by Nuril Basri
“What do you mean?” I’m still staring at that green bit. What is this? A comedy? Don’t laugh, damn it!
“You’re the guy they are trying to matchmake me with?”
I growl.
“Matchmake?” Again, there’s that bit of green. I can barely stand it.
“Ya. Don’t pretend. This is all my mother’s doing, right? The story of you always turning up, looking at our house. But Mother picked you out, didn’t she? It’s what she would do. Did she pay you?”
He winces, then breaks into a confused grin. (Thank goodness that shred of green is gone!)
“How much did she pay you? I’ll pay you double. I don’t need pity. I can find my own man. Am I so ugly I need this kind of treatment? I’m not so desperate that I’ll marry just anybody, okay?” I am fuming.
And now this boy looks like he is about to burst out laughing.
“I’m serious. I’m not joking around,” I snarl, poking at him with my finger.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“If you don’t want to, it doesn’t matter.”
I glare at him with as much viciousness as I can muster. Men who will accept payment to marry are surely useless. No backbone. How could Mother do this to me?
“Tell my mother you won’t marry me. Tell her I’m too ugly. Too fat.”
He shrugs and makes a face, as if he doesn’t agree. I snort and leave him there on the veranda. He follows me. The nerve!
Back inside, I find the dining room empty. My parents are sitting in the living room, watching television. What the hell? I’ve not even had a bite! If I faint from hunger, it’ll be this man’s fault. What’s his name? I forgot.
“Don’t follow me!” I yell.
“Who’s following you? I just want to get a drink,” he replies, wryly.
Lies. Liar. I stamp into the living room and stand right in front of the television, blocking my parents’ view of their favourite soap.
“No way I’m marrying that guy!” I shout, pointing at him. He’s in the living room now. Why is he allowed to wander through our house? Outrageous! Staring at our family photos, making himself at home.
“I’m not asking you to fall in love with him. It’s just marriage,” Father says, as if it is nothing. “Enough. Enough of your drama, we’re trying to watch TV. A proper daughter shouldn’t be shouting and screaming like this.”
“I’m not a child anymore. I’m an adult. I have the right to decide what I want, what I don’t want. I have the right to choose!”
“Have any of your choices ever worked out for you?”
“EIIIIII! Stop. Trying. To. Pair. Me. Off!”
I stamp across the living room, over to the boy—Ibnu?—and I find him holding one of our picture frames. It is a photograph of me and my sister, in middle school. We are laughing, flashing our shiny white teeth. I snatch the frame from his hand. I shoot him a look. “I hate you,” I say, low, barely in control. I go to my room.
It is around 10pm when he finally leaves. I hear him say his goodnights. I am still awake. I leave my light off. Mother enters. She comes over to the bed, and holds me. She knows I am not asleep.
“You’re angry?” she asks in a whisper.
I don’t answer.
“Inu is a good man, you know…steady job. I’ve talked to him a few times. The third time I saw him outside our house, I invited him in.”
Whatever, Ma. Of course I’m angry, not just angry. Beyond rage. Furious. This isn’t a small thing. Yet they talked about marrying me off like we’re going to the salon to cut my hair. Hair grows back. Hello! This is marriage! Marriage means a whole new life with all those unknown, unforeseeable things. Yes, I am terrified. Marrying a stranger. A stranger! And they know I’m still grieving over what happened. How can I handle all this, without going mental?
It’s not as if I don’t want to get hitched. I want to so much. But I want to be married to Hans, that handsome hunk. The one I was in love with for the last two years. The good-for-nothing parasite asshole who betrayed me, cheated on me with some hussy. Who got her pregnant. Yet, I still want him.
*
Sunday sees me back in Jakarta. I cannot stand looking at my vile parents one minute longer. I sit on the sofa by the veranda like a black-widow spider, waiting for her victim. I sit like that until the sun sets. Lala comes home. Flops down next to me and lights up a cigarette.
“Smoke?” she offers.
