The shadow that appeared so quickly at the end of Lane Two turned out to be Mamat himself, breathing hard in a gray T-shirt that was getting wetter by the second with sweat.
Salma let out a relieved breath, clutching her left chest, which had been pounding moments earlier.
Her hand reflexively hid the black leather wallet behind the fold of the canvas tote she had tucked under her arm.
“Whoa, Miss Salma... sorry about that! The road’s pretty steep,” Mamat said, straightening up.
He adjusted his baseball cap, blinked twice, then swept his gaze around the concrete courtyard.
“Did Mr. Omar take off?”
“He did, Mr. Mamat. He just went through the lane out front toward Mr. Ahmad’s house,” Salma replied gently.
“Good thing he’s gone,” Mamat sighed, his shoulders drooping. He leaned his patrol stick against the terrace wall, then reached into the back pocket of his shorts.
From there, he pulled out a slightly curved wooden clipboard with a faded form clipped to it.
A short 2B pencil was tucked behind his ear.
“Here you go, Miss... oh man, Mamat forgot again.” Mamat lightly slapped his forehead. “Mr. Ahmad told me earlier that before Mr. Omar took you around, I was supposed to record the new resident’s information first. So it could go into the master register for Neighborhood Unit 04.”
Salma took one step forward and stood in the doorway of the rental property.
“Oh, sure, Mr. Mamat. Would you like to write it down inside or outside?”
“Outside is fine, Miss. Mamat gets awkward going into fancy houses or brand-new rentals. I’m always afraid my flip-flops will fall apart.” Mamat chuckled, showing off his row of teeth.
He held his short pencil at the ready over the paper.
“What’s your full name, Miss?”
“Salma Shakira.”
“Salma... Sha... ki... ra.” Mamat spelled it out slowly, the tip of his tongue poking out slightly as his pencil moved stiffly across the paper.
“People call you Miss Salma, right? Where were you from again? Garut?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m from Garut.”
“Which part of Garut, Miss? I went there once, riding along in a truck hauling dodol. But I only made it as far as the market.” Mamat twirled the pencil between his fingers.
“Tarogong, sir,” Salma replied pleasantly, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Near the town square.”
“Ohhh, Tarogong! No wonder you’re so cool.” Mamat nodded repeatedly. “Place and date of birth?”
“Garut, November 14, 2003.”
Mamat stopped writing.
His eyes stayed on the paper for quite a while, his brow deeply furrowed.
He moved the pencil from his right hand to his left, weighing the number he was about to write.
“Two thousand three... so that means she’s... oh man, how old is she? Twenty-three, right?” Mamat muttered to himself, his fingers moving as if he were counting marbles.
“Ah, I’ll ask Husain to figure it out later. Mamat gets a headache with numbers over twenty, Miss.”
Salma hid a smile behind her hand. “Twenty-three years old, Mr. Mamat.”
“See! I was right! Exactly!” Mamat grinned with satisfaction. He continued scribbling on the paper.
“Religion: Islam. What should I put down for your occupation, Miss?”
“Just write self-employed. I’m planning to sell traditional cakes and handmade crafts.”
“Self-employed... handmade... crafts...” Mamat spelled out the words rather loudly, sending several sparrows from the roof ridge flapping into the air.
Flap-flap-flap.
“And your marital status, Miss? You’re not married, right?” Mamat asked innocently.
Salma nodded slowly. “No, sir.”
“Great. I’ll write: unattached, aka single.” Mamat nodded firmly.
“Um, just write ‘unmarried,’ Mr. Mamat,” Salma cut in quickly, her tone gentle but slightly strained.
“Oh, it’s the same thing, Miss,” Mamat chuckled again.
He tucked his short pencil behind his right ear.
Then he proudly patted the wooden clipboard.
“All done! I’ll hand this form to Mr. Ahmad at the meeting later this afternoon.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Mamat, and I’m sorry to trouble you so early,” Salma said, bowing her head slightly.
“Don’t worry about it, Miss Salma. Mamat’s used to being bothered by the residents of Sukamaju. If nobody needs anything, I start wondering what I’m supposed to do.” Mamat turned, picked up his patrol stick, and walked toward his bicycle, which lay tilted at the edge of the concrete road.
