Authors: Eka Kurniawan
Nuraeni craved odd foods, like raw cacao, and Margio roamed all over the bankrupt plantation looking for a tree that still bore fruit. On another occasion she asked for banana-heart soup, and it was Mameh who cooked it for her.
In truth their mother's pregnancy irked Margio and Mameh. Think about it, said Margio to his sister. He was almost twenty years old, and now suddenly he was about to have a raw, red baby sibling. But the radiance of his mother's face persuaded Margio to be extra-attentive. He worried she might be too old to bear a child safely. How old was she now? Margio calculated she was at least thirty-eight. Still fairly young, and the twinkle in her eyes had restored some of her youth. She could still get pregnant two or three times more, thought the boy.
Nuraeni's behavior toward Komar didn't change. He saw her talking to the stove and the pan still, and although now her tone was cheerful and teasing, his indifference to her was so great he didn't notice anything unusual. He was the last to find out.
For a long time, she had been going to Anwar Sadat's home to help with housework, and she didn't stop until the birth. Komar allowed her to help at Anwar Sadat's because there was so little to do at home. Major Sadrah's wife would often ask Nuraeni to cook when her children visited or military guests came to dinner, and she would be allowed to take some of the food back with her. She worked in a shop cooking and making cakes, too. But where she worked most often was at Anwar Sadat's place, which was next-door. Kasia had to go to the hospital every day, and was always busy when she got home. Her daughters meanwhile were nothing more than parasites. Nuraeni would help by cooking rice and vegetable dishes. She'd wash and iron their laundry, sweep the floor and the yard, and take care of Maesa Dewi's little baby.
Every day, after Komar had his breakfast and pedaled his bicycle to the shade of the tropical almond tree in the market, Nuraeni would hurry to Kasia's house and enter without even knocking, first to bathe the little baby, then to carry dirty clothes to the bathroom while Maesa Dewi and Laila lay sprawled on the couch, munching potato chips, and Anwar Sadat swayed in his rocking chair, smoking a clove cigarette. Nuraeni would then cook lunch while the dirty clothes were soaking in soapy water. Being pregnant didn't stop her doing all these chores, and that was one reason why Komar didn't realize they were about to have a third child.
Actually, Margio was the first in the family to hang out at Anwar Sadat's house, where he was often asked to do odd jobs. It began when he had just moved to number 131. Margio was told by his father to learn to read the Koran under the supervision of Ma Soma. These classes were a sweet excuse for Margio to escape his boring house and offered a place to make new friends. He also discovered another attraction.
After the Isha prayers, he'd huddle with some of the other kids on Anwar Sadat's front terrace, beside the large windows. There were no televisions in most local homes, but Sadat had one and let Margio and the others watch it. Sometimes older men, puffing clouds of tobacco smoke, would also come to watch the television, seated on coconut-wood chairs lined up on the terrace. The little kids were timid about going inside, because there, in front of the television set, the family would be sitting quiet and unperturbed, with the girls munching green peas. It wasn't proper to disturb such tranquillity, so peeping through the windows was as close as they got.
On certain occasions, however, Anwar Sadat would let them in. In a commanding tone, he would tell them to sit on a braided mat, which took the place of chairs, or on the sofa. Sometimes they listened to him, except when they had chores to do. However, they would definitely comply when there were signs that Anwar Sadat was going to show a video. The man often went to a video rental shop in the hotel by the beach, especially on Saturday nights, and would let the children from the surau watch. This was how Margio became as familiar with
Kungfu Shaolin
as he was with
Rambo
.
One evening Margio sat alone outside Anwar Sadat's window. It was raining heavily, so the other kids had run home, but not Margio. All that afternoon Komar had been beating Nuraeni, and he didn't want to see it going on into the night. He planned to start his evening watching television and conclude it by sleeping at the surau. Anwar Sadat's family shot the breeze until one of them complained about being hungry, and Margio understood they hadn't prepared anything for supper. Seeing Margio sitting on the terrace, Anwar Sadat approached him and asked if he was willing to go buy food at the market. Although it was late, there would usually still be vendors around, offering fried tempeh, chicken satay, and even grilled fish. Before Margio could say yes, Maharani, the youngest daughter, stepped out of the house and told her father she would go, too. They shared an umbrella, braving the rain and the dark.
