CHAPTER 4 — BOOK III
Sandstone
(Darlinghurst, Early 2003)
The building had once been a prison.
No one mentioned it often. They did not need to. The sandstone walls retained their memory without assistance. Corridors narrowed before widening unexpectedly. Iron hinges remained fixed to doors that no longer locked anything. Light entered from high windows that had once been placed out of reach.
The past did not intrude.
It settled.
Embong worked well there.
The coursework suited him. Knife work required steadiness. Service required awareness. Inventory sheets required accuracy. There was comfort in measurable improvement.
He rotated through reception training in the final weeks.
The desk was simulated, but the software was real.
Names
were entered carefully.
Dates confirmed twice.
Credit details recorded without hesitation.
“Spell it back,” the instructor said. “Every time.”
He did.
“Arrival date?”
“Confirmed.”
“Special requests?”
“Logged.”
A reservation was not a gesture. It was a record.
If a room did not exist when a guest arrived, the system did not absorb the error.
A person did.
Embong learned to speak calmly while correcting mistakes. To apologise without admitting fault prematurely. To distinguish inconvenience from liability.
Accuracy mattered because people arranged their lives around it.
He understood that instinctively.
Still, whenever he clicked “confirm,” he felt the quiet weight of permanence.
At home,
documents were also being confirmed.
Statements filed.
Submissions lodged.
Signatures examined.
Both systems relied on entries made in good faith.
Both could collapse if someone chose otherwise.
One afternoon, he carried a bowl of soup toward a corner table.
The restaurant floor was controlled. Customers were aware it was training. Instructors stood at measured distance, watching without hovering.
The bowl tilted.
It happened before he understood why.
Hot broth slid across porcelain, then fabric.
The woman at the table inhaled sharply.
Silence followed.
Embong froze.
For a brief, irrational second, he saw paperwork instead of cloth. Forms. Claims. Letters. Liability.
“I’m so sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m very sorry.”
The woman looked down at her skirt, then up at him.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It was an accident.”
Her tone was level. Not indulgent. Not irritated.
Accident.
The word released something.
No complaint was filed. No report escalated. The instructor reviewed the movement, corrected his grip, and reset the exercise.
The lesson remained procedural.
Still, Embong walked home unsettled.
He had
seen how accidents could become disputes.
How misunderstandings could be formalised.
How small events could be repositioned into leverage.
At home, hearings were underway at the Supreme Court of New South Wales. Documents were being examined. Arguments structured. Assertions weighed.
He did not attend.
He understood enough.
A week later, between classes, he saw Dumadi in the courtyard.
Not at distance.
Not in passing.
Close enough to register expression.
They had known each other since Year 7. Football fields. Shared lunches. Easy conversation that required no translation.
Now they stood beneath sandstone.
“You’re here,” Dumadi said.
The tone was neutral.
It was not accusation.
Embong felt something surge anyway.
The civil proceedings were active. Community conversations had cooled. Names were circulating quietly through Newtown and Kensington.
He imagined proximity misinterpreted.
He imagined observation reported.
He imagined narratives constructed without him present.
The calculation completed itself before reason intervened.
“Just f— off, okay?”
The words left sharper than intended.
Dumadi stopped.
He had not raised his voice. He had not stepped closer.
For a second, he looked less offended than surprised.
Embong turned immediately.
The corridor narrowed.
His pulse remained elevated long after the exchange ended.
By the time he reached the street, regret had replaced adrenaline.
He replayed it.
Year 7.
Shared notebooks.
A borrowed pen returned without comment.
A flat cap once lost on a fairway.
He had not meant it.
That did not undo it.
That evening, he mentioned the encounter at dinner.
“I saw Dumadi at TAFE.”
No one reacted immediately.
Delima’s hand paused over the rice bowl.
Awan did not look up.
Hijau understood first.
The case was ongoing. The judgment reserved.
They did not speculate aloud.
But unease entered the room without invitation.
Musang framed it as strategy.
“Remove proximity,” he advised. “There is no advantage in unnecessary overlap.”
The suggestion was positioned as precaution rather than retreat.
A different placement could be arranged. A more controlled environment. A program with clearer oversight.
No official reason was required.
Embong did not argue.
Outwardly, the transfer was procedural. A better fit. A revised trajectory.
Inwardly, the corridor remained narrow.
He did not see Dumadi again before the move.
The judgment was delivered weeks later.
Findings were made. Damages awarded.
The Indonesian community absorbed the information without public spectacle. Invitations slowed. Conversations shortened. Plans shifted quietly north.
The Narawangsa family relocated to Queensland that winter.
There was no farewell.
Embong followed the news indirectly, through fragments passed between adults who chose their phrasing carefully.
He did not attempt contact.
The insult remained uncorrected.
The sandstone courtyard returned to routine. Students crossed it daily. Trays were carried without incident. Reservations were confirmed.
The building had once held men who could not leave.
Embong left voluntarily.
The distinction did not feel as clear as it should have.
Outwardly, he remained civil.
Inwardly, something hardened.
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