You are that woman, hunched over, rummaging through the trash. Your hair is thick and stiff, dull, black broom bristles covering your face and shoulders. You’re so comfortable there, like the guardian of a shrine, keeping it as clean as can be, unclogging drains or groping to sweep dust and insects from under the bed.

I’m shocked.

You are the woman my recitation teacher told me about.

You turn around. I should be terrified, but I want to look at you. Your face is like paper in an old book, crumpled and pale. Dark circles frame eyes that protrude like marbles sprinkled with ash but, oddly enough, your lips are moist red, fresh. Beautiful.

‘Why do you like blood so much?’ I ask.

Your voice is hoarse and soft, so far away, so ancient. You whisper, ‘Because it’s life.’

Doors

Bambang was found asphyxiated in his favourite car, a red 1982 Mercedes Tiger. As if the fact of his death wasn’t tragic enough, the state of his corpse was pitiful: he was reclining in his seat, naked, his safari suit crumpled beside him. Every part of his body lay exposed, subject to gravity’s spite. The folds on his chin, his belly, his genitalia – everything appeared to sag, on the verge of collapse. Everything, that is, except his eyes. They gaped open, staring upwards in terror.

The condition of his body gave rise to several theories. Some doctors suspected he had masturbated himself into oblivion, not knowing that he had become trapped inside his car. The reddish marks on his neck were a puzzle, though. They seemed to indicate bites. Or, perhaps they came from a noose. Maybe Bambang had been seeing someone and that person had left him for dead in the car. But no fingerprints were found on the vehicle except his own. Then again, if this was a premeditated murder, the criminal wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave fingerprints.

Ratri, his wife, didn’t cry. At the funeral, her face as she accepted the condolences of colleagues and relatives was so calm that it invited both sympathy and suspicion: what kind of woman could be so cool in the face of her husband’s death? The unnatural demise made Bambang’s corpse a spectacle, a mystery to be pursued in forensic labs, newspapers, and on television.

Inevitably, allegations emerged about Bambang’s private life. Everyone knew that Bambang and Ratri had been sleeping in separate rooms. Surely a third party was involved. Perhaps Bambang had been finished off by a prostitute trying unsuccessfully to blackmail him, or a mistress fed up with his broken promises to marry her. Or perhaps his wife, who hadn’t shed a tear, had hired a hitman.