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AMONG THE GIRLS I knew, Inem was my best friend. She was eight, just two years older than me, and much like the other girls I knew. If there was anything that distinguished her, it was that she was much prettier than the other girls in my neighborhood. She lived at my parents’ home, where her family had placed her. In return for her room and board, she helped in the kitchen and looked after me and my younger siblings.

In addition to being pretty, Inem was also polite, clever, and hardworking—not pampered at all—traits that helped to spread her good name to adjoining neighborhoods as well. She would make a good daughter-in-law some day, it was said. And sure enough, one day, when Inem was boiling drinking water in the kitchen, she announced to me: “I’m going to be married!”

“No, you’re not!” I told her.

“I am, I really am. The proposal came a week ago. My folks and all my other relatives think it’s a good idea.”

“Wow! That’ll be fun!” I shouted ecstatically.

“It sure will,” she agreed. “They’ll buy me all these beautiful new clothes. And I’ll get to wear a bride’s dress and have flowers in my hair and powder, mascara, and eye shadow. I’m going to like that!”

Inem was telling the truth, as we were soon to learn when, one evening, not long afterward, Inem’s mother came to call on mine.

*  *  *  *  *

Inem’s mother earned what money she could from making batik. That’s what the women in the area did when they weren’t working in the rice fields. Some made kain, batik wraparounds, while others made headcloths. The poorer women, like Inem’s mother, worked on headcloths; not only did it take less time to make a headcloth, they received payment for their work much sooner. On the average, a woman could make somewhere between eight and eleven headcloths a day. Toko Ijo, the store that bought the headcloths that Inem’s mother made, supplied her with the cotton fabric and wax. For every two headcloths that she produced, she was paid one and a half Dutch cents.

Inem’s father, on the other hand, liked to gamble—with gamecocks, especially. All day, every day, he spent cockfighting. When his rooster lost, he had to turn it over to the victors owner, plus pay the owner two and a half rupiah, or at the very least 75 Dutch cents. And when he wasn’t doing this, he was playing cards with his neighbors for ante of one cent a hand.

Sometimes Inem’s father would go off on foot and not come back for a month or more. Generally, his return home meant that he had somehow managed to make some money.

My mother once told me that Inem’s father’s real source of income came from robbing travelers on the road that ran through the huge teakwood plantation that lay between Blora, our hometown, and the coastal town of Rembang. I was in first grade at the time and heard lots of stories about robbery, banditry, killers, and thieves. Because of them and because of what my mother told me, I came to be terrified of Inem’s father.

Everyone knew Inem’s father was a thief, but no one dared to report him to the police. And anyway, because no one could prove that he was a thief, he was never arrested. Besides that, it seemed like almost all of Inem’s mother’s male relatives were policemen. One was even an investigator. Even Inem’s father had once been a policeman, but had lost his job from taking bribes.

Mother also told me that Inem’s father had been a thief before becoming a policeman, and that the government, as a means of containing crime in the area, had made him a policeman in order to sic him on his former associates. After that, he’d quit robbing people, she said—but that didn’t stop her or others from viewing him with suspicion.

*  *  *  *  *

The day that Inem’s mother came to call, Inem was in the kitchen, heating water. When Mother went to greet her visitor, I tagged along as they convened to the sitting room, where they arranged themselves on a low wooden daybed.

It was Inem’s mother who opened the conversation: “Ma’am, I’ve come to ask to take Inem home.”

“But why? Isn’t it better for her here?” my mother inquired. “You don’t have to pay anything for her to stay here, and she’s learning how to cook.”

“I know that, ma’am, but I plan for her to get married after the harvest is in.”

“Married?!” My mother was shocked.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s old enough—all of eight now,” Inem’s mother said in affirmation.

At this my mother laughed, a reaction that excited in our visitor a look of surprise.

“Eight years old? Isn’t that a bit too young?” my mother asked.

“We’re not rich people, ma’am, and the way I see it, she’s already a year too old. Asih, you know, she had her daughter married off when she was two years younger.”

