(Authors Note: this story might be better if you knew the tale of Malin Kundang. If you have the time, feel free to look it up--it's a very interesting story based entirely off a peculiar looking rock in Sumatra.)
He changed his name, but his face remained the same. The curve of his nose, the darkness of his skin, the hollow wonder his dark eyes seemed to weigh every time he glanced her way. No matter how many apartment buildings he owned, no matter how many digits he had in his bank account, he was still the boy she raised on overcooked rice and bits of corn scavenged from a barren field under the August sun. He was still the thing she left her husband for, the one thing that saved her from arguments at 11 PM, from covering bruises by her eyes with cheap powder and flour at midnight. He was still her son. He was still the only thing she had left.
"You shouldn't be here," Malin said in broken Javanese, sitting in his velvet armchair. The mahogany desk that stood between them was littered with a plat that had a name she didn't recognize, various picture frames of a family, and an abundance of important-looking documents cluttered about. "I'm still wrapping my head around how you got out of Indonesia, let alone why."
She had asked that herself throughout the whole journey, feeling inadequate in her best kebaya and her brown skin--even as a girl, she never dreamed of meeting a ridiculous number of mythical pink-skinned men in one place, all of them crowding around her to catch an elusive transportation system that's able to fly without any hint of magic. Planes, they called it in English. The strange journalist who brought her to America laughed when she read it aloud, squinting at a sign in the airport--pla-ness. Such an odd language. Such a strange word.
"I wanted to see you again," she said, earnestly. "One last time, before I die."
He glared at her, eyes peeling from their lids. "Are you--" he paused. "You aren't ill, are you?"
Zaenab opened her mouth, watching him the landscape standing behind him. The windows of his office showcased a city gleaming brighter than the stars she would've gazed up at night, neon lights and towers that resembled sharpened diamonds. "The doctor tells me I am. I don't know if I should believe him," she clasped her bony hands together, massaging at a vein that seemed eager to pulse. "He says that I have a year to live, at most. I might be able to go through some sort of procedure I can't seem to remember, but it's--well, it's costly. It'd be impossible for me to afford it on my wages alone." It should've been impossible for her to come here, as well. She was living in strange times.
Malin Kundang stared at her, silently, before leaning forward in his chair, rubbing at his temples. "What is it?"
"What's what?"
"The illness."
She froze. "Cancer. Lung cancer, I think."
Malin stared at her. Shook his head. "Is that what brought you here?" he asked. "You wanted my help?"
His words felt cold, callous. The poor thing. What had she done to make him this way? "A journalist came to our house the other day," she said, "She told me that someone told her that they knew where my son was."
"You say he's ran away for how long?" the journalist asked, in a tongue obviously unaccustomed to Indonesian.
"24 years," she answered. "He left me a note, one day, telling me that he promises he'll come back with the world at the palm of his hands. We won't have to go a day without food ever again, he said." Zaenab winked the tears from her eyes, wiping them with the back of her hand. "Does he have the world in his hands now? Is he finally happy?"
The journalist simply bit her lip, staring at her notes. "He's a millionaire," she said, honestly. "A businessman who managed his way through work without a high school diploma. But he's a--" she paused. "He's done some questionable things in his life."
Malin clutched at the arms of his chair, his face hardening. "What did she ask you?"
Zaenab shook her head. "About how you were. Who you were, before the name change and all that." She paused. "She gave me the tickets and brought me here. We talked. Primarily about you. She didn't tell me how you were, though." Zaenab looked up at her son, smiling for the first time since the conversation started. "How are you, Malin?"
He glared at her. She was brought back immediately to the night she ran away, the look on her husband’s face as he tossed a chair her way while she was stumbling off the porch. “My name is not Malin anymore,” he said, shaking his head. “Mark. Mark Carrel. Can’t you read the plate?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Why would you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Change your name.” she stopped. “Change who you are.”
Malin stared at her, distantly, before clasping his hands over his mouth. “I’m a different person now, Zaenab,” he said, frankly, “I’m a businessman. And I’ve done things to be able to sit on this chair.”
