The village head wanted Salimah to dance for him and for that he was prepared to give whatever she asked.
‘You only want me to dance?’ asked Salimah in disbelief.
Solihin paused. Then, in a low voice, muffling his lust, his anger and his disappointment, he said, ‘I want to watch you strip as you move.’
Solihin tried to meet Salimah’s eyes without blinking but her gaze, no less piercing than when she sang all those years ago, challenged his pride. He licked his parched lips. Salimah burst into savage, mocking laughter.
‘If that’s what you want, then it’s an expensive gift I’m after.’
‘Money isn’t a problem,’ said Solihin, impatient but trying to protect his dignity. ‘Do you want a motorbike? I hear Asep wants to drive a motorcycle taxi.’
Salimah shook her head.
‘A house?’
When he let those words escape, Solihin realised he was gambling. He had gone too far. He felt an uncontrollable surge of lust. Salimah shook her head firmly. She pressed against Solihin and whispered slowly in his ear.
Solihin was aghast. His knees went weak.
Salimah’s loyal fans knew that she never joked. She played for keeps.
Solihin caught vengeance in her eyes, tired eyes that no longer gleamed like those of a cat. Circumstances had changed but Salimah still stoked a fire deep within him. He would fight to get the woman he had struggled to win years before.
—
Solihin had developed and perfected his master plan. Tonight was the night. He had paid neighbourhood thugs to intercept Haji Ahmad on his way home after evening prayers. Familiar faces. Some had been among those who accused Salimah and forbade her dancing. Solihin had never before hired thugs on account of a woman.
It wasn’t hard to shadow Haji Ahmad. Everybody knew his habits; he wouldn’t set out until the rest of the congregation had left the mosque. Solihin’s minions dragged him from the main road to a deserted alley. He put up a fight.
At one in the morning, Solihin picked up Salimah. With no time to dress, Salimah wore only a negligee, adding a leather jacket as protection against the night breeze. She also had on a rumpled headscarf. Solihin drove his motorbike towards an area covered in scrub that people rarely passed through, a place where evil spirits brought death to infants. Occasionally, he gazed at the sky. How strange the moon was that night.
In the bushes, Solihin set down a black plastic bag beside Salimah, not saying a word. She stared at the pale face of her devotee, then shifted her gaze towards the dowry she had demanded. Carefully, she knelt, patting the plastic surface, weighing it. Damp. Heavy. She took a long look inside to confirm that Solihin had kept his promise.
‘Put on the music,’ Salimah’s voice was icy.
Solihin had made sure the batteries in the cassette player were charged. Setting it on the ground, he played a song that Salimah always sang when she performed, a song that made him fall in love over and over; a song that resounded as, in his dreams, the woman, damp with perspiration, ran her hands all over him.
Salimah loosened her headscarf. She tossed her jacket towards Solihin and began moving to the rhythm of the music. Solihin bathed the object of his worship in the beam of his torch, trying to recall how the stage lights had bathed her. There was always something elusive about her. A pent-up passion, reserved for who knows what. Salimah raised the tip of her negligee, past her knee, past her thigh, then higher and higher still until Solihin glimpsed her famed hips. The woman twisted slowly, biting her lips, not taking her eyes off Solihin. Salimah’s body was withered, emaciated, but in the eyes of Solihin she hadn’t changed at all. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might die.
Her negligee had now fallen to the ground. His goddess shimmied, moving back towards the plastic bag. Solihin was drained and shaking. Salimah lifted the offering he had made to her. The head of Haji Ahmad.
Yet what she had long desired was not his head, but his eyes. The eyes of Haji Ahmad were open wide, just as when he had gazed at Salimah while she read the Sūrat an-Nūr, just as when he had declared her a source of sin. Salimah stared and stared at the eyes before her, stroking the lids. Her fingers trembled. Though the past resurfaced in her memories, it never repeated itself as it should have.
Like a child who has found a lost doll, Salimah cradled the head of Haji Ahmad against her chest. Drops of blood fell on her. Salimah’s eyes were tearful, shut. Her lips were half open. Moist.
