The Drafting Table

By Titis Basino

When I first got married, my husband and I lived in a small house. Our house was so small that it took less than an hour to clean. There were only two rooms.

In the back was a garden where together we'd count the new plants as they sprung up. Our early life together was one of great closeness.

Beside the house was a garage but, as my husband had only just graduated from engineering school, we didn't have enough money for a car, not even a used one. So I made use of the space.

Each morning my husband left for his job at a government office. He, along with three coworkers, was picked up and dropped off by an office car each day.

Every morning I would wave to him as he left for work and then, reluctantly, begin to tackle the housework. At first I felt inept at everything, especially cooking, and I would sit at the kitchen table, leafing through the cookbook and contemplating for long periods of time what to cook.

What would be the easiest thing to cook, I wondered, as I went through the book. Everything seemed so complicated. And the ingredients were all expensive, far too dear for the salary of a young engineer fresh out of school.

One day, unable to figure out what food to prepare, I went into our room. In the room was a table, my husband's drafting table. On the side of the table was a knob that, when turned, allowed the table to tilt up or down, to the right or left, and on an angle.

For a long time I stared at the drafting table, which doubled as our dining table.

My husband often sat in front of the table, contemplating for long stretches of time. But he thought about other things, no doubt, than cooking, as I was doing.

On the table were a number of sketches. The drawings weren't clear and I had no idea what they were for but at the top of one sheet, were the words "trial home" and, at the bottom of the page, "side view" and "front view".

I gave the sketches no more thought; I had to get back to the food I had yet to prepare.

I decided to work on the laundry first and later buy what I needed from one of the passing vegetable vendors.

As I was gathering the dirty laundry I heard the call of a vendor outside. This one turned out to be a small and comical- looking man.

With a number of shirts still in my arms, I stood before his cart inspecting the produce. The man appeared to be able to guess what was on my mind.

"And what will it be for the young missus today?" he asked. "What are you going to cook? Stir-fried vegetables? Chicken soup? Or maybe chicken gizzards and greens?"

I felt my face flush. For one thing I didn't like my new title, "young missus", and, for another, I felt that he was mocking me. He might have been joking but I truly felt that he was indirectly making fun of my husband's limited income.

I tried to keep my voice calm: "Today I think I'll cook ... vegetables!"

"But you cooked vegetables yesterday," he replied. "Why not make a lamb curry?"

"Because we don't eat lamb curry," I told him. "It causes high blood pressure."

The little man laughed gleefully.

That afternoon I placed a bowl of spiced vegetables, fried eggs and some chili sauce on the drafting table. Truly a meal for newlyweds, one that's cheap and easy!

I was asleep when my husband came home but jumped up when he planted a kiss on my cheek. But then the misery set in: Dear God, the food on the table was covered with ants and I had forgotten to remove my husband's drawings.

My husband wasn't upset. We'd only been married a month at this point and there were never angry words between us.

How quickly time passed. Five years had gone by but we remained, through good times and bad, the closest of companions.

There came a time when a large project my husband was working on came to completion. The project manger, with whom my husband worked, laid off all the architects and sent the five engineers back to their former jobs. But the desks they had one occupied were now taken. The university, it seems, wasn't the only place where competition for a seat was high. At my husband's office, too, there were not enough seats to go around.

My husband grew increasingly irritable. He seemed exhausted, completely disinterested with life. The situation worsened and reached a critical point. By now we had four children and it was very difficult to make ends meet.

Previously, I had sometimes asked my husband if I should find a job to increase the family's income. Now I knew there was no point in asking: I had to act as if there were still meals being prepared in our kitchen. Little mouths needed milk, bread and vitamins. Their developing minds required games and books. I somehow had to provide.

I took a job in a private firm and paid a babysitter to look after my youngest child. Meanwhile, my husband, the idealist, took teaching jobs at just about every technical faculty in this stifling city.

Opposition to my working was voiced by family members on all sides. It was especially difficult for me to deal with my parents-in-law who did not like seeing their grandchildren being looked after by a stranger. In the end, however, they were forced to acquiesce once they realized that we were simply trying to provide a better life for our family.

By this time the drafting table had been moved to the garage, which had become an office where students came to see their professor. Thus, I was no longer serving our meals on the table. It was now being used for its intended purpose.

If ever, late at night, I wanted to find my husband, I always knew I could find him at the drafting table, absorbed in some kind of work. It was a pleasure for me to have a companion when I had to stay up late with my own work.

One night, after I had finished work, I brought out a cup of coffee to him in the garage. I looked over his shoulder at what he was doing. "This looks interesting," I said, trying to visualize his plans. "Is someone really going to build this?"

"Yes," he told me," a certain Haji Jamal."

"He must be wealthy."

"And this is going to be my commission," he stated proudly while holding up a drawing of a family home.

"That's for you, is it?"

"No, Rani, it's going to be my gift to you."

