Like many couples, Maria and I like to spend time together doing things we both like. Our shared interests are not hiking, nor the theatre; or even tatting. We prefer to spend our quality time doing (and re-doing) my expenses.
Once a week (sometimes twice) I get an update from Maria on how she is progressing with my expenses. She usually tells me how she’s either gone nowhere or backwards, and we giggle like school girls.
Take yesterday for example. I called her to my desk for another round of receipts. She’d done something very strange with a bunch of taxis and I had received a stern warning from expenses audit, You’ve really gotta hand it to Maria – for someone so rarely at her desk, she certainly manages some complicated trickery
I imagined the auditors looking up my details when I resubmit the receipts. In my imagination it is a modern, minimalist crib with no windows and muted mood lighting. People walk by glass walls, clutching folders against their Armani suits. Someone is at their desk with a pile of my receipts to one side. They turn around to the computer and punch in my name – it’s just like an FBI databases on tv. My mugshot comes up instantly with a red “REPEAT OFFENDER” box flashing across my neck. There is mention of slippery old Maria though.
I asked Maria to pull up a chair as I went through the detail. This was going to be a long bonding session. She declined – said she was happy to stand. I offered again, thinking she was too polite but she insisted with an “I’m fine here thanksyou Mr Anthony”. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized why she wanted to stand. To outsiders, this must give the impression that she is helping me; or even coaching me. It looks like I’ve done something wrong and she’s dropped in to fix it.
Our conversation was fairly typical. Most of my sentences began with “Why …” and “How …” and “This doesn’t look right at all …” while her replies began with “I wasn’t sure so I …” or “Because Mr Anthony you …” and the like.
Then our conversation took an odd turn.
Maria: “So anyway Mr Anthony you are divorced hey?”
Yes. [pause] “How do you now this?”
M: “Huh?”
— “I know you heard me the first time, Maria. How do you know I’m divorced? I didn’t tell you this.”
M: “Oh the other people.”
It's always the other people.
— “Which other people?”
M: “I don’t know. Just other people. The gossip. Not me. They just tell me things.”
— “Things like what?”
M: “Just when I come down to see you. To check that I know you’re not married and these joking things.”
— “I probably don’t want to know, do I?”
I didn’t get an answer to that. Which in itself was the answer.
We went back to untangling my expenses for a couple of minutes, before being interrupted by this:
“I'm not getting married.”
— “You’re what?”
“I'm not getting married. Never.”
She added some more firmness to her voice ... that blind resolve that people adopt to mute others from objecting to their shaky arguments ... a là “I just think politicians are all the same so why bother, and that’s what I think!”.
I turned around and looked back up to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. I quickly turned back around, like a school kid caught cheating in a test.
“Why you look at me like that?”
— ‘Like what?”
"Like that. Just now.”
— "Well maybe because you’re Indonesian. You’re expected to get married aren’t you?”
Whenever you ask a single Indonesian if they are married, they do not say “no”. They always say “not yet”. Always. Everyone is either married, or intending to be. Except for Maria, mind …
Maria: “I don’t care. I already told my mother.”
— “Wow. What did she say?”
"Oh ... she starting crying and everything. But I said no. I’m never getting married so get used to it I said no way. Not for me.”
— “Oh. And why not?”
“Because I'm not interesting in being the kitchen. Or the house.”
— “You don’t have to stay in the house just because you’re married."
“Yeah but anyway I don’t want these things so I just say no. I don’t want all the cooking and expected other things. Doing these things for a man or his family and all that.”
— “Fair enough.”
I could have been more encouraging, or curious, but was starting to get bored. So we went back to the taxis. I was in the middle of scrolling through a list of receipts when Maria interrupted again.
“And also I hate babies."
I turned back around to see her smiling slightly. This smile was not Blind Resolve. It was not even Defiance. It was Victory.
“Yes. Hate babies. ”
I wasn't sure if it was a grammatical error or an order. Either way, I could tell this was going to be good.
— “I think I under … me t… why? Why do you hate babies?”
“Loud and naughty.”
Then a pause.
Then this:
“Makes me do something I don't like.”
Dark images of Maria immediately sprung to mind, of her shaking and throwing babies . I froze slightly but maintained my composure. This was going to be interesting.
— “Things ...? Like what?”
Words like infanticide and filicide flashed before my eyes, startling me.
“Just things."
Words like paedophile and sadist lurked around the edges.
“Like all the poo and mess. Babies make too much dirty and I have to clean and wash them and change them. I don’t like that.”
After breathing a sigh of relief, I said:
— “Just get a nanny then.”
“No. It’s not fair. I don’t agree with using other people to look after babies. You should look after them yourself. So I don’t want to look after and I don't want babies and I don't want married.”
I started to get very concerned - not about Maria’s comments, but for me. I must be suffering from a strain of Stockholm syndrome because this was all starting to make perfect sense to me ... .
We finally got to the end of this expenses session. It seemed like the end of an era and I couldn't quite believe there was nothing left for us to do.
— "Do we have any more travel to do now Maria? Is that all?"
"Yes... that's all. Why? You wanna go somewhere else? Say no Mr Anthony. Too much papers and things."
— "No."
