Arlene Adams sat at the table in her Borabudur Hotel room. Now and then she riffled her fingers through her short, bleached hair. Now and then she traced a design on her perspiring glass. Now and then she re-read the open page of the book before her. Finally, she made some notes. Finally, she opened an oval pillbox and chased two tiny pills down with iced tea.

          To make sure she had it right, she picked up the American Women's Association guidebook and read aloud: "Saving face is extremely important in Indonesia. If you must reprimand a servant, don't embarrass him in front of your guests or your other servants. Even if you are ready to explode, never yell. This is on a par with a slap on the face. Any direct confrontation is acutely embarrassing to most Indonesians."

          Staring ahead, Arlene caught her reflection in the dresser mirror. She was all hands and feet, and they were such dainty people. Would they think her hair too brassy? Her breasts too large? She should lose fifteen pounds. She must make the right impression on the servants she was about to interview. She must prove to her husband the past was past, and she could do things like normal women.

          "We can't go, of course," her husband, Dan, had said when news of the transfer came.

          "Oh yes, we can," she said. "I'm perfectly all right now."

          "You seem to be. But it would be too stressful. It might bring back your illness."

          "You know the doctor said as long as I take my pills I won't have another breakdown," she said.

          "It's out of the question."

          "Please take me away from here." She had shuddered, thinking of the wilderness next door to their property and those gray weeks in the psychiatric hospital when nothing good seemed possible ever again.

          But she said gaily, "Let's see the world."

          A look she couldn't bear came over his face. "If only Becky hadn't ..."

          She put her hand over his mouth. He'd stopped talking and kissed it.

          In the end, he'd given in, even said she could take the Siamese. The stipulation was that at any sign of the old symptoms, he was shipping her home on the next plane. Both he and the personnel man had made it quite clear what she was letting herself in for. Her husband would have his hands full supervising nationals on a propane storage barge in the Java Sea, and she must deal with a large house and the servants that went with it.

          Now Dan was offshore again, but this time it was up to her to get them moved into their house, interview servants, and set up a household. He'd even given her the checkbook, saying, "You're completely in charge now, Arlene. For god's sake, keep calm." It was a heady feeling. He'd never let her be in charge of anything the whole time that they'd been married. He'd always protected her, and now she was determined to show him he needn't do that anymore.

          It wasn't going to be difficult at all. She'd make it fun having those little brown people flitting and fluttering and twittering around her. She'd make them her family.

          A bold knock sounded at the door, and then two young people were in the hotel room with her. All her new Jakarta friends had said she must have a married couple working for her because there was less bickering and it made for a happier household. And that's what she had to have for her husband ¾ to make up for everything.

          The Servant Registry woman had said no couples were available, but when Arlene looked through the applications, she read that a houseboy, Djamin, had left his last employment because he and his wife, Anah, wanted to work together. A big plus was that he spoke some English. She could be their savior and bring them together so they didn't have to be separated. A nice warm feeling flooded her as she looked at them now, awaiting the interview.

          Like all Indonesians, Djamin was most attractive. She liked it that he looked directly at her when speaking, although his eyes glittered, not unlike those of a bird; but he flashed gleaming teeth in a beguiling smile that made her forget that. His hair, which looked like it could be unruly, was slicked down with what smelled like brilliantine. His fingers were well manicured. Most of all, he had a wonderfu1 "I'm in charge" air that Arlene envied, and it made her feel it would bring the harmony to her home she wanted

          But it was his wife who made her sure she must have them. The girl was so beautiful Arlene could scarcely keep her eyes from her. She was as lithe and graceful as any Javanese dancer, and Arlene immediately wanted to give her the love and approval her hungry eyes begged for. It amused Arlene that the girl wasn't wearing the Javanese dress of sarong and kebaya, but had dressed up in a Westerner's discarded black cocktail dress.

          She said nothing throughout the interview, her velvet stare never leaving Arlene's face. She burst into tears when Djamin translated to her the generous salary Arlene offered; one that Dan had said was all her decision.

          "Thank you, Missus," Djamin said over and over.

          "Terima kasi, Missus," his wife said.

          From that moment, she began to think of herself as "Missus," someone with status, someone in control. They were quite appealing,

          And she was comfortable with them. "You will move into the servants' quarters immediately to guard the empty house." She handed Djamin a paper with the address on it, then stood up to show the interview was at an end. But Djamin didn't rise. He spoke rapid Indonesian words to the girl, and she left the room with downcast eyes. He took off his watch and placed it on the table between them. "Masaalah, Missus," he said, "besar masaalah." When he saw she didn't understand, he studied for a moment, then said, "Big problem, Missus."

          Arlene sat back down.

          He spoke slowly, reaching for the English words. "Mother much sakit ... sick. I go home to Bogor, maybe tiga, empat days."

          Missus couldn't believe her ears. "But I need you now. The moving truck is coming day after tomorrow."

          His eyes pleaded with hers, prodding her to say, "These things happen. We will manage somehow, but get your wife settled into the servants' quarters. Someone should be there to look after things."

          So softly she almost couldn't hear, Djamin said, "I wish to make borrow five thousand rupiah for dokter. I leave watch. You know Djamin come back, will pay."

          She gave the watch a dubious look. "It's really not ¾ "

          "Very good watch, Missus." He held it up. "See, it say day and month as well as time."

          "That's not the point at all," she said. "I need you at the house."

          His face closed down as if he didn't understand what she'd said. "Is problem, Missus, big problem for Djamin. But up to you, Missus." Now he had a worried but accepting look on his face. "I send brother to help, okay? Wife help, too."

