Honesty

Amien Wangsitalaja

After several years in my marriage, I got that seven-year itch they talk about. I became increasingly goaded by fantasies about other women.

I would think about women I saw on the street, the teller at the bank, students, even the demure-faced girls in headscarves on the bus.

And then there was my wife's sister, Hera. She was cuter than her older sister, and I enjoyed talking to her about our mutual love of literature.

"It's not about ethics," I told my wife, Tutun, believing that owning up about my fantasies was the best policy. "It's merely a fantasy in my life that does not disturb my moral practices.

"Moreover, Hera is your sister, I'm not going to make her mine. There's no way of going beyond my imagination and having an affair with Hera. No, Tutun, you're my wife and I love you in every way. My love for you is real, while my fantasies about other girls, including Hera, are just that."

I always remembered the Prophet's wise words that a man who sees beautiful maidens on his travels must immediately go back to his wife.

I took it to mean that I could fill my mind with carnal thoughts outside the home, and come home to Tutun to make them reality. I would write poems about my imagined experiences to keep my imagination going.

My arguments did not placate Tutun's jealousy.

"You have sex with me but you fantasize about Hera," she screamed at me.

"Oh, no, Tutun. With you, I'm totally guided by morals. I realize I'm not living in a fantasy. So, I'm not thinking of Hera in the act. I know if I imagine her while we're making love, then I commit adultery according to religious teachings."

But I was forced to question my argument again when one day Hera wrote a short story that was published in a local newspaper. It ended with the words, "even candor is tainted with hypocrisy".

The story itself had nothing to do with me and Tutun or Hera, but those last words shocked me.

I had indeed told my wife and sister-in-law that I loved them both in different contexts and qualities. She lived with her parents a few houses from ours, but she preferred to stay with us, able to nurture her love of poetry through discussions with me.

With her in our home, my fantasies grew, and Tutun became increasingly irate.

"You used to urge me to give my true love, perfect and undivided love, to you," she said bitterly.

"You're right, Tutun. And now, too, my love is for you and remains undivided. It's my imagination that is split."

"You will make it happen sooner or later! Or, at least, all of this has deprived me of my trust in you!"

"Tutun, Hera is our sister."

"I don't envy Hera, I'm jealous of your love, which I thought was sincere but is now disgusting!"

"Don't you think that I'm still the same as before?"

"You're only saying that, it's just empty words."

I was at a loss for words. Was I still pretending to be honest? Or should I have kept my imagination to myself instead of being candid? I meant to be truthful but it had only made things worse.

***

Bang Bachri shared my anxiety as I told him the problem. He was my kind senior, who could serve at the same time as my tutor and fervent partner in discussions at the cafes he invited me to. We worked together as freelance writers, producing contemplative articles.

"If you're convinced that you love your wife, there's no problem."

"Of course I am. Even if there are digressions, my love for her is never lost. I hope I'll love her even more."

"Well."

"But the point is how my wife can accept this situation."

"You accept it and understand her jealousy. Then take it all for granted."

***

It was a beautiful Sunday, just as I hoped. We were planning a family trip to the country to relieve the pressure of our daily routines.

But my wife went back to sleep after her dawn prayer, saying she was dizzy and unwell.

Our kids woke up at six. I bathed them and Hera, who stayed with us that night, prepared our breakfast. Everything was ready for the picnic.

When Tutun eventually got up, she said, "You just go ahead, I'm not feeling well".

I was bewildered. My heart pounded with anticipation at being together with Hera, but I wondered what was wrong with my wife.

Was Tutun testing me?

We set off, and I enjoyed the opportunity of talking to Hera, and seeing the children having fun. But, all the while, I thought about Tutun, probably crying alone at home.

I made an excuse about avoiding afternoon traffic jams and we left shortly after the picnic.

As we turned into the driveway, there was another car outside. The children got out of the car and ran to the door, pushing it open.

Then came the awkwardness, the stumbling words and the embarrassed looks. Bang Bachri was there, trembling and sweating.

"Bin... forgive me..."

I didn't understand what his apology was for. I only wanted to see Tutun immediately. Was she ill? I went into her room without responding to him.

Tutun was sobbing while embracing the children. And when she saw me she cried out.

"We didn't go too far, I promise."

I could not grasp what Tutun meant.

Now Tutun rose to hug me, her tears falling on my chest..

Without knowing exactly what had happened, I believed Tutun was being honest with me about feeling sorry. She was not Hera, who thought that candor was tainted with hypocrisy.

Then I held Tutun tightly in my arms. I cried, too. We were both honest after all.

*** Translated by Aris Prawira

Note:

Bang -- Jakarta term of address for a man.