Mannequin

By Nukila Amal

An event of madness has occurred inside this big house. It started when a box arrived one morning in April. Two guards from the front post appeared on the door carrying a long box. Another guard followed behind with a leather trunk. Without saying anything, they put the gear in front of Master's door. As had been ordered, I rushed to see Master in the garden. He was bending in front of a birdcage, silently listening to the bird chirping, his brow furrowed. The old face lightened up when I informed him about the arrival of the box. His frown ceased, the wattled neck stretched. He smiled at the bird, then at me. I hadn't seen such a sudden gleam on his face for a long time, and his eyes; they gave out sudden sparks of energy.

I then continued doing routine domestic work, as a good old servant should do. I forgot about the box and trunk, until two days later. Early in the morning, he called me into his room - I was one of a few chosen ones who had access to his bedroom, for cleaning purposes. He stood with a pale face, the door framing him. His white T-shirt was as rumpled as the wrinkles on his face. The sarong, too, was rumpled. I recalled it was the same sarong he wore the day before.

The bedroom was dark. The window was still closed, rays of sunlight seeped inside slicing the darkness, dimming my master's figure. He looked like an opaque midnight creature. I had always felt uncomfortable - almost terrified - every time I entered the room to clean up. The darkness seemed excessive, eerie, with dimness crouching and pulling in the air. Yet, that morning I felt a chill running down my spine; my eyes caught sight of another figure standing in the center of the room.

"Do you know how to put on a sarong?" he asked, then signaled me to come nearer. I nodded my head in confusion, following him towards the other figure that stood motionless. A woman.

Approaching nearer, the lady figure was actually a doll used in clothing shops. A mannequin. But this one was different. Her figure was not anything like those dolls with Caucasian faces and milky white complexion. She looked like a beautiful woman emerging from the canvas of the painter Basuki Abdullah, and then given flesh and bone with such real seemingness.

Her face and body was brown like sapodilla fruit, tall and slender. When Master opened the window, the dark outline became clearer; her face was egg-shaped, the eyebrow thick, nose taunt, the mouth small with half-opened lips. Her long hair neatly folded into a bun - not a wig - but planted on the skull. Whoever the creator had been, he definitely intended to bring the dead thing to life, breathing soul into it, daubing diamond-like sparks in her eyes. She was alive. I stood gazing at her in amazement until I heard Master's murmur behind me.

I couldn't catch his words. I only saw his finger pointing at the leather trunk which had been opened. The contents looked like the belongings of a female traveler who had just arrived home and unpacked her things hurriedly. Inside the trunk were batik sarongs, kebaya in various colors, a corset, a waist sash, hair accessories and other feminine items.

Master bowed in front of the trunk, pulling out a sarong and kebaya from a pile of folded clothing. I guessed he wanted me to dress up the mannequin. I just guessed, and so did not ask or clarify - I'm not supposed to nor ought to. It had been planted firmly, reaching down into my unconsciousness and the others' in the house. Not only here, but also in everyone and everything under his influence. He was once a very powerful man - whose power ended a year ago, taken away without his consent. Yet, it meant almost nothing. He was still in power.

He handed me a maroon batik sarong and a lacy white kebaya. I looked reluctantly at the things in my hand - all silks. He hovered about the trunk again, searching inside. He handed another thing over to me. Underwear. "Put them on her." He ordered and backed away. I glanced sideways. He took a seat on the rocking chair. His back rested comfortably on the wooden chair and it started to rock slowly.

The mannequin stood upright. Her eyes looked straight at me. I could have sworn, she looked angry. So angry, that I did not dare to touch her. I turned my head at Master. He seemed to get impatient, his mouth curved downward with one eye slanting. I knew that expression, he would wear that look before he got angry. Hurriedly I took out the corset from the silk underwear in my grip.

As I dressed up the mannequin, I stood behind her. I could not bring myself to really look at those eyes of hers. I felt her helplessness, her silence. At times I took several glances towards Master. He sat on the rocking chair, moving back and forth, sometimes sitting still. His expression changed from time to time. His lips would shut tightly, curl up, or smile a grim smile. At times he would close his hands in front of his face as if immersed in deep thoughts. But the famous nice smile of his never appeared even once. He gazed deeply at the mannequin; from her hair down to her feet, up and down, often stopping at her face. And at her stomach, too.

