Man Tiger (14 page)

Anwar Sadat realized that if only he'd gotten his hands on this woman years ago, he would have discovered an almost perfect physique. For months she had been coming to his house, and he had watched her, and he regretted every minute he had delayed approaching her. Throughout those months he had scrutinized her beauty, discerned it beneath the sadness, despite her silence and her morbid preoccupation with housework. Never before had he so much as flirted with a close neighbor, a woman he knew well, the wife of a friend, and above all a woman who could roam about his house like a sister-in-law. But her misty look, and his ability to intuit what she had suffered, made her too compelling for him to back away. He was bewitched by the idea that she longed for the touch of a great lover, something he felt he could slowly provide to this disappointed woman.

He felt he was weighing up her suffering as he held her breasts and listened to the breath catch in her throat. He could understand her condition, yet continued to be awed. She had preserved her body despite everything. He could feel her desire, her breasts seemed to grow firmer, as if to prove his assumption that this woman needed this kind of touch, his touch, to bring her to life.

He would give her the warmth she pined for. His practiced hands, which had fashioned the naturalistic statues in front of his house, which had sloshed paint in shameless imitation of Raden Saleh's art, and had sent numerous women into raptures under his body, began to move swiftly, fingers lifting before sinking in, drawing patterns on her skin. Sure enough, Nuraeni began to press herself against him, gazing at the ceiling with empty eyes, and breathing heavily through parted lips. Anwar Sadat gripped her more firmly, tightened his cupped hands, and rotated his palms as if opening a jar. Once or twice, all this sent them ramming against each other, as their minds emptied, their legs began to give way, and their bodies were soaked with sweat. Nuraeni's dress fastened with two buttons at the neck. Anwar Sadat's hand slowly unbuttoned them, three fingers working as if they had eyes, before his hands slid into her dress and into the bra.

They were rapt, growing wilder with each breath, when a door opened somewhere at the front of the house, bringing their passion to a halt. When Maesa Dewi entered the kitchen, Nuraeni was facing the table holding a knife, with nothing before her to slice, just standing there without the courage to turn around, for Maesa Dewi might see the wide-open collar of her dress revealing her bra. Meanwhile Anwar Sadat was by the teapot, pouring water into a glass before drinking it, also not turning around. Something in his shorts quickly wilted. For a moment, Maesa stared at them both, before dashing into the bathroom and pissing loudly. Anwar Sadat left the kitchen without a word being said.

Basically, had Margio and Mameh been really alert, they would have dated the change in their mother to that day. She glowed that evening, and the look in her eye was something that had been absent since the days of her girlhood. She bathed for hours, put on her prettiest dress, bought four years ago for Lebaran, and played with the kitten by the stove as the rice cooked. She didn't normally pay attention to pets, but she stroked the cat's fur, letting her fingers be nibbled, singing softly as if lulling it to sleep. Mameh noticed this, Margio witnessed it, and later Komar stared in disbelief, but they all took it simply for another form of insanity.

Nuraeni mulled over what happened that afternoon. For her there was nothing more beautiful, and she missed Anwar Sadat's touch very much. She could think of nothing but the memory of that moment and what awaited them, because she sensed it wasn't over yet; there was more to come.

She walked to Anwar Sadat's house at ten the next morning, shivering with anticipation. She wore a blouse with a row of five buttons and a flouncy skirt, a gesture of surrender, giving Anwar Sadat easy access. She wanted to repeat what they had done yesterday, and her heart beat fast, but she worried that Maesa Dewi might prove to be a snooping demon. She entered the house, treading softly on the tiles, and headed for the kitchen making a great pretence of innocence. She kept her eyes fixed on the space ahead of her while her mind roved the house, hoping for some sign of his presence. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, the stove on one side, the table and cupboard crammed together on the other. She stood between them, without wanting to touch anything, not the wok nor the pan, not the knife nor the potatoes. There she was, waiting for his hands on her body.

She heard the door open. Nuraeni stood still, and didn't look. But once again she recognized the dragging of his feet, the man she was waiting for. Upon seeing the helpless woman in the center of his kitchen, Anwar Sadat knew that the afternoon was theirs. She was telling him, without words, to do as he liked, to meld them together.

