Chapter 13 Indonesian Stories (12)

Before this night, I was still unsure of my role in Lai's life.Everyday I asked him if he was sure he wanted me around and he always insisted that I come and spend time with him.I felt guilty for taking up so much of his time, but he always seemed lost when I left in the evening.I didn't really teach him English.The English he learned decades ago has been deeply imprinted in his mind, and there is not much room to correct or add new words.All I could do was teach him to correct "nice to meet you" to "nice to meet you" when he first arrived. Tonight, when the last patient left, Mr. Lai was exhausted and his hard work made him look old. I asked him if I should go and give him some privacy. He replied: " I always have time for you." Then he asked me to tell him something about India, America, Italy, my family.Only then did I realize that I was neither Lai Ye’s English teacher nor his theology student, but the simplest and purest joy of the old pharmacist—I was his companion and friend.I'm the one who can make him talk because he likes to hear about the world even though he doesn't have many opportunities to see it.

During the time on the balcony, Master Lai asked me many questions, such as how much to buy a car in Mexico, the cause of AIDS, and so on. (I've answered both questions to the best of my ability, although I'm sure there are experts out there who can answer them more specifically).Grandpa Lai never left Bali in his life.In fact, he rarely leaves his balcony.He had made a pilgrimage to Mount Agung, Bali's largest and most religiously important volcano, but said the energy there was so strong that he could barely meditate lest he be engulfed in the sacred fire.He went to various temples to participate in major celebrations, and he himself was invited to host weddings or coming-of-age ceremonies at the homes of his neighbors, but most of the time he could be found on the balcony of his home; he sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat, surrounded by Great-grandfather's palm leaf medicine, tending people, banishing demons, enjoying the occasional cup of sweetened coffee.

"I dreamed about you last night," he told me today. "I dreamed that you were riding your bike everywhere." He paused, and I made a grammatical correction. "You mean, you dreamed of me riding my bike to 'everywhere'?" "Yeah! Last night I dreamed that you were riding your bike everywhere and everywhere. You were so happy in my dream! You rode all over the world! I followed you!" Maybe he wished he could... "Maybe you'll come to America someday to find me, Mr. Lai," I said. "No, Lily," he shook his head, happily resigning himself to his destiny, "I don't have enough teeth to fly anymore."

As for Lai's wife, it took me a while to become an ally with her.He called her Nyomo, a fat woman with strong limbs and a slight limp, her teeth stained red from chewing betel nuts.Arthritis has left her toes painfully bent.Her eyes are strong.The first sight of her taught me to be terrified.She had that fierce old woman vibe you see in Italian widows and church-going black mothers.She looks like she'd whip your ass for the slightest crime.She was skeptical of me at first—"Why does this flamingo hang around my house every day?" She stared at me from the dark, soot-filled kitchen, dismissive of my existence.I smiled at her, and she just continued to stare, deciding if she should get me out with a broom.

But things changed, and that was after the photocopying incident. Lai owned piles of old lined notebooks and ledgers filled with healing secrets written in tiny old Balinese Sanskrit.He copied excerpts of remedies into these notebooks in the 1940s and 1950s, long after his grandfather passed away, recording all the medical information.The value of this thing is inestimable.Volumes of information document rare trees, leaves, plants and their medicinal properties.He had sixty pages of charts illustrating palm reading, and notebooks filled with astrology, spells, charms, and remedies.The problem is, decades of mold and rat gnawing have left these notebooks pretty much in tatters.Yellow, cracked, and moldy, like piles of disintegrating autumn leaves.Every time he turned a page, the paper tore apart.

"Grandpa," I told him last week, picking up one of his tattered notebooks, "I'm not a doctor like you, but I think these notebooks are dying." He laughed. "You think they're dying?" "Sir," I said solemnly, "this is my professional opinion—if you don't get help quickly, this book will be ruined in less than six months." Then I asked him if he could let me take the notebook to town and copy it before it got stuck.I had to explain what was going on with the copy, and promise to return it to him in twenty-four hours without any harm to the book.I passionately promised that I would handle his grandfather's wisdom with care, and finally he agreed to let me take the book off the balcony.I cycled to a store with an internet computer and copier, copied each page with care and fear, and bound the new, clean copies in plastic folders.Before noon the next day, I brought back the old and new editions of the book to him.Grandpa Lai was surprised and delighted because he had owned this notebook for fifty years.The literal meaning could be "fifty years", or just "a long time".