The Whiner

By Yusrizal KW

My friend Unai is a whiner. Day in and day out, he always has something to complain about. He embarks on a tale of woe the moment he meets someone. To Unai, life is one long series of complaints and, in his eyes, he is the ultimate sufferer.

We met yesterday and he told me he suddenly felt weak. His stomach whirled with sickening pangs. Every now and then he wavered on unsteady feet. But the most striking part of his complaints concerned family or money problems. He blamed his wife for being unsupportive, and for having armpits that reeked of garlic.

The day before he had met my wife and grumbled away to her. My wife said Unai's story took a sudden turn for the worse when he complained that he was shackled to a fat, ugly woman. He said bitterly that his wife did not understand him, and added it would be understandable if he was attracted to other women. This would be okay, he said, as long as he did not neglect his wife and children. His wife should be understanding, Unai said in accusing tones, and she should not be jealous.

An hour after he told my wife this story, we had a visit from Siriah, Unai's wife. Siriah told us that she had to put up with daily stress because of her husband, the only lover she had.

"He complains everyday. Isn't it just natural if we become jealous when my husband is attracted to another woman?" she said in her distinctive way of using the word "we" in place of the first person.

My wife and I had heard it all before. Nearly everyday, we were the sounding board for Siriah's laments and Unai's gripes. Siriah, who would ignore Unai's rantings, would reveal enough of her tale outside of the home to catch the interest of others.

"Just imagine, I always serve his every need. In bed, if he wants me on all fours, I do it. If he wants me to lie flat, I do that, too. Move to the bathroom for a new ambience. So, what does he want!"

Usually after pouring out her heart, Siriah would end up crying. Her final words were always an entreaty. "If he knew that I've told people the truth, he would complain about me to others, of course. Please, please don't tell him what I told you."

We assured her she could count on us.

***

Unai appeared on our front porch at dawn. I had just taken water from the well, but I was not surprised to see Unai. His latest whining repertoire flashed through my mind.

"Hope I'm not intruding?" he started. I smiled. I looked at his round face and untidy moustache. Gray spots speckled his head. His lanky figure seemed to undulate with the rhythm of his breath.

"What is it now?"

"My wife got money from her arisan. She is going to buy a satellite dish so that they can follow television drama series, and I won't need to go out to watch a movie. Well, I think it is like water under the bridge. I'd like to buy a secondhand motorbike with that money. In the afternoon, I could take the children for a ride on the backseat!"

That is how Unai started. His eyes grew misty as he slumped down into the rattan chair on the front porch.

"I feel like leaving the house. We quarreled last night. It went so far until she told me rudely 'You always watch TV at somebody else's house with a satellite dish. And we just stay at home. If you watch, I have to be with the children. What sort of wife do you think I am?'" Unai mimicked the words of his wife.

As usual, I did not reply. I just looked at him and nodded a little. That is how it is when you meet Unai. When he felt that his words had made enough impression, he said: "I'm telling you this because I think of you as family. But actually I'm ashamed!"

***

Unai is a school janitor and he is lucky he is a civil servant. Despite this, complaints about his workplace are a big portion of his daily gripes.

Everyday, he will relate his complaints to whoever happens to share his table in the foodstall. It would start with his salary, which has not been raised for years, distribution of rice that is sticky, or his rusted fence key. Other subjects may be the irritating sound of the school bell, or the school principal who sent him out to replace the vehicle license plate with a new one.

In another version, he would complain the school principal forced him to work late into the evening when he wanted to go home early to watch football on someone's TV set.

Most unpleasant of all was that my wife and I were always Unai's captive audience. There was always something.

Now, Unai was showing tell-tale signs of approaching me while I fixed a hinge on my front gate.

"My wife canceled the sale of the parabola in the end," he said right away. This bit of information arrested my activity momentarily. I smiled slightly when I looked at him.

"What did she buy with the arisan money?"

"She bought a secondhand motorbike, just the thing I wanted as I told you yesterday!"

"Thank God, if that's the case."

"What is there to be thankful about?" Unai said in a dour undertone. It sounded ominous. I thought he was a happy man. I knew that his wife, despite of his complaints, had fulfilled one of his wishes.

"After the sale, I felt the seller had cheated me. The engine does not start easily. Tax on the bike has been unpaid for the last two years. If we are charged, it would cost us a fortune. My wife is grumbling all the time now. If she had insisted on a satellite dish, we wouldn't be in this misery. Now she is bitching about everything.

You know what she said? 'We planned to buy a satellite dish but then you wanted a motorbike, too. If I would have said something about it, you would have called me a jealous woman. Now what? Huh!'" Unai sounded sad, even though he mimicked his wife's ire.

"Enough Nai. Forget everything at once! Collect some money, put things in order at the inland revenue office and service your motorbike," said my wife, who happened to have arrived together with Unai. Unai did not answer but turned his back and left. Just like that. My wife and I could only shake our heads.

Not long afterwards, Unai's wife arrived. She told her story of how Unai regretted purchasing the secondhand motorcycle with her arisan money.

"We showed how much we love him, but he never appreciated our love!"

My wife breathed long and deep, and so did I.

***

One day Unai failed to return home. Siriah panicked and looked for him everywhere. When she tired of searching, Siriah fell exhausted on our sofa. Then, one of the children came by clutching a piece of paper which she had found in the wardrobe. It was a letter from Unai. I read the letter, too.

