Eka Kurniawan - Beauty is a Wound

“He wants to die naked, as pure as the day he was born,” said Kliwon.

“That’s impossible,” said the Captain. “Nobody wants to see his privates dangling everywhere, especially since he’s a communist.”

“But it’s his final request.”

“No way.”

“Well if that’s how you feel, then do it in the bathroom,” said Kliwon. “Let him stay naked. Maybe he wants to take a shit first, and then shoot him.”

“Communist Number One dying in a bathroom,” said the Captain while shaking his head. “Now that’s a great story for the history books.”

And that’s how it ended. Comrade Salim threw off his sarong, smeared himself with earth while drawing in deep breaths of fresh air, as if to say goodbye to the world. Kliwon and the Captain and a number of soldiers followed him to the bathroom, with Kliwon hoping that the morning’s fuss didn’t wake his mother. In the bathroom, before being shot dead, he sang The Blood of the People and the Internationale , bringing Kliwon to tears. As soon as the second song was finished, the Captain pointed his pistol through the door, which was open a crack, and shot him three times, one shot right after another. Comrade Salim died naked in the bathroom: he was born with nothing, and when he died still had nothing. Mina was awakened by the pistol shots, ran to see what had happened, and found a couple of soldiers dragging out the man’s corpse while her son looked on.

“You have seen your father executed by Japan,” she said. “Now you are seeing this man dead at the hands of the republican army. Use your head, and don’t even for one second consider becoming a communist.”

“Many kings have been hanged to death,” said Kliwon, “but that doesn’t discourage people from wanting to become king.”

“Did he influence you at all last night?” asked Mina with a twinge of worry.

“At the very least, he made me catch a cold in the night air.”

The soldiers brought the corpse to a crossroads. They weren’t worried about the KNIL patrol, because at such an hour they obviously wouldn’t be awake yet. Kliwon followed them, and witnessed Comrade Salim’s corpse sprawled out in the middle of the street. Standing amid the crowd who came to see the corpse adorned with three bullet holes, Kliwon was still wearing his newly-gifted cap, which he would wear for many years, and which he would still be wearing on the day the army came to execute him. Salim’s blood was streaming out everywhere. A soldier poured gasoline over him, and another soldier tossed a match. As the corpse burned, it smelled like roasted boar.

“Who is that?” asked a man.

“Clearly not a pig,” said Kliwon.

The kid stayed by his side until the flames died out and the soldiers disappeared. He gathered the ashes, put them into a small box, and brought them home. His mother was concerned by the excessive behavior her son was displaying, and said that the ashes would bring bad luck.

“And take off that cap.”

He took off the cap and placed it on the table, then climbed into bed.

“Praise God,” said his mother, “you are a sweet child.”

“Don’t misunderstand, Mama,” said Kliwon. “I’m only taking off the cap because I’ve been awake for a long time and now I want to get some sleep.”

Kliwon sat on the sidewalk in front of a store that was closed, ripping cigarette advertisement posters that he had torn haphazardly down from the walls to shreds. While ruminating over his pathetic love, he watched the cars going past, asking himself whether there was anyone else in the world more wretched than he was. His mother and his friends had already ordered him to make himself feel better, but he refused by saying that nothing could possibly make him feel better except having that young girl for his very own.

“Go look for someone else who is more unfortunate than you,” said Mina finally, “and maybe that will make you feel just a little bit better.”

The first people he thought of were his father and Comrade Salim, both executed. In her carelessness, Mina hadn’t realized that her suggestion would remind Kliwon of those two men. For a whole week he just sat on the sidewalk to watch the wretched people Comrade Salim had told him about, the same people his father used to talk about when he was just a little boy. He wanted to see people passing by in their German or American cars while right next to him sat a beggar with a body covered in ulcers and boils. He wanted to see a young woman going to market, surrounded by servants who carried all of her baskets and even the very parasol that sheltered her. He wanted to see all of these social contradictions for himself, to distract himself more than anything else, thinking how depressing it was that a man could be destroyed by love while others were dying from starvation or being worked half to death.

He had been gone from his house for more than a month and was now living with the beggars. His body, that used to be strong and handsome, soon became emaciated and was now just a pile of bones, and his hair was turning a pale red and looked as stiff as the tip of a broom. He was in no way pretending; rather, he was trying to erase his suffering with another kind of suffering. He ate what others gave him, and if no one gave him anything he scavenged in garbage cans, fighting off other beggars, stray dogs, and rats.

There were no more girls following him wherever he went. In fact it was quite the opposite; if a girl met him, without realizing that he was the Kliwon that used to drive her crazy and maybe even used to take her to bed, she would pinch her nose, gag, shield her face, and quicken her pace. Even little children threw stones at him, so that he often found himself covered in wounds, and the stray dogs chased him as if he was a hedgehog ready to be devoured. Even when he went home, Mina didn’t recognize him at all, and instead she said, “If you see a beggar named Kliwon, tell him to come home, his mother is dying and wants to see him one last time.”

Kliwon accepted a plate of rice from his mother and replied, “You sure don’t look like you are dying.”

“It’s no big deal to lie a little.”

After a long time had passed, he began to lead this kind of life as if it was normal. He began to forget many things — his mother and his house, his friends and all the girls, and especially Alamanda (although this last memory still troubled his thoughts at certain times); everything was erased by his routine of bumming. Rather than thinking about these things, he thought about finding a handful of rice and a comfortable place to lie down, which came to seem way more important. The freedom from all his complicated thoughts turned him into a happy hobo, until the day trouble came to him in the form of a young beggar woman named Isah Betina.

He saw her twice. Once was while she was getting raped by five rampaging vagrants near the edge of the dump and it was obvious that he would be unable to fight off her attackers. But he had also seen her pass by before being ambushed by those five bums, looking pretty but also stinking to high heaven after weeks untouched by water or soap. Her wails were quite heartbreaking and so disturbed his afternoon nap inside his cardboard shanty that he came out carrying a machete and approached. Two of the men had just finished fucking her, and both were grinning while wiping off their genitals with the bottoms of their shirts. Another one was thrusting his spear, struggling in and out, but the girl was no longer putting up a fight. Another was squeezing her breasts, while the last guy was waiting impatiently, stroking his own dick with his hand.

“Give the girl to me,” said Kliwon, clearly and firmly.

One of the men who was already done screwing the girl, and who looked like the leader of this group of bums, stood facing him while rolling up his sleeves.