Night

By Anton Kurnia

The bell rang. No reply. She must be out. He turned the key slowly.

The room was full of shadows gleaming in the dim light of dusk. The shadows almost appeared to be solid in form. He took off his jacket and turned his head to one side to avoid looking at the shadows. He looked in the direction of the light coming from the door to the front room. He was disturbed by the shadows. She must have cleaned this room. It was almost spotlessly clean.

There was a fireplace in the living room. He sat on a rattan chair in front of the fireplace with the remnant of a flame. His hands felt cold. He needed the warmth of the fire, dimly glowing in the corner of the room.

While he was on the road, he saw a dead dog. Killed in an accident or deliberately by a motorcyclist? The pool of blood had made him dizzy. He had wanted to squat briefly and touch the blood with the tips of his fingers. Someone pulled him by the sleeve of his shirt and asked him whether he was well.

There was something in the person's tone of voice that made him lose all desire to touch the blood on the road. He left the blood. Still, tracks of blackish red blood left behind by the wheels of automobiles played clearly before his eyes. Now, he needed warmth. Outside, the wind blew, as if pelting stones at the night.

He felt his bearded chin. He had not shaven for several days. His eyes were caught by a pile of objects. She must have left them on the carpet close to the fireplace. She was sewing a dress. He picked it up and touched it gently, guessing with his fingers where her breasts would be found behind this blue fabric. This morning he saw her only in her nightgown. She was very slim. The gown flowed around her body.

Why did he keep seeing the dead dog? Why did the pool of blood continue to disturb him? He had never seen the brains of a creature smashed out of the skull. Gray matter on blackish red. Thick.

***

Thousands of nights ago, he lay in bed behind her after they made love. In the embrace of her two slender, white and soft arms, he imagined her bones. He lay still beside the skeleton. But the next morning the woman woke up, a body full of flesh. Young and alone. Naked.

When he hurt her, he actually wanted to cover up his own pain. When he slapped her cheeks so that the soft skin turned red, he was actually trying to dispel the sorrow that tore through his own head. He told her about his mother's death. To him, his mother seemed to be wearing a mask to hide the deep pain engraved on her old face, at the wrinkled corners of her mouth and her thick eyebrows.

The room got darker. He was tired of having to ensure that the fire did not die. Slowly, the last ember died. Something cold blew along with the night that had just arrived. He felt as if the death of the flame could be felt at the tip of his tongue and traveling down through his intestines. Then it struck his heart, making it beat hard until the beating became so hard that it left only a vague sound.

He cursed all observations. He cursed torturing pain. The pain of a man with a scar on his face.

It was a full night. He felt that all his senses had returned. He could hear his own heart beating very hard when she stepped in.

She was wearing a long, white lace dress. She had such a slim body.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asked.

She went into the kitchen to light the stove. He rose from his seat. Like a blind man, he followed her to the kitchen. She was holding a box of matches. When he produced a single match, he closed the door.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

She did not listen and, saying nothing, she only smiled.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

She stopped smiling, trying to light the match.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

He came close to her. His hands were like two blind snakes. Trembling, she leaned against the gas stove in the corner of the kitchen. Her eyes shone. He put out the match with one puff.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

His lips moved slowly but he did not say anything.

"Why?" she asked.

He slapped her cheek hard with a trembling hand.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

He heard the rustle of fabric when she took off her clothes and heard her sobbing in fear when he touched her. Skillfully, he removed the rest of her clothes.

He moved to leave the stove and closed the door slowly.

In the living room in the middle of the house, he stopped before a mirror. He could not see his own reflection in the mirror as a put on his jacket. There are so many faces. One face with brown eyes. Another with a mole just above the upper lip. There were scars on other faces. He pulled up his collar, knowing it would be a cold night in the wet season.

While walking slowly along Dago, he counted the mercury lights that shone dull along the roadside. A quiet road that descended.

He opened the door and went into a brightly lit warm room. It was empty. A young woman behind the cashier's desk smiled at him. Tonight he did not order a strawberry doughnut or his favorite, croissant filled with cheese. He drank white coffee, left nothing and then go up to go.

He walked in the rain. Again, he counted the streetlights, but he could not remember precisely how many they were. He kept walking, slowly, penetrating the night.

***

The cafe on the corner was empty. The rain had yet to stop. He was practically alone in the dimly lit room, with only an Irish coffee. Desert Rose, the cafe, was empty of visitors that night. Only the music came out indistinctly from the corner of the room.

I dream of rain.

I dream of gardens in the desert sand

I woke in pain

I dream of love as time runs through my head

Outside, the sound of vehicles passing could no longer be heard. He had noticed nobody on the road when he was walking around in the rain earlier. He tried to scream, lashed out by loneliness. Useless.

A car sped by and the windows shone briefly. He again heard someone singing in the corner of the house.

I dream of fire

Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire

And in the flames

Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire.

She left to go. The rain had abated. Again she was out walking at night, in the direction of Braga.

The place was crowded. A nightclub. Ladies of the night giggled and noisily exchanged words. People danced, swayed their bodies, had fun. The world was happy. When a woman in a tight dress tapped him on the arm, he just kept on walking, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. He could not hear anything but the giggling of the women and the screams of people swaying their hips, followed by the loud sound of the music. Some women coquettishly approached him.

His stomach turned. He felt bile moving toward his mouth. Then he saw the pool of blood before his eyes. Red. Black.

Then, all of a sudden, he laughed loudly. He pushed his hands deeply into the pockets of his jacket and laughed frenziedly before the thickly made up faces.

One of his hands felt something soft in his jacket pocket. He took his hand out, pulling the soft thing out. He screamed loudly. Suddenly.

The laughter stopped. The room abruptly became quiet. Silence reigned. People stared at him.

He raised his hands to his eyes. He was holding a soft torn piece of cloth. A torn piece of dress.

"Anybody want to buy this dress?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "Come on, who is interested in buying it?"

The people in the room remained quiet when he laughed, simply ignoring their presence and waving a torn piece of white cloth covered in blood. Red turning black. As dark as the night.

Bandung, June 20, 2002

Note: The lyrics quoted above are two verses of Desert Rose, a song written and sung by Sting on the Brand New Day album.

Translated by Lie Hua