The Foot

By Bakdi Soemanto

Just after the magrib (evening prayer) period was over, Zwili Zanten said to Zardula, her husband, she had to leave for her mother's home. The old woman had been unwell for more than one week. Since Zwili's sister was in Klaten to buy a quantity of corn for resale in the market, no one took care of her. Once Zanten thought to take her mother to her husband's house but the old mother refused because she did not want to bother her son-in- law. She knew Zardula was a painter who required tranquility and quietness to create images on canvas, especially when he was painting supernatural beings such as The Queen of South Sea and the like.

A year ago when Zardula was sketching Batari Durga, a goddess dwelling in the Krendawahono forest and renown for her armpit's hair, for a tourist from the United States, his mother-in-law suddenly entered his studio without knocking on the door. The painter was very angry with her because she drove the goddess away from his mind.

"I lost my model," he screamed. "Where's she now. You should be responsible for that..." He stretched his arm and pointed his finger at the old woman. She shook all over.

"You lost what?" Zwili suddenly came to calm him down.

"My model!"

"Model?" She asked as she looked at the drawing. She saw a beautiful woman with long swaying hair dancing in the wind among the trees.

"How beautiful. Who is it, mas?" she asked again.

"The woman's gone because of your stupid mother."

"I don't understand what you are talking about."

"You, too, never understand the world of the artist. You spend the money I make from these paintings but you do not have any artistic appreciation at all. What sort of woman are you? Get out of here both of you. Get out...!"

Both women trembled with fear as they looked at the reddening face of the artist. The wind suddenly blew into the room, slamming the window.

"She's coming again, she's coming again. Please sit down..." Zardula said to the invisible woman. "What would you like to drink, perfume, eau-de-cologne, deodorant spray, or just flower water?"

Silently, Zwili and her mother sneaked away from the room.

"He must be crazy," the mother whispered as she stepped out of the house.

"No. He's an artist. I love him so much, mother. He's a distinguished man. He's able to talk with the silence of the night, the emptiness of the sky, the bitting anger of the hopeless people driven away from their own lands..." Zwili said convincingly. Yet the old woman strangely perceived him as a frustrated husband.

"He's friendless, isn't he? That's why he talks to dead things like walls, leaves, flowers, fried bananas, a grain of rice, etc..."

No one was at home except Zardula when Zwili took a becak to her mother's. Before she stepped out of the house she said she would like to spend the night there.

"Just for one night, mas," she said. Zardula nodded seven times to give his consent.

"Say hello for me to ibu," he said.

"I will."

"You can stay there for three days, if you like," the painter suggested.

"No. I don't think so. I'll be back tomorrow morning. I've to change the bandage on your toe. Otherwise, it'll begin to smell. I'll take you to the puskesmas (public health center) tomorrow at eleven. Doctor Mubarika will open her practice from ten to twelve. She's terribly nice. Everybody likes her very much," she insisted.

"I think I can go myself. Please don't spoil my foot too much. It'll be all right tomorrow."

Zwili didn't understand why her husband wanted her to leave him alone. She thought he didn't love her anymore. It was not that easy to live together with an artist. He's something of a creature from another galaxy.

"I love you so dearly, mas," she said to herself as she stepped into the becak (three-wheel pedicab). "I'll be right back tomorrow. I'll take care of your swollen, stinking toe..." She then beckoned the becak driver to go.

It was almost 12 o'clock at night. Zardula laid down on a bed stretching his legs covered with a blanket decorated with lines. What if Batari Durga or The Queen of South Sea came over to see him, he thought.

"I would ask them a favor to bring a message to Tarti. Where's she now? I've been missing her for ages." He murmured. He thought of the woman as the goddess of inspiration to stimulate his creative talents. He had finished and sold more than 20 art works, yet he felt he had done nothing. To him, those were simply handicrafts rather than art because they were created for money instead of sincere expression from within. In fact, he had been dreaming of painting Dewi Sri, the goddess of prosperity, inspired by Tarti's smile and voices. The one that would be his masterpiece. But he seemed to come to grief simply because he never even had the chance to touch her fingers.

"She's now in town, pak," said a seemingly familiar voice.

His eyes opened wide. He wanted to get up as he looked around but he suddenly felt a pain in his toe.

"Ow!" He almost cried. When Zardula stared at his right foot, he saw the toe moving under the blanket. He uncovered it quickly to see what happened to the swollen toe, and found that the bandage was soaked in blood.