He stood his old bicycle upright.
Creak.
Mamat placed one foot on the metal pedal, whose rubber covering had long since worn away.
“I’ll get going, Miss. I’m heading back to the neighborhood office.”
“Mr. Mamat!” Salma called before the man could pedal away. Mamat looked back, one foot hovering above the ground.
“What is it, Miss? Did I miss some information?”
Salma stepped closer from the doorway to the edge of the courtyard, closing the distance between them.
She extended her left hand, which had been holding the black leather item all along.
“This... I think this wallet fell out of your pocket when you tripped near the door earlier,” Salma said plainly.
Mamat’s eyes went wide.
His gaze shifted from Salma’s face to the black object in her hand.
His right hand reflexively slapped the empty front pocket of his shorts.
Then he slapped the back pocket.
“God forgive me! Oh, God!” Mamat screamed hysterically.
The patrol stick tucked under his arm fell to the ground again.
Thud!
Mamat snatched the wallet from Salma’s hand, then threw it open with trembling hands.
His eyes checked the contents of the brown envelope inside, and he stroked the stack of fifty-thousand-rupiah bills while panting for breath.
“Oh, Miss Salma! Great God!” Mamat patted his own chest, his face turning dull with the sweat that suddenly poured out even harder.
“This... this is the neighborhood fund wallet! I just remembered!”
Salma watched the panic spread across the man’s face.
“It fell when you got startled earlier.”
“Oh, Miss... if I lost this wallet, Mr. Ahmad would hang me from a jengkol tree!” Mamat rambled on, his hands still trembling around the envelope.
“This is the fund money collected from Mr. Qasim, the mosque caretaker, this morning! Mr. Qasim entrusted it to me to give to Mr. Ahmad so he could buy cement to repair the ablution area! I put it in my pants pocket, but the pocket had a little hole in it!”
Mamat pointed out the bottom of his shorts pocket, where the stitching had clearly come undone for several inches.
“Thank goodness it was found by an honest girl like you, Miss Salma,” Mamat continued, wiping his forehead with his T-shirt sleeve. “If Husain had found it... wait, no, I got that wrong. Husain’s honest too. If someone else had found it, the mosque’s cement money could’ve vanished!”
Salma smiled faintly as she watched Mamat fuss over and scold his own pants.
“Next time you’re carrying important money, put it in a bag, Mr. Mamat. It’ll be safer.”
“Yes, Miss! Mamat’s learned his lesson!”
Mamat slipped the thick wallet into the fold of the form on his clipboard, then clamped the whole thing tightly under his arm.
“Miss Salma, you’re a real hero today! I’ll report to Mr. Ahmad that you’re a resident of outstanding character!”
“Oh, there’s no need to exaggerate, Mr. Mamat. Returning it was the right thing to do,” Salma replied politely.
“All right, Miss! I’d better hurry before Mr. Qasim starts asking questions at the mosque!” Mamat quickly picked up his patrol stick, hopped onto his bicycle, and pedaled away with all his strength.
Ring-ring-ring!
“See you, Miss Salma!” Mamat shouted from the bicycle as it sped away, wobbling left and right through the narrow lane.
Salma watched Mamat’s shadow disappear around the bend.
The area around the rental property fell quiet again. The only sound was the rustle of dry leaves carried by the morning breeze across the concrete courtyard.
Salma turned and stepped back inside the rental property.
Her stomach issued another soft warning.
Grrr.
“Oh, right... I forgot,” Salma muttered, holding the middle of her stomach. “I need to find something to eat before it gets too late.”
She crossed to the corner of the room, picked up a small batik-patterned shoulder bag, put the house key Mr. Omar had given her inside, then locked the mint-green wooden door from the outside.
Click.
Salma walked along the path through Sukamaju.
The neighborhood felt warm at nine that morning. Several women were choosing vegetables in front of their house fences, while in the distance, verses from the Quran played through the speakers of Al-Lathif Mosque.