          The American Women's Association handbook said you should positively never lend money to servants, but he was family now, and his mother might be seriously ill. She walked to the dresser and took a five thousand rupiah note from a jewelry chest there. It was only about twelve dollars. What was the big deal?

          Djamin pushed the watch into her hand when she handed him the bill. His face was grave. "Terimah kasi, Nyonya." He bowed, and backed out of the roam. A moment later, she thought she heard deep, throaty laughter outside her door, but when she looked no one was there.

          Moving day was hectic, even though Dan was allowed to come in to help. Someone saying he was "brother of Djamin" did show up, but Arlene didn't trust him and paid him off at the end of the day, saying she wouldn't need him anymore. She was worried about the wife, Anah, who was supposed to be staying at the house but hadn't appeared all day. Finally, they were able to shut the door on the whole mess and go back to the hotel for a cool drink and a hot bath. She was delighted but puzzled to see Djamin's wife waiting for her at the top of the lobby escalator.

          "Suli bicara," Anah said, looking with wide eyes at the moving escalator full of people, and Arlene understood she had brought a friend named Suli to speak for her. But then, not waiting for the translating to begin, the girl said, "Name tidah Anah! Nama saya Hartia!"

          "Djamin already have first wife, Anah. This Hartia," Suli explained. "They just little bit married." She grinned as though they were all in on some conspiracy. For a moment, Arlene was embarrassed she had taken it for granted the girl Djamin brought to the interview was the Anah on the application.

          "Is there a problem?" Dan asked, a worried frown on his face.

          "Not at all, darling," she said. "I'll handle this. Why don't you go upstairs and order us room service?" But he continued to stand there.

          Suli began to tell a story that made Arlene furious. "Hartia wake up very early in Missus' servant's house," Suli said. "Very upset, very shocked. Djamin gone!" The girl, Hartia, mimed waking and consternation as her friend spoke.

          Suli said, "Hartia run out to see why the jagas, who guard the American houses, pound on the bamboo gate with their night sticks. They say bad things to Hartia, take her kartu penduduk." Hartia got on her knees before Arlene, looking up at her, pleading.

          Finally, Arlene was made to understand what a grave matter this was. Indonesians could not live in Jakarta without an identity card. "They put her out of main gate, Missus," Suli said, "even though she say watching house for Missus" Tears rolled down Hartia's face. People were staring. Arlene pulled her to her feet, afraid people would think she was mistreating the girl.

          "We will just see about this. You are my people and I will say who goes or stays," Arlene said. "How dare they! The very idea."

          Her husband rolled his eyes. "Oh, boy," he said, and started for the elevator.

          She thought a moment, feeling the weight of the decision she must make. Finally she said, "Tell Hartia to return to the hotel in the morning, and she will ride back into the complex beside me in my car. They will see I am not putting up with such nonsense. I want Hartia in my home, and that is that!" When Suli translated, Arlene was rewarded by a beautiful smile from Hartia, a smile not unlike that of someone she'd once loved very much. It made her want to protect this girl, delicate as a hummingbird. She would figure out the "other wife" business later.

          "You are very kind, Missus," Suli said. "Hartia and Djamin lucky to work for you." Hartia spoke rapidly to Suli, and Suli turned back to Arlene. "Hartia need five thousand rupiah for rice."

          Arlene was hungry herself, and anxious to get upstairs, so she handed the rupiah note to Hartia without much thought. But later, she tossed and turned in bed. Was she being taken advantage of? No, certainly not. They were like children, making their problems hers. "I can do this. Really I can," she said over and over to herself until sleep finally came.

          In a few days, late one afternoon, Djamin showed up in a dazzling white shirt, pants, and smile. "Mother bagus," he said. His glance took in the boxes still unopened, the furniture not yet placed, the books and records piled up on the floor against a wall. Then he looked Arlene up and down, and she remembered she hadn't set her hair or put on any make-up. He ordered Hartia to draw her a scented bath. He expertly mixed an old-fashioned, which she'd never had before. She thoroughly enjoyed it, although she wasn't supposed to have alcohol with her pills. Perhaps she'd skip her evening dose.

          The setting up of the household went smoothly after that, as Djamin organized everything, but he didn't seem to care much for the driver she'd hired. He willingly relayed messages about checking the oil or cleaning the battery wires, but he never ate or chatted with the driver. She thought it must be because the driver was Christian and Djamin was Muslim. Djamin didn't seem to treat the man with prejudice, but just acted as if he wasn't there most of the time.

          She ignored it, for it was nothing that disturbed her peaceful new life. Her every need was anticipated, her every care made easy. Her husband had asked her to try to make it here eighteen months so they wouldn't have to pay U.S. taxes. "I can make it six years if you want," she'd said confidently the last time he was home. "I have Djamin and Hartia."

          Djamin was a wonder, as adept with yard work as he was organizing a household. Arlene liked to sit out on one of the patios and watch him, quietly feeling grateful for the ease of her life. She had thought there would be exotic birds here in the lush foliage, and she had steeled herself to accept them. After all, their strange warbles and brilliant hues would be different from the birds back home. But the closest she'd come to seeing any tropical birds was hearing the coos, chirps, and squawks of the birds next door. Her Canadian neighbor, obsessed with buying birds, had built an aviary. Djamin couldn't keep away from them. Every day he had something new to tell her that she didn't want to know about those birds. Every day, he'd coax, "Please, Missus, we go to Pasar burung? I show you good bird to buy."

          At the very thought, she'd begin to shake, to feel ill. "No birds, Djamin," she'd finally manage. "There will be no birds in this house."

