Beauty Is a Wound (38 page)

But Alamanda never gave birth to Nurul Aini because the baby vanished, just like that, from inside her stomach just a few days before her predicted date of birth.

Alamanda herself didn’t know what had happened. Just as soon as she awoke she’d belched violently, pushing out a tremendous amount of air, and suddenly felt like a slim virgin, without any weight in her womb. She remembered quite clearly how Comrade Kliwon had said that her stomach was like an empty pot, filled with only air and wind, but she was still shocked, and she screamed out into the fresh and peaceful morning air. Shodancho, who was sleeping in another room, came scurrying in drawstring shorts and an undershirt, his face streaked with pillowcase creases and his arms covered in mosquito bites. He rushed to his wife’s room and was stunned to see her slim and shapely once again.

First thinking that his wife had already given birth, he looked for puddles of blood and for the little one, on top of the bed or even underneath it, but he didn’t find a newborn and he didn’t hear its cries. He stared at his wife who stared back at him, her face ashen. She tried to speak but her mouth just hung open, her lips trembling like someone with the chills, and not one syllable came out.

Shodancho remembered Comrade Kliwon’s words and in a rising panic he shook Alamanda violently, ordering her to tell him what had happened. But without saying word, Alamanda drooped weakly onto the bed just as the midwife arrived. The midwife, experienced in all manner of strange things, rearranged Alamanda into a more comfortable position, and said: “Sometimes this does happen, Shodancho—there’s no baby inside, just air and wind.”

In denial, Shodancho shouted, “But you yourself said I was going to have a girl!” His voice was high and full of anger, but when he saw the midwife’s calm demeanor, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cry uncontrollably, not caring that he was a grown man—he had lost Nurul Aini, the little girl of his dreams. Shodancho immediately thought of Comrade Kliwon, this time not with the nagging worry that his curse
might
come true, but with an all-encompassing rage because the curse
had
come true. Comrade Kliwon had stolen his child and Shodancho would get his revenge.

The couple tried to hide what had really happened and announced that the baby had died. Only Comrade Kliwon really knew. To get back at Comrade Kliwon, after one week of mourning, Shodancho ordered his vessels back to the places they used to fish, and to sell the fish in the old market. The workers protested that the fishermen would burn the ships without a second thought. Shodancho didn’t care and fired anyone who didn’t comply.

Comrade Kliwon tried to talk to Shodancho, saying that he’d broken his promise, but Shodancho retorted that Comrade Kliwon had broken his promise too. Comrade Kliwon said he’d never promised anything except to protect the ships from the fishermen’s wrath, but Shodancho kept on bringing up the curse, and how every woman in the world had the right to choose the man she’d marry.

Truly upset at this accusation of cursing an unborn child because he was jealous, Comrade Kliwon tried to remain calm and replied, “There’s only one explanation, Shodancho, which is that you had sex with your wife without love—the child that results from sex like that will either never be born, or be born a crazy child with a rat’s tail growing from its ass.” Shodancho swung at him but Comrade Kliwon dodged, saying, “Take those ships away at once, Shodancho, before we lose our patience.”

Shodancho instead ordered the ships to operate as usual, now under the watch of soldiers who stood at the guard rails of the deck, looking down on the fishermen glaring up at them angrily. With a cunning smile, Shodancho watched as dusk fell and Kliwon and three other men approached the vessels in motorboats, followed by the other fishermen in their skiffs. The little boats tried to find some place in the wide ocean where there were still some fish, at the very least to supply their own kitchens.

Like Shodancho, Alamanda was completely shaken by the loss of her child, because no matter how or with whom the baby had been conceived, it was still hers. When the week of mourning had passed and Shodancho had returned to his business, Alamanda stayed locked in her room in a solemn grief, sometimes calling out Nurul Aini’s name.

Shodancho tried to convince her that everything was fated by God and that they still had a second and a third and a fourth and basically an unlimited opportunity to have a child. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, “we can make love again, and have as many children as we want.” Alamanda firmly shook her head, reminding Shodancho of the promise she’d made, that she would marry him but she would never love him. Shodancho tried to cajole her further, telling her that they might have another Nurul Aini, a little girl who would be real this time, but Alamanda said fiercely,“Losing a child is more horrifying than meeting a demon, but giving my love to you would be more horrifying than losing twenty children.”