Salma’s steps carried her back to the intersection of the main road, where Mrs. Eros and Mr. Amin’s Food Stall stood.
The aroma of sautéed shallots, shrimp paste, and savory coconut-milk broth immediately filled Salma’s senses as she approached the stall’s gate.
Behind the clean glass display, more than a dozen pans and stainless-steel basins held an assortment of dishes: jengkol rendang, wet tempeh orek, balado eggs, and young-jackfruit lodeh still giving off wisps of steam.
Mr. Amin, who was wiping down the wooden table out front, looked up as soon as he heard the creak of the plank door.
“Oh, Miss Salma!” Mr. Amin greeted her brightly. “How did everything go with your place? Did you get it settled with Mr. Omar?”
Salma smiled and approached the glass display.
“It’s all settled, Mr. Amin. Thank goodness I got Unit Two.”
“Thank goodness,” came a middle-aged woman’s voice from the back kitchen.
A somewhat plump woman in a red-striped apron—Mrs. Eros—emerged carrying a tray of hot fried tofu.
She had a stern face and naturally arched eyebrows, but her eyes were warm.
“My wife, Miss. Mrs. Eros,” Mr. Amin said, introducing her.
“Salma, ma’am.” Salma bowed politely.
“Salma, is it? Your father said a new girl had just arrived by public minibus.” Mrs. Eros set the tray of tofu in the display, then gave Salma a warm, appraising look from head to toe.
“Where did you move here from, Miss?”
“Garut, ma’am.”
“Oh, Garut. No wonder you’re so pretty,” Mrs. Eros said briefly, already holding a wooden rice scoop. “Are you eating here or taking it to go?”
“To go, please. I want to eat at the rental while I unpack,” Salma replied. “Half a serving of rice, young-jackfruit lodeh, and one fried tofu.”
“No meat or chicken, Miss?” Mr. Amin asked, standing beside his wife.
Salma slowly shook her head. “No, thank you. The vegetables and tofu are enough.”
Mrs. Eros deftly scooped warm rice onto a sheet of brown wax paper, added two spoonfuls of richly seasoned lodeh broth, then placed a still-crispy piece of fried tofu on top.
Her hands folded the wax paper neatly and quickly into a small pyramid.
“How much is it?” Salma asked, reaching for her wallet.
“Eight thousand,” Mrs. Eros replied.
Salma handed her a ten-thousand-rupiah bill.
Mrs. Eros took two thousand in change from the wooden drawer beneath the table and handed it over with the warm rice package.
“Thank you, Mrs. Eros, Mr. Amin,” Salma said as she accepted the package.
“You’re welcome, Miss Salma. If you need a water jug or a melon gas cylinder, just ask me. I’m the one who helps carry things for the neighbors,” Mr. Amin added.
“All right, sir. See you...” Salma said goodbye and stepped out of the food stall.
The savory lodeh broth seeping through the wax-paper wrapping only sharpened her appetite.
Salma followed the roadside back toward Husain’s coffee cart, which stood across the street beneath a rain tree.
There, Husain’s black cart still stood quietly.
Husain sat on a long wooden bench, holding a lined notebook and a pencil in his right hand.
On the cart’s table were two empty coffee cups and a cold gooseneck kettle.
Salma crossed the road slowly and stopped exactly two meters beside Husain’s cart table.
Husain did not look up right away.
His hand was still finishing a line of numbers in the notebook where he recorded his weekly coffee-supply purchases.
After a few seconds, he set the pencil on the fold of the notebook, then looked up at Salma.
“Yes? Would you like some coffee?” Husain asked shortly, his voice calm and without excess inflection.
Salma slowly shook her head, pulling the rice package close to her chest.
“No, sir. I just wanted to ask... is there a corner store around here that stays open until late? I want to buy a broom and an extra bucket.”
Husain glanced at Salma, then pointed east with the tip of his pencil.
“Mrs. Nur’s store. Go into the lane beside Al-Lathif Mosque, about a hundred meters. It’s open until nine p.m.”
“Oh... near the mosque. Okay, thank you so much, Mr...” Salma let the sentence trail off as her eyes flicked to the silver nameplate on the cart. “...Mr. Husain.”