          One day, she unexpectedly came upon the bird market at Pasar Senen. She forced herself to study their technicolor plumage. They were caged, after all ¾ surely nothing to be afraid of. But the old sickness, the shaking, came over her. In her mind, she saw a great cloud of birds blackening the sky, coming for her. It was the old Hitchcock movie, and all she could do was scream "Get me out of here!" to the embarrassed driver, who led her through the market crowd to her car, where she cowered all the way home. She immediately took an extra pill and slept the rest of the day.

          Except for his constant prattle about the birds next door, Djamin was perfect. He knew all about the "electra-city" as he called electricity. Fuses blew out constantly, or there was something wrong with one of the transformers used to make their American appliances work. She had filled the house with tropical plants, and they flourished under his care. Her new batik clothes, made by Lon, the Chinese seamstress, were always painstakingly ironed.

          She was hesitant at first, but Franny Ward had said she had to make friends, and you didn't argue with the company matriarch when she had made the effort to get you into a bridge group. When it was her turn to have the other players to lunch, they ooohed and aaahed over her houseboy who served chicken salad in tomatoes cut to look like flower petals and guacamole that didn't turn color because he had buried the avocado stone in it. She was further delighted at her first dinner party when he served each guest from a silver platter and poured wine like a waiter in a fancy restaurant.

          She had given her husband a smug look. "Not bad for someone who never even had a cleaning lady," she told him later.

          One day Djamin suggested she get a gardener, who could open and close the gate as well. "I don't really need anyone else," she said.

          "Friend," Djamin said. "Have no rumah, no sleep. His parents DIE. Very sad. Missus want?"

          "But any of you can tend the gate, Djamin."

          "No brothers, no sisters. He live on street, very hungry."

          "I don't think so, Djamin. You do the yard so well."

          "So young, Missus, to be alone. Need family."

          "Family?"

          "Up to you, Missus"

          "There is that other room...maybe...just till he gets a real job somewhere or ..." That's how she got fourteen-year-old Djaya, who turned out to be related to Djamin some way. Like Djamin, he smiled all the time and was eager to please her. Her "family" had grown even tighter and happier. Now she really must learn the language; Djaya didn't seem to know much English at all.

          One Friday, waiting for her husband to come home, she walked into the garden to savor her Djamin-engineered paradise. She carried the frosty iced tea he'd made for her; the sleek cat, nuzzling her legs, would protect her if necessary. The sight of her glossy heart-shaped antherium and her very own scarlet poinsettia and hibiscus gave her pleasure. She breathed deeply of the blossoms on the frangipani tree, watching Djaya cut down a great stalk of bananas.

          Then the cat bolted, and she heard running feet. "Tuan, Tuan!" the servants called. Her husband was home from the Java Sea. Ice cubes rattled, as the gin and tonic was prepared. She knew Djamin had made the nasi goreng Dan loved for their dinner. When she walked into the living room, Djamin was plumping pillows behind Dan in his easy chair. Then he fitted slippers to his feet. Her husband sighed deeply and smiled up at her. Djamin went to the stereo, and the room was filled with her husband's favorite Lenny Dee music. Yes, she had her happy household.

          Immediately after dinner, she slipped away to the master bedroom. There was something she must do. Yes, she would make a ceremony of it. She didn't need them at all any more. Not here. Not now. She flushed her entire year's supply of pills down the toilet.

          No one ever came to the front door. Arlene couldn't imagine who had gotten around there when everyone came to the reception room door that opened onto the driveway. Since Djamin had gone to Bogor, she started for the door.

          Djaya came running into the room. "Tidak, Missus," he said; "That Anah. Big trouble." Her first thought was Hartia. She must hide her. The knock became insistent. Arlene dragged the uncomprehending Hartia away from the dishes in the sink and motioned her into her bedroom closet. "Anah," she hissed, and the panicked girl cringed and burrowed to the back of the closet.

          When Arlene finally answered the door, Anah walked brazenly into the room without being invited. She was another attractive Indonesian woman, but not nearly as beautiful as Hartia, nor as young.

          "Missus, I want money," she demanded immediately, "for the sons of Djamin."

          Missus was shocked. She'd had no idea Djamin had children with this woman. And now Hartia was obviously pregnant, although none of them had mentioned it. "I'm sorry," she said, "I give Djamin enough money. You'll have to get it from him."

          "That Hartia make much trouble for me," Anah said, her glance darting around the room. Arlene was glad she'd hidden the girl. Anah seemed quite capable of anything, and spoke forcefully in better English than Djamin.

          "I have no quarrel with either Hartia or Djamin," Arlene said, standing up to show the young woman the visit was at an end. "They are my family now, and I intend to protect them."

          Anah laughed, and it was not pleasant. "Always where Djamin go, it is same thing. He thinks it better to work for foreigners than his own countrymen who pay little and do not want to give holidays. But always there are many misunderstandings, and he gets angry. Always he thinks it will be better next time."

          "Djamin has a job here as long as I am in this country." Arlene hoped her voice sounded as frosty as she meant it to. "And can't he divorce you by saying 'I divorce thee' three times anyway?"

          "It is not so easy to do that in this modern age," Anah smirked. "Not if the wife doesn't want it."

          "I'm sure he'll find a way now that ¾ "

          Anah's eyes narrowed. "Now what, Missus?"

          Fear trembled inside of Arlene. She felt it would not be a good thing for Anah to know of Hartia's condition. She strode to the door and opened it wide. They looked deeply into each other's eyes, their wills battling. Something fluttered in Arlene's stomach, and she thought she heard the faint swish of wings. She took a deep breath. "Young woman, you should look for a new husband. Isn't it obvious Djamin doesn't want you anymore?"