Mother tried to dissuade her, but Inem’s mother wouldn’t hear of it: “I just feel lucky someone’s proposed,” she argued, “and if we let this proposal go by, there might not be another one. Imagine the shame of having a daughter become an old maid! Besides, once she’s married she might even be able to help lighten the load around the house.”

Mother let this pass but gave me a nudge. “Go get the betel set and spittoon.”

I did as ordered, fetching for Mother the brass spittoon and the decorative box that contained all the ingredients for chewing betel.

“And your man, what does he have to say about this?”

“Oh, Inem’s dad agrees,” Inem’s mother affirmed, “especially as Markaban—that’s the name of the boy who’s proposing—is the son of a rich man, and an only child too. He’s already begun to help his father, trading cattle in Rembang, Cepu, Medang, Pati, Ngawen, and here in Blora too.”

This information seemed to cheer Mother, though I could not understand why. She then called for Inem, who was still at work in the kitchen.

When Inem came into the room, Mother asked her, “Inem, do you want to get married?”

Inem bowed her head; she held my mother in great respect and always deferred to her. I noticed that Inem was smiling radiantly. But she often looked like that: if you gave Inem something that made her happy she would always respond with a huge smile. “Thank you” was not something she was used to saying. Among the people in our area—simple folk by and large—the expression “thank you” was an unfamiliar phrase. A beaming smile, the happy look on one’s face, was the way gratitude was expressed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Inem finally whispered, almost inaudibly.

My mother and Inem’s mother each prepared a cud of betel. Mother rarely chewed betel, doing so only when she had a female guest. Every few moments the silence in the room was broken by the twang of their spitting into the brass spittoon.

After Inem returned to the kitchen, Mother stated flatly, “It’s not right for children to marry.”

Inem’s mother raised her eyebrows but she didn’t respond. I saw no curiosity in her eyes, merely a hint of surprise.

“I was eighteen when I got married,” Mother said.

The look on Inem’s mother’s face vanished. Her unspoken question had been answered. But still she didn’t say anything.

“It’s not right for children to marry,” Mother repeated.

Once again, Inem’s mother stared, as if not knowing what to say.

“Their children will be stunted.”

Again the look of puzzlement on Inem’s mother’s face faded.

“I’m sure you’re right, ma’am . . .” Then she said evenly, “My mother was eight when she got married.”

As if not hearing what her guest had said, Mother continued: “Not only will they be stunted, their health will be poorly affected too.” .

“I’m sure you’re right, ma’am, but my own family is longlived. My mother is still alive and she’s at least fifty-nine. My grandmother is living, too. She must be about seventy-four. And she’s still strong, strong enough to pound corn, anyway.”

Still ignoring her, Mother added, “Especially if the husband is young, too.”

“Of course, ma’am, but Markaban is seventeen.”

“Seventeen! My husband was thirty when he married me.”

Inem’s mother said nothing. She kept moving the betel cud around and between her upper and lower lips and teeth. One moment the wad would be on the right side of her mouth, the next moment on the left. Occasionally she would pluck the cud from her mouth, roll it tightly between her fingers, and then use it to scrub her blackened teeth.

Mother had no more arguments with which to dissuade her guest’s intention.

“Well, if you’ve made up your mind to marry Inem off, I can only hope that she’ll get a husband who takes good care of her. I just hope that he’s the right man for her, the one destined to be her mate.”

Inem’s mother then left the house, still churning the cud of tobacco around inside her mouth.

After she had gone Mother said softly to me, “I hope nothing bad comes to that child.”

“Why would anything bad happen?” I asked her.

“Never mind, don’t pay attention to me,” she told me, before changing the subject of conversation. “At least, if her family’s situation improves, we might stop losing our chickens.”

“Is that who’s stealing our chickens?”

“Never mind,” she repeated, then spoke slowly, as if to herself: “And just a child! Eight years old. Such a shame. But they need money, I suppose, and the only way to get it is by marrying off their daughter.”

Having said this, Mother left the house and went to the garden out back where she gathered some string beans for our dinner.

Fifteen days after her visit, Inem’s mother came to the house again, this time to take away Inem for good. She seemed extremely relieved when Inem made no objection to being taken away. When Inem was ready to go and leave me and her foster family forever, she came to look for me at the kitchen door.

