Apple and Knife

by Intan Paramaditha

  She made the decision herself. She had no way of knowing that I couldn’t look at an apple without thinking of Cousin Juli. Her ripe apples. Her glinting knife.

  —

  Cousin Juli was an attractive woman. She often wore a silk headscarf that would slip down her sleek hair. My mother said she dyed it ever since grey streaks had begun to appear in its natural muted reddishness. Yet there was no denying that she was beautiful. Her round face was lit by a childlike glow. She applied pink lipstick to her pouty lips as delicately as she applied a matching blush. Her small eyes had full lashes, dark with mascara. She could have passed for a university student.

  But Juli was no student. At that point, when I was seventeen, she was thirty-seven. She was the wife of Aziz, my oldest cousin. I had heard she was a promotions manager for a multinational automotive company. Her busy life meant she often got home late and couldn’t attend our two types of major family gatherings: the arisan and Qur’anic recitations. I didn’t know her that well, but she struck up conversation with me several times. She was the only relative who seemed eager to hear about my plans to major in design. My parents wanted me to study economics and work at a bank. In contrast, Cousin Juli encouraged my enthusiasm for design, telling me about all sorts of work opportunities. When she spoke, she put her broad knowledge on display and passion twinkled in her eyes. She moved in such an animated way. I was smitten with the lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. Smitten with her manicured fingers.

  I don’t know why Cousin Juli asked me about school so much. Perhaps she was staving off conversations with the older women. I know they peppered her with questions she didn’t like. Family gatherings were an ordeal for her.

  ‘Jul, when are you going to have another baby?’ asked Aunt Romlah, my mother’s older sister. ‘The clock is ticking.’

  ‘I’m still busy looking after Salwa,’ she replied politely.

  ‘Salwa’s in primary school now. What are you so busy with? Give her a little brother or sister, so she doesn’t get spoiled.’

  ‘Aziz and I both work.’

  ‘So quit, then. Aziz’s business is thriving. What more do you need? You don’t have to chase after money.’

  Cousin Juli smiled. She did that whenever she didn’t want to answer a question. She bowed her head like a well-behaved teenager being interrogated by her parents for coming home late.

  Cousin Juli was a target for my relatives. She was sweet and enigmatic (or should I say that she was enigmatic because she was sweet?). They talked about her at recitations when she didn’t show, debating whether she really could read Arabic script. She would only mumble incoherently when we all read the Sūrah Yā’ Sīn of the Qur’an. If we held an arisan, she would always go home early instead of lingering to chat. ‘She thinks she’s too clever for us,’ Aunt Yati concluded. My aunts commented on her reluctance to help in the kitchen. ‘Look at her smooth fingers and those long, pink nails of hers. No housewife has fingers like that.’ When she arrived at a wedding wearing a tight beige kebaya that left her shoulders bare, the gossip gathered momentum. Her hair was swept up in a high chignon and her long earrings grazed her sleek neck. Her skin was visible beneath a transparent brocade. ‘See, Eva,’ Cousin Aziz’s younger sister, Rina, whispered in my ear. ‘That’s how married women use style to seduce men.’

  People kept talking about her and she kept showing up at family gatherings often enough. In the eyes of my relatives, she remained a conundrum that refused to be simplified.

  Then came the uproar. After talking for two hours on the phone with Aunt Yati, my mother delivered astonishing news: Cousin Juli was divorcing Aziz. Word had it that she was caught messing with a young boarder at their house. His name was Yusuf.

  As the eldest son, Cousin Aziz had inherited his father’s large home. Previously it belonged to my grandfather, a respected native Jakarta landowner. It consisted of seven rooms but, as usual for a mansion that had survived in the capital, its yard was so small as to look out of proportion with the house. The two rooms furthest from the family’s private quarters were rented out to students or office workers. Yusuf had been there six months. He was twenty-three. After studying at a university in Padang, he had come to the capital in search of work. None of us had seen him in person yet, but we heard that he’d helped out with Cousin Aziz’s vegetable distribution business and had even repaired a leak in their roof.

  ‘It’s a lesson, Eva,’ my mother advised me. ‘Don’t let schooling ruin your morals.’