That was how Margio started doing odd jobs for Anwar Sadat and, more important, the beginning of his magical relationship with Maharani. They were the same age.
As Anwar Sadat had no son and was the only male in the house, every time he faced a job that was physically demanding he would go to number 131 and ask Margio for help. Margio could carry sacks of rice to the storeroom, fix a leaking roof gutter, and chop back shrubs in the house's front yard. For these chores Anwar Sadat gave him money, or even asked him to dine with them, and on Lebaran gave him new pants and shoes. Finally one day Anwar Sadat asked if he could call his mother to help cook, and so he fetched Nuraeni.
And so Anwar Sadat offered a means of escape to another member of the family, freeing Nuraeni from a home life that was beyond repair. Even if Kasia didn't pay her, she liked going to Anwar Sadat's place, no matter how much work needed doing there. A bowl of soup and a few slices of meat was enough. At Anwar Sadat's she could listen to the sad songs he played from his office and enjoy the sight of his beautiful, self-indulgent daughters. She was never annoyed with these girls, especially Laila and Maesa Dewi, no matter what they asked her to do. Laila would repeatedly request a massage and Maesa Dewi would want some noodles, and Nuraeni would comply with pleasure. In this house Nuraeni never talked to the stove; she recovered some of her former sweetness.
With time, these chores became such a part of her routine that Anwar Sadat and Kasia had no need to call for her any more. Instead she appeared all of a sudden as though having fallen through the ceiling, sometimes at dawn, and ask if Kasia wanted help with cooking that morning. Kasia normally ruled the kitchen at breakfast time, but if she felt lazy she would happily hand over to Nuraeni.
Taking as much pride in the house as if it were hers, Nuraeni would polish the floor to a shine the real owner could never equal, rubbing each tile's edges with a small rag to make sure that not a single spot of dust was overlooked, rubbing it like a cat licking its paws. She'd make the window-panes vanish into absolute transparency, fooling the bugs and moths, which slammed against them. She had never done this at number 131 with their two windowpanes, which had been dulled by lime splatters when Komar and Margio were whitewashing the walls. Nuraeni wouldn't let the flowers in the yard wilt either, quite unlike her own flower jungle, and this added to Kasia's delight. She kept Nuraeni on, as if she owned a loyal servant willing to work even without a penny's pay.
The attractions of this home from home grew with the gentleness that greeted her there, in stark contrast to Komar's brutality. It was plain he knew Nuraeni was happy in this house, and he was jealous. On her return he would punish her with all the usual atrocities, lashing out with the rattan duster and raping her come evening. He treated her body with increasing contempt. But he could never stop her from going, since he had to go to work. And when he learned that Anwar Sadat and Kasia gave Nuraeni and Margio far more money than he had ever managed to make, he understood that his power over her was waning. He couldn't stop them. He could only respond to their kindness by being odious.
In the end, danger came from another quarter entirely. The fine treatment Nuraeni received teased and stirred her until she lost her common sense. It wasn't her near-selfless devotion that undermined her, something she offered sincerely in return for the rare gift of kindness. It was Anwar Sadat's womanizing nature, moved by the remains of her youthful beautyâan attraction his own wife had never possessed.
One day, when Nuraeni was slicing onions, standing at a table next to a stove humming with boiling water, Anwar Sadat walked by and pinched her behind. She was stunned. She had heard the gossip about this man, a wolf who couldn't keep his hands to himself, and as she turned to stare him down, her round eyes widened. But what she saw wasn't lust, but an innocent smile on a gentle face, like the face of a small child. She just couldn't get angry. Confronted with such a sweet expression, she could only shoo him away, saying it wasn't proper, especially if his one of his daughters were to see.
His girls made themselves scarce when she was there. Laila often went out and Maesa Dewi preferred to stay in bed. Since Nuraeni hadn't got angry with him, Anwar Sadat developed a habit of pinching her buttocks or patting them whenever the opportunity arose. Nuraeni no longer turned her head with widened eyes, but blushed instead, her lips forming a constrained smile that was hard to decipher. The touch felt friendly to her, the kind of attention she had not experienced before. She flushed perhaps because she liked it, though she saw the rudeness as well. And every time the man appeared, striding in with a suggestive smile, she felt her bosom tingle and waited in trepidation for his hand to reach for her.