Just then, Shodancho remembered that his wife wasn’t wearing her iron underwear, and just as soon as that foul idea started dancing inside his brain, and before Alamanda realized what he was thinking, Shodancho turned and closed the door and locked it. Alamanda, who hadn’t gotten up from her bed since she lost Nurul Aini, immediately knew what the man aimed to do. She jumped up and looked at Shodancho with the stance of a woman ready to fight and said bitterly, “Are you horny, Shodancho? My earhole is still nice and tight if you want it.”

“I still like your pussy, darling,” her husband laughed.

Alamanda didn’t have a chance to do anything else—Shodancho threw her back down onto the bed. With as much strength as she had, Alamanda tried once more to protect herself, but in an instant she was stripped naked with her clothes in shreds as if devoured by a pack of wolverines, and Shodancho fell upon her

During that copulation Alamanda no longer tried to resist because she knew it was useless, but if Shodancho approached her mouth she would bite his lips as hard as she could. Finally Shodancho was just tirelessly stabbing her again and again, in an unsettling union of pleasure and grief. Alamanda’s spirit was now utterly destroyed—feeling humiliated, dirty, and so full of regret—as again she had failed to defend herself. When Shodancho finished, Alamanda kicked him onto the floor, saying, “You foul rotten rapist, you rape your own wife, and you probably raped your mother too!” She threw a pillow at Shodancho, adding, “If your dick was long enough, I bet you’d even rape your own asshole!”

This time, at least, her husband didn’t tie her up and the next day, when he was out, Alamanda disappeared from the house. Shodancho panicked. He sent someone to look for her at Dewi Ayu’s house, but they didn’t find Alamanda there. Burned by the flames of jealousy, he also sent someone to Kliwon’s house, but there was no evidence of her there either. He began to send people to the farthest reaches of the city, then to the station and the bus terminal to find out whether she’d left the city, but no one had seen her anywhere. Giving up, Shodancho collapsed into a chair on his veranda, so lost in his pitiful fate of being married to a woman he loved so much but who had never loved him that when passersby greeted him he didn’t respond to a single one.

Dusk made him feel all the more empty, lonely, and abandoned, and he began to realize how pathetic he was. Even if Alamanda came back, he could see no joy in continuing to live with her as long as she gave no sign of returning his affection, not even a tiny bit. Maybe he had to start thinking like a warrior, like a real man, like an honest-to-God soldier, and offer to divorce her, and maybe that way Alamanda could be happy again. But even thinking about a divorce made him cry even harder, so he vowed to himself that if his wife was found, he would never to hurt her again and would be her slave so that she would stay. Maybe they could adopt other people’s children.

Dusk had deepened and the veranda lamps had yet to be lit. When Alamanda’s shadow fell on the gate Shodancho saw it immediately, praying that it wasn’t just a hallucination, but the shadow approached and Shodancho quickly threw himself on his knees in front of Alamanda, begging her forgiveness.

Alamanda just wrinkled her forehead at this behavior. “You don’t have to apologize, Shodancho. I am wearing new protection now, with even more complicated mantras. Even if I’m totally naked you won’t be able to penetrate me.”

In sincere amazement, Shodancho looked at his wife, astonished by the fact that she was showing no animosity toward him whatsoever.

“The night air is cold, Shodancho, come let’s go in.”

More laborers on the big ships were fired for striking—they hadn’t unionized, but were so afraid of the threats to burn their ships they hadn’t dared return to work. The big ships
did
return, and once again stole fish from the shallow waters and sold the catch in the local market. And the fishermen now said, “There is no other way, Comrade, we have to burn down Shodancho’s ships.”

Anxious and depressed, Comrade Kliwon was far from a vicious man who could easily just decide to burn down some ships. In fact, as his friends always pointed out, his eyes welled up just from watching a cheesy movie.

Secretly he tried talking to Shodancho again, but their discussions floundered on Alamanda and just like the fishermen, Comrade Kliwon finally thought to himself that indeed there was no other choice but to burn down those fucking ships. After all, the Russian Revolution might never have happened if Lenin hadn’t ordered Stalin to rob a bank.