Husain gave a brief nod. “You’re welcome.”
Salma turned to continue toward the rental property, but her eyes landed on a middle-aged man in a spotless white koko shirt and green woven sarong, walking calmly from the direction of the mosque.
The man—Mr. Qasim, the caretaker of Al-Lathif Mosque—had a folded prayer rug draped over his shoulder.
Mr. Qasim stopped in front of Husain’s cart and gave Husain and Salma a serene smile.
“Peace be upon you, Husain,” Mr. Qasim greeted him gently.
“And peace be upon you too, Mr. Qasim,” Husain replied, his posture suddenly much more respectful than it had been when dealing with Mr. Omar earlier.
Husain immediately stood up.
“Oh, is this the new resident?” Mr. Qasim asked, looking at Salma with calm eyes.
“Yes, sir. I’m Salma,” Salma replied with a polite nod.
“Salma... Mashallah. Welcome to Sukamaju, Miss. I hope you’ll be happy here,” Mr. Qasim said.
Then he turned to Husain.
“Husain, did Mamat come by here earlier? He said he was going to deliver the neighborhood fund envelope to Mr. Ahmad, but Mr. Ahmad has been looking for him at home all morning and he wasn’t there.”
Husain tilted his head. “Mamat rode his bicycle quickly toward the neighborhood office, sir. He said he was carrying the new-resident form.”
Salma quietly cut in. “Excuse me, Mr. Qasim... Mr. Mamat did lose his fund wallet in front of my rental earlier. But I returned it, and he immediately rushed by bicycle to Mr. Ahmad’s house.”
Mr. Qasim gently slapped his forehead and shook his head, accompanied by a long, patient sigh.
“God forgive me... Mamat, Mamat. The mosque’s tile money almost gave my heart a workout.”
Husain merely smiled faintly—a smile so slight it was almost invisible at the corner of his lips—as he listened to the story.
“All right then, Miss Salma, Husain.” Mr. Qasim gently shook out his prayer rug. “I’m going to Mr. Ahmad’s house to make sure Mamat didn’t accidentally give that envelope to someone else.”
“All right, Mr. Qasim,” Salma replied.
Mr. Qasim walked away from beneath the rain tree with an easy but purposeful stride.
Salma looked back at Husain, who had begun straightening the empty cups on his table.
The silence between them returned, wrapped in the roar of the afternoon wind, which had begun blowing harder and carrying dust along the road.
“Mr. Husain,” Salma called softly.
Husain stopped his hand, which was holding a wet rag. “Yes?”
“Mr. Husain... about this morning...” Salma hesitated for a moment, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was meddling in your business with Mr. Omar this morning.”
Husain looked at Salma impassively. “It’s fine. Mr. Omar does that every week.”
“But... you’re not mad, are you?”
Husain slowly shook his head.
He picked up the bucket of rinse water and dumped the dirty water into the narrow drain beside the tree.
Ssshhh...
“No. Anger is useless in Sukamaju,” Husain replied curtly.
Salma nodded, understanding his answer.
She held the rice package, which was growing warmer against her hands.
“In that case, I’ll be going, sir. I’d better eat this lodeh rice before it gets cold.”
“Go ahead.”
Salma left Husain’s coffee cart and walked slowly down the lane toward her rental property.
When she reached Rental Unit Two, Salma rummaged through her bag, took out the key, and opened the mint-green wooden door.
The inside of the house felt cool.
Salma removed her footwear, placed it neatly in the corner of the courtyard, then went inside and shut the door tightly.
She sat cross-legged on the ceramic floor of the living room and opened the lodeh rice from Mrs. Eros’s Food Stall.
The aroma of spices and savory coconut milk billowed through the still-empty room.
Salma calmly ate the warm rice with her right hand.
Mmm.
“Delicious... they don’t hold back on the seasoning,” Salma murmured gratefully to herself.
After finishing every last grain of rice, Salma tidied the wax-paper wrapper, folded it neatly, and threw it into the small trash can already waiting in the kitchen.
