A Poem for Dilla – Part One

 

 

Dilla was one of the highest-paid top models in Indonesia.

She had just finished a photo session in a studio in Menteng: tomorrow her face would be on the cover of Femina magazine, as the woman of the year – it was the fourth time that has happened.

She could have as many as three shows in a week, very often beyond the borders of her homeland.

She was cold as a machine and precise as a clock; her professionalism was undisputed and, at times, awe those who worked with her.

There was a rumor that she didn't feel any emotion.

She had also given up on having a family. Her whole world revolved around her work.

 

An hour in the studio was enough for the photographer to get the right shots, and only she could choose the photos that would go on the cover. Even the editors of the magazines did not dare to object, because her image sold thousands of copies, and because, in fact, she never made a mistake in her choices.

Leaving the studio, with her dark glasses covering half of the face, the long straight hair, and white sneakers to rest the foot, Dilla got into the back of the dark car that was waiting for her in front of the building meanwhile three men in suits kept the waiting people away, curious to see her for a moment.

To those who shout her name or begged for an autograph or a selfie, she didn't even grant them a nod or half a glance, headphones in her ears with loud music, she went in and immediately closed the car door.

As the driver struggled with the Jakarta traffic, she checked her perfectly manicured fingernails tinted a purple-tinged to blue.

The apartment wasn't too far away, but with afternoon traffic it would still take an hour.

In the following days, she would have a fashion show in Bali, two television interviews, and other photoshoots.

Her phone rarely rang. Only business appointment messages arrived that her agent Alexander wrote down and then sent to her for confirmation.

At home, she usually spends 45 minutes in the gym, has a long hot bath, dinner, and – like every day – goes to her bed, at 9.30 pm sharp.

Traffic was devouring hours of life in that city, thought Dilla, looking out of the darkened side window, the ageless boys and men with streaked faces walking among the row of stationary cars selling newspapers, drinks in plastic bags and straws, or surreal toys that no one will ever buy.

She got into the elevator when it was now late afternoon.

“Assalamualaykum, Ibu*,” Hamzina, her maid for over ten years, welcomed her, taking the long shawl and the shoes she had taken off on the edge of the door.

Hamzina was a small 46-year-old woman from Surabaya, she spoke very little, silent, and a hard worker. She was perfect for Dilla.

Her apartment on the 18th floor of one of the downtown skyscrapers were large, with two areas, one where Hamzina slept, with the kitchen, bathroom, and two other rooms that were often used by the maid to house her daughter who came to visit her, and another area where Dilla lived, with a large hall and terrace, two other empty rooms, a gym, and her bedroom with two bathrooms.

Everything was essential and white, absolutely white.

There were just a few photographs of her by famous photographers or magazine covers with her face on the walls or shelves. In the center of the room was a portrait of her painted in the Balinese style. Very few books, many fashion magazines, some awards, and some Wayang* figures on the oval table in the center of the room. No carpets, she loved to feel the contact of the floor under her bare feet.

After the gym cycle, with stationary bikes, treadmills, and various exercises to release tension, she went to take a hot bath in the large circular white tub. She let her body submerge completely leaving only her nose and eyes out, floating in white bubbles of lavender-flavored soap.

She wrapped her slim, silky-skinned body in a light robe tied her hair back, and went to eat Hamzina's dinner: rice, eggs, cucumbers, fine-cut tomatoes, and sambal, the hot sauce that is never missed in Indonesia – she wanted a not-too-heavy dinner, both for a matter of diet and because she would go to sleep soon.

“Terima kasih Bu,” Dilla thanked Hamzina that she was clearing the table of the plates and the glass.

She waited until the maid returned to her kingdom and went to the hi-fi system, the only black mark in the whiteness of the room.

Dilla put on a CD of Nina Simone and turned the volume up slightly then went to get a Sampoerna cigarette from the packet on the low glass table near the sofa: this was the only vice she allowed herself, a single cigarette every night before going to sleep.

She lit it and pulled hard to inhale the sweet aroma. She loved Nina Simone's voice, warm, deep, and sore, especially when she sang the standard blues, “Do I move you?” it was her favorite, with “Ain't got no, I got life”.

Dilla went to the large window and went out onto the terrace.

She smoked as she watched Jakarta, into the night, extend into infinity. More than the skyscraper skyline, she was lost in the hundreds of small red lights of the cars in the traffic. The sounds did not reach that high, it seemed to be like on the top of the Himalayan mountains.

