The Shirt Torn in the Back

By Agung Mabruri

The pressure to get by and provide for our daily needs had me and my wife Asih, just married for six months, racking our brains to figure out how to make some extra money.

We discussed everything from opening a newspaper stand, a catering business or a small retail shop, weighing the pluses and minuses of each idea. But we stumbled when it came to finding the start-up capital. The problem was that we needed to find the capital to get a business going, but to obtain the capital we first needed an asset like our own business!

It caused us a real headache. My wife began perusing the classified ads, looking for work. But, as I expected, none of the jobs appealed to her.

One day, driven to despair, she said she was going to sell her bracelet, necklace and ring for our start-up capital. She insisted despite my initial objections. Finally, I consented.

But then, giving it a second thought, I agreed only to the sale of her bracelet and necklace. The ring was a wedding gift from me and I had painstakingly saved up to be able to buy it. Being able to buy that ring was almost as hard as winning the heart of Asih, the village beauty. Selling the ring would amount to selling my love for her!

Asih agreed, but that did not solve our problem because the money from the jewelry was not enough to start a business. We soon developed another headache. I didn't have the courage to borrow from relatives or close friends. And I wasn't even sure how willing they would be to lend me money, because they would no doubt wonder about what kind of guarantee I could provide. "Trust" was perhaps the word I would try if the loans were to be sought. But hadn't public confidence fallen so low because of the chronic crisis that people didn't even trust their friends?

Again, we thought very hard about how to get more money. Borrowing seemed impossible. We couldn't sell any household goods because we didn't have anything more valuable than a 14-inch TV set, whose installment payments we had only completed two months ago, and a computer a friend had given us, which I used every night for my writing.

***

"We still have an empty room!" Asih called out one night, sitting up in bed.

"So what?"

"We could rent it out. Somebody would surely be interested!"

"How much do you want to charge?"

"Three or four hundred thousand a month will do, I guess. What about it?"

I was stunned by my wife's clever idea. I wondered why it had not occurred to her much earlier. "OK, but let me paint it first."

So the next morning I painted the room we intended to rent out, while Asih was away getting some tips on likely tenants. As I ran my brush across the wall, I began to imagine the money we would make. With this extra income I could open a newspaper stand. I knew somebody down the street who wanted to sell his stand.

***

Yusuf was the student who lodged with us. As a good host, I treated him well, though I had an odd feeling about him from the time he arrived. I don't know what prompted this feeling. Yusuf was nice, friendly and polite. I had no reason to dislike him, but that was simply the way I felt.

I tried on numerous occasions to overcome my aversion for Yusuf, but I failed each time. It became even worse when I caught him on one occasion chatting with Asih on the porch. My blood boiled and burned. Now and again, I became suspicious and my mind began to wander. But were my suspicions sound? Or was I just being jealous? I had no idea.

It would have been embarrassing to ask my wife directly, let alone Yusuf. So I kept it to myself.

Then, one day, I had to rush home to get the key to the newspaper stand, which I had forgotten. The house was silent and the front door was wide open. I walked inside and as I passed Yusuf's room I heard an ominous noise. My heart started pounding. I could hear Yusuf and Asih's voices coming from behind the closed door. What were they doing? My long-standing mistrust was about to explode. I smelled the scent of doom. I was seething with rage.

I smashed open the door to Yusuf's room. He was standing next to the door, looking pale. My wife was sobbing on the bed.

"It's him, mas! It's him!" she cried out, pointing at Yusuf.

"No! Not me!" Yusuf pleaded with a tremble.

My blood surged to the crown of my head. The smell of death grew stronger and stronger. I raised my knife high and ...

"Don't!" screamed a woman who suddenly appeared two steps in front of me.

I was taken aback. Where did she come from? Her body and robe- like clothes convinced me she was not a local. But who was she and where was she from?

"Do you want to kill this man?" asked the stranger.

"Yes, I do. He was going to rape my wife."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

"All right then, let's prove it together." The woman approached Yusuf. "If his shirt is torn in the front, your charge is correct, Yusuf was attempting to rape your wife. But if the back of the shirt is ripped you are wrong, and it is your wife who loves Yusuf."

She examined Yusuf's shirt for quite a while and then she nodded. "What you believe is true. The front is torn. Now kill him!"

I lost control of my emotions. I raised my knife again and brought it down with all my might on Yusuf's neck. But scarcely had the blade touched his flesh when somebody shook my shoulders.

"Come on, wake up! Wake up, mas, it's late!" I heard Asih's voice and saw her sitting on the edge of my bed with a smile. I rubbed my eyes, wishing I could get some more sleep and finish my dream.

***

A month later, as I was doing some gardening out back, I stealthily watched the face of Yusuf, who was hanging out some clothes to dry in the sun. I was filled with admiration. Where had I ever seen such a handsome and gentle fellow? The morning sunlight fell on his face, making it even brighter. But while absorbed in these thoughts, I noticed that one of Yusuf's shirts hanging on the clothesline was torn in the back ...

Mas: Javanese term for an older male or a husband.

Translated by Aris Prawira