Shodancho had stationed a large number of soldiers on the decks of his ships, however, so it wasn’t easy for the fishermen to carry out their plan. An exhausting six whole months passed, with the Fishermen’s Union’s secret meetings always coming to a dead end when they couldn’t figure out exactly how they would do it, and the fishermen grew poorer and angrier every day.

In the past, when Comrade Kliwon was confronted with problems that made his head feel like it was about to explode, women had been his refuge. But now his only female companion was Alamanda’s younger sister Adinda, whom he’d known for a year. So, as if he had no other choice, he left his hut and the men still discussing their difficulties and headed for Dewi Ayu’s house like a pathetic refugee, exhausted by the endless revolutionary struggle. He wanted to share his feelings, his desires, but the Party had emphasized that the issue must not be discussed with anyone and so he passed a boring hour on the porch with Adinda, exchanging small talk that brought no relief to his worn-out spirit, and when he went home he collapsed in a chair outside his hut, looking out at the dusky sky over the ocean.

“Someone should put a pistol to your forehead,” Adinda had said before he went home. “So that you’re forced to think about yourself for a moment.”

It was the same dusky sky he always saw, but that evening it felt different. It used to remind him of that beautiful evening he spent next to Alamanda in the sand, but that evening the cold sky was silent and sad, like a mirror for his arid and parched heart. Smoking his clove cigarette, he wondered whether the revolution could ever truly happen, whether it was possible for human beings not to oppress one another.

Long ago he had heard an imam in the mosque talk about heaven, about rivers of milk that flowed at your feet, about beautiful ever-available virgin nymphs, about everything being there for the taking and nothing forbidden. All of that seemed so beautiful, really too beautiful to be believed. He didn’t need anything as grandiose as all that—it would be enough for him if everyone got the same amount of rice. Or maybe that wish was really the most grandiose wish of all.

Thinking like this always made him nostalgic for his past, before he knew that he needed revolution. He had always been a poor man, but he used to have a much simpler way of dealing with rich men: stealing whatever they had in their gardens, seducing their women, and letting them pay for the food he ate and the movies he watched at the theater, or accepting the invitations to their parties and drinking their beer for free, none of which required the Party or propaganda or the
Communist Manifesto
. He felt exhausted just looking out at the shining red dusk because his thoughts couldn’t rest, and sinking even deeper into his chair before he knew it he had fallen asleep. That was how he was in the six months leading up to the burning of the ships, until he was awoken in his chair one night by a number of fishermen.

For two weeks now the soldiers hadn’t been guarding the fishing vessels. Apparently they had grown bored. The ship captains, thinking that the fishermen had just been making empty threats, had decided to send the soldiers home so they wouldn’t have to keep feeding them and supplying them with cigarettes and beer. The ship captains began going out to sea without any protection, and were only guarded by a few armed soldiers when they docked and lowered their catch. The Fishermen’s Union’s plan was to attack the ships in the middle of the night during a new moon—the very night they woke Comrade Kliwon, the night they had all been waiting for, the night that would settle the score.

“Wake up, Comrade,” said one of his friends, “the revolution doesn’t happen in your sleep.”

And led by Comrade Kliwon himself, who’d shaken off his drowsiness and steeled himself, thirty small skiffs moved out under a clear sky studded with stars. That night was a turning point for Comrade Kliwon, the night he began to believe that a revolutionary had to have a cold and immovable heart, a stubborn boldness born of conviction. The dim porthole lights of the big ships were visible in the darkness, but the skiffs weren’t equipped with any lights—the fishermen steered by instinct, knowing the ocean as well as they knew the villages where they were born. “Think of this as storming the Bastille,” said their leader to himself, to give himself courage, “for the sake of the cursed and wretched masses.”

The large ships were operating at slight distances from one another. Each small skiff had three to five fishermen, with ten skiffs aiming for each of the three ships. They moved slowly, like thirty slithering field snakes eyeing three ignorant mice. Through the flickering light from the ships they could see the laborers hauling up the nets and dumping the catch into the hull.