And so, during the months that followed, even as he executed building plans for his clients, he was building a house for us as well. I was forbidden to see the house while it was under construction -- it was to be a surprise anniversary gift.

I continued working. But, on the last weekend of every month, I would take the children to the mountains.

Because of a heavy backlog of work at the end of the month, my husband usually wasn't able to join us.

I liked the weekends in the mountains. Naturally, I found sleeping in such a cool place refreshing. Unfortunately, for my husband, there was always something that prevented him from joining us.

He was too busy and "it's not like we're newlyweds anymore", he'd often say.

One weekend the children decided they didn't want to go to the mountains but would rather go to their grandmother's. So I took the four of them to Cipete and then came back home. As I was lounging around the house I suddenly got the urge to see our new home.

I completely forgot my husband's request that I wait until our 10th wedding anniversary to see the house.

I took the car and set off toward the construction site which was located in Pejompongan, behind the church.

From the outside the house looked finished. In front was a low iron fence. The yard was fairly large with a foot-high hedge around it. I couldn't bear to wait another moment to see inside.

I parked the car on the side of the street and walked up to the house. I was surprised to see that my husband's car was in the garage. He must be inside, I thought. But I didn't go straight inside. I went around to the side to a detached extension that was separated from the main house by a decorative pool over which arched a small footbridge.

The detached wing had four rooms. On the teak doors were the names of our children: Nora, Raja, Rima and Prely. I smiled to myself.

I then went across the footbridge, beneath which water lilies were already growing, and came to the main part of the house.

In front of the terrace, at a slightly lower level, was a rose garden. The black marble floor of the back terrace glistened like water. On the verandah were six chairs; dining chairs, I presumed.

I went inside but found the house deserted. Where was my husband? His driver, Pak Di, was asleep in the car, his mouth wide open.

The living room floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpet. The carpet was wine-colored with soft, thick pile. Gray velvet curtains covered the windows and a glass wall. In the room was another set of six chairs. These were large and soft, and white as snow.

I ran my hand across the back of one of the chairs. Then, suddenly, as if doused with cold water, I jumped. I heard the sound of someone humming in one of the rooms. My husband never sang. I wondered who it could be.

I entered the room. It was the master bedroom, our bedroom.

As the house hadn't been wired for electricity I was barely able to see. I looked around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. One wall of the room was covered with mirrors; there were wooden cabinets on the opposite wall. In the middle of the room was a white bed.

And there, on the bed, was my husband, stretched out naked beneath a blue blanket.

Just as I was about to go in to wake him, the bathroom door opened and a slender body emerged, without a thread of clothing on. She stopped, startled, in front of the door.

The woman appeared to be as taken aback as I was. For a second I couldn't move, but then I began to seethe. As I fled the room I heard my husband calling out my name: "Rani, Rani!"

I ran to the car. I could hardly put the key into the ignition for the tears were stinging my eyes.

I'm surprised that I managed to get home and there I began to cry. I sobbed endlessly and started throwing things, anything that I could get my hands on.

Finally, I plopped down on the floor, feeling completely weak and lifeless. I wanted nothing more than for the earth to open up in front of me and swallow me whole.

But then my husband was suddenly standing in front of me. From where I was seated, I stared upward at his face. That face, which I had studied for almost 10 years, was no longer mine. He had placed too low a value on himself.

I stood up and went toward him, scrutinizing his face and his mouth even as he began to apologize: "Forgive me, Rani, it was only the first time."

"Well that's great, Mr. Big Shot. For all I know you could have done it a hundred thousand times, and still say you're innocent."

My hands shook as they tore open his shirt then ripped his undershirt. I beat my fists against his broad chest.

"Kill me, Rani," he said. "I'll let you."

"What? And have me jailed for murder? So that you can be finally free of me? Get out of here and take all of your things and your women too!"

I hurled a bottle of cologne at the medicine cabinet. As the mirror shattered, so did my heart. I ran into the bedroom and cried my weary self to sleep.

Thus marked the end of my marriage. Now my husband spends his nights in nightclubs surrounded by laughter and young women. I now live alone with my four children in our small but memory- filled house.

When it's cold at night I miss the warmth of a man's touch, a husband's. Sometimes the thought of remarrying flashes through my mind but then I remember that I am no merry widow. I am the mother of four children.

I pass the lonely nights with my pen in hand, writing for the various magazines that are scattered on the drafting table.

Translated by Claire Siversen.

Glossary:

Haji: haj, title for a male Moslem who has gone on pilgrimage.

Pak : term of respect for an older man, in general usage.

This story is taken from Menagerie 3, printed here courtesy of the Lontar Foundation. The above story first appeared in the literary magazine Horison in 1976.

Titis Basino was born in Magelang, Central Java, and once worked as a flight attendant for Garuda Indonesia Airways. She has written several short stories and novels, including Pelabuhan Hati (Harbor of the Heart).