No longer able to maintain his strength, Solihin dropped to his knees. His heart felt as if it would stop as he witnessed the morass of desire and grief in front of him. The throbbing of death and passion, exposed. The moon was naked, the night was damp.
Everything else happened swiftly. The sound of approaching clapper sticks grew louder. The villagers surrounded Solihin and Salimah, and beat them without mercy. Their blood had now been sanctioned as halal.
Seriously wounded, Solihin was dragged to the police station. Salimah didn’t survive. The rage of the mob flared at the sight of the woman hugging the head of Haji Ahmad, her body smeared with gore. Her snarled hair and wild eyes made the villagers’ blood boil. Clubs struck her again and again. She collapsed, thrashed relentlessly, but still her hands clutched the head. Some compassionate members of the mob closed its bulging eyes. The killing moon was pale, cold and bare.
This tragic story has been passed on and framed carefully. The beginning of destruction was a sin that we often don’t recognise: zina of the eyes. Salimah was condemned and her life endlessly discussed. Everyone remembers her in different ways. Some night, when you are strolling about in the village, cast your gaze to the sky. If the moon looks strange, like a woman who has risen from the grave, you’ll know that she has never departed.
The Porcelain Doll
There were no obvious changes after the red-cheeked porcelain doll shattered. The house stayed an old house, well maintained. It was kept clean and tidy to distract visitors’ attention from all the leaks. Though it wasn’t overly big, Grandpa hadn’t raised enough money to repair it.
Grandma didn’t want the neighbours to know that they were short of cash to renovate the inherited home so she put effort into making it beautiful. Every day she checked to see if the flower-embroidered tablecloth had any stains, if the terrazzo tiles needed dusting, if the jar in the living room was still stocked with simple pastries. Sweetie still ate from her bowl. Rice and fish.
The shattering of the porcelain doll didn’t change the world.
Grandma still paid careful attention to her daily routine. Brewing hot beverages in the morning. Black coffee for Grandpa and tea for herself. As she stirred, she gazed at the thick coffee. Steaming and lustrous. But something always settled at the bottom. Something dark, black and clotting.
Grandma continued to pour creativity into their meals. They were never extravagant, but she varied them every two days. Only now she needed more time. To knead the dough. To scrutinise every grain of salt. After cooking she would scrub the soiled dishes thoroughly and then rinse them at full pressure until they squeaked. There was dirt that couldn’t be seen, bacteria that survived despite repeated sanitising.
Meanwhile, Grandpa still took his breakfast while reading the newspaper. Just like in elementary school primers. He spent afternoons in his study. Since retiring he liked to read a lot, especially about successful celebrities (particularly former officials or generals), treatises on alternative medicine and books about plants. He used to raise an eclectic array of plants in his small yard. But gardening requires a fair bit of money so he wasn’t as active as he used to be. Still, he tended the plants in the knowledge that something cared for in the nursery would not take its leave when it matured.
Grandpa still sat there, at the dining table covered in plastic to protect the tablecloth, sipping coffee and peering at the world as it was presented in the morning newspaper. He would peruse the paper from first page to last and then return to the first page. When she passed by, Grandma would offe
r, ‘Fried banana?’ He would nod. Then she would get back to bustling about as queen of her little fiefdom, in the kitchen, and he would continue reading, his mouth closed. At lunch, she would say, ‘Eat up, the food will get cold.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he would respond automatically. He dined alone because she had eaten beforehand in the kitchen. As a queen, she could take her repast whenever and wherever she liked.
Day and night came and went, the elderly couple repeating the same sentences. Sometimes there were slight variations, such as when Grandpa sat on the couch watching the news on television.
‘Wow. Petrol has gone up again. Lucky we only have a motorbike.’
Grandma, busy filling a jar with roasted peanuts, responded without tilting her head, ‘What isn’t getting more expensive these days?’
In the late afternoon she would tidy up old magazines – editions of Kartini from a dozen years ago – so that they kept their slick look under the table. At that hour she would turn on the television, the volume loud, to listen to a celebrity gossip show without having to turn.
‘So, she finally got divorced too,’ commented Grandma about a celebrity now and then. How wonderful that magic box was, saving them from ever feeling alone.