“No thanks,” I say.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
She sucks on her cigarette, then exhales. Her voice is husky. “Where’s Hans?”
“Gone away.”
“Gone away?” she asks.
“He got married,” I say, my voice cracking.
“What? Not to you? To whom?” When she says this I see her face make that look, that I-knew-it-an-ugly-girl-like-you-always-gets-dumped look.
“Who knows,” I say.
“Pretty?”
“Never met her.”
“How the hell did this happen?”
“Don’t know. He said she got pregnant.”
Lala nods slowly, like an old woman full of wisdom and understanding. “No wonder.”
“No wonder what?” I say.
“No wonder he left you.”
“So what?” I snarl back. It hurts to hear somebody else say it, that my boy left me. Like I am so ugly, so terrible, I deserve it.
“That is what the other girl gave him. What did you give him?” Lala says.
What does she mean? What did the other girl give him? Oh. It takes me a minute to make that connection. Sex. She means S.E.X. The wild abandon of Jakartans. Sex, lust, desire. That old thing. I don’t even care to respond. Ya, I am still a virgin. So what? And I’ll defend it. My virginity is a good thing, isn’t it? My maidenhead is only for my husband. And sex out of wedlock is a sin. (I’m no saint, but even I know that premarital sex is frowned upon in every religion.) Ya, Hans tried to get me to do weird things, several times. Once he even asked me to hold his erect penis. I refused. The furthest I went with him was kissing, lips to lips. No more. He wanted to touch my breasts. At first I let him. But after the third time I slapped his hands away.
According to Lala, the reason Hans left me for that other girl, that bitch, is because she gave him what I could not. SEX. Is that it?
But, hey, didn’t I give him money? Wasn’t that enough?
Oh God. All this hurts. Did Hans stay with me for two years, only because of my money? Damn it! Damn it.
“Well, somebody came around to my parents’ house, to ask for my hand in marriage,” I say, suddenly.
Lala perks up. “Oh ya? Who?”
“Mmm, I forgot his name. He came yesterday.”
“Your parents arranged it?” Lala asks.
“Ya, more or less.”
“What’s he like?”
“Normal guy. Standard issue. Compared to Hans, he’s nothing.” I roll my eyes.
“Still judging people by their looks, are you? You are so not realistic.”
“How should I be realistic, then?” Why shouldn’t I want a good-looking man as my husband? I will have to look at him my entire life. I’ll have to fall asleep beside him, see his face when I wake up every morning. If he isn’t good-looking, that would be torture. If I married Hans, I’d have no problems. I’d stare at him for a long while, before I even got out of bed. Well, that dream is gone. He’s somebody else’s husband now. What I mean is I won’t marry somebody I don’t fancy. If this isn’t realistic, I don’t know what is.
“You aren’t realistic. You can’t live on good looks alone.”
“Ya, sure. I know that, it’s not like I’ll marry some unemployed bum.”
The look in Lala’s eyes is so judgemental. “What about Hans?” her eyes ask me. Hans worked, didn’t he? He can’t be lumped into that category of unemployed bums with no prospects. At the very least he could work as a model. And while we were together he was still
searching for the kind of venture that best spoke to his soul.
“So, this guy, what does he do?”
“Don’t know, I didn’t ask. My mother said I wouldn’t have to worry.”
“Sounds good.”
“Ya. Good,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
“When will the big day be?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t said yes.” Meaning I said no, and that I spat in his face.
“What’s wrong with you, girl? You don’t want to get married? Neither of us are young anymore, Ratu. I’ve asked my boy, asked and asked, again and again. He still hasn’t made a decision. You’re lucky. Somebody’s already proposed. What are you waiting for?”
“Ya, but I don’t know anything about him. Anyway, Hans…”
“HELLO. Are you going to wait until Hans is a widower? Come on girl, wake up. Remember what he did to you? Say yes to the proposal. Don’t wait. Find your own happiness. It’s the best way to get back at him.”