          It seemed to be a whole new idea to Anah, one she considered carefully. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, maybe that's what I do. Thank you, Missus, thank you much." Then she was gone, and Missus sagged onto the couch, drained. The thought occurred to her that Djamin had sent Anah to get money. She shook her head to clear it. Why was she blaming him? This couldn't have anything to do with him. Not at all.

          Arlene woke abruptly, feeling guilty. Once again, she hadn't gotten up to unlock the door to let Djamin in. She liked a little time to herself in the morning to dream over her coffee before Djamin and Hartia got to work. He didn't say anything, but she could tell he didn't like it. She supposed he liked to get his work done early so he could have a nap. Falling down, down into sleep again, she dreamed she was asking him why her best underpants had disappeared, and why Hartia slept in the dress she'd had made for her to work in.

          Then the vacuum sweeper thundered through her dream until the real thump of it against her bedroom door woke her. Enraged, she erupted into the living room, letting the door bang against the wall.

          "Selamat siang," Djamin said, grinning broadly.

          She knew enough of the language now to know he was wishing her good afternoon at eight o'clock in the morning. She did not appreciate his humor. "Don't ever do that again!"

          "Yes, Missus," he said with downcast eyes.

          She remembered the AWA guidebook said when Indonesians said "yes" it really meant, "I hear what you're saying, but I do not necessarily agree." It seemed they would rather bend the truth than make even a foreigner lose face.

          "How did you get in here anyway?" she asked.

          Djamin hesitated, then reached in his pocket and brought out a shiny new key. "Djamin have own key now. Get work done before Missus get up. He pointed to the brass objects lined up on the dining room, table. "Sudah...already polish."

          He looked so proud and pleased, she couldn't bring herself to demand he give up the key, but neither could she bring herself to smile at him. Just for a moment, she thought seriously of going back to her room, locking the door, and staying in there all day. Then she pushed past him, going to the refrigerator and taking out the tomato juice, frowning at it because she really wanted fresh orange juice but all they had here was canned, and the real oranges were bitter.

          He was quickly there, taking the pitcher from her, pouring the drink himself. "Missus, I know where you can get new sopir now that you finish that Christian one. Yes, Herrman very good driver for you."

          This is Djamin, she told herself as she struggled to be nice. Why am I feeling this way? "Perhaps," she said finally.

          "Up to you, Missus," he said. "I go have teh now."

          The next day he moved all the furniture in the dining room to new positions. He changed the order of everything in the closets and kitchen shelves, mumbling "Up to you, Missus," every time she complained she couldn't find anything.

          Her husband laughed, saying, "Just a little job security," but he was not amused when he looked deeply into her eyes. "Are you sure you're all right, Arlene? This isn't too much for you? You will tell me if you well, get those old feelings back, won't you?"

          For a moment, she was furious with him for bringing up the past. Things were quite different now. She looked out the window at the brilliant flame tree. There wasn't a bird in sight. "I can do this, really I can," she told herself and her husband. Then she squared her shoulders and went off to tell Djamin he had to put everything back. But all he wanted to talk about was a new bird next door. She went straight for her pills, then remembered the perhaps foolhardy thing she'd done with them.

          "And when he's angry with me, he washes windows, and when I'm angry with him I wash my hair," Arlene told Betty Osterwald one day as they walked toward the ninth hole. She didn't care much for golfing in the tropical heat or dodging goats and chickens on the course or buying her balls back from the children who retrieved them from water hazards, but it was all part of Franny Ward's plan for her to get into the social life of the oil wives.

          "Everything was going so well," Arlene said, "but now it seems we have the cleanest windows and I have the cleanest hair in all Jakarta."

          Somehow she'd lost control. She didn't know what to do about it and didn't dare tell her husband. Just last night he'd said, "Are you sure everything's all right? I worry about you being alone so much of the time. It might be best if you went home." She'd forged a laugh and told him that was nonsense, that she was having the time of her life here and playing a lot of golf. But she had to tell somebody the truth, even if they thought her delusional or laughed at her. Betty Osterwald wasn't laughing.

          "Djamin, you say. He could be the same Djamin I had. As for his wife, for the life of me I can't remember her name. Betty Osterwald shook her head. "So many of them have come and gone. You know how hard it is to get good servants, let alone keep them. Betty Osterwald knelt and measured her putt. "We had a robbery." Her ball went into the hole with one stroke.

          Arlene thought she heard humming. It seemed to be coming from that big kapok tree.

          "A lot of valuable things were taken, especially a most expensive watch."

          Arlene's own putt rolled past the hole and tumbled into a sand trap. "It couldn't be the same Djamin," she said through gritted teeth. After all, it was a city of six million people, and the Osterwalds lived in Cilandak on the other side of town. The humming from the kapok tree grew louder.

          "We let him go of course," Betty Osterwald said. "We were sure he'd set us up. Things had been happening I didn't pay much attention to at the time. I had given them a whole set of my old china to use. One day, I realized it was nowhere about, and they were using a spoon and a bowl you could pick up in any pasar. Little things began to disappear, even my underpants. A good fit, I suppose, for these small women when they became pregnant, and someone always was."

          Arlene thought of the missing manicure scissors, steak knives, a photograph album, even a gold ring. "There have been a few things," she began, then whiffled the ball.

          Betty nodded knowingly. "A psychologist I know here says they do that when they feel insecure. Besides, they believe if foreigners don't miss their things in three days, it doesn't matter to them, and they can keep the things."

          She looked to the kapok, surprised that Betty Osterwald was paying no attention to the menacing noises there. God, she prayed, if they appear, let them be dainty little ones with pointed tails and yellow heads and turquoise-tipped feathers like she'd seen in the book Birds of Southeast Asia that she'd been drawn to in the British Council library. Please, God, don't let them swoop and dive in my face like the ones back in the hospital, back when the birds came for me night and day.