  For over a month the phone rang off the hook. My aunts came to visit almost every day. They never let my mother know in advance but she inevitably welcomed them in. They would chatter in the living room while watching TV or at the table as they helped chop fruit and vegetables for the rujak. They had never been closer. Cousin Juli gave them a sense of shared destiny. They gossiped about her more freely at social gatherings and recitations because she never showed again.

  ‘Shameful,’ said Aunt Romlah. ‘Aziz and Juli used to argue because Juli didn’t want to rent out the room. And now look. She lures their boarder into her bed.’

  ‘That’s what happens when women are too smart,’ chimed in Aunt Yati.

  ‘That’s what happens when women aren’t religious,’ Aunt Nur added.

  ‘And with Aziz, she didn’t even have to work. What more did she need?’

  ‘Maybe she works so she can go on the prowl in her office. Remember that shiny lipstick and those lashes of hers?’

  —

  Sometimes it seemed like there was nothing new to talk about. It was the same old story, repeated over and over, all stitched together. But Cousin Juli was unquestionably magnetic; you couldn’t ignore her. Perhaps what she did was wrong, but I didn’t care. Other questions preoccupied me: what would she do now? Would I ever meet her again? Would she still wear pink lipstick and manicure her nails?

  One day my mother fielded another bombshell of a call. Not from Aunt Romlah, Aunt Yati or another relative but from Cousin Juli herself. My mother’s tone was friendly. I imagine that Cousin Juli’s was no different. They asked after each other’s news and then chatted about another cousin, who had just given birth. After their call Mum seemed dazed. She looked at me.

  ‘Juli has invited us over next week.’

  ‘An arisan?’

  My mother shook her head.

  ‘She said it’s a silaturahmi.’ She paused. ‘A get-together to help patch up ties.’

  ‘Will Cousin Aziz be there?’

  ‘No, he moved out, but he’s letting her stay in the house until the divorce is finalised. He’s either too nice or just plain stupid.’

  We thronged to her home for this gathering. It was strange that Cousin Juli had personally invited every single woman in our large family; all this time, it had seemed as if she was only pretending to get along with them.

  ‘Did Juli not realise that we were talking about her relationship with that loafer?’ Aunt Nur wondered aloud.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Aunt Romlah. ‘But it’s never good to break ties. Anyway, aren’t you all curious about young Yusuf? Whether he is living with her in the house? What he’s like?’

  The man was fourteen years her junior. For my aunts, there are thrills to be had in a visit to an enemy kingdom.

  Contrary to our expectations, Cousin Juli welcomed us with great warmth. She was wearing a purple dress tailored to hug the curves of her body. There were strands of greying hair at her temples. She was as beautiful as ever. Dishes were served buffet style on a long table. Some aunts were clustered in fixed spots, sitting in chairs or cross-legged on mats, doing their best to avoid conversation with the hostess. The prevailing attitude among them seemed to be: let the old ladies deal with her; we’re only rookies. But Cousin Juli came over to each of us by turn. The house became a chessboard that pitted the guests against Cousin Juli. My aunts had to search for things to talk about, to deftly thrust and parry.

  ‘Maybe this is the last time we’ll see e
ach other,’ said Cousin Juli when she approached our group: Mother, Aunt Romlah, Cousin Rina, and me. I noticed the selection on her plate. Rice, coconut chicken, beef liver in sambal.

  Talk died down, and I saw Mother and Aunt Romlah exchange sidelong glances. For a while, nobody mentioned the divorce. Finally, Aunt Romlah spoke up: ‘Don’t let the ties between us be broken, Jul. We’ll always be family.’

  Cousin Juli’s lips curled into a smile, and those endearing wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes.

  The conversation moved on from the cousin who had given birth to the plans the mothers had for their children’s schooling. No one raised the issue of the divorce or Cousin Juli’s infidelity. Then two maids brought out dessert. Each guest was given a small plate containing a red apple and a sharpened knife. Something odd was going on.

  Cousin Juli apologised for the inelegant dessert. She had wanted to make a chocolate cream pie but her cholesterol was becoming a concern. Doctor’s orders.

  ‘Surely not. You aren’t the least bit fat,’ said Cousin Rina. ‘Anyway, apples are fine.’

  ‘Apples truly are tasty,’ Cousin Juli murmured, fondling one. She picked up a knife and began to peel.