“Goodbye,” she told me, “I’m going home now.”

She said this very softly, but she always spoke softly. In my small town this was one way of showing respect. And then she left, as cheerful as any young girl expecting to receive a new dress.

*  *  *  *  *

After Inem stopped living at our house, I felt the loss of my close friend very deeply. And from then on, it wasn’t Inem who took me to the bathroom at night to wash my feet before going to bed, but an older foster sister.

At times I could hardly contain my longing to see Inem. Often, when lying in bed, I would recall the image of Inem’s mother taking her daughter by the hand, leading her out of the house, and then escorting her to their own house, which was located behind our own, separated from our property only by a wooden fence.

In the first month after Inem’s departure, I often went to her house to play, but whenever Mother found out where I had been, she’d get angry with me. “What’s the use of going there?” she’d ask. “You’re not going to learn anything in that house.”

What could I say? I had no answer. Whenever Mother scolded me, she had her reasons, and her words of reprimand were a wall that none of my excuses could ever scale. My best course was to say nothing at all.

But then, when I said nothing, she was sure to continue: “What’s the point in playing with Inem? Aren’t there lots of other children you can play with? Inem is a woman now and is going to be married soon.”

Despite my mother’s objections, I continued to sneak over to Inem’s house. I found some of my mother’s prohibitions surprising; it was as if their only reason for existence was to be violated. And in violating them, I have to admit, I derived a certain pleasure. For children such as myself, at that time and in that place, there were a startling number of rules and taboos. It seemed as if the whole world was watching us children, conspiring to keep us from doing anything we wanted to do. There was almost no getting around the perception that this world was meant only for adults.

*  *  *  *  *

For five days before Inem’s wedding, her family prepared food and special cakes. As a result, I spent more time than ever at her house.

The day before the wedding, Inem’s bridal preparations began. Mother sent me to her house with five kilograms of rice and 25 cents as a contribution to the event. And then, that evening, after Inem was prepared, all the children in the neighborhood gathered at her place to stare at her in admiration.

Inem’s eyebrows and the fine hairs on her forehead and temples had been trimmed and shaped with a razor and their lines accentuated by liner and mascara. Her hair had been thickened and made longer with a switch, then ratted and shaped into a high chignon. Sprouting from this was a spray of tiny paper flowers the stems of which were made of fine, tightly wound springs that swayed with the movement of the bride’s head. Inem’s kebaya, the hip-length buttoned blouse, was satin and her kain was an expensive length of batik from Solo. Inem’s family had obtained these things from a rental store in the Chinese district near the town square. Her gold rings and bracelets were rented too.

The house was festooned with banyan cuttings and coconut fronds. Tricolored bunting of red, white, and blue—cinched at regular intervals to create a series of upside-down fans—ran around the edge of the ceiling. The house pillars, too, had been wrapped with tricolored ribbon.

Mother herself went over to help with the preparations, though not for very long; in less than an hour she was back home. She rarely did this sort of thing, except for our closest neighbors.

At that same time a cartload of gifts from Inem’s husband-to-be arrived at Inem’s home: a big basket of cakes, a billy goat, a large sack of rice, a bag of salt, a gummy sack of husked coconut, and a half sack of sugar.

As the wedding feast was being held just after harvest, the rice was cheap. And when rice is cheap, all other foodstuffs are cheap too—which is why the post-harvest period is the most favored time for weddings and also why Inem’s family was unable to hold a wayang kulit performance; all the puppeteers in the area had already been contracted by other families or communities.

Because no puppeteers were available, Inem’s family decided to hire a female dance troupe. At first this had caused some contention: Inem’s mother’s side of the family was well known to be devout, but on this point Inem’s father would not back down and, in the end, a dance troupe arrived, complete with its gamelan orchestra and female tayuban dancers.

In my area a tayuban performance was generally reserved for adult males, who participated in the dance, along with young children whose knowledge of sexual matters did not extend much beyond kissing and who were there only to watch. Pubescent boys generally shunned tayuban performances because they usually ended up being embarrassed by the female dancers. As for the women, no woman of respect would ever attend. In order to arouse excitement among the largely male audience, a tayuban performance was always accompanied by the consumption of alcoholic beverages—palm wine, beer, whiskey, or gin.