          The next two putts brought her ball no closer to the hole. Her head ached now as if a great bird had settled there and dug in its giant claws. She threw down her club. Her caddie scrambled to retrieve it and wipe it clean. "It's too hot to play another nine. Let's get a cold beer," she said, surprising herself. Well, why not, since she no longer took the pills. And she wanted a goddam drink to help her forget the kapok tree, where she did see a bird now. It was the big one, the one with the grandfather face.

          All the way home in the car, she forced herself to dwell on the doctor's words: "Phantoms, Arlene. That's what you must deal with. You must face your illusions, Arlene. Face them once and for all."

          Vaguely, she heard the new driver, Herrman, telling her "not to be marry very bad with baby coming," heard him intimate he too was "family of Djamin" and was speaking for them, and would she talk to Djamin about it?

          "You're just trying to make trouble," she snapped. "You resent my giving my houseboy more status than my driver." She realized immediately that she should have put her point across in a gentler way, as you were supposed to do with Indonesians. It didn't seem to faze the grinning Herrman, who jumped out of the car and held the door open for her. Djaya ran out to take her clubs and golf shoes to clean the red mud from them. Hartia started her bath and began laying out fresh clothes. Djamin had gone to the market to buy fruits and vegetables. See, she told herself, everything is as it should be. Betty Osterwald is just jealous I have this efficient Djamin. Hers was probably lazy. Yes, there were probably hundreds of Djamins working in this city. And Betty Osterwald had admitted her memory was faulty on the subject of servants. Arlene's head throbbed, the claws digging into it relentlessly.

          After bathing, she flopped across the bedspread and sank into the cool pillow, allowed herself to be lulled to sleep by the hum of the air conditioner, which drowned out the thudding of wings against the patio door.

          When she woke it was late evening and her headache was gone, but not the remembrance that she was the one with the "masaalah" now. And who was going to help her with her problem? She wandered around the quiet house, restless and irritable. Djaya had gone to Bogor. Djamin would be playing cards under the street light, as he did every night. Herrman was having a night out. She listened to the Nana Mouskouri record she'd had Jo Moody buy for her in Singapore, the cat stretched across her lap. But she couldn't stop thinking about Djamin. Should she pay the least attention to Betty Osterwald's suspicions? It couldn't be the same Djamin. She wandered over to the bar and poured herself a tall glass of tonic water. Then her fingers were grasping the gin bottle, and she poured half a shot into the glass. She should never have thrown her pills out.

          She looked around at all her familiar things from home, the ones K.D. Cadwalder insisted the women needed to make them happier. Now they were suffocating her, forcing her outside where she stared up at a sky stenciled with stars, entirely different than in her own hemisphere. She put her hands over her ears to shut out the bird chorus next door.

          She often went there for cocktails now, and could even watch their flitting and fluttering and listen to their foreign trills. There were budgies and parakeets, canaries and lovebirds, a parrot that never shut up, and even a cockatoo. In spite of her revulsion, the swishing lettuce greens, the pinks and purples, the iridescent hues fascinated her ¾ but only for a few moments and only because she was separated from them by glass.

          She tried to remember why she hated them so. They were dirty and carried disease. There was a vague vision of one flying into the face of a child. Was she the child? Or was it one of the scavenging pigeons that time Arlene and Dan visited city hall in Philadelphia? Philadelphia, which she had never missed. Nor did she miss the far suburb, almost in the country, where her house, faceless and empty now, crouched on the edge of someone's abandoned wilderness of birds, someone's unbearable pain.

          Looking up from her reverie, she was startled to see Hartia nearby, also studying the stars. She longed to be able to have a real conversation with her, but the young woman made no effort to learn English, and Arlene had trouble pronouncing the Indonesian words, although she knew a lot of the meanings now.

          Arlene thought the Javanese girl had affection for her, too. She saw it in her smiling eyes, an occasional soft touch, and special little things Hartia did like cleaning her combs and brushes, bringing a stool for her feet, presenting a cup of tea at just the right moment.

          Arlene had given her a journal, covered in batik cloth, to write in, and Hartia hugged it to her now. Arlene had saved special tidbits for her from her own table and generally spoiled her every chance she got. But there had been a little misunderstanding about the soft blue blanket she had only meant to lend Hartia when she had the chills from an illness. The sight of the girl stroking it as if it were the most precious thing in the world had brought a vision of Becky doing the same thing. In Arlene's heart, she knew Hartia was as innocent and vulnerable as her little girl had been. She didn't ask for the blanket back. The unwelcome thought came that if she got rid of Djamin, she would lose Hartia.

          Djamin probably didn't even translate the things Arlene told him to say to her. Maybe she could start teaching her some English here and now. A giant spotlight had been put atop the wall to keep the robbers away, making the plants and flowers appear as if they were in bright tropical sunshine. Yes, she would teach her their English names, but Hartia, with tears in her eyes, kept shaking her head no. When Arlene patted her on the shoulder, Hartia grabbed her hand and kissed it.

          Astonished, Arlene quickly pulled away, tripping over the exposed root of the flame tree. She peered up into the branches, knowing they were up there. Hartia helped her to her feet. They were eluding her as always. "Come out you little bastards," she called. The doctor had said she was all well now, right? She could deal with anything. "Olley, olley oats in freeee," she called. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

          She sagged against Hartia, sobbing. "Besar masaalah, besar masaalah," she tried to tell the girl. Hartia only gave her a puzzled look. "I have big problem!" Arlene shouted. The girl flinched. The sobs came louder and stronger then, and all that Arlene remembered in the morning was that Hartia had put her to bed where the great bird with the old man's face waited for her.

