"She has a wonderful beauty, Ratu."
"What does a beautiful woman look like, Gubreg? Please tell me completely. I want to know and I want to feel it too. I believe in your sight."

The old man was silent. He stared at Kopag, and a deep pain seared through his chest. Ida Bagus Made Kopag had a very beautiful tall body, and very adept hands for carving. From a young age his grandfather had taught him how to feel wood, how to know what form that wood took. Sometimes a teacher came and taught him to read Braille, allowing him to use his hands to open up his mind.

"The boy is blind, Gubreg. He has to carry all of his father’s sins on his shoulders. His growth will always remind me of what his father has done, and the most eternal darkness will belong to my grandson. But I still believe in talking to life. You can see that, can’t you? Life itself gave him an incredible present. My grandson has the eyes of every man on this Earth. See, he could carve those statues perfectly. Take care of him well, Gubreg. Treat him as if he were your own son!" Ida Bagus Rai had made himself clear before he died.

"Gubreg, you haven’t answered my question yet! What does a beautiful woman look like? Does she look like this chunk of banyan tree, cold but always exciting? I always touch, Gubreg. What kind of feeling is it that often excites me when I touch something? Is it a feeling that belongs to men? Does it have a masculine shape?" Kopag now spoke in a slow, deep voice.

Hyang Widhi! The Ruler of World! Kopag had grown up and was now approaching twenty-five years of age. He had spent his time reading Braille books, or sometimes a foreigner, Frans Kafkasau from France, came to visit him. And Gubreg was very concerned about that middle-aged man’s visits. He always brought something inappropriate with him. Sometimes he interpreted foreign books and read them to Kopag, such as the one about Michelangelo Buonorty, who, according to Frans, was a Renaissance era sculptor.

It was bothersome. Ever since Kopag had made friends with Frans, there was always something that Kopag had wanted to ask Gubreg.

"Don’t you want to answer my question, Gubreg?"

"Don’t ask me those strange questions, Ratu. I can’t explain like Frans does. Ask that white man!" The jealousy in his voice was obvious.

The old man was quickly becoming upset. His chest often boiled, and every time he heard that a letter had come from that French man, he felt all the contents of his stomach simmer dangerously. Thinking now of how Kopag spent so much of his time in discussion, he was becoming angry. That white man had taught him too many new lessons, given him too much attention, and Kopag need no more.

Something was becoming lost in the old man’s body, and the cavern that had consumed it ran deep. To Gubreg, Kopag had always been like his own breath. He had taught Kopag to learn to feel the wood’s texture. He had focused all that carving ability on the weak little boy. He also tought him that all things have their own soul, even the carving knives. Gubreg had taught him how to strip his carving knives and enjoy the incredible sharp smell. He remembered now how, when Kopag was seven years old, he had screamed when he had touched a naked blade for the first time.

"Gubreg, I’m in awe every time I touch these knives. Their sharpness is very beautiful. So full of mystery. Incredible, Gubreg ."

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