The mirror

When they asked me if I was interested to go to the Far East for several months, I didn't hesitate for a moment. Not only was the job interesting, the idea to stay for such a long period in the tropics was simply too attractive. The warm weather, the beautiful scenery, the food, the friendly people. Who could object to it?

     But the fairy tale is already over after a few days. This is not because of the city where I'm living in. The metropolis is vibrant. The imposing houses, the humble shacks, the new cars, the worn out rickshaws, the hasty businessmen, the sleeping beggars, the confident Starbucks stores, the humble cigarette vendors.

    The bright sun, the dull shadows.

    It's my fault. No questioning about it. I feel like a snowman in summertime. I behave like a fish out of the waters. Where I like structure and clarity, I'm now experiencing chaos and vagueness. Rules are suggestions. Appointments are there just for form. Decisions are treated as ideas. Ideas are put forward as regulations.

    It strikes him, Djaja, that I'm becoming quieter. That the bags under my eyes are deepening. I notice it in how he looks at me. Concerned. Serious. As if I am a patient. Someone with food poisoning. Diarrhea, abdominal pain, fever.

     Djaja is the one who drives me to the office every day. From the first morning he came to pick me up in the hotel lobby, I saw him through. His ever optimistic smile, the constant jaunty glance, the unbroken casual gait.

     A wise man in the body of a schoolboy.

    "You are okay?" he asks worriedly at the beginning of my third week. He stands before me in the brightly lit hotel room. T-shirt, jeans, broken sneakers. But even at this early morning he is who he is. Quick-witted, spirited, proud.

     That morning, Djaja is not taking the usual route to the office. I want to protest. After all, I got so many things to do. Meetings, presentations, analyzes, recommendations. But I'm too weak to change even this course of my life.

     If the car comes to a standstill, we are in the decrepit city centre. Despite it is not even eight o'clock in the morning, the narrow streets are teeming with all kind of people. Merchants, children, business people, students, mothers with babies, grandfathers with chessboards.

     We stop in front of a newly renovated building. The word "Mirror" is painted on the white facade of the stately building. Behind the window of the entrance I detect tables. Visitors are drinking coffee and eating sweet buns. Is this a cafe?

     Once inside I am embraced by the bountiful space. The ocher coloured walls, the smooth marble floors, the large windows, the massive wooden ceiling. It's colonial Dutch. But at the same time it is typically Asian.

     I order a cappuccino. I look around me. But no looks back. The mostly young men and women are talking animatedly, laughing, listening. And while I pour the sugar on the fine foam, I see my trembling hand. Cold sweat is on my forehead. My response is to run away. To leave all this behind me. This fun, this heat.

    Then I see Djaja. At the door. As a watchman. I realize that there is nothing else I can do. I take a sip. The coffee tastes good. And after ten minutes I notice that something is changing. I look at the people. I admire their beautiful faces, their beaming smiles. And I start to realize. What if I give it a change? What if I step out of my white armor? What if I lift myself from my rigid suit?  

    What if I close my eyes and just jump in that black hole?

    The adventures, the discoveries?

     "You are okay?" Djaja checks, as we drive to the office later on. He grimaces. As a wise man in the body of a schoolboy.