They are living in half-a-house, with the as-yet unaffordable second floor delayed from one year to the next. Actually, it was almost fully constructed, but then the owner of the company that Wayan makes the jewelry for had it impulsively torn down because he swore the sub-standard building materials made it too vulnerable to withstand the island’s frequent earthquakes. Wayan’s eyes filled with tears all over again when he told me the story. But then, Justin was its unofficial financier, after all, and he needed a safer structure for his wife’s jewelry workshop—that is, until his interest wavered and, teetering on the brink of divorce, he began to spent most of his time at the coast, surfing—. So there remains now, and most likely forever, a narrow stairway leading up to a tarp-sheltered hole in the roof where the family’s humble shrine for daily offerings reaches serenely toward the sky.
Last night, I was sprawled on the white tiles at the base of that stairway—with a few plates, some spoons (not enough to go around), and one bottle of water. There were smoked duck enchiladas and some sesame crusted chicken, along with more traditional tahu semur and ikan pepes, as well as a chocolate brownie and a slice of lemon crunch cake and a cinnamon bun—quite a spread, and quite a prodigal waste of cash, I suppose, for Wayan and his family could’ve eaten a full two weeks for the cost of that one meal alone. Yet the Balinese do have a heightened sense of ritual, of upacara—and ritual ignores all practical concerns, choosing to celebrate rather than analyze the moment. And so they joined right in with my toast to their lantai nomor dua, their phantom floor number two, raising their glasses without hesitation. Putu, their young son, was of course delighted with all the food choices, especially the sweet desserts (a rarity here), and he rolled around on the floor and on his mother’s knees, continuing to eat long after the rest of us were stuffed. The occasion was meant to mark my departure this morning, of course, and yet it was so unexceptional in its warmth that it made me feel the illusion of departure as never before. My presence here, after a three-year gap filled with change and illness, has made me realize more vividly than ever before that everything that happens may be happening for the last time—. Yet there are places where one eases oneself out of the stream of time, where one leaves a permanent echo, a faint trace in the heart of having been there.