I stare at nothing. That boy—it’s not as if he’s actually proposed. I’ve no idea what he’s been talking about with my parents. What is wrong with me? Me and my big mouth.
For a week afterwards I keep getting calls from strange numbers. I know it is Hans. He is trying to get in touch with me, using different phones. I never answer. I want to forget him. Like the Sherina song: “Leave, leave my life.” Nothing much going on at the office, so I spend my days playing Facebook games. The boss catches me feeding my virtual animals in Pet Society. He grumbles, but that doesn’t stop me. I know he plays Sudoku on his computer. No big cases need our attention this week, so we relax. I watch a Katy Perry-style make-up tutorial on YouTube.
Over the weekend I return to Bogor. Mother has the same look on, that she had last week. At the dinner table, rolling dough for bread, I say: “I want to get married.”
“To whom?”
“That boy from the other day, can’t remember his name.”
I see her eyes go wide and bright. Like a scene from a soap opera, she begins to tear up. Her lips quiver.
“You serious? You agree?” she asks.
Suddenly she reaches over and hugs me tight—flattening the pieces of dough I am holding. Then she whirls around the kitchen, singing praises to God. I just hunch over, and keep kneading.
In all honesty, I’ve made this decision not because I want to make my parents happy. It’s mostly because I want to get back at Hans, like Lala said. Giving Mother and Father what they want is just a bonus. Not as if I don’t want to. I do, but sacrificing myself for somebody else’s happiness is a stupid thing to do. Even if that somebody else is your parents. And judge me however you want. I’m not making light of marriage as an institution. I just want revenge on the person who hurt me.
That night the boy who is going to marry me visits the house again. I sit next to Father at the dinner table. The boy sits across from me. I observe his posture. He wears a shirt, semi-formal. This time it looks like he’s had a shower. He is clean-shaven and his face is fresher. He smiles a little at me and I smile a little back. I really don’t know what his connection is to my parents. If they paid him, I don’t care. Whatever arrangement he has with my parents, I don’t want to know. As long as we get married.
“Let’s eat,” Father says. He starts scooping out the rice. I follow. “Get a plate for Inu, too, Ratu.” I look back at him.
“He’s got hands,” I say.
“It’s all right, Uncle. I can help myself,” he tells Father.
“There. You heard him,” I say.
Father shoots me a piercing glare. So like it or not, I’m forced to ladle rice and gravy onto a plate and offer it to the boy. (There are so many dishes, tonight—they really are going all out!) The food on his plate could feed a legion of hungry labourers. I don’t take much myself. I’m on a diet. I’m sticking to it until I hit 45kg. Throughout dinner I watch him gorge himself. No restraint at all.
“Have you two discussed the date of the wedding yet?” Father asks, suddenly.
The boy named Inu chokes a little, and looks up from his plate. He looks at Father, a brow raised. Perhaps he is a little confused. I give him a winning smile. Inside, I feel like puking. He should be happy. At least he will be getting paid.
“Not yet,” I answer, since this Inu idiot can’t seem to find his tongue. It’s not as if we’ve had any time to talk. I just assumed he and my parents would’ve set the date already?
The boy continues eating. He polishes his plate. Empty, not a grain left! And I’d served him a mountain.
“My mother’s a good cook, ya?” I ask him, sarcastic.
“Ya! So good! I’ve not eaten since this morning,” he replies, grinning.
I want to look him in the eye and spit out: “Pig.” But I don’t.
“If you’re done, why don’t we have a chat outside, Mr Inu,” I offer, as sweetly as I can muster.
Hearing me say that, my parents look at each other, strange joy in their faces. I cannot stay in the dining room a moment longer.
Outside, I wait for Inu. I lean against a pillar and look up at the night sky. It is a crescent moon tonight, very bright. I remember the Sailor Moon cartoons, and all the things I loved as a teenager. Why can’t things go back to the way they were? When I still had a sister and didn’t feel so alone.
“Pretty moon tonight.”
I spin around. Inu has snuck up on me.