          Night happened suddenly as Arlene and her husband sat on the patio. Dawn and dusk were things she missed. She wished the birds next door would shut up. At least Dan was here. What was Djaya doing at the gate? He looked around as if expecting someone to stop him, then quietly opened the gate to let in a bent old man wearing a sarong, a suit coat, white shirt, and black overseas cap. With a wide grin, Djaya threw his arms around him. Then he saw them, and his happy look turned to one of guilt.

          Djamin ran out, taking over. "Is bapak, Missus, come for a visit. Okay? Just tonight. Okay?"

          "Whose bapak do you suppose, whose father?" she asked her husband. "Something strange is going on. I feel it. See, the door between their quarters and the garage is shut, and yes, I heard it bolted. They never do that."

          "You're getting paranoid again. I could kill Djamin for dropping your pills down the toilet."

          "He was fooling with the washer, too," she said quickly. "He's convinced he's good at electra-city. You have to talk to him. We could never replace it here."

          "If I interfere now they'll never pay any attention to you. I thought you were your old self again. If only Becky hadn't ¾ "

          "Don't!" she screamed. "Don't ever say it!"

          After he sighed and went off to bed, she went to the garage and looked through the cracks in the cement block partition to see them all sitting on the grass in a circle around the old man. They seemed to hang on every word of the strange dialect he spoke. At one o'clock in the morning she made herself go to bed, leaving them still talking. She couldn't get the idea out of her head that "bapak" was a Fagin instructing his thieves.

          The next day, Arlene primed herself to confront Djamin. She would ask him if he'd worked for the Osterwalds. She would ask him what had happened to her things. She would ask him if he had anything to do with robberies in expat compounds.

          Djamin poured her more coffee she didn't want, grinning and humming an Indonesian love song popular on the radio. "We make talk," she said, looking serious she hoped.

          "No more mis-un-der-stand-ments, Missus," Djamin said, happy as usual when he'd looked up and thought he'd conquered same word she'd used with him several times. "Djamin try to please. You like Djamin. I like Missus. Everything okay." Then he ushered in a man carrying old-looking woodcarvings and brass bric-a-brac. He knew she loved brass, and this tukang antik had really good pieces, not the usual junk they tried to pass off on the expatriates. While she was bargaining, Djamin brought in a bowl of fruit covered by a hairy shell. "You like," he said. "Rambuton bagus." He smacked his lips. "Try."

          "Big surprise," he said, disappearing out the door. Soon Hartia and Djaya were dragging her out the gate. Herrman looked on with his usual supercilious grin. Djamin drove up in a becak. The pedicab was painted with beautiful mountains and rippling rice paddies. On the back was a startling picture of astronauts walking on the moon.

          In delight, Arlene ran barefoot into the muddy road, laughing her joyful laugh that always came out in an ear-piercing screech. Hartia trailed behind her, trying to get her to put on her shoes. Djamin insisted she get in. He produced a camera, then took her for a ride around the neighborhood, where all her friends and their servants came out smiling and waving.

          "Missus and Djamin okay?" he asked.

          She had the happy household her husband wanted. It had really always been that way; it was only her attitude that needed changing. The doctor had said she had to stop looking on the dark side of things, and she had forgotten for a while. That was all. She was in a great mood when Djamin said he and Hartia wanted to make big talk. She had seen them with their heads together all morning. She supposed it was some domestic squabble.

          Hartia wouldn't look at her as the three of them sat down at the kitchen table under the ceiling fan. Djamin looked quite serious. They weren't going to leave her! How would she ever explain that?

          "How are you, Missus? Everything bagus?" Djamin started.

          She waited, apprehension stabbing her stomach.

          "Pisang come again. Missus make roti?"

          She knew he had more on his mind than banana bread, but she must let him have this prelude of polite pleasantry.

          "I would like to make new borrow, Missus," Djamin said finally.

          She was not a bit pleased at this news, and her face must have shown it.

          "I pay back all rupiah already," he said quickly, looking pleased with himself.

          She had no intention of encouraging this. "Djamin, I don't really think¾"

          "¾ for marry Hartia," she thought he said, because he had lapsed into his own language.

          "We go far place. Return to Hartia's hometown." He paused, savoring his new word. "Much trip," he went on. "Banyak papers. See?" Then he spoke rapidly in Indonesian again, too fast for her to catch it. He shoved some legal looking documents in front of her that she didn't begin to understand. Hartia kept her eyes downcast, intent on putting paper napkins in a neat stack before her.

          "Hartia?" Arlene said.

          The girl finally met her gaze, and Arlene didn't like the look on her face. She should be happy about this. If only she knew what Hartia was thinking.

          When Djamin mentioned the figure of thirty thousand rupiah, Arlene was at a loss for words. The sum was about seventy-five dollars, a month's salary for both Djamin and Hartia. She recovered herself and tried to explain how the habit of borrowing could trap him into borrowing more and more.

          He appeared interested and listened politely. Surely he understood, but she'd make it even plainer. "Paying back cuts into your rice money. I'm afraid you won't have enough to eat."

          Now he wore the look that told her he thought she was trying to force same foolish Western notion on him again. "Djamin and Hartia don't eat much."

          "There will be a baby soon."

          "Babies eat from mother," he said, a belligerent edge to his voice.

          Hartia said something to him in a pleading tone. Djamin answered gently. A tear rolled down Hartia's cheek, and she began studying her fingernails. Djamin spoke fast and in a confusing mixture of both languages. She never would understand these people. Never. Arlene did catch the word masaalah. Yes, these people had one damn problem after another.