The tayuban for Inem’s wedding went on intermittently for two days and nights. We children had a great time of it, watching the men and women dancing and kissing, clinking their glasses together, and gulping down shot after shot of liquor as they danced and sang.

Although Mother forbade me to watch, I went on the sly.

“Why do you insist on going over there? Sinners is what they are. Just look at your religious teacher. Is he there? No, he’s not. You must have noticed that. And he is Inem’s uncle!”

Inem’s uncle, my religious teacher, also lived behind our house, just to the right of Inem’s, and his absence at the tayuban performance was widely noted. The comment on everyone’s tongue was that Inem’s uncle was a pious man and her father an incorrigible reprobate.

My mother justified her anger with an argument I did not at that time comprehend: “Those people have no respect for women. Are you aware of that?” she asked incisively.

When the bridegroom came to the house to be formally introduced to his bride, Inem, who had been seated on the wedding dais, was led forth from her home. At the door to the verandah, where the bridegroom now waited, she knelt before her husband-to—be and demonstrated her obeisance to him by washing his feet with flower water from a brass vase. The couple were then bound and together conducted to the dais.

Guests said, mantra-like, “One child becomes two. One child becomes two. One child becomes two. . .” The women’s faces glowed as if they themselves were the recipients of happiness to come.

It was then I noticed that Inem was crying. Her tears had smudged her makeup and left watermarks in the powder as they trickled down her face.

Later, at home, when I asked my mother why Inem had been crying, she told me: “When a bride cries, it’s because she is thinking of her departed ancestors. Their spirits are at the ceremony, and they are happy because their descendant has been safely married.”

I didn’t give much thought to my mother’s reply, but later I found out that Inem had been crying because she had to urinate but was afraid to tell anyone.

*  *  *  *  *

The wedding celebration ended uneventfully and Inem’s home returned to its usual state. No more guests appeared with contributions. Now, instead, it was the money collectors who began to call. By this time, however, Inem’s father had left town on one of his travels.

After the wedding, Inem and her mother spent their days and nights making batik headcloths. If one were to pass by their home at three o’clock in the morning, there would be a good chance of finding them still working, with smoke rising from the pot of heated wax between them.

Often, the sound of raised voices could also be heard emanating from the house. Once, when I was sleeping with Mother in her bed, a loud scream awakened me: “No! I don’t want to!”

Later that same night I heard the same scream, repeated again and again, in time with a thudlike sound and then pounding on a door. I knew it was Inem screaming; I recognized her voice.

“Why is Inem screaming?” I asked my mother.

“They’re fighting. I just hope nothing bad happens to that little girl,” she added without further explanation.

I persisted with my questions: “Why should anything bad happen to her?”

Mother wouldn’t answer me. Finally, after the screaming and shouting had subsided, we fell asleep again. But the next night and almost every other night that followed, we heard those screams again. Screaming, screaming, incessant screaming. And every time I heard them I asked my mother what they meant, but she would never give me a satisfactory answer. At best she might sigh. “Such a pity, such a poor little thing . . .”

Then one day Inem appeared at the door to our house. She went to find my mother straightaway. Her face was pale and ashen and even before she tried to speak, she began to cry, but in a soft and respectful way.

“Why are you crying, Inem?” Mother asked her. “Have you been fighting again?”

Inem stuttered between her sobs, “Please take me back, ma’am. I hope you’ll take me back.”

“But you have a husband now, don’t you, Inem?”

Inem began to cry again. “I can’t take it, ma’am,” she said through her tears.

“But why, Inem? Don’t you like your husband?”

“Please, ma’am. Take pity on me. Every night all he does is wrestle with me and try to get on top of me.”

“But can’t you say to him, ‘Please don’t do that, dear?’”

“I’m afraid, ma’am. I’m afraid of him. He’s so big and when he starts to squeeze me he hugs me so tight I can’t even breathe. Won’t you please take me back, ma’am?” she pleaded.

“If you didn’t have a husband, Inem, of course I’d take you back. But you’re married now . . .”