Grandpa went to bed early. Grandma, as appropriate for a monarch, would not retire until she had inspected her realm and its subjects: tables, chairs, pots, vases.
They lived as before, now without the red-cheeked porcelain doll.
Previously, the beautiful figurine had stood atop an antique wooden chest from Bali. The chest was placed in the living room as a centrepiece. On it they put souvenirs from abroad. A model windmill from Holland, an engraved cup from Thailand and Yin Yin, the porcelain doll with rosy cheeks from China.
The windmill was a gift from a former boss of Grandpa’s who frequently went abroad. Music sounded when the blades turned. The cup had been given by neighbours – fellow pensioners, but with many children, one of whom worked in a travel agency. Their house could no longer accommodate all the mementoes from different countries. Grandpa assumed the neighbour kept giving them only to show off, but Grandma gratefully accepted a cup that could embellish their home.
As for Yin Yin, she was a gift from their nephew, Ardi. When Ardi was small, his mother, Grandpa’s younger sister, was so busy that Ardi was often deposited with the childless couple. Ardi had never forgotten Grandma and Grandpa’s kindness and often stopped by with keepsakes.
Yin Yin was the best. Her fingers were delicate, dainty. Perhaps equally as beautiful as her bound feet – small, white, immaculate. Beautiful. Fragile.
Anyone would admire her beauty. The doll had tiny almond eyes. Smooth skin, rosy cheeks, heart-shaped lips. Her smile was so sweet that Grandpa and Grandma never sought comparisons. A perfect smile. A porcelain smile.
But one day, Grandma discovered Yin Yin toppled from the antique chest. She was shattered in pieces. And so was Grandma.
Sweetie was the culprit. Cats are ingrates.
Near the chest, Grandma spotted woollen yarn, a plaything of Sweetie’s. She must have been trying to make off with it so eagerly that Yin Yin became a casualty. Cats are the same everywhere.
What cut Grandma and Grandpa to the quick was the fact that Yin Yin was shattered. If she’d been stolen, maybe they wouldn’t have been wounded so deeply. At least her body would have remained intact. Perhaps someone rich would have bought her from the thief and she could have decorated a mansion with marble floors. At least that would have been more comforting than to see her violated, ruined, destroyed. Grandma found her lying decapitated on the floor, her pretty little feet in their velvet shoes detached from the body.
Grandpa tried to glue Yin Yin together again. The worst part was the doll’s torso. It had shattered into too many fragments to reattach them all and he was unable to fill a large cavity on Yin Yin’s back. After the sections of her body were reconnected, the figurine was returned to its position. But Grandma’s expression grew more wistful. Yin Yin’s beauty looked artificial. Her wounds left her with a rough, ugly scar on her neck. Anyone who flipped her around would discover a crater in Yin Yin’s back.
The red-cheeked porcelain doll had been transformed into Sundel Bolong, the prostitute of legend, the ghost with a hole in her back. And so she was taken down from the chest and shut away in a drawer. They locked it tight. The darkness is long for those who are not whole.
—
The cat was initially called Sweetie. Not because names for cats in the area were limited to Sweetie, Kitty, Puss and the like but because she acted sweeter than her mother, Bandit. Bandit had earned her name after wandering off for days and swiping a fish from Grandma’s kitchen as soon as she returned. But Grandma did not chase her away. They needed a cat; the old house was plagued with mice. Besides, cats were beloved by the Prophet.
Bandit gave birth in the house. Like all cats, she was shameless: she’d been impregnated by a dozen toms over the years. When she mated the racket was deafening. Grandma was used to being disturbed by the caterwauling of coupling felines but she had never heard wilder, fiercer howls than Bandit’s. A cheap whore. Her offspring were scattered everywhere. God knows how many of Bandit’s kittens Grandma had given away to neighbourhood kids. But Sweetie looked so funny at birth with the trio of stripes on her body. White, yellow, black. People said that calico cats brought good luck. Grandma and Grandpa both wanted to keep her.