"Oh my God!" he sighed. Zardula didn't know what to do because he felt as if his right leg were stuck on the bed. His back was drawn backward to again lie flat. Both of his arms were seemingly pulled downward and they, too, were stuck on the bed. Lying down stiffly, he was like a dead body. His mouth was strangely locked, no way to even move his lips. The only part of his body he could move was just his eyelids to blink.

"Are you leaving tomorrow?" A voice was again heard. He felt his left toe move but then stood still when the voice stopped.

"Yes, certainly." As the voice was heard, he felt tremendous pain in his right toe. "I've got sick of being a foot. I'm going to take a leave!"

"For how long?"

"I don't know, maybe for two months or two years or two centuries..."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Absolutely I am."

Silence prevailed for three seconds. The heart beat was heard again followed by the rushing sound of the blood flowing through the vessels, veins and the nerves.

"My God. What's going on?" Zardula thought. He wanted to cry out but he felt the lips getting stiffer. The more he wanted to shout, the stiffer they became.

"But you're sick and stinking." The left toe moved again slowly to the right. "You need a doctor."

"Yes. But Descartes has said, 'I think therefore I am.' I say 'I stink therefore I exist'." The right toe was getting more painful. "Would you like to come with me?" it continued.

No answer was heard.

"You and I have been enslaved for more than forty years by our master. We must rebel. Rebel. Rebel!"

Zardula felt it getting more and more painful.

"Look. Our master just said without mbak Tarti his works would be nothing. Remember?"

"Yes, I do."

"He didn't mention us at all. You and I have been taking our master everywhere he wants to go. We took him to see her when she was a student. Remember?"

No answer was heard.

"We took our master to buy oil, canvas and paint to catch a likeness of her face. You and I have been supporting his body, his arms, his neck and his head for days and nights but he has neglected us. He thinks we're simply nothing and deserve nothing. I'll teach him a lesson!"

No answer was heard.

"He just thinks of the hair by going to the barber to have it cut and washed every month. He just thinks of his tongue by eating hundreds of satay kambing (goat), drinking beer, smoking cigars. He just thinks of the eyes by buying sunglasses for them. He spoils the teeth by brushing them every morning and afternoon..."

"Stop it. Now listen. If you leave tomorrow morning, what will happen to him? He's going to go to the art gallery to discuss the one-man show." The left toe moved slowly.

"I don't care. He has painted much small people, the oppressed and the outcasts to stimulate intellectuals to think seriously about them. Yet he enslaves us. He's a liar, a scoundrel. He has exploited us to gain his fame. Do you realize what he has done for us?"

No answer was heard.

"He just bought a pair of sandals. I hate them. They are so stinky, that's why I'm stinky. The pungent smell is now our trademark."

No verbal reaction was heard.

"Do you remember when some journalists took his picture. He just wanted a passport photograph to be printed on the morning paper without thinking of us in the least bit."

No answer was heard.

"Early in the morning I'll sneak out of the house and I'll sing a song, Jangan ditanya kemana aku pergi (Don't ask me where I'm going ). That's too much. Are you coming with me?"

No answer was heard. Zardula was apprehensive about the answer to be given by the left toe. The heartbeat was heard clearly.

"Okay. I'm going..."

Hearing that answer, Zardula got up quickly as if a magic force had pulled him up to sit. He bent over his body and pulled the right leg closer to his lips. How strange. He was able to move his lips and all his organs became normal. Zardula kissed the swollen toe as his tears fell on the sheet. No words were spoken. He then moved the pillows from the head to the foot.

"I'll stop thinking of Tarti and start thinking of you, I promise. Please don't leave me."

"Tomorrow morning, Zwili will be back. I'll let her take care of you, wash you all and give you all the perfume, deodorant, and flower water that I usually offer to the goddesses. In fact, you're the spring of my creativity." He kissed them again and again.

Early in the morning at about six, Zardula opened the door because someone knocked on it with effort. He found a young man on the steps who said that Zwili would be back 10 days later.

"Ow!" He screamed. The pain relapsed.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," a voice was heard again.

"I'm going, too," the other voice responded.

"Ow. Owww!" Zardula screamed loudly as the toe was getting more and more painful.

Bakdi Soemanto is a staff member at the Center for Studies of Cultural and Social Change at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta.

Note: mas = brother, ibu = ma'am, literally means mother, mbak = sister, pak = sir, short for bapak (father).