Eka Kurniawan - Beauty is a Wound

When Alamanda was tempted to conquer the most handsome man in the city, she already had the distinguished reputation of being the only young girl to have disappointed twenty-three different men who had fallen in love with her, while Kliwon had already gone out with twelve girls in a fairly brief period of time and turned down the rest. It was to be a competition between the most formidable warriors, and it was not only the workers at the farm who were waiting for the outcome of the competition but also all of the members of the Communist Party, and all the city-dwellers’ hearts were pounding in anticipation, wondering what was going to happen. A number of them even placed bets as to who would disappoint whom, and the young men and women prematurely prepared to be brokenhearted.

When the school ordered the students to start their job training, Alamanda convinced a number of her friends to intern at Old Kuwu’s mushroom farm. And that was how the two met — on a mushroom farm, in the middle of the hot barn, surrounded by plastic tarps. Alamanda would come to the barn, pretending that she wanted to help with the daily morning mushroom harvest, and there she would meet that man, tempting him with her smile or teasing him by leaving the neck of her dress unbuttoned. The man watched her from the rack on the fourth level of the barn while she stood below, further tempting him with some inconsequential request. The man faced her with a measured calm, brashly admiring her magnificence as if he didn’t care that a number of years ago he had been driven almost completely insane by that same wounding beauty.

They met every day during those weeks, stirring the chaff together, debating how high the temperature should be set, disputing how big the mushrooms had to be before they could be harvested, and arguing about whether the yeast should be sown on top of the chaff.

Standing there facing her among the bamboo poles propping up the racks of mushrooms Kliwon said finally, “Miss, you are pretty but you are so quarrelsome,” before leaving Alamanda and going out to join the other laborers who were resting after their day’s work.

Jerk , thought Alamanda. That guy wasn’t meant to walk away and leave her just like that, he was meant to seduce her more fervently, pursue her, before she could then toss him aside as usual. Alamanda stood in the door of the barn, watching the man relaxing with his friends, sitting at the edge of the field, passing out cigarettes and lighting them, everyone exhaling the smoke into the open air, talking and laughing.

That was when she lost control of the situation, and for the first time ever she herself was struck by the insomnia of love, every night waiting for morning to come so she could return to the mushroom barn and be with that man, wondering whether the fever of love was still ravaging him or not. When she began to realize that she had truly fallen in love, she was horrified that she had been conquered and tried to kill those amorous feelings by thinking of the most appalling ways to make the man fall at her feet. And whether she cared about him or not she would still toss him aside just like that, in revenge for having made her love him. But every time they met, the man simply accepted the blessing of that beautiful girl’s presence in the mushroom barn without exerting any further effort, as if he was overjoyed simply to have her keep him company.

Alamanda sunk even deeper into the feelings of love that she could not control, enraptured by her discovery of such an unusual man, who looked at her admiringly, who examined every curve of her body with desire, but who still didn’t budge from his business of yeast and mushrooms. Alamanda began to dream about him seducing her, sending her flowers and love letters. She wanted to see him do all the embarrassing things he used to do when she was only eight years old, and she finally surrendered to the fact that she truly had fallen in love with him, no longer feeling the need to resist her heart. But this guy still did not change his attitude toward Alamanda one iota, despite the fact that she continued to make it obvious that she liked him by asking for a ride somewhere in a petulant voice or standing very close to him while he worked, until finally, scared that she was floundering even further, Alamanda convinced herself that her love was unrequited and she decided to give in and admit her defeat.

Okay , she told herself, I am not going to try to get your attention . But just when she had given up, and no longer hoped to have that man for her very own, out of the blue Kliwon plucked a rose and gave it to her. Alamanda’s love once again ran wild.

“Sunday morning we are going to the beach,” the man said. “If you would like to join us, I’ll wait for you behind the barn.”

He didn’t even wait for her answer, just headed toward the group of workers to get a cigarette. Alamanda went home, placed the rose in a glass on the table, and left it there for days, even after the flower grew withered and rotten.

That Sunday morning she was not sure whether she should join the man on the outing or not. A war raged in her heart; her ego as a conqueror said that she had to play a little hard to get, but the other part of herself, which had been burned by the flame of love, ordered her to go because if she didn’t the day would pass without her seeing the man at all. Her legs walked weakly toward the field behind the mushroom barn, and there she saw the man pumping a bike tire. She approached and asked where were the others.

“It’s just going to be us two,” replied Kliwon without turning to look at her.

“I don’t want to go if no one else is going,” said Alamanda.

“Well if that’s how you feel, I’ll go alone.”

Damn it, said Alamanda to herself, and by the time Kliwon was finished with his tire pump, the girl was sitting on the back of the bike, as if the hands of the devil had sat her down there. Comrade Kliwon didn’t say anything, just climbed onto the saddle, and together they headed to the beach.

As it turned out, that day was a very beautiful day for Alamanda. The man helped her relive all her pleasant memories from early childhood. First, like two little kids, they sat in the sand, building temples as high as they could. After those temples got knocked over by the waves, they had a competition to catch the dandelion fuzz that floated over the sand blown by the wind, and then they caught sea snails and had a little race where they each cheered for their own snail, and then tired of all that they threw themselves into the sea and swam joyfully. Lying on the wet sand as the ocean water swirled all around her, looking up at the sky turning pink, Alamanda wished the day would never end, but stretch out in an eternal dusk spent with the most handsome man in the world.

Comrade Kliwon then invited her to climb onto a boat that was docked in the sand. “It’s okay,” he said, “this boat belongs to a friend,” and plus he could steer a boat through any tempest, no matter how fierce. In the belly of the boat there were a number of fishing rods and small fish to be used as bait. “Looks like we are ready to go fishing,” said Comrade Kliwon. So they coasted toward the open sea that bright Sunday, without Alamanda realizing that they would not return home by nightfall. Comrade Kliwon steered the boat far from the beach, until they couldn’t see any land, and there was only the ocean in the shape of a perfect circle all around them. Getting nervous, Alamanda asked, “Where are we?”

“A place where a man kidnapped a girl that he loved, many many years ago,” replied Kliwon.

After that enigmatic statement, Comrade Kliwon lay down peacefully on a cross board, looking up at some seagulls flying in the blue sky. As the time passed Alamanda, who was not used to being in the middle of the ocean, began to shiver from the cold. Her clothes were still wet from their recent swim. Comrade Kliwon told her to take her clothes off and dry them on the roof of the boat, as long as there was still some sun left, because they were going to be at sea for a long time.