“Ya, whatever,” I nod. “Anyway. When’s the wedding going to be?”
“Up to you, Ms Ratu,” he says, non-committal.
“Fine. If that’s the case, why not next week? The sooner the better.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“What’s it to you, Mr Inu? Won’t you be happy? Mother’s going to pay you once we’re married, right? The quicker we get married, the quicker you get your money.”
He frowns but doesn’t respond. “What about you? Why are you suddenly saying yes to this?”
“None of your business,” I snort. “I don’t care about the ceremony, the details, as long as we marry. You can talk it over with Mother. She knows more than me. She’s been married before, ha! She’s got experience. Just rent a hall somewhere, don’t make a big deal of it.”
Inu nods. “You don’t think you’re rushing into things?”
“Why are you making a fuss?” I snap back. He smiles, nervous and not understanding.
Silence for a while. I look up again at the sickle hanging low in the sky. I remember: “On behalf of the moon, I will right wrongs and triumph over evil—and that means you!”
“Okay,” he says.
I turn to him. “Okay, what?”
“Okay. I’ll find a hall for the wedding. And…I will talk it over with your mother, first.”
“Either way is fine. If Mother is okay with it, so am I. Just ask her,” I say, wanting this to end. He shakes his head. What is his problem?
After he leaves, Mother wants to talk things over with me. Suggesting this, asking for a decision on that, offering alternatives. I agree with everything she says. “That hall, this kind of dress.” And so on. I don’t want to think about it.
I stagger to my room. Fall asleep. Let them handle the costumes, a Siberian-style wedding dress? Papuan decorations? All fine by me! What’s important is that there is a wedding, a celebration, and that the invitations go out. Done.
*
The next morning, I wake up in a panic. I grab Mother in
the kitchen.
“When’s the wedding?” I ask her.
“Inu said it’ll be next week.”
I start. “So soon?”
“He said you were the one who wanted it so quickly.”
“Yes, but…but… Can we really get everything ready at such short notice? What about the guest list? Won’t that take time?” Won’t I take time to think it over? To make sure I’m ready? Oh God, what did I say yesterday?
“According to Inu everything is ready. What more do you need? Everything’s settled. W
e’ve got a hall.”
“But doesn’t that take time? Booking a hall or whatever?” I say.
“I don’t know, but when I was talking to Inu yesterday he said he’d call his friend, he can get it booked immediately.”
“Mama, don’t you need to make a dress? What about my wedding dress?” All these questions are crowding in. What is happening to me?
“That? Your father and I can get our outfits from a boutique. As for your dress, you’ll have to discuss that with your fiancé, won’t you?”
“How would I do that? I don’t even know him.”
“What?”
“Really. I don’t even have his phone number,” I tell her.
Mother keeps on scrubbing her dishes. “I’ll give it to you later.”
I emit a massive sigh.
“What else do you want?” she asks me.
“The invitations?”
“Who exactly do you want to invite? It’s not as if you have that many friends.”
That stops me short. Because it’s true. I don’t have any friends. It’d be weird to invite people I haven’t seen for years, when I didn’t even show up for their weddings. I take my phone, copy Inu’s number over from my mother’s phone. I text him straightaway.
Can you imagine? This couple getting married in about a week, planning their wedding via SMS? Maybe I’ve really gone mad. Maybe I am not really getting married and all this is happening in some insane dream state. Here I am, texting, like I’m arranging a meeting with some district police chief. All formality and procedure. Just like work.
“You sure you don’t want to handle the wedding details yourself?” Mother asks, as I am furiously typing.
“Some other time,” I say, absently.
“What kind of answer is that? How many times do you want to get married?”
I shut up. Then I say: “I just need some time alone, Ma.”
Mother gives me such a severe look I have to look away. “All right,” she says. “It’s up to you. But no surprises, okay? Don’t disappoint your mother. Before I got married I couldn’t do anything but sit at home. You? All you want to do is run around.”
I have nothing to say. That afternoon I take a bus back
