the edge of the garden overlooking the city. The table is lined with a luxurious white tablecloth and is set with beautiful plates and wineglasses and a vase ofwhite roses in the middle, alongside a steadily burning candle. A server stands at attention nearby, and as Mebel and Alain approach, he pulls out a chair for Mebel.
“Good evening, madam,” he says.
Still in somewhat of a shock, Mebel sits down, her eyes wide as she tries to take in everything all at once. Right next to the garden is the Radcliffe Camera, and from this vantage point, Mebel can see the top of the dome and also the rooftops of the other colleges around it. She has a bird’s-eye view of Oxford, and a prettier city she cannot imagine.
“What do you think?” Alain says, sliding into his seat across from her.
“Is magical,” she says simply. She is at a loss for words, in both English and Indonesian. She doesn’t know of another way of describing the scene before her aside from that it is pure magic.
The server hands them both flutes of champagne, and Mebel meets Alain’s eye as they clink.
“To a beautiful evening with the beautiful Mebel,” Alain says.
Mebel flushes. She will never get used to being called beautiful. Not because she isn’t; any respectable trophy wife knows that it is of the utmost importance to keep oneself beautiful. But because it’s not within her culture to vocalize it. Henk has never once told her she’s beautiful; he shows his appreciation in different ways. He will tell her that her outfit looks nice or that a particular piece of jewelry suits her. He will even tell her that her hair looks pretty that day, or that she carries that Hermès bag really well, but he hasn’t once told hersheis beautiful. And Mebel has never minded, because again, it’s not something men in her culture would say, and so she hasn’t ever expected it from them. In fact, she even rolls her eyes when she watchesAmerican movies and sees the male actors telling their love interests that they’re beautiful. “Empty flattery,” she’d say with a sardonic smile. “Who’d fall for it?”
Well, now she is learning that she would fall for it, because that word, “beautiful,” applied not to her outfit or her makeup but to her, is making Mebel feel a warmth she has not felt in a long time.
The meal is, as expected, delicious, though not as sumptuous as the one at Le Provençal was. But Alain’s company is so enchanting that Mebel barely notices what she is putting in her mouth. She thinks the starter might have had white asparagus in it, or maybe it was zucchini, she really can’t remember. The everythingness of the night—the lights, the knowledge that she is surrounded by all of this history, enveloped in a place of learning, the sparkling conversation, and the bubbly champagne—it is all so much. Before long, Mebel finds herself opening up to Alain about, of all topics, Henk.
“We meet through our families,” Mebel says. “Is how most people in my culture meet. We are sent abroad to school, many of us, to UK or US, and when we graduate, we return to Jakarta, and our families know we are in the market, so they help connect us to other people who are also in the market.”
“Like matchmaking,” Alain says.
“Yes, like that. But is not like how you see in the movies, so strict like that. It’s not so formal, you know? We meet up with our families, and we can say afterward, ‘Oh, maybe I don’t really feel a spark for it, so maybe not this one.’ And there won’t be a fuss, everyone will understand, and we move on, try to find another more suitable person. Is all very casual.”
“And you felt a spark with Henk?” Alain says.
Mebel cocks her head to one side, mulling this over. It’s been decades since she first laid eyes on Henk, and it takes effort to remember that moment. “I don’t know if there is spark, but I remember thinking: His name is spelled so badly, even worse than Mebel. It make me feel kind toward him.”
Alain’s gaze softens. “Are you saying you dated him out of pity?”
“No!” Mebel laughs. Then she pauses, because now she remembers that she did feel sorry for Henk over his unfortunately spelled name. “No,” she says again, softer this time. “Is not pity, is more like, ‘Ah, here is someone who can understand me.’ It felt like we can understand each other better than other people can.”
“All that over a name?”
Mebel’s mouth purses into a small smile. “Ah, you see, to you is just a name, no big deal. But your name is so nice, and is spelled so nicely. My name is a misspelling. Everywhere I go, it mark me as someone who is not from here. It…” She pauses, trying to find the right words. “It makes me look stupid—”
“Stupid?” Alain says, his eyebrows rising. “I don’t—”
“Yes, stupid. Because is like: ‘Oh, you don’t even know how to spell the name correctly. It shows you are not native English speaker,’ and people immediately treat you a bit like—how to say it—”
“Condescending?” Alain says.