  The women around her exchanged glances but out of respect for their hostess they also took up their knives and sliced into their own apples. As the youngest in the room, I waited for my elders until I realised I had no desire for fresh fruit. I noticed Cousin Juli whisper something to her maid. The young girl nodded and left the room.

  I studied the apple in Cousin Juli’s hands. The section turned towards me, yet to be peeled, was red, round and ripe. The sharp blade was so shiny I could see a reflection. Was that my face? No, it was hers. Something crept into the gleaming corners of her eyes and loomed in the furrows that appeared in her forehead when she smiled. That smile highlighted her sweet, ageing lines and revealed her uneven teeth. Her childlike teeth, the canines too long.

  As the women were busy slicing their apples, Cousin Juli said, ‘Let me introduce you to Yusuf.’

  Her voice sounded so calm.

  All heads turned towards a figure entering the dining room. He was taking careful steps. In this room of middle-aged matrons his youth shimmered. He was tall, his shoulders were straight, and his arms were sturdy. He wore a short-sleeved shirt that showed off his gleaming, chocolate flesh. His eyebrows were as jet black as his piercing eyes. For me, he was not so different from boys my age who were idolised by girls. He was simple but he radiated childlike appeal. His wild, curly hair, his strong cheekbones and his full lips all invited caressing.

  Yusuf.

  Time stopped. The women held their breath, staring at the young man. They didn’t blink; their hands clutched their knives. Faint sounds escaped their lips. Agonised groans as their fingers continued peeling. The tough skin of apples that had passed the point of ripeness. Were they even apples? I caught another scent. An ancient, intoxicating aroma. Blood flowed from my aunts’ palms, slicking the knives, coating the apples, staining the table-cloths. Chunks of apples were cast to the floor. Drops of fresh blood seeped out and darkened. Cousin Juli’s knives had been readied, but not to pierce the flesh of apples.

  Yusuf bowed, pale. He was like a trembling angel, his wings rent by the penetrating gaze of the women, who were carried away in a frenzy. Soon he fell. Like Maenads, they crowded around him. Cousin Juli looked upon her victims, still under the spell of their own passion, a passion that had stolen in amid the blood and pain. Eventually everything blurred; it was no longer clear who was victim, who was tormentor, who enjoyed pleasure, who suffered pain. They scratched deeper and deeper at their lust. The women had come together in Cousin Juli’s web, enveloped in an aroma of meat and fruit, so fresh. She gave a winsome smile. She glanced at the chocolate angel, then her eyes turned towards me. I felt fragile and soon fell.

  Your wings are torn, let me patch them. Like the way I patch my ties with others.

  Slowly, so slowly, Juli licked her lips.

  —

  ‘Ouch!’ She had hurt herself, cutting the apple carelessly. Was this involuntary manslaughter, or a premeditated act? My apple. I approached her.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  She closed her eyes, not answering.

  ‘Let me see.’

  She held out a bleeding hand. I took hold of her long, tapering fingers. They brought back memories of Cousin Juli. Succulent, smooth, nails painted pink. We stood so close, this apple cutter and I. Her fringe fell on her forehead, strand by strand leading fingers astray.

  My breathing gets rough when I see the colour red. A fragrance, so intimate, tickled my nose. It reminded me of beginnings. My mouth watered, but not because of the apple.

  Slowly, so slowly, I licked the wound on her finger.

  A Single Firefly, a Thousand Rats

  The cold-blooded killer puts down the book she is reading. A thousand fireflies in Manhattan? It’s all very well to write about home from far away, but she doesn’t share her compatriot’s nostalgic sentiments. After all, she is a cold-blooded killer. So she launches her own plot starring a woman who dies without ever seeing a single firefly.

  From her own far-off location in space and time, the killer spies Epon and her strange habits. Yes. At the stroke of midnight, while her husband slumbers, Epon will leave her house and head to the cemetery to see the firefly, for Epon believes this firefly – a shimmering female, who transforms herself to attract the male, only to prey upon him later – appears nowhere else. Of course, Toha, her husband, will grow agitated. In the peaceful, tight-knit village of Cibeurit, women do not roam about in the dark and especially don’t visit the cemetery. His wife could be thought a devotee of black magic.

  A few nights before the sad event, Toha will ambush Epon as she is tiptoeing out of the room.