One day Anwar Sadat did more than just pinch her buttocks, as if he were testing fruit, but stopped behind Nuraeni while she stood separating the caterpillar-chewed leaves from a bunch of spinach. This time she felt his breath on her hair and the nape of her neck. She was flooded with a terror that froze her body, while Anwar Sadat's hand clung to her dress, gripping her behind. She wondered what he was going to do, and how she should react. Anwar Sadat slowly pushed his body onto hers, lightly pressing Nuraeni against the table. She didn't have the courage to turn her head, because if she did that they would be looking into each other's eyes, face to face, their noses touching. Nuraeni trembled, her icy hands hanging down, while the spinach stems scattered across the table. Anwar Sadat leaned on her back, pushing against her buttocks. One hand loosened its tight grip; the other felt her breasts with a soft touch that made her tingle warmly, until the back-and-forth rubbing entered her every cell. Nuraeni caught her breath as his hands moved over her.
She went limp, unresisting. Anwar Sadat, realizing that her body was his, moved his hands downward, pressing her dress's fabric onto her skin before slowly pulling it up to stroke her plump thighs. Once the dress was lifted and its hem hooked on his index finger, his hand slid in without rushing, and the contact made the hair on her skin stand on end. He moved his fingers up, down, and around. Suddenly, she came to her senses. Ice entered her veins, and her body jolted with alarm.
She straightened her dress, brushing Anwar Sadat's hands away. She lightly nudged the man off her back with her elbows. Her rejection was gentle, ambiguous almost, and Anwar Sadat took the opportunity to caress her buttocks once more. Then he retreated, accepting that his time had not yet come. By all accounts, he was a great lover.
Nuraeni turned around, the redness on her cheeks spreading. The blush didn't suggest anger so much as coyness. Anwar Sadat simply smiled and slipped on his innocent mask, before walking away and letting her resume her role as the perfect mistress of his kitchen.
After that, Nuraeni worked fast and went home early with a bowl of spinach soup. She stayed away from Anwar Sadat's house, but on the second day Kasia came to check on her. Nuraeni pretended she was ill. She really was feeling unwell, because time and again her body would tremble when she remembered that body pressing in on hers, and that hand skimming over the skin at the top of her thighs, almost penetrating her most secret places. The encounter kept coming back to her, and she could still feel his caresses, sometimes warm and sometimes cold. The more she tried, the harder it was to forget.
After three days, she managed to overcome the fever. She could remember what happened without the horror and pain, and began to see its startling, intimate sideâits unfamiliar warmth. Despite a sneaking shame, Nuraeni missed him and longed for that touch of his on her behind, for it to creep farther in and reach inside her. And so she returned, apprehensive this time, holding back for a moment at the door, like a first-time guest, and entered the kitchen to work, though her thoughts fluttered distractedly. She heard someone approach and recognized his footsteps from the way he dragged his slippers. There was no need to turn around to understand that Anwar Sadat was creeping toward her. Even so, she looked. He was dressed only in underpants and a shirt with the top button undone, smiling in a way no longer guileless, but filled with intent. Nuraeni was bashful in response, smiling shyly, lowering her head while her eyes remained riveted on the approaching figure. Anwar Sadat understood that this woman had been conquered, and he was coming to get her.
Again he stood behind her with his arms circling her body, restraining her and seeming to silence everything. It was as if the air were solidifying around her. She was cornered, but aware that she appeared to be giving consent and afraid of what that might mean and whether he would be rough with her. She felt his face sink into her hair, warmly moving down to the nape of her neck. She heard the panting sound of his breath, its rhythm out of sync with the explosion of her own gasps. He moved his hands to pinch her pelvis between his fingers, controlling her hips.
They swayed together, finding a kind of rhythm in the silent kitchen. For the moment, they were like cuddling newlyweds. Anwar Sadat's hands slid over her slowly, very slowly, building up the tension gradually, because he knew that rashness would ruin all. His fingers were above her waist, going upward. His palms cupped Nuraeni's breasts, caressing them. Her breasts, which had aged and suckled children, which had been punished at Komar's hands, were firmer in the steaming air of the kitchen, under Anwar Sadat's hot fingers. Youth blossomed again under her flesh.