He took her hand and, with shuffling steps, led her to the bedroom. He closed the door and locked them inside. A truly intimate realm, it was now inaccessible to anyone else, even Maesa Dewi and Kasia.

Anwar Sadat remained stood by the door, taking in Nuraeni in all her bashfulness. Her head was bowed; she didn't know where to look. She moved backward until she bumped against the edge of the bed and fell onto the mattress. Her hands touched the sheet, which was was lily-white, soft, and thick, with the motif of a hummingbird reapeated in dark brown thread. The foam mattress underneath was solid and yet supple. She wanted to find a warm, eternal sleep, with no wife-beater to bully her and no worries. Anwar Sadat walked toward her. She watched his legs move, and her daydreaming stopped as she looked up at the innocent face of her conqueror.

They exchanged a brief look, and Nuraeni smiled shyly as she glanced at his bulging briefs. It made her freeze again, but Anwar Sadat touched her shoulder, bringing the warmth back to her skin. She sprawled there, legs dangling to the floor, her hair spilling out abundantly, and her breasts shaken by her heavy breathing. Anwar Sadat spread her legs and stood between them before throwing himself down, pressing himself onto her body. The heaviness was thrilling, and stirring, as if saying to her that this could not be delayed any longer.

It was clear from the first that Anwar Sadat would be a patient, attentive lover. He buried his lips in hers, while his hands circled her waist, not letting her escape. Nuraeni was stiff at first, letting their dry lips touch, disorientated by not being able to see him as he lay on top of her. But she could feel the man's mouth gulping like a fish at the surface of a pond, sending a wet current through her parted lips. He kept teasing her to respond, biting her lower lip and pulling at it slightly, and letting it go before kissing it fully. A response finally came, in tiny movements, until suddenly she was kissing him hard in return.

After that everything became easier. Anwar Sadat took in the scent of her neck, his face moving along hers, kissing the back of one ear, then the other, and again finding her lips. As they writhed together, Nuraeni pushed herself up with her feet, getting her legs, which had sprawled over the side of the mattress, properly onto the bed.

They didn't lose all restraint, but slowed down, like lovers who understood the art of lovemaking. Anwar Sadat undid the five buttons of her blouse so gently and unconsciously that when everything was laid open neither of them were aware of it. She was half-naked now, and Anwar Sadat sat over her thighs and took off his undershirt to expose a chest thick with salt-and-pepper hair. The two of them stared at each other, until Anwar Sadat placed his palms on her breasts and poured lustful kisses onto Nuraeni's lips without loosening his hold. Her skirt and his underpants slipped away without their bodies separating, undone by the skilful hands that threw them to the floor. Now they were completely naked, with Nuraeni's knees lifted and her legs looped around his body. They took their time to make love there, sweating and gasping on top of the crumpled hummingbird sheet.

The moment was so profound for them, it would be almost impossible to remember. Lying naked they said nothing, shorn of anything to talk about, for desire apparently needed no words. With bodies and souls worn out, they lay side by side, their half-extinguished eyes fixed on the ceiling. The only light came through the thin curtain covering the window, as the sun soared toward noon. Nuraeni was still astonished by the boldness of her own body, and unspeakably elated. There was no need to ask the man how he felt. Finally with no hesitation, the woman turned aside, resting her thigh on Anwar Sadat's body, and closed her eyes, smiling slightly.

That afternoon Nuraeni came home and no one was conscious of a change in her behavior. Perhaps she hid her joy too well, or the other inhabitants simply paid her too little attention. Anwar Sadat alone saw it, captivated by how he'd been able to make a fresh newlywed out of this woman; and he continued to make himself available to her as their days grew hotter and wilder, in the same bed and occasionally in other places. There were times when Maesa Dewi would go out, and together they would close the doors and curtains, dim the lights, and fuck on the sofa and on the kitchen table, inside the water tub, and once on the floor of his studio.