After a while, Master got up from the chair. I tightened the sarong around the mannequin's legs, observing him from the corner of my eye. In slow steps, he approached the wooden table in the corner of the room. I was buttoning the kebaya (it fitted nicely, those silks must had been tailored specially for her) when Master's head suddenly appeared behind the mannequin's shoulder. He put his hands around her neck as if embracing her. My heart began to beat faster. Then I heard myself releasing a sigh as my eyes caught sparks of shiny diamonds - he was only hooking a necklace.

Master stood observing the look of the mannequin, while putting on some earrings (I was not very surprised to find her ears were pierced), a bracelet, and a diamond ring. He looked satisfied with the outfit and the accessories, ordered me to tie her hair up into a bun, then signaled to me to leave the room.

On certain dates of the Javanese calendar, I and a few other senior servants usually had a traditional ceremony of cleaning Master's kris collection - bathing them in water scented with flowers and leaves, and reciting mantras. These ancient weapons were kept in an adjacent room. Connected to this kris room, there was another room where more weapons; guns, pistols, daggers, knives and samurai swords were kept. Strangely enough, for about two weeks I was the only one who was allowed to enter these rooms to clean up.

I was never normally into the habit of eavesdropping. But sometimes loud voices would seep in through pores of the doors and walls. I heard voices from the bedroom; words of disdain, swearwords and curses, in such a way I could never have guessed he would utter, he, who had always spoken politely.

His voice came in murmurs or in a low-pitched tone... Before, you, all of you, were obedient... I have adorned you, beautified you, given you jobs, ensured your security and prosperity so that you could grow and develop... All my twenty-four hours, days and nights, hours and minutes, were only for you, all my life... my life! Devoted, spent in thinking and planning everything for your own progress... and development! He chuckled and growled during his speech... I can be cruel, don't you know, I can be very cruel... I'll destroy you, every inch of your being... slowly, so very slowly, you'll be bleeding all over... His words were interspersed with occasional laughter and loud cries... ungrateful idiots!

At times I heard him referring specifically to the mannequin with the words mother, bitch, or in plural - you all, as if there was an invisible crowd behind her. The thing had many confusing identities. But whatever went through his head was angrily spoken to her.

Yet there were times when I heard him speaking tenderly with soft words, lamenting almost in tears... all, for your sake... my thoughts, words and deeds - all for you... why do you rebel against me..? against the will of the gods? The gods have sent me to serve you, o my beautiful land of emerald, to govern, to prosper you... you cannot punish me!

Then one day I heard him calling her Pertiwi.

Two days later, it was late at night when a guest came. Master often contacted him, and he would come at strange times. That particular man always wanted to leave good impressions on the servants and guards of the house, by slipping money into our pockets - for cigarettes, he would say while his bearded-face smiled constantly. Even though he liked to give away smiles and money, only a naive person would take him as a good guy - I think he was the type who had the heart to do bad things.

His visit was strange, because for almost two weeks Master had turned down visits and calls from other people, even his children and grandchildren. He seldom came out of the bedroom. When he was out, he would sit in the garden silently, watching the afternoon sky darken into blackness. This particular visit was even stranger, for whatever their business was, it was being unusually talked about in the bedroom. The guest had not left when I went to sleep just before midnight.

Next morning I was dusting cupboards in the adjacent room when the connecting door suddenly opened. Master came in. He stood looking at me and his kris collection, saying nothing. The room was silent, the atmosphere felt oppressive. It was awkward and uncomfortable - Master would usually chat with his servants. With me he usually talked longer, addressing me in the Javanese language. Yet at that time, he stared at me with such piercing eyes, I felt like I was a true convict. I consciously rose, heading to the exit door. My steps stopped when he signaled me to enter his bedroom.

Once inside, I immediately looked for the mannequin. On the floor. She laid there, bare. One leg stood up in the air, one arm had broken off the shoulder. The batik sarong was torn to shreds, just like the kebaya. Her hair was loose and disheveled like broken waves of black sea.

I felt a sudden nausea in my stomach. I stood motionless at the door when I heard Master's command. His finger pointed to folded clothing on the table, "Put them on her". Then he laid down on his bed, hands folded on his chest, eyes closed.

I looked at the mannequin with painful emotion, not daring to imagine what had happened to her last night. I took her up very carefully, as I would do to a wounded woman. I felt more nauseated when I found out cracks and stabs on parts of the mannequin's body. One arm was tainted with milky-white stains. Beneath, two krises lying on the floor.