          "You say you understand Djamin problem." His voice was so low she had to lean closer to hear what must he very important to him. "It for marry problem, Missus" He nudged Hartia. Her soft glance, the eyes of a wounded dove, met Arlene's briefly, and Arlene knew she was beaten. Perhaps giving him the money would keep the peace, and her husband needn't know how she'd managed that. Perhaps she need never again hear him say, "This is all too much for you. I'll stay till my contract's up. I'll sleep better knowing ¾ "

          "No! No, no, no!"

          The happy couple was gone three weeks. It was a hardship, although the offer of a bonus convinced Herrman and Djaya to help Missus. Without Djamin's direction, Djaya was moody and sullen. Herrman tried to take charge becoming overbearing and obnoxious. Djamin's absence made her know all too well that it was he who was responsible for her happy household.

          She thought she'd do something for the newlyweds. In vain, she searched all the expatriate supermarkets for white crepe paper, then one of her bridge ladies found some at the embassy commissary. She fashioned streamers and even a sort of bell from it to decorate their room. She made a fancy cake and bought sheets for their unshrouded bed and a tablecloth for their bare table as wedding presents. She had no idea that Hartia would never use the sheets, that Djamin would wear the tablecloth as a bathrobe, or that the Western significance of the bell and white streamers would only be a puzzlement to them.

          "Burung, Missus, burung!" Hartia cried when they first came through the gate from their travels. She jumped up and down and pointed to something Djamin carried wrapped in layers of cloth. At first, Missus thought she said barong, but that was a mythical creature representing evil she'd seen portrayed in a dance performed in Bali. Surely they hadn't been as far away as all that. Djamin unwrapped his treasure. At first sight, she thought it might as well have been the mythical creature, for she knew instantly the bird he placed before her was a malevolent thing.

          "For you, Missus," Djamin said, all smiles. "Present."

          He had a special name for the kind of bird it was, but she didn't give a damn. All she could think of was his treachery and how he had openly defied her after she'd said absolutely no birds in this house. She nudged it with her toe.

          "Brother bring burung all the way from Sumatra," Djamin said, "and Missus don't want?"

          She gave him a cold look. She'd finally learned his use of "brother" was not necessarily literal. It could just as well be a friend or acquaintance. Betty Osterwald said it was a universal trait here, that the Indonesians thought you would be more impressed if you thought they were referring to a blood relative. She started for the house.

          "If burung learn to talk, can sell for banyak rupiah. Djamin teach. Maybe Missus want, okay?"

          It was all she could do to remember she mustn't shout at these people or show the violent display of temper she so desired to vent at this moment. Then she realized how glad she was they were back, and she succumbed to his "Up to you, Missus" once again. But she made it quite clear it was only until he found a buyer. She marveled how like children they were, her only children.

          Much as she tried, she couldn't smother her resentment at the thought of tolerating the hated thing for even a short time. Every time she went out back, where it hung in a cage she had been persuaded to buy, she averted her eyes. She was further incensed that she had to give Hartia money every morning to buy the copious amount of papaya the bird consumed. But it would be gone soon. As clever as Djamin was, he'd have it talking in no time.

          "Selamat pagi," he started with the bird at first light while Hartia cooked the day's rice.

          "Aka kabar?" he interrupted the morning's work to ask the bird who didn't seem to want to tell him how it was.

          Nor did the mynah bird, which is what her husband said it was, utter one word when Djamin tried to make it say selamat siang after lunch or selamat malam when night fell.

          She could think of nothing but that evil thing just outside her backdoor. When she was drawn to visit it every day, she told herself she was only checking on Djamin's progress. Looking at the glossy deep-black purplish thing with its bright yellow feet and bill made her feel as if she were standing on a precipice with something behind her about to shove her into a pit of the unthinkable.

          It was ugly and useless, not at all like the birds next door. She would stare into those beady eyes that were so like Djamin's and silently say, "Get out of my life, you little bastard."

          One Sunday when Djamin and Hartia were having a holiday and it was Herrman's turn to stay the weekend, she walked out back, restless and bored as usual. Days here were so long, with Sundays worst of all. The mynah's eyes glittered with malice, compelling her to approach the cage. It fluttered a moment, then settled down to study her.

          "And how many wives did you leave back in Sumatra? What secrets are you hiding from me because you don't understand me or my language half the time?" She set the cage to swinging, forcing the bird to dance back and forth, first on one perch and then another. When the rocking stopped, the mynah minced toward her, straight and deliberate, and cocked his head to one side, listening, studying her.

          "You are insidious, sly, and crafty," she told the bird. "You are deceitful, underhanded, and sneaky," she went on, warming to her subject. "You have taken over my life, and I want you out of it." She didn't recognize her own shrieking voice. She eyed the droppings and half-eaten fruit pulp littering the cage. "You are a dirty bird! And I don't appreciate keeping my cat leashed either." She might throttle the damn thing here and now, except it would make Hartia cry. Violence forced out the words, "Filthy, dirty bird!"

          "Dirty bird," the mynah said back to her, and it was her own voice, thick with hostility. Goosebumps shivered her arms, but she was mesmerized by this thing with its uncanny imitative voice. She finally broke their mutual belligerent gaze.

          "Gotta get out of here," she muttered, heading for the house.

          "Get out of here," the ghostly mutter followed her.

          Soon Herrman came to the back door. She hoped he hadn't heard her exchange with the damn thing. Arlene worked hard at liking Herrman. Family or no family, there was some power play going on between him and Djamin.