Zaenab shook her head, her eyes burning from the pain in her chest. “Why did you call me Zaenab? I’m your mother.”
He stopped. He leaned forward, then, looking at her in an earnest manner. “Because if you know of the things that I’ve done,” he started, “If you were aware of what I did, you wouldn’t want me to be your son.”
“What things?”
The journalist had looked at her, some sort of pity in her expression. “It’s not worth knowing, Mrs. Kundang.” She said. “It would only make you feel worse.”
“He’s my son,” she said, “I deserve to know what has happened to him.”
“That’s not true.” She grasped the hand that he’d laid on the desk. Tears perched at the corner of her eyes, threatening to fall if she were to blink. “I love you. I’ve loved you ever since you came out of the womb. I’ve loved you even more since you left me by myself. And I’ll love you, no matter if you deserve it or not.”
Malin’s face softened slightly, his eyes glistening with childhood compassion. He was there. He was still the little baby boy she cradled at midnight under the canopy of birch wood forests, the sounds of her rumbling stomach as loud as his sobs. He was still the child who looked at all they had, and boldly dreamed of more. He was still Malin. He was still her son.
And in a split second, all of that disappeared.
The journalist had considered the response, and sighed. “He married a woman in Jakarta, where he supposedly started off,” she answered. “She was rich. They moved to America. It’s said that when her father dies, she would inherit all of it. If you read it from the tabloids, that’s why he was so keen on marrying her.” She paused. “But they didn’t work out. There was supposed to be a divorce, one that would leave him unpopular with his community and bankrupt.”
Zaenab mulled over it. “What—what did he do?”
The journalist stared at her, troubling over how to word her next statement. “The woman died before the divorce proceedings could begin,” she said. “He received all of the inheritance.”
Zaenab never heard a louder silence.
He pulled at a drawer below his desk, fishing out a checkbook. He ripped a check out, scribbling some number with an almost infinite amount of zeroes and signing it. “This should cover your treatment,” he said, calmly passing it to her. “I’ll have an assistant look after you while you stay here to get better.”
She stammered, gawking at the number. “Malin--”
“You don’t call me Malin.” She froze. He glared at her. “You never knew I existed before now. You are not my mother, and I am not your son. I am simply a kind donor with many things on my mind.” He leaned back in his chair. “If you say a word otherwise to anyone in the press, I will ruin you.”
She didn’t need to say another word. He had already ruined her in a few lines of dialogue. “Malin, please,” she said, standing up and reaching out to him, “I’ve done nothing wrong--”
“I know you haven’t,” Malin answered, softly. “But I can’t be seen like this. Not with you.”
“Why?”
He stopped, staring at her hopefully. He pressed his brows down on his forehead, slapping away her embrace. “You stupid old crone,” he stood up, pushing her back in her chair. “You don’t even know what the press will do to you if they know who you are.”
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. She didn’t need to. “I’m not losing you a second time,” she swore, “Not when I’ve already found you.”
He looked at her for a little while, before turning to his desk. He pressed a button, causing a buzz. A secretary appeared from the door behind her. “Yes, Mr. Carrel?”
“Ana,” he said, “Please escort this woman out of my office. We’re done here.”
Ana nodded. Zaenab froze in fear. “As you wish, Mr. Carrel.”
Zaenab looked up at Malin, pleadingly, watching as the young woman pulled at her kebaya to escort her out. “You can’t do this to me,” she cried, her voice cracking in despair, “You can’t do this to me!”
He looked at her, sullenly. His hollow eyes told her all she needed to know.
“I hope you suffer,” she called out, as the woman dragged her further away, “I hope you enjoy your gold and your buildings like you’d enjoy having to live knowing your own son wouldn’t call you his father. I hope you cherish every single thing you have now, before it all disappears into specks of dust. I hope you like being a loathsome murderer,” she screamed the last word, prompting the secretary to call in security guards. “And I hope you’ll spend the rest of your days behind steel bars with nothing left to live for.”
The security guards came by, dragging her away. If there was any trace of his son left in the man she'd just met, she prayed to God he turned as stone cold as his heart.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
