Their home was a single concrete square a few feet on each side. The parents unrolled a mattress in this space— which had first to be purged of coconut fibers, scorpions, insects, and mice — and then crammed their bedding next to a bicycle, a closet, and a wicker mat to sit on. There was no kitchen. Nuraeni put the stove, the plate rack, and buckets beneath a melinjo tree behind their home. She had to surround her stove with a moldy little plywood fence to stop malevolent winds from blowing out the fire. After cooking, she would carry food containers, vegetable bowls, and a rice basket into the house, placing them next to the mattress, and they would eat there. There was no bathroom, obviously. Every morning and late afternoon they would go to the mansion, where they were lucky enough to be lent a bathroom and a toilet, separate from those used by the owner’s wife and children. Margio and Mameh were born there, lived in such a fashion, and life seemed pretty good.
In their last few years at the godown, Margio’s jobs were to fill the bathtub and to carry three buckets of water to the back terrace kitchen. He did this before going to school, and then again in the afternoon before heading to the beach to fly his kite. He made a lot of friends in the neighborhood, including the son of an ice vendor who was kind enough to supply him with popsicles. Then they moved to House 131.
The mansion’s owner returned without warning, just as he had left. He sold the house, the orchards and, of course, the coconut godown, and moved his family away. Komar explored nearby areas, until he got lost near a soccer field, not far from the military base and the town market, and found that number 131 hadn’t been occupied for eighteen months. He asked around to track down the owner and, when he found him, didn’t have much trouble getting permission to live there, for the old owner thought the house was going to collapse. He returned to the godown with the news, but first had to persuade Nuraeni to hock her wedding ring to pay for the new house.
It wasn’t easy to convince the kids to relocate, and even Nuraeni seemed unwilling, despite her years living without a kitchen or bathroom. Margio was the most stubborn. He pleaded to stay behind, and refused to understand that the mansion’s new owner wouldn’t lease them the godown, which he intended to turn into a shop selling toothbrushes, soap, and candy.
“Besides,” Komar bin Syueb said, “we’ll all be living in our own house.”
Margio wasn’t impressed. At seven years old, he was popular among his friends, leading them in eel hunts on joyful Sundays, selling the catch in the Monday market and taking the rest home to his mother. He went with the kids to collect firewood in the plantation, before it fell into neglect, and it was Margio among the boys who had to muster the courage to confront the foreman when he raised a stink because the boys knocked down the unripe fruits as they tore at the dead coconut fronds. He would sell the firewood, since his mother didn’t use a wood stove, and with the money he could buy marbles, as well as paper and thread to make kites. Plus he had more boxes of crickets than any kid his age. Little Margio thought he had it made, and viewed the move with grave suspicion.
He sulked and threatened to run away. He would stay put even if it meant sleeping on a neighbor’s terrace, or in a shed in the cacao plantation. Finally, Komar dragged him to a corner of the godown and gave him a talking-to, calling him an ungrateful brat. Margio said nothing, so Komar bin Syueb told him to speak, and when Margio was about to open his mouth his father saw something insolent in his expression and landed a biting slap on his face. His cheeks reddened and his eyes turned wet, but Margio never let himself cry. He said nothing. Infuriated by his silence, Komar grabbed the rattan cane used to beat the mattress and slapped it against his son’s calf, making Margio slump against the wall with one leg up. He could resist, but he was going to lose.
And so the mattress was rolled up, bound tightly with a plastic rope, and stacked on the cart over a sheet of wicker matting. The plate rack was attached at the rear, while the plates and glasses were in a basket, wrapped with fabric and pillows. The shaving kit was folded and hidden under a bag filled with their clothes, which was crammed in with the chairs and tables, their pan and buckets, a stove, and bowls. Margio sandwiched his boxes of crickets and marbles between the pillows, while the rubber-band-tied trading cards were stuffed into the pocket of the crimson-red school uniform shorts he was wearing. He stood there by the cow cart, in a shirt missing two buttons, his hair stiff and reddish, his slippers mismatched, until Komar told him to hop on once the tailgate was shut and they had said their goodbyes.
If he were to recall the saddest day of his life, this would be it. Margio could see his mother’s reluctant face behind a veil she had never worn before, sat next to Komar. Margio wondered whether she was more upset about moving or losing her wedding ring. He had thought of his mother as an ally, but her silence made him realize how little help she would be, and in frustration he climbed onto the cart and perched on the mattress, watched by his friends, who were standing on the terrace where Komar bin Syueb had been plying his trade all these years.
They weren’t really going far, but the cows’ sluggish pace and the choice of route dragged out the journey. Later on, Margio could walk to his old haunts and visit friends. Now mostly silent on the mattress, he sometimes lay on his back to stare at clouds or passing herons, sometimes turned to look at the meandering road behind him, stretching far into the distance, or propped his chin on his hands to watch the rolling pungent rice fields. Nuraeni didn’t say anything either, holding herself hunched as if tortured with shame. When they passed someone on the road, she gave no sign of acknowledgment. She might have been a newlywed guarding her dignity, except in her arms she held a daughter who, despite the rattling of the cart, slept like a log. Later on Margio would tell his sister how lucky she had been to sleep through this humiliating journey.
Komar bin Syueb alone sat upright, every once in a while entertaining himself with a song. Now and then they took a break when the two cows seemed tired. Meantime, the passengers would have a drink and eat bananas and fried rice crust.
When they emerged onto an asphalt street, Komar announced that they were almost there. Behind them in the mud were the parallel tracks of the cart’s rubber-rimmed wooden wheels. They had reached the outskirts of town, an avenue of beautiful houses. They had yet to see their new home, but at this welcome sight, at the glistening colored fences embellished with ornate ironwork, bright lights, and mailboxes, Margio started to get excited. He glanced at his mother, hoping to see his feelings mirrored there. But Nuraeni remained hunkered deep inside herself. Margio forgot her when he looked again at the people on their terraces, the hanging pots of elephant-ear plants, and orchids growing on posts. Which house would they stop at?
But instead of stopping here they turned into an alley so narrow the cart almost couldn’t get through. Margio had to pull back the plate rack, which stuck out and bumped against the fences. The cart trundled more slowly than ever, more shakily, past densely packed shacks and untended gardens, all previously hidden by the bright houses they had passed. Finally, they stopped under a kapok tree that had just shed its flowers. Number 131 stood before them.