Hearing my mother’s answer, Inem began to cry all the harder. “But I don’t want a husband, ma’am!”

“You might not want to, but you do, Inem. Maybe in time your husband will change for the better, and the two of you will be happy. You wanted to get married, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, but, but . .

“There’s no buts about it, Inem. No matter what, a woman must serve her husband faithfully,” Mother advised. “If you can’t do that, Inem, your ancestors will look down and curse you.”

Inem was now crying so hard that she could no longer speak.

My mother continued: “I want you to promise me, Inem, that you will always prepare your husband’s meals and that when your work is finished you will pray that God watches over him and keeps him safe. You must promise to wash his clothes, and you must massage him when he comes home tired from work. You must take care of him if ever he falls ill.”

Inem said nothing as tears streamed down her face.

“Go home, Inem, and from now on serve your husband faithfully. No matter if he’s good or bad, you must serve him faithfully. He is your husband, after all.”

Inem, who was sitting weakly on the floor, did not stir.

“Now stand up, Inem, and go home to your husband. If you . . . If you were to leave your husband, the consequences would not be good for you, either now or in the future.”

Head bowed, Inem answered submissively, “Yes, ma’am,” then slowly picked herself up and made her way home.

“How sad, she’s so young,” Mother said after she had gone.

“Mother . . . Does Daddy ever wrestle with you?” I asked.

Mother carefully searched my eyes. Her scrutiny then vanished and she smiled.

“No,” she said. “Your father is the best person in the whole world.”

She then went to the kitchen and returned with a hoe to work with me in the garden.

*  *  *  *  *

A year passed by, unnoticed. And then one day Inem came to the house again. She had grown in that time and now looked almost like an adult, though she was barely nine. As in the past, she went directly to Mother. When she found her, she sat, head bowed, on the floor before her.

“Ma’am, I don’t have a husband anymore,” she announced.

“What’s that you said, Inem?”

“I don’t have a husband now.”

“You’re divorced?” my mother asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But why?”

Inem said nothing.

“Didn’t you serve him faithfully?”

“I think I was a good wife to him, ma’am.”

“But did you massage him when he came home tired from work?” Mother probed.

“Yes, ma’am, I did everything you told me to.”

“Then why did he divorce you?”

“He beat me,” she stated, “all the time.”

“He beat you? A young girl like you?”

“I think I did everything to be a good wife, ma’am. But letting him beat me, ma’am, and putting up with the pain, is that part of being a good wife, ma’am? ” she asked in true consternation.

Mother said nothing as she studied Inem’s eyes. “He beat you . . . she whispered as if to herself.

“Yes, ma’am, he beat me—just like my parents do.”

“Maybe you didn’t serve him faithfully enough. A husband would never beat his wife if she’s been truly good to him.”

Inem said nothing to this. Instead she asked, “Will you take me back, ma’am?”

My mother answered without hesitation, “Inem, you’re a divorced woman and there are grown boys here in this house. That wouldn’t look right to people, would it now?”

“But they wouldn’t beat me,” she answered simply.

“That’s not what I meant, Inem. For a divorced woman as young as you to be in a place where there are lots of men around just wouldn’t look right.”

“Is there something wrong with me, ma’am?”

“No, Inem, it’s a question of propriety.”

“I don’t know what that means, ma’am. Are you saying that’s why I can’t stay here?”

“Yes, Inem, that is what I’m saying.”

Inem was left without another word to say. She remained seated on the floor, as if she had no intention of leaving.

Mother bowed and patted Inem’s shoulder consolingly. “I think the best thing for you to do would be to help your parents earn a living. I’m truly sorry that I can’t take you back.”

Teardrops appeared in the corner of the child-woman’s eyes. Finally, Inem stood. Listlessly picking up her feet, she left our house to return to her parents’ home. From that time on she was seldom seen.

And thereafter, this nine-year-old divorcee—for being nothing but a burden on her family’s household—could be beaten by anyone at will, by her mother, her brothers, her uncles, her neighbors, her aunts. But she never again came to our house.

I’d often hear her cries of pain and when she screamed, I’d cover my ears with my hands. Meanwhile, Mother continued to uphold propriety and the family’s good name.