  ‘Where are you going? Why are you creeping around like a mouse?’

  Epon, heavily pregnant, will return to bed without seeing the firefly.

  At the end of her life Epon will have never seen a real firefly. But a tiny baby will be born into the arms of Aunt Icih, a healer and midwife. The baby will be a girl, lovely, as if gifted with gleaming wings. A beautiful firefly, Epon will murmur before she dies.

  Our killer agrees, although she also has her eye on a firefly in another graveyard.

  —

  The cold-blooded killer is still skulking around Cibeurit, even though it remains indistinct and fragmented. She knows that Toha named his daughter Maimunah. Although nothing connected Maimunah with fireflies, the villagers agreed that she glowed.

  At thirteen, Maimunah attracted the young men of Cibeurit. Yet many were reluctant to approach her because she was too tall, or at least taller than average for girls of the village. Her childhood friends nicknamed her Longlegs. The unmarried youth felt inferior before her, worried about being ridiculed as midgets by jealous rivals. They also worried when picturing Maimunah ten years hence, remembering that the girls of Cibeurit tended to plump up after marriage and their first child. After passing her prime, Maimunah would be a large, tall woman, a giantess. Even now she was quite imposing.

  Feeling no different from other women, Maimunah walked upright, back straight and chest out. Her long, curly hair danced to the swaying of her hips. She never held back her opinions. Toha began to fret because his daughter feared nothing. With her provocative walk, she could be raped by goons on her way home from bathing in the river. Now, in this peaceful village none of the lads were hooligans. But chaos could arrive with transients, like the gangs of criminals who wandered from forest to forest stealing, violating innocent girls and then vanishing. The sight of Maimunah’s wet tresses would surely make them lick their chops. And it was the end of the story for a girl if she lost her virginity.

  At seventeen, Maimunah grew tired of being the centre of attention. She welcomed her admirers but soon grew bored with them in turn. They didn’t want to know anything about a woman beyond what was to be found inside her bra. Maimunah preferre
d to spend her time at the house of Aunt Icih. In her eyes, Aunt Icih possessed extraordinary knowledge. Every day she grappled with spread legs, the darkness of the womb, and clots of blood beneath women’s sarongs. Women living; women dying. From the shaman, Maimunah came to know how her mother had looked before death snatched her away.

  ‘Your mother said you’re beautiful like a firefly.’

  ‘Where can I see a firefly?’

  ‘I’ve never seen one myself, but your mother said a firefly dances in the graveyard.’

  History repeated itself. Like Epon, Maimunah went to seek that sparkling creature. However, it was not a firefly that she met but Jaja, the cemetery watchman. He rarely showed himself as he was often mocked. He was a dwarf, only reaching Maimunah’s waist, dark-skinned and bald with a bristly moustache. Hair covered his stubby hands. The movements of his tiny body were so nimble that the village children dubbed him a giant rat. King Rat. The adults forbade their children to make fun of others because that was not the nature of the people of Cibeurit, but none of them were eager to linger with the watchman.

  The first time he encountered Maimunah, Jaja simply looked up for a moment from the grave he was digging. He enjoyed his work so much that saliva would collect at the edges of his perpetually open mouth.

  ‘If you become a corpse, you will be just as ugly as me,’ Jaja said, wiping the spittle at the corner of his lips.

  Perhaps because radiance didn’t dazzle Jaja, in the eyes of Maimunah he was more interesting than the youths of Cibeurit. Rotting meat fascinated the man more than fresh meat. While Aunt Icih held the secret of life behind the stained red of women’s sarongs, Jaja knew of all that was destroyed, decayed and porous. He possessed the key to the world of the dead.

  Toha began to get wind of Maimunah’s odd relationship with the graveyard, like her mother before her. His face went white when a few people reported Maimunah’s intimacy with the watchman. That couldn’t be allowed. It was time to act decisively on behalf of his beloved daughter’s future. Toha offered Maimunah in marriage to Suparna, the village head, as his second wife. In his forties, Suparna owned acres of rice paddies and a jeep. Suparna understood Toha’s anxiety and, as befitting a resident of Cibeurit, prepared to come to the aid of a neighbour in need, he opened his arms wide to rescue Maimunah’s honour.