I better leave. I can't stand the way you keep complaining about me. If you have a buyer for that ugly motorcycle, sell it, it doesn't matter. Buy a satellite dish with the money. I don't mind.

When Siriah had read the letter, her eyes appeared to be moist. It was not clear if she was moved, or was deeply touched. Then, she started to howl.

"If only he had realized it earlier, we wouldn't be in this mess. Where can we find a buyer for that motorbike?" she prattled on, beating her breast.

Her fat body quivered. She was still crying when she left. We could still hear her moans when she was in the yard.

It has been nine days now since we heard the voices of Unai and his wife. We miss their voices. Reality does not always comply with our feelings. We feel like we lost something. Siriah and Unai represented to us a family which had no peers, their bickering bouts symbolizing the essence of life. They loved each other, and showed their disappointments and losses in their own particular way.

One evening, when my wife came home from a family education meeting held in the office of the village chief, she broke the news that Siriah's home now had a satellite dish. The giant dish was set up in the family's yard. The motorbike had been sold after all. With a scant amount of money, Siriah was able to buy a secondhand dish from her neighbor, who had moved to a new address.

No wonder, some people said, Siriah rarely leaves home anymore. She is too busy watching TV, following the dramas and melodramatic series.

Sometimes. it was a drama promoted by Lux products. The two elementary school children also camped in front of the TV. Only Unai was missing from the scene. Where could he have gone to? Had he been forgotten by his wife, or was it the other way around? What was clear was that Unai was nowhere to be found.

One night during a downpour, Unai suddenly appeared at our home. He stayed for the night, but not before he treated me to one of his whining sessions.

"I never expected that my life would be one, long, suffering experience. My wife never came looking for me while I was away. When I returned home, I found her and the children busy watching TV. They welcomed me as if I'd never been away. I am truly sorry that she bought a satellite dish!"

"You told her to buy one in your note!"

"I was wrong. The motorcycle proved to be all right after repairs. I saw the person who bought it from my wife riding on it just now. My wife didn't even wait for me before selling the motorcycle!"

I shook my head. Typical Unai, I thought.

"I'm not going home if she doesn't come and fetch me. If she still loves me, she should meet me here. I'll stay here tonight, ok!"

My wife prepared the guest room for Unai. Before settling in for the night, my wife presented him with a plate of kolak she had cooked in the afternoon. Unai seemed to like it as he cleaned the plate at once.

Unai woke up very early the next morning. He sat covered in his sarong in the living room. My wife and I joined him while we waited for the water to boil. We had just taken our seats when Unai sighed deeply.

"If I hadn't been served kolak last night I wouldn't be suffering like now," Unai groaned as he looked from me to my wife.

"Why?" My wife asked him, watching his reddening eyes.

"The kolak was too sweet, there was too much sugar in it. It gave me a bad toothache last night! I wanted to wake you up for medicine, but, I thought better of it. Hugh...," He yawned.

My wife was quiet.

"Your home is infested with mosquitoes. It is hard to fall asleep with mosquitoes fluttering about and a toothache, too," he said casually. Unai never cared if he hurt people. I wanted to scold Unai but, knowing his traits, I kept myself in check. I knew my attitude was not at all educative. But what to do? I am helpless in this.

When the sun entered through the open windows, somebody knocked three times on the door. My wife went to open it and was confronted by Siriah.

"Your wife came to meet you, after all, Nai..," I said. Unai did not say a word. His wife approached us. Unai turned his eyes from his wife, looked at me and then at my wife.

"I am meeting the father of my children..," Siriah started to say in an effort to make Unai return home.

I watched them leave together, walking stiffly away from our home. Unai's wish for his wife to fetch him has been fulfilled, I said to myself. This meant his wife still loved him.

Two hours later Unai returned to our place. This time, his face was dark as he launched into one of his tirades

"I regret that I prayed for my wife to meet me, as a symbol that she still loves me..," he grumbled.

"What's wrong now, Nai?" My voice could not hide a hint of impatience.

Unai looked at me with tearful eyes. After I waited some seconds, I heard a new complaint. "My wife told everyone that I was sulking and that I wanted her to take me home when I left home.."

"So?"

"I cannot stand her attitude. It embarrasses me!"

Unai sat down. "I think I shouldn't stay here tonight, let her try and find me now," he said weakly. "But is it possible she is willing to spare some time for me, now that we have a satellite dish at home?"

After these words, Unai rose and left. Just like that. In search, perhaps, of a new complaint.

Glossary:

arisan: a communal money-saving scheme

kolak: fruit stewed in brown palm sugar

Translated by Claudine Frederik

Yusrizal KW, who was born in Padang, West Sumatra, on November 2, 1969, writes poems and short stories. His first poems were written in 1987 when he was a student at the High School for the Arts in Padang. In 1992, along with four journalists of Singgalang, he established Yayasan Taraju Ekspresi Budaya Sumatera Barat, a foundation dedicated to the development of art and culture in West Sumatra. He is secretary of the foundation. Pengeluh (The Whiner) appears in Pistol Perdamaian: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1996 (Pistol of Peace: An Anthology of Kompas Short Stories 1996). It is printed here by courtesy of Kompas.