I snatch a fork to lance at a few French fries from a platter. “Going back home for Christmas?” I ask Wati, lodging the fries in my mouth.
Seated before me, Wati pins her gaze on me, her sooty lashes fluttering. “Yes, back to Java for one week.” She shifts in her chair, a shimmer of satin straining against full breasts while she adjusts a strap of her slip dress. Deep copper hair falls over her shoulders like a horse’s mane.
Wati and I are dawdling over snacks and drinks about her regular customer Hussein—married with four wives—and his attempts to win her affection. Wide mirrors, glistening bottles, paintings of nude couples, row after row of polished glasses, a paunchy half-bald barman, a line of office workers latched at the counter—all these things constitute the scene before us.
I munch on the fries. “Which city?” The crunch echoes in my ears.
“Yogyakarta.” Wati tips her shot glass to her lips and a wince steals over her features. “Yuks! This Italian spirit is bitterer than I expected.”
“I haven’t been to Java. What’s it famous for?”
Wati gulps an unladylike swig of water and releases an exhale. “Borobudur Temple, Mount Kemukus and Mount Bromo.” She flicks her gaze sideways to a waiter and back to me.
“Active volcanoes?”
“Bromo, yes, but Kemukus is known as Sex Mountain.” The waiter comes with a sterling pitcher in hand, replenishing Wati’s water glass. “Thanks, she says, awarding him with a smile. “Get me vodka.”
I put my fork down, my throat feeling tighter from the fries. “Sounds like a little-known tourist attraction.” A mouthful of Asahi beer washes the crumbs of fries down the hatch.
A grin spreads Wati’s scarlet lips, her white teeth twinkling as much as her eyes. “People go there for —” she leans forward, diffusing the smell of perfume, and her voice becomes sultry”—kongkek! And partner must not be your spouse. Do it seven times and you will get good luck and fortune. The ritual is called the Pon Festival.”
Surprise widens my eyes. “A brothel on a mountain?”
Wati jerks upright, her chin hefting up along with a flip of her eyelashes. “Hey, it’s a sacred mountain, there’s no whorehouse there.” She skewers me with a serious expression. “Here’s the legend. During the Majapahit era, there was a vassal kingdom called Demak. Prince Samodro of Demak fell in love with his stepmother Ontrowulan. They eloped to Mount Kemukus and lived there. The sultan of Demak sent soldiers to kill them. One day, or maybe at night, they were stabbed to death while in mid-coitus.”
Wati delivers a grim smile. “Yes, the couple were in the midst of fucking -- ahem, pardon my French -- when they were killed. With her dying breath, Ontrowulan uttered a benediction—or curse— that anyone who has sex with a stranger will be blessed with good luck and wealth.” Her voice turns firm, matching the stern look in her eyes. “There’s a belief that the more sinful and the more shameful the act committed on the mountain the more powerful the blessing.” The same waiter delivers a shot glass of vodka, and Wati says, “Terima kasih.”
I upend my beer mug. “What’s on the mountain?” My fingers idly twiddle the empty mug in his hands.
“A shrine where the couple were buried, a sacred well and dozens of cottages offering rooms for rent. Of course, also plenty of stores and restaurants.”
“First, the person—either a man or woman—prays at the grave of Samodro and Ontrowulan. Then, he washes himself with holy water in a jungle pool. It’s created by a spring, very clear and clean. Finally, he seeks out a stranger to have sex with her. In ancient times, they would boom-boom behind the bushes. Now, there’re rooms for rent. For the blessing to work, they need to do it repeatedly once every thirty-five days for a total of seven times. Prostitutes operate discreetly to cater to men who can’t find partners. If the hooker gets a customer, she’s guaranteed a booking seven times. That’s the lure of soliciting in Mount Kemukus."
A thought strikes me and a grin tries to break free from my lips but fails. “If the guy is gay, can his partner be a man?”
Wati shakes her head. “Won’t work! The original lovers were straight.”
I lean back in my chair. “What kind of women take part in this ritual?”
“Kind?” Wati runs her fingers through one side of her hair. “In terms of profession, many such women operate small businesses. They hope their business will prosper after the seven-time fling. In terms of marital status, some are married, but mostly they’re divorced or widowed. Some hope to meet and marry a rich man later on.”
“Where’s Mummy Lulu?” I sniff to savour the rose in Wati’s perfume. “I want to buy her a drink. Haven’t seen her till now.” My blood heats up a notch from the olfactory titillation.
Wati cocks her head, bold brows crimped in question. “You don’t know? She’s gone to Semarang, the jump-off point to Mount Kemukus. The mountain’s two hours’ drive away. She’ll be taking part in the Pon Festival to make Hot Legs Niteclub more successful! Papa-san Yap sponsored her trip there.” Wati’s voice jumps an octave, edging to shrill. “I’m so... excited! I’m sure if she can’t find a partner, she can get a gigolo easily.”
A husky laugh bubbles in my throat.
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