Dada 70

 I went inside. The room was very bright, whitewashed, with a glass roof. There were chairs and trestles in the shape of an X in the centre of the room. Two stools supported the coffin and it pointed a particular way towards the wall. The lid was closed. All you could see were its shiny metal screws, barely secured, sticking out from the stained walnut planks. Near the coffin there remained the  Indonesian nurse in a white smock, wearing a brightly coloured scarf over her head.

At that moment, the caretaker came in behind me. He must have been running. He stammered a little as he spoke:

“We closed the casket, so I have to unscrew the lid for you to see him.”

He started walking towards the coffin but I stopped him with my hand.

“Don’t you want to?” he asked.

I replied: “No. He’s here inside me’ I pointed to my heart.

He stopped and I felt uncomfortable because maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe there is a responsibility that you have to view the body. After a moment, he looked at me and asked:

 “Why?” but without sounding reproachful, just as if it was simply asking a question.

I said: ‘I don’t know.’

Then he twirled his grey moustaches through his fingers and, without looking at me, he said “I understand.” He kept looking at my face to check I was really Malay. He was not as delicate as the director. Dada would have laughed.