With time all hope that the wedding would happen vanished. She was a little girl again, although she didn’t resume ploughing the rice fields or herding sheep. She no longer bothered with primping herself and looked forward to the time when, through some good fortune, the engagement would be broken. Then maybe another man would propose, a man who would send her letters, take her to be photographed, and maybe even give her a beautiful ring and a sewing machine so she could learn to make her own wedding dress.
She went about life as if she didn’t have a fiancé, and painfully she had to mask her situation. Perhaps a few friends knew the truth, but she tried to convince herself they were too busy with their own lives to realize that someone among them had been spurned by her fiancé. When people asked for news of Komar — and Syueb himself would visit to find out this or that about the bad manners of his son — Nuraeni would tell them he was fine, but he wasn’t coming home before the next Lebaran. She felt like a know-it-all witch who could spy on her lover through a small mirror, and if that were indeed the case, she would love to throw rocks at him and hit him with a rice-pounder, because nothing else would show how much she resented that man.
Lebaran came round again, but Nuraeni awaited it not with a blossoming heart, but with an icy will. She had promised herself not to ask for an explanation. She didn’t even think about welcoming him, and if he did come around she’d treat him like a distant guest who had dropped by to ask for a drink. There would be no nostalgia and no soft sentiments. Komar would have to pay a high price for the way he mistreated her.
Komar finally did swing by. His greasy, pomaded hair was unchanged, and he wore the same old wristwatch, although the corduroy pants had been replaced with blue jeans held up by a faux leather belt, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, but a long-sleeved T-shirt. This year he had grown a mustache and a beard, and had let them become unkempt. He offered no explanation for his silence, just as there was no beautiful purse for Nuraeni, only a tin of biscuits. Last year he had been very polite, sitting and blushing nervously; now he was loutish, and sat facing her with one foot on top of the other. His hands eagerly reached for a clove cigarette, lighting it and letting it crackle, prompting Nuraeni quickly to put an ashtray in front of him.
Asking no questions, Nuraeni put a glass of cold lemonade next to the ashtray and just sat in her chair playing with her fingernails. No news was exchanged and there was no sweet talk. Komar even opened the tin of biscuits he had brought and shamelessly took one for himself while babbling about Wa Haji’s fish last year.
That night, despite her resentment, Nuraeni went to the theater with him, to spare the feelings of his father and his future parents-in-law, in case they sensed that she was acting coldly toward her husband-to-be. This time they went to see Nyai Dasima. The title stuck in their minds, but not the actors’ names, because acting companies came and went in the village. For Nuraeni it was her third visit. She had seen a different play with a group of girlfriends on the carnival-filled night of Independence Day. Nothing special happened during the show, except for Komar trying to squeeze her hand. But something sickening happened on the way home.
They slowed down to let their friends go ahead, and in a quiet spot Komar shamelessly asked Nuraeni for a kiss. Shocked by the unexpected request, Nuraeni cringed and shook her head in fear, but Komar gripped her hand and insisted. “No,” she said. Komar persisted. “Just a little kiss,” he implored, “one tiny touch.” There seemed to be no other choice. To scream would only humiliate them both, and she supposed Komar wouldn’t go any further, since far behind them were other people walking in the same direction. Without saying yes or no, she let his mouth attack her own, as he pushed her against a hibiscus tree. His lips pressed against hers in a long-drawn-out kiss. His wet open mouth smelt of tobacco and nipped at her lips with tiny, tugging bites. Afterwards, Nuraeni felt nauseous.
Their former intimacy was lost, and Nuraeni remained icy the next day. For the sake of good manners, she saw him off at the village hall the next day, and there, inconsolable at the memory of the letters that never came, Nuraeni asked him for nothing. Instead, it was Komar who spoke up:
“Aren’t you curious about my job?”
Why should she care about his job if he didn’t care to think about her, the way she ached for news from him week after week until she felt all worn and rusted inside. She stared at him, her eyes sharp and almost cruel, twisting the lips he had once crushed with a kiss. Flaunting her disdain, she finally opened her mouth: “So what is it?”
“A barber,” Komar replied.
Going so far away just to be a barber, Nuraeni thought. She couldn’t care less whether Komar were a bandit, a bully, a thug, or a thief. A year of disappointment had exhausted her love, and what he did was of no interest. When Komar, bag in hand, walked away to join the other migrant workers, Nuraeni didn’t do more than nod slightly to acknowledge his departure, this time without glistening red eyes or a stream of tears. As soon as Komar disappeared at the foot of the hills, she rushed to the spout to shower. Only now he was gone did she bother to pay attention to her appearance.
All that happened, and yet at the age of sixteen she allowed herself to be hustled off and married to that man. Komar’s gift was a six-gram gold ring engraved with their initials, and he always bragged it was the work of a well-known and skilled local engraver. Nuraeni wore a traditional white blouse, her hair tied into a high bun, and displayed a disdain she would have been disappointed to learn was flattering. Komar wore a black suit and a borrowed black hat (a peci), and Wa Haji officiated as penghulu. Nuraeni’s father gave up one of his ewes for slaughter, since it had already given birth to five lambs, which were now getting big. He also dug up all the rice in the family storage chest. There was no wayang— or shadow puppet — performance, but there was enough food that the guests could take some home.
From the first night, the marriage was one of hatred. Nuraeni lay exhausted in bed, still in her wedding blouse, her hips and legs tightly bound in a batik skirt. The lust-ridden Komar invited her to get naked so they could make love, but Nuraeni merely growled, half-awake, remaining wrapped-up and defensive. Without another word Komar stripped off his clothes, keeping on the underpants that swelled with his erection, and shoved his newlywed to wake her. Nuraeni rolled over, groaned, and reached for the bolster. Annoyed, Komar began to yank at her skirt, tugging at it until his wife was clumsily unrolled. The skirt undone, he discovered a pair of light-green panties with a floral design. Komar pinned her down, lowering first her underwear and next his own, and then thrust into her. They fucked without words until they ached and finally fell asleep. Having lost her virginity, Nuraeni retrieved her skirt, covered herself up, and turned her back on her husband, keeping her legs apart because of the smarting between them.
A week later, Komar went to look for a place for them to live together, and a month after that took Nuraeni to the coconut godown near the Monday Market. He provided a mattress, a stove, kitchen utensils, a table and chairs, and his shaving kit. They owned a Dutch bike, which Komar bought from the flea market in front of their terrace. Nuraeni’s quality of life had deteriorated, but she dealt with it without complaint.
Sex was always difficult. Nuraeni shared none of Komar’s eagerness, and when his lust built until he felt it constrict his throat, he would frequently force himself on her. When that happened, he was brutal. He threw her on the mattress, and fucked her with her clothes on. On other occasions, he would make her lie with her legs apart on the table or have her crouch in the bathroom. When Nuraeni tried to resist, he would beat her. A slap to the face was a common occurrence, and at times he kicked her beautiful calves, sending her tumbling helplessly to the floor. Only then could Komar get between her legs.