WONDERING WONDERLAND

The crystal chandelier hung overhead like rain suspended in mid-fall. Hundreds of tiny lights flickered softly, twinkling one after another, swaying gracefully above the guests laughing and chatting beneath them. Some of their radiance slipped through the folds of floor-length gowns worthy of Disney princesses, spilling onto the marble floor and bringing its shadows to life. Those shadows moved with every passing step, as though the floor itself remembered everyone who had ever stood here and everyone who had never been invited. I paused at the ballroom entrance, allowing my breathing to adjust to the air, which was almost overwhelmingly fragrant. There was the scent of lilies, expensive perfume, and something subtler still, confidence polished to perfection over decades. The grandeur of the room reminded me of royal balls in period films. Glamour with structure, luxury tempered by impeccable manners. Everything within sight communicated status and power without the need for lengthy explanations: the watches on people's wrists, the immaculate tips of shoes that had never known dust, the way someone accepted a glass without even turning to acknowledge the waiter offering it. Behind every glance, behind every small smile that appeared sincere at first sight, lay an unspoken message: personal politics, quiet business dealings, ambition wrapped in beauty. People here did not stab one another in the back. They sized one another up with a smile, all while asking after each other's families. On the right side of the room, the classical musicians blended piano and violin into a harmonious arrangement, as easy on the ears as an orchestra that understood perfectly well that it was merely part of the scenery. The music flowed without ever demanding attention, like the finest servants: everywhere, yet never noticed. Everything in this ballroom fit together perfectly. It was an atmosphere you could only truly appreciate if you understood how the upper echelons of society operated, where elegance and strategy walked side by side, hand in hand like a pair of dancers who had long since memorized each other's steps. As usual, I studied the crowd not through their faces, but through the things attached to them. The gleam of an earring, the cut of a suit, the way someone folded their arms. In a room this crowded, faces were little more than warm-colored circles in motion, and I had long since stopped considering them worth dwelling on. Connections. That word was the primary currency behind every handshake, worth more than any decision ever committed to paper. Yes, that's right. The connections forged tonight would determine whose major contracts flowed as smoothly as rivers during the rainy season, and who would gradually drift out of the circle, eventually forgotten without anyone ever announcing their departure. A world like this existed, yet it was rarely discussed in the world beyond its walls. The rules were clear. No one simply appeared out of nowhere. There was no magic, no sorcery, no miracle-working shaman. Only long working hours, reputations nurtured over years, and people who decided whether you were worth remembering. I would be seated at the table right at the front. Table Number One. VIP. Sounds fancy, doesn't it? But... me? Who am I? The world I had stepped into tonight had never appeared in the vocabulary of people from wooden-spoon households like mine. I grew up in a house whose roof rattled whenever the rain came down hard, with a mother who counted our grocery money at the dining table, whispering as though the numbers might take offense if she spoke too loudly. Our spoons were wooden, our plates were tin, decorated with flowers whose paint had begun to peel around the edges. And sitting at that table, I quietly learned that luxury was a foreign language—and that those who spoke it fluently from birth would never understand how exhausting it was to learn it from scratch. Some of the brightest minds among us dreamed only of becoming doctors. They imagined white coats and stethoscopes, which, to us, represented the highest mountain visible from the foot of the hill. Some wanted to become civil servants, hoping for brown uniforms and the security of a pension. Others simply wanted to become influencers because, from the other side of a phone screen, it looked like the easiest path to getting rich. Not one of us had ever imagined this. But now, here I was. Vice President of Steel Lamiere, a Japanese company with a branch in Batam, at the age of twenty-eight. Was I too young to be someone people felt obliged to bow to? I often caught that question hanging in the air of meeting rooms. No one ever voiced it, but I could read it clearly in the way people lingered a little too long over my business card. But what did they think of me? A dukun? Someone who had inherited her position? Or perhaps a babi ngepet—a person rumored to use black magic to steal wealth? I knew all their theories by heart, and I had long since stopped denying them. People found it easier to explain success they could not understand through stories they already knew. The truth—about unpaid overtime, about financial reports I checked three times until sunrise crept through the pantry windows—was far too tedious to believe. Back on the third floor, there had been one sentence I always repeated whenever I left work late: Just finish one more thing. One more thing became ten. Ten became eight years. No one saw that part. People only saw the gown and Table Number One. My name is Nabi. And this is my story.