Sweetie turned out to be far sweeter than her mother, perhaps because she had been trained in the niceties of human civilisation from kittenhood. She faithfully carried out her duty of catching mice. She knew where to relieve herself, although Grandma from time to time had to clean up her poo outside the bathroom door. Annoying, but forgivable. We can’t expect a cat to be too perfect, can we?
But after the tragic shattering of Yin Yin, Sweetie encountered bitter treatment. Every time she wandered onto the terrace or into the kitchen, it was as if a placard had been hung around her neck, saying:
NAME: SWEETIE
AGE: 2½ YEARS
CHARGE: WILFULLY TOPPLING YIN YIN, PORCELAIN DOLL, FROM HER PLACE OF SANCTUARY.
VERDICT: GUILTY
For a cat whose motives carried a whiff of vandalism, there was no more fitting sentence than banishment.
After the porcelain doll with the red cheeks shattered, Sweetie still ate from her old plate. Her rations of rice and fish weren’t reduced. But the elderly couple never greeted her again. Sweetie felt numb, unable to taste the fish. Grandma’s gaze was so bitter and venomous that Sweetie wanted to swallow her own tongue.
—
Ardi visited several months after the incident. He had just returned from a tour of several countries in Asia. He gave Grandma a box, gift-wrapped with a pretty ribbon. She, of course, opened it joyfully. But, after all this time, her smile appeared feigned. How surprised she was to find her gift: a male figurine in traditional Chinese costume, crimson, festive and opulent. He was the same size as Yin Yin.
‘A perfect match for Yin Yin, isn’t he?’
Grandma regarded the doll for a long time. Very good, she thought. How fine a partner for Yin Yin. If. Supposing.
Oh, dear… this prince would not take pleasure in a damaged bride. She and Grandpa looked at each other, sharing silent disappointment.
Seeing the smile vanish from his aunt’s face, Ardi asked what the matter was. With a heavy heart, Grandma recounted how the porcelain doll had tumbled from the antique chest.
‘I’m sorry, Ardi. Yin Yin is no longer suitable for this heroic prince. He is so handsome.’
Ardi laughed. ‘Don’t be sad. There are plenty of dolls like her in souvenir shops. In two months, I’ll be there again. I’ll find you a replacement, okay?’
The hint of a smile appeared on Grandma’s lips. Yin Yin was removed from her dark drawer and placed on the chest alongside her new companion. Let her stay until her successor arrived – a new Yin Yin, more beautiful, unsullied.
Grandma and Grandpa would also get som
ething new: happiness restored. Who knew exactly what form it would take, but it would feel warm and comfortable, hugging the body like a blanket and smelling as good as fresh baked bread.
The following day Sweetie disappeared. Nobody asked, nobody cared. A neighbour saw her roaming about, chased by strays and scavenging food from the trash.
Under the scorching sun Sweetie remembers her bowl. Grandma in the kitchen and Grandpa at the dining table. The old house where her tramp of a mother bore her and abandoned her. Yin Yin, the red-cheeked porcelain doll that shattered. All the memories remain in their designated place. Just as Yin Yin once stood securely on the antique chest.
If only Sweetie could speak, she would defend herself vigorously: yes, it’s true that I toppled the porcelain doll. But how Yin Yin longed for her plunge. Sweetie saw everything, from the sweet little girl’s eyes to her heart-shaped lips. Yin Yin was so lonely there, reduced to a flawless display, a source of pride. She didn’t want to be a showpiece; she liked darkness and wanted to sleep with the devil. She wanted to kill herself.
And above all, she despised having her feet bound.
Apple and Knife
‘Do you want some, Eva?’
For ten long seconds, she dangled the apple in front of me.
For ten long seconds, I gazed at her, the past roiling in my thoughts, the present refusing to vanish.
‘Why that look on your face?’ She giggled. ‘I’m not going to poison you.’
I’d joined the design company a couple of months before, and my colleague had invited me over for a meal. Our chat about office politics had led to fond expressions of mutual support. When you grow up surrounded by vicious women, sisterhood becomes important.
But perhaps I was expecting something else.
The plump apple glistened, mouth-watering. Then she asked me if she looked like a witch. I observed her slender, damp fingers. No wrinkles; no blue, bulging veins.
‘I’ll cut it for you,’ she said.
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