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Cerita Pendek Linda Christanty

KETIKA ayahnya menyerah pada Israfil*) di malam itu, dia bercinta dengan sebuah jazirah gelap di utara. Dia merasa dunianya dipenuhi kelepak burung elang dan hujan panah api tiada henti, berbeda dengan kematian yang sepenuhnya rahasia dan akhirnya tiba. Dia memejamkan mata, membayangkan desau angin, ladang gandum, dan pohon-pohon zaitun di suatu tempat yang sayup.

Sebelum kesakitan memuncak di bawah sana, matanya terbuka sekali lagi, menatap wajah lelaki itu. Begitu lembut. Begitu kanak-kanak. Dia tiba-tiba ingin memberikan seluruh dirinya sekarang juga, lalu menjelma udara agar tinggal di dalam darah dan paru-paru lelaki itu, menjaganya dari maut.

Ketika jari-jarinya menyentuh punggung lelaki itu, dