Eka Kurniawan - Beauty is a Wound

A week after the wedding, when all that was left of the festivities was garbage and rumors, the newlyweds moved to the house Shodancho had bought for them, a house left over from the colonial era which came with two servants and a gardener. It was Dewi Ayu who had told them to move, giving them the impression that they should come to visit her as rarely as possible, or maybe never come again. “A married woman doesn’t associate with whores,” she told Alamanda. Her mother was always right, and with a heavy heart Alamanda moved out.

That whole time, in accordance with her vow, Alamanda never removed her iron underwear. It was as if she was a soldier from the Middle Ages, forever wary of the enemy who could ambush at any time and come stabbing with his flabby but still quite fatal sword. Shodancho himself appeared to have given up all hope of opening them, especially after consulting with a number of sorcerers. All the sorcerers shrugged their shoulders and said there was no force, no kind of evil spirit, that could appease the vengeful power of a wronged woman. He paid a lot of money for those useless consultations — not for the advice per se, but to keep the sorcerers quiet so that the family shame would not leak out and spread. And it was that very shame that meant he couldn’t ask anyone else for advice about his problems in the bedroom.

He had already tried to convince his wife to loosen up with her accursed hardheadedness, but then without ever surrendering or taking off her iron undies, Alamanda decided that she should sleep apart from Shodancho, like a couple waiting for the courts to finalize their divorce. This meant that Shodancho had to sleep alone, hugging his pillow and rolling about in a state of forlorn arousal. Alamanda said to him once — who knows, maybe out of pity or just because she wanted to show her magnanimity—“If you absolutely must spew the contents of your balls, feel free to visit a prostitute. I wouldn’t be angry, in fact I would be happy for you.”

But Shodancho refused to do what his wife advised. Not because he thought he could overcome his desire, and not because he wasn’t interested in whores, but because he wanted to show her how deeply faithful he was, how selfless his love was for her, and he hoped that after a while his wife’s heart would yield to his sweet and blameless manner.

But Alamanda showed no sign of giving in, and only took off her iron underwear during those brief moments when she was inside the locked bathroom in order to pee and wash herself, and after that she continued to clamp them up tight along with her secret mantra, which was safely hidden away inside her mouth wherever she went.

Shodancho hoped that his wife would carelessly say the mantra out loud and he would overhear it, but he waited in vain because she never even murmured it in her sleep. The only thing Shodancho could do now was surrender to his fate, and accept the fact that he would never again make love to a woman, forever confined to his emergency sessions with his pillow in his lonely bed. Other times, when he couldn’t take the crazy game any longer, he would scurry to the bathroom and discharge the contents of his balls into the toilet.

During those days, he tried to distract himself by once again focusing on the smuggling business he had been running for years with his friend Bendo. Now they had acquired a large fishing vessel, their one legal operation. He also returned to his old hobby of breeding and domesticating wild dogs. After one year had passed, the dogs could help the farmers chase away trespassing pigs. But that whole year had passed without the newlyweds ever making love, and people started to gossip. They had the audacity to swear, full of certainty, that Shodancho and Alamanda had not had intercourse even once, which was proven by the fact that Alamanda still showed no signs of being pregnant.

A number of kids began to speculate that if Shodancho wasn’t impotent then maybe he was sterile, and a number of others dared to say that he had been castrated by the Japanese during the war. That crazy story spread from the mouth of one kid to the ears of another and was soon overheard by some adults who believed it and spread the word even further.

No one thought to make any other speculations, like the couple’s hasty marriage had not at all been based on love, because despite their secret bedroom woes, the pair always presented a congenial public face, looking just like a husband and wife who truly cared for each other. They attended parties together, and were often seen taking afternoon walks hand in hand and going to the movies on Saturday nights. It was easy for people to misunderstand when seeing the harmony of a couple like that. Alamanda always looked cheerful and Shodancho always doted on her, so the only reason why one year had passed and Alamanda wasn’t pregnant yet had to be that either one or both of them was sterile. “It’s such a shame, their wedding seemed so perfect,” someone said finally.

The only person who didn’t feel the slightest bit upset by all the gossip was Alamanda. As if she couldn’t care less about the whole matter, or as if it amused her, when not accompanying Shodancho to ceremonies she spent her free time reading novels. It was in fact these books that had taught Alamanda how to play the role of a happy wife for the public. She didn’t do so just to preserve her husband’s image but also to preserve her own, because she didn’t want anyone to know that she was married to a man she didn’t love. She didn’t want anyone to pity her.

Apparently Shodancho’s were the last ears to hear the distasteful gossip about his impotence and potential castration, which had started in the mouths of those nosey little kids and had gone so far the kids had stopped playing war, under the mistaken assumption that soldiers were likely to be castrated. When he finally heard, Shodancho was completely distraught, stewing in a mix of humiliation and anger and helplessness. Outside the bedroom business with his wife he thought their marriage was going pretty well. Alamanda presented herself as the cordial wife she ought to be and so he didn’t totally care that she was faking it. But he couldn’t just keep shooting the seeds of their babies into the toilet forever, and it finally dawned on him that one whole year had passed and he still had not been able to break that fucking pair of iron underwear.

So one night, after many months of sleeping in separate beds, Shodancho entered the room where Alamanda slept and found his wife putting on her pajamas. He closed the door and locked it, then approached Alamanda who eyed him suspiciously while feeling for her crotch to ensure that her iron protection was still locked and set. Shodancho then said to his wife, “Make love to me, darling.” His voice sounded miserable.

Alamanda shook her head and turned her back on him to get into bed. Shodancho grabbed her from behind and ripped her pajamas open. Before Alamanda could react, Shodancho had already pushed her down onto the bed, taken off his own clothes and quickly jumped on top of her. Alamanda resisted, pushing his body away with all her power, but Shodancho was holding her tightly, kissing her wildly, and squeezing her breasts, full of desire. “You are raping me, Shodancho!” screamed Alamanda, trying to roll away. But Shodancho kept after her, exploring and squeezing every region of her body. “Shodancho, you accursed satan, you devil, you asshole, try to rape me and your spear will break against my iron shield!” Alamanda said finally, no longer resisting and letting Shodancho fondle her in vain.

Now Shodancho could move more freely, fooling himself into thinking that he was really making love to his wife, until his weapon hurled sperm across the surface of the metal slab protecting her vagina. Shodancho rolled onto his side out of breath, drops of sweat decorating his entire body. He was completely silent for a moment as Alamanda enjoyed his foolishness, happy in her victory and her revenge. He glared over at her crotch in fury, his legs in excruciating pain after repeatedly colliding with the iron. Grimacing, he sat on the edge of the bed, and began to cry the pitiful tears of a pathetic and brokenhearted man, and he said, “No matter how many times I do this to you, you will never get pregnant. Your cunt and your womb are cursed.” He got up, got dressed, and left his wife’s room.