A Story for Ning

By Wildan Em Asrori

We met in a corner of town. It was drizzling and you got caught in it. Under the dark skies you walked in hurried steps. Amused by your deathly pale face, I smiled. Then, under a shop awning, along with some homeless kids and other outcasts, you stopped next to me.

Like running water, our conversation flowed because we were in the same boat. Even though you started the conversation by just asking the time, I dare say you were bold enough to get involved in a game that lasted several hours that evening.

Something developed from our brief introduction. I could never decide what to call it or how to describe it. I never dreamed of such an unplanned encounter, but we continued meeting, either at your house or mine. Every now and then we had a rendezvous in a mall, cafe or park to stave off feelings of fatigue, laughing heartily.

Once, I noticed your face blushing as words of love streamed from my mouth. You gazed at me in disbelief before bowing your head. We felt our bodies drifting away, moving like confetti, from one place to another.

Only God knows how it all began, then suddenly you threw your head against my chest, your small hands coiling around my waist and our hearts racing faster and faster. Then, without our knowledge, we had undressed. Moments later, there was a deep silence. We found ourselves gazing up at the blank ceiling. You burst into tears then you beamed a sweet smile. That was my first experience.

In point of fact, I did not know what you had in mind about this life. You never seemed dejected. You always appeared happy and cheerful, and you were always laughing.

I vividly recall a story you told me, that when your parents died, first your father then your mother some five months ago, you never really felt sad. Their deaths made you happy, because you could do whatever you wished without anyone belittling you or putting you in a corner.

I was baffled by the life you led. Once, on a moonlit night, I read a poem to you. A poem about a heart-rending massacre committed by a mob on a distant island. About dead bodies scattered on the streets and millions of refugees with no future. I was hoping you would be moved, sob uncontrollably. But my poem seemed to amuse you, you smiled broadly and laughed bewitchingly as if you had just heard a funny story.

"When did you become a poet?" you asked, giggling. "Don't become a poet, as time goes by you'll go crazy!"

Many nights followed, all like the ones that had already passed. The crumpled sheets became more crumpled when you, or more precisely we, were unable to control the roaring thunder in our bodies. I was never aware of what had happened until it was all over. We ended up lying under a blanket, our eyes closed as we caught our breath. Maybe I had regrets, but I am not sure.

We slept until the morning sun had penetrated the window and the sound of blaring horns pierced our ears. We slept like logs. Perhaps too exhausted. The poem I had read to you disappeared, forgotten by both of us. In the morning, we bathed together before breakfast.

Once, after breakfast, wiping your lips with a piece of tissue, you said, "We must lead this crazy life in a crazy way, otherwise we will go nuts as well."

On another bright morning, I asked you to come with me to wander around a slum, watching the life of an ailing city where hungry children cloaked in buzzing flies loitered in front of rickety huts. You covered your nose, disgusted. Perhaps behind your sunglasses, your eyes were clamped shut.

"I can't stand being here. Let's go home now," you said in a hoarse voice, almost begging.

"Look at it. This is real life," I said.

"No, this is not our life," you snapped, turning your head away from me.

"I don't understand ... "

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here. I feel like I'm going to vomit."

"Just another second."

"No! I really feel like I'm going to be sick."

I don't know why I couldn't say "No" to you. I was like a henpecked husband, obeying your every command. All I wanted to show you was that life was full of misery. Despite the luxuries scattered along the main streets and their imposing buildings, poverty was everywhere.

You didn't care. And I was always on the losing side. Yes, I lost every time my body grazed against your satiny skin. Every time you whispered tenderly in my ear. Ah, how could I possibly win the games I invented to make you understand the very essence of life, when you eventually dragged me into a game of your own making. And only God knows how many thousands of words of thanks I whispered for the warmth you gave me.

And one day I turned into a lunatic. Deep inside I regretted meeting you. I felt I had been trapped. I realized that the ecstasy of making love to you was not everything the world had to offer. I cursed myself.

Then there was that fight we had one afternoon. Profane words poured from your mouth and I responded with one slap after another. Tears streamed down your bruised face.

"Life is cruel, Ning!" I yelled.

You vanished after that afternoon, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed you. I felt relief. I set pen to paper to write poems about the life we had led.

I wrote this story 360 days after you disappeared. After failing to write a single poem. After many lonely, eerie nights.

Now I realize your presence means the world to me. This is not a question of winning or losing, subduing or being subdued, loving or being loved. I think we have to see each other again, make love to make life colorful, discuss our hopes and dreams, share our happiness and everything else beautiful.

I think I have gone crazy. I have been driven mad by all the problems in this stinking life. Problems that keep coming. Problems that stem from broken promises. You were right, Ning, when you said we shouldn't make promises because promises were always broken.

Maybe someday I will need to find a rope and hang myself under the skies of this beloved country!

Translated by Faldy Rasjidi.