She performed ablution using the cold water from the kitchen faucet, preparing for the noon prayer.
1:15 p.m.
The sun was directly overhead.
Outside, the air in Sukamaju was biting hot, but inside Salma’s rental property, with its clay-tile roof, the temperature was comfortably warm.
Salma had just folded her prayer garment when she heard a soft knock at the front door.
Knock... knock... knock.
The knocks were steady and polite, completely different from Mamat’s loud pounding or Mr. Omar’s rough battering.
Salma put her instant hijab back on, then walked to the front door and turned the handle.
Click.
A modest middle-aged man stood outside in a cream koko shirt, a white cloth prayer cap, and thin-rimmed glasses.
He held a dark-blue document folder in his left hand.
Beside him stood Husain, carrying a small wooden tray with a steaming ceramic cup and a small plate holding two pieces of chocolate block cake.
The bespectacled man offered a warm, gentle smile.
“Peace be upon you, Miss Salma. I’m Ahmad... the neighborhood association head here,” the man—Mr. Ahmad—greeted her in a deep, soothing voice.
“And peace be upon you too, Mr. Ahmad,” Salma said, bowing respectfully. “Please, come in.”
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Miss. I’ll only be a moment.” Mr. Ahmad gently waved his hand, politely declining.
“I received Mamat’s report about the new resident’s information, and he also told me about the neighborhood fund wallet incident earlier.”
Mr. Ahmad glanced at Husain, then looked back at Salma.
“On behalf of the Neighborhood Unit 04 committee, I want to thank you very much, Miss Salma. If that fund money had been lost, the repairs to the mosque’s ablution area could have been delayed for months.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Ahmad. It belonged to the mosque and the neighborhood committee, so returning it was my responsibility,” Salma replied sincerely.
“Now, Husain, I asked you to bring Miss Salma some hot coffee and chocolate block cake from the stall next door. It’s a small token of thanks from the neighborhood committee.” Mr. Ahmad gestured toward Husain.
Husain stepped forward and offered the wooden tray to Salma with both hands.
“Palm-sugar milk coffee, Miss. And chocolate block cake,” Husain said flatly, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup on the tray.
Salma looked at the tray, then at Husain’s seemingly blank face, free of any affected expression.
“Wow... thank you so much, Mr. Ahmad, Mr. Husain. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Salma accepted the wooden tray carefully.
The air around her suddenly filled with the delicious scent of sweet caramel coffee and baked chocolate batter.
“All right, Miss Salma. Get some rest,” Mr. Ahmad said warmly. “If you need any help, my house is next to the neighborhood office. See you...”
“See you, Mr. Ahmad. Thank you,” Salma replied.
Mr. Ahmad turned and walked away.
Husain also turned to follow him, but his steps stopped for two seconds.
Husain glanced back at Salma, who was still holding the tray. “Drink the coffee while it’s hot. If it gets cold, the acidity comes out.”
After saying those few words, Husain walked after Mr. Ahmad without waiting for Salma’s answer.
Salma stood in the doorway, watching the two men walk side by side down the lane.
She carried the wooden tray inside and set it on the clean ceramic floor of the living room.
Salma sat cross-legged in front of the still-steaming cup. She picked up the ceramic cup with both hands, breathed in its sweet, soothing aroma, then took a slow sip.
Sip.
The sweetness of palm sugar, the richness of the milk, and the smooth bitterness of the coffee blended perfectly on her tongue.
“So good...” Salma whispered in admiration.
Salma set the cup down, then picked up a piece of warm chocolate block cake.
As her fingers broke through the cake’s crisp edge, thick melted chocolate slowly spilled from the center.
But even as she savored the cake, Salma deliberately looked out through the open window.
In the distance, at the end of the lane, Mr. Omar could be seen jogging tensely toward the rental property, followed by Mamat, who was waving with a deeply guilty expression.
Mr. Omar stopped outside the fence of Salma’s rental property, panting hard, his eyes bulging as he stared into the house.
Mr. Omar pointed at the living-room floor with a trembling hand, then shouted, “Miss Salma! Don’t eat that cake! Husain put something dangerous in the batter!”