Last night. Master and that bearded bastard! I started to make her whole again, with undefined feeling in my chest. One of her hand reached up, the fingers curling upward like an ill-fated dancer cursed to dance forever without pause. Her eyes lost their glitters, no longer sparkling stars but two moons clouded. I cleaned and dressed her up, stared at her face. At times my hands stopped, and I would stare at Master's figure lying down. He looked like a corpse.

My mind was crowded with guesses; what was going on inside the head of that old corpse, what kind of feelings and emotions were kept inside his heart. This woman mannequin in my hand, had been the object of his fury. I looked at her eyes: so silent, trapped beneath, powerless. But why should the object of his anger be directed at this dead thing? In the form of a woman? It never struck me that his revenge could be this manic, so severely sick ... Yet what did I know, I never dealt with power nor anything to do with it. I was only an old man who could fathom the pains only women could have. And the pain of common people too. For I was one of them. I was them.

Looking at the mannequin's soft face reminded me of the women in my life; my deceased wife - her hair was long and flowing like hers, with candlenut scent - my two daughters and my mother. I felt bitter as a man, my heart filled with compassion for other women who were hurt only because they were women, and for this woman in front of me. I brushed her hair carefully, to avoid giving her any more pain. While tieing her hair up in a bun, I sighed with relief that soon I would be out of the room - I felt like I had been taking part in this madness for ages.

Suddenly Master's voice broke the thin air, "Do not tell anyone..." He spoke, with eyes still closed and arms folded on his chest. I replied with a murmuring yes. "Anyone." He said resolutely. I felt like not saying anything, and carefully slipped two flower ornaments into Pertiwi's hair.

That afternoon, I sat under a tree on the back verandah, smoking my pipe. Smoke whirled in the air, reminding me of the wavy strands of Pertiwi's hair. Remembering her lying on the floor, her hair a mass of flowing blackness. I felt a tinge of pain in my chest. It felt familiar. My head filled with thoughts, in a retrospective way. She was just another victim of another madness. There had been many others, many women - living, breathing women, with children and spouses - whose fate were as fatal as hers. Turns of fate, twisted, broken, not from that old corpse's own hands, but other hands as well - menacing hands sprouting out of his hand. That maddening old bastard.

I could take it no longer. I must end my twenty years of devotion. This madness had to stop. On Sunday, Master will go out of town...

Yes, it had to be Sunday. After thinking up some careful plans, satisfied by the potential outcome of the plan, my mind wandered into something else. Imagining, if at that time, the whole house found him on his bed, dead. But dying in his sleep would be too peaceful for him.

Later that afternoon, I called one of his daughters who lived just two houses away. I did not tell her much, just about Master's unusual quietness and about how we worried about it. I asked her to come to the house two days later.

The day came. His two daughters arrived not long after Master had left home to go fishing. After telling them some further details, not everything, I took them to Master's bedroom. They asked me to stay in the room. So I stood there looking at the two walking around the room. They were both rich ladies, richer than their father.

They circled around the mannequin, eying her with their mouths half-opened, and then they started to talk in low voices to each other. The older sister looked at me with questioning eyes. "So, Father... umm, behaved like that... after this thing arrived?" Her finger pointed at the mannequin's neck. I said yes and lowered my gaze with fading respect.

The younger sister, all dressed in pink, walked toward the trunk and observed the contents. She shook her head as if not agreeing with the sight. The older sister just stared from afar with a worried expression, then continued taking a hard look at the mannequin, fingering her face and the outfit.

The younger one walked towards the mirror, she clipped a pair of earrings taken out of the trunk. She posed in front of the mirror, smiling and adjusting her hair. "Pretty, aren't they?" she said while admiring her image in the mirror. The older sister approached and stood beside her with an I-don't-care look, grasping her suddenly by the elbow.

"I'm just worried --" she whispered into the ears of her pink sister. She hesitated a moment. Her eyes fixed on the reflection of the mannequin. The younger sister stopped smiling, followed her sister's gaze at the glass. "...what if father sleeps with her..." With eyes wide opened, they both looked at the mannequin in the mirror.

I remember walking silently toward them. I remember my hands holding tightly the remains of a white kebaya once embroidered with pretty laces. I remember their startled faces. I'm remembering all.

My eyes blink, breaking memories. I look outside the window. Green trees, rice paddies are rushing backwards. Two more stops at small stations before this train arrive in Yogyakarta. From there I will take a bus to the village. I glance at the long box seated next to me. I am not afraid. Most likely, they will track me down and kill me.

Glossary: Kebaya: woman's traditional blouse, worn with a sarong. Kris: wavy double-bladed dagger, Javanese ancient weapon.