When she became pregnant, Nuraeni didn't need a midwife or a doctor to tell her the news. She could feel the change. She didn't panic at all. In fact she was overjoyed and would sit in contemplation of the future-born, stroking a belly that was not yet protruding, as if this were the only true child she would ever have. It was as if it were her long-awaited firstborn, and she would be filled with tears anticipating the day she would bring it into the world, to hear its cry, to see it grow, and she knew she would love it. She often chanted softly, as if the child were born and she were already soothing its little pains.

It was then that Margio began to sense the change in his mother. She was better dressed, more lively, and prettier than he had ever seen her. Much later on, he would realize that the glow originated with a baby girl nestled in her womb. He whispered to Mameh that their mother was pregnant, and both were awed as they waited for the unexpected baby. At the time Margio still thought the baby was his father's, although he did wonder how Komar had managed it. For years, probably since the flower jungle came to be, Nuraeni had slept in Mameh's room, and considering his aging body, and the complaint he once made about a swelling on his organ, Margio was surprised to learn Komar could conceive a child.

Margio imagined how one night Komar would have dragged Nuraeni from Mameh's room and thrown her into bed or over the chest in the rice storage room and had his cruel way with her. He must've done it over and over to get his beleaguered wife pregnant again, which he had done regardless of the fact the two existing children were generally underfed. He didn't talk about this with his sister, he kept his doubts to himself, and became surprised that after Nuraeni's belly looked rounder and rounder, Komar didn't seem to notice. Not a word was said about a baby sibling, and he paid no special attention to his wife.

When Komar bin Syueb finally found out she was pregnant, his rage was out of control. The violence stunned both Margio and Mameh, because Komar had been ignoring his wife for so long, even though he would still beat her up at times, and his violence had ebbed. But this storm was more brutal than anything they had witnessed in a long time, a suppressed rage bursting forth. He dragged her from the kitchen to the center of the house, and slapped her without saying a word. Nuraeni screamed in anger, as if the woman wanted to fight back now after all, perhaps to defend the beloved child in her womb. She called him a beast, a devil, a swine, and Komar replied in kind. Seeing how Nuraeni fought back, Komar became more aggressive still. No longer using the palms of his hands, he hit her with his fists, punching her in the forehead.

Nuraeni was flung against the wall, making the flimsy bamboo siding wobble. Komar came after her, swinging his foot into her calves. Cornered, Nuraeni crashed to the floor. While she lay prone, he kicked her in the hips as well until Nuraeni caught his foot. Revolted by the sight of a woman who would not accept defeat, Komar grabbed her by the hair, hauling the grimacing Nuraeni up onto her toes. As they stood eye to eye, Komar smacked her in the jaw, and this time she staggered to another corner, her face red and raw. She still refused to shed a tear, defending her belly with her hands while he pummelled her.

“You whore!” shrilled Komar, as he threw a tin ashtray at her head and walked away.

Margio and Mameh watched, ashen-faced and horrified. By the time they had recovered enough to do something, Komar had left. Mameh approached her mother, propped her up, and guided her to the mattress. Mameh had always been the quiet child, slow to cry, but at the sight of her battered mother she broke into choking sobs, fanning Nuraeni, caressing her bruises, and inquiring after her needs—did she want a sponge? A cold compress?—while the tears flowed. Nuraeni just shook her head and clutched at her daughter's hands.

Now Margio understood that the unborn baby wasn't Komar's. His father's incandescent rage had lit up the truth, and for a moment the boy didn't know which side to take. It was almost impossible to believe that Nuraeni had conceived a child with another man. He couldn't think who that other man could be.

The shame he felt was visceral. He wanted to retch and staggered away from home to the nightwatch hut, where he continued to mull over all that had happened. No matter where his mind wandered, there was no escape from the stark, stubborn reality. He couldn't talk to his friends about it, even though some of them asked why he looked so miserable. There was no way he could discuss the matter. If he told his friends, soon everyone in the world would know that his mother had been impregnated by someone other than his father. One part of him wanted to see his damn parents burn. They had conspired to torture him and Mameh. But deep down he couldn't condemn his mother after all she had endured, and he couldn't curse a father who had been so grossly betrayed.