Her long thin hair stroked her cheeks.

She went back inside, closed the window, put out the cigarette in the silver turtle-shaped ashtray and the stereo.

At 21.30 she lay down on the double bed and closed her eyes.

 

Her agent Alexander arrived early the next morning.

Dilla was still having breakfast. Alexander was her trusted agent and perhaps the only friend she had, a handsome gay boy from Solo, outgoing and smiling who loved to wear black and utterly professional.

He kissed Dilla on her cheek and sat on the white sofa while she finished her coffee.

“So, dear Dilla, there has been a change of plans!” he said swinging his right foot with the leg crossed.

These few words had already disturbed Dilla's awakening. She looked at him with stern eyes.

“We had to postpone the show in Bali on Saturday, because you have been commissioned a very important photoshoot for Vogue!” Alexander said looking at his shiny fingernails in a distracted way, but it was his attempt to avoid her annoyed gaze.

Dilla stared intently at him waiting for an explanation.

He answered her in a more serious tone. “We have to go to Garut.”

She couldn't stop the muscles on her eyebrows from stiffening. 

“Garut?” she repeated in a low voice.

“Yes, yes, Garut! They want to hold a session in the market and in the rice fields beyond. It's a nice place, isn't it?” he exclaimed in a higher-pitched voice.

“Listen, I was born in Garut... I know it well,” Dilla replied annoyed. 

“I don't understand what's special about that place... That's all,” she continued nervously as she stroked the long hair, with both feet on the chair.

Alexander looked at her with wide eyes and outstretched arms.

“It's Vogue, dear! Vogue! But, what do you care? They could send us to Papua as well! Vogueee!”

“Ya, ya. As if it were the first time that they publish my photographs...” Dilla said, getting up, recovering her composure and detached tone of voice.

Her agent got up satisfied, smoothed his perfectly styled hair, gazing at the reflection in the glass of a photograph on the empty bookcase.

“So, tomorrow at 10.30 in the TransTV buildings for the interview, afternoon at the hairdresser and Saturday morning we leave at 9 precisely,” he said, walking to the door, accompanied by Hamzina, while she nodded absently.

That morning she was free.

Hamzina asked her permission to go and buy some fruit at the market.

“Silakan, ibu,” Dilla said, authorizing her to go.

She was left alone in the spacious white house. The sun came in through the large window, making the white enamel of the furniture shine.

She put on a Nina Simone CD and sat down on the soft sofa, one leg on her left arm.

Garut.

She still remembered that day very well. September 21st, 2016.

She was in Singapore, and the next day she was supposed to be on the catwalk when they came to tell her what had happened.

All night there was a terrible flood, it was Tuesday: the Cimanuk river overflowed due to the incessant rain, flooding the entire kampung* with almost two meters of water and mud, destroying houses, with over hundreds of families left homeless, missing, and 16 victims.

Including her father and her mother.

 

Her brother Arif was already living elsewhere with his family.

Communication was not easy and it took days to figure out who was missing or who did not survive.

The next day she was on stage as if nothing had happened, magnificent as ever. A butterfly on the catwalk.

No emotion leaked from her face; all her beauty was destined to bring out that of the clothes.

From Singapore, she flew directly to Japan.

She was able to speak on the phone with her brother who confirmed the death of her parents.

“Tomorrow there will be the funeral ...,” he said softly.

“I'm in Japan, I'm sorry. I have a fashion show,” Dilla answered and ended the call.

She remembered that she felt her heart explode but she couldn't see where the shatters had gone. As if everything falls into a dark void, without sounds or shapes.

Even in Japan, she was praised for her beauty and her professionalism. She was on the covers of all fashion magazines in Japan and Indonesia.

From that day on, Dilla had no contact with her brother, nor did she return to Garut – when he phoned her, Dilla did not answer, until after a few months, he stopped calling.

 

That evening she smoked two cigarettes on the terrace, before going to sleep, with her eyes lost on the lights of the streets of Jakarta, while Nina Simone sang “I wish I knew how it would feel to be free.”

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

* Ibu, means “mother” in the Indonesian language but is also used to refer to unmarried women as a sign of respect.
* Wayang is the typical figures of the Indonesian tradition.
* Kampung is how the village is called.

Italian version