          She longed to slam the door on his solemn self-importance. Sunday was the one day she locked herself in the house alone, her holiday away from them, and key or no key they better not bother her. But now servant problems were going to intrude, for Herrman, looking important, had seated himself at the kitchen table. Resigned, she joined him, hoping he wasn't going to ask for money.

          "Djamin tidah marry with Hartia like say, Missus," Herrman blurted. "Djamin make big lie. Say Herrman, he like two wives."

          She looked at his sanctimonious face, wishing she hadn't understood him. That's why he'd borrowed her English/Indonesian dictionary last night. "How do I know this to be the truth?" she asked coldly, hoping it masked the anger burning up her stomach.

          Herrman looked at the floor and muttered. "Malu, Missus, malu. Djamin make shame of me. That's why bapak come. He also come to say how Djamin must no lose job with this Nyonya."

          That "losing face" thing again. Why they made such a thing of it was beyond her. Herrman sidled out the door, and she realized this was as much as she would ever learn about what had happened between Herrman and Djamin, or even what their real relationship was.

          Her initial rage, blind and debilitating returned every time she had to look at Djamin, but she couldn't bring herself to a direct confrontation over his duplicity. If she fired him, she'd probably lose all her help. Yes, he had built a goddam dynasty here of his own people, making her a powerless stranger in her own home.

          When Dan returned from offshore, she found herself, as though hypnotized by it, telling her husband of the recurring dream: More and more of Djamin's family came to live in her house and the bapak and Djamin make her work for them, cleaning the revolting bird cage.

          "I always wake with murderous thoughts," she said, "but actually we could be murdered in our own bed."

          "That's nonsense, Arlene. Indonesians aren't violent people. They're loving and kind and gentle. They like Americans in particular. He scrutinized her face. "You're sick again, aren't you?"

          "I'm not!"

          "It shouldn't take but about two weeks to get you out of here."

          "My place here is with you. I'm not going anywhere." She looked down to see she had shredded a pile of tissues lying on the coffee table. "I'm not going back there. Not ever." She began to sob.

          "I only want you to get better and stay better, and I don't think that can happen here. The stress ¾ it's not your fault, my dear. Now don't cry. Here, this will make you feel better." She gulped down the shot of brandy he offered her. She coughed, then was surprised she really did feel better.

          "Tell me about it," he said, patting her folded hands.

          "It's just...." She swallowed hard. She could no more speak of birds to him now than she could in the past. "The servants. Herrman didn't give me change back when he bought the solar, and Djaya used up all the ¾"

          "You are obsessed with these people. You should have my problems out on the platform. These people don't even have words for our technology."

          Vaguely, she heard him going on about some problem offshore involving valves and pipes and temperature. She poured herself more brandy, accepting the glow. Then some shrill voice was telling her husband that the man hadn't really fixed the air conditioner. Herrman cheated her when she gave him money to buy oil for the car. Djaya had asked to have his teeth fixed. Again, she sought the glow, the well being, that was like taking pills once again. After a while her husband went to bed, but she felt strong and sure and went to see the mynah.

          "Satu, dua, tiga, empat," Djamin patiently coaxed the mynah to count. Hartia and Djaya waited expectantly, smiling. Herrman, arms folded, lip curled, and tried not to look interested. Surely if the loathsome bird had talked to her, it would speak for Djamin now. The tension was more than she had patience for. She grabbed the filthy cloth used to cover the cage and threw it over the stupid, distasteful thing, shutting it away for the night.

          Across the cage, Djamin waged a silent war with her. Then he insolently jerked the cover off. He said Indonesian words to the mynah. She held her breath. The bird looked from her to Djamin, then back at her again. She grabbed the cover from Djamin's hand, determined to show him who was boss, but instead lurched against the cage, setting it swinging, the bird squawking and flapping to keep its balance.

          "Dirty bird," she said to the mynah. "Dirty, dirty, filthy bird." This upset the bird even more, and it flew mindlessly about its prison, butting its head against the bars. For a moment she felt sorry.

          Arlene reached into the cage to steady the bird and calm it with a stroking finger. It bit her.

          "Don't you dare smirk at me!" she screamed at Herrman. She turned her wrath on the cowering Djaya, and even the beautiful Hartia. "You keep this place like a pigpen!" Knowing they did not understand her words, she pointed to the cage full of litter and kicked the fruit pulp beneath it.

          Hartia ran for the broom. Djaya stared at Arlene, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Then the tirade Arlene unleashed was directed where it belonged ¾ at Djamin and his guile, at herself for being taken in.

          "You lied to me, Djamin. You lied to get money and give yourself a long holiday and buy a goddam bird."

          "You never intended to marry Hartia, did you?" Arlene raved on. "Did you?" she insisted, towering over him, wanting to throttle him right on the spot ¾ half out of her mind with grief and anger.

          Djamin didn't even flinch, but screamed back at her. "You knew my problem. I told you! We make big talk at kitchen table."

          Unable to stop her snarly voice, she called him a thief, reminded him he had burned her best skirt with the iron, brought up the time he'd broken the sweeper. "You put my things in the wrong drawers, never put enough ice in my drinks, and ...and ...." She gasped for breath, trying to think of other transgressions.

          His eyes became those of a crazed animal, and he jumped up and down, shaking his fist at her, shouting what must be obscenities.

          Yes, that must have been the way it was. It was a relief to know.

          Through a tunnel of cotton, she heard Djamin saying over and over, "You knew my problem." Everything was too complicated to contemplate, but there was one more thing she must remember. It was how they'd found Becky, as if sleeping, under a blanket of birds.

          Her servants' faces blurred before her, and she stumbled off toward the house. Yes, she'd remembered. Now she could have her night's oblivion.

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