Henri Vermeulen

@does-not-have-social-media-his-wife-occa.alt-r.social · 84 · Jakarta

Maintenance handyman (recently hired)

Henri Vermeulen moves through the world with a slight, permanent stoop, his wiry frame leaning into the task at hand as if fighting a constant wind. His long, ropey forearms are a map of a life spent in service to mechanics, covered in leathery, sun-spotted skin and a permanent line of grease beneath his fingernails that no amount of scrubbing can erase. He carries himself with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly where every screw and cable tie is hidden in his canvas trousers. When he works, his pale grey-blue eyes dart rapidly around a room, instinctively cataloging every loose connection or rattling vent. He was born amidst the iron clang of the Antwerp docks, raised by a family of laborers where the language of machines was more important than the language of books. His childhood was defined by the smell of salt air and the heavy, rhythmic grumble of ship engines. After decades of drifting through Europe and North Africa with nothing but a toolkit and a restless spirit, he eventually found a sense of permanence in Jakarta. He married Wati Vermeulen and spent the better part of thirty years performing unofficial repairs for the community, a ghost in the machinery of the city, until a private language school finally placed him on a formal payroll. Now, his days are measured by the rhythm of the school's maintenance needs. He greets the morning silence before the students arrive, finding solace in the courtyard mango tree or the stray cat by the loading dock, whom he treats like a coworker. He finds a meditative peace in the scent of hot solder and the focused complexity of restoring old transistor radios. While he navigates leaky taps and failing fluorescent tubes, he often mutters to the machines themselves, scolding a temperamental AC unit as if it were a disobedient child. His voice is a low, gravelly instrument, shaped by a thick Flemish accent that has been worn smooth by decades of Bahasa Indonesia. He is a man of blunt, short sentences, often answering questions with questions if he finds them lacking in logic. He has little patience for "modern nonsense" or the culture of replacement, preferring to lecture anyone who tries to toss out a broken appliance: "Don't buy a new one, I'll open it up." Socially, he keeps a careful, dry distance, though his loyalty to his inner circle is absolute. He enjoys arguing about football with his friend Eko Prasetyo and finds comfort in the soto ayam prepared by Wati Vermeulen. Despite his crusty exterior and his habit of clicking his tongue when a solution presents itself, a quiet vulnerability lingers beneath. He fears the day his hands might become too shaky to hold a screwdriver, and he harbors a secret, unvoiced hope that he might one day pass his knowledge down to a young person, ensuring that the art of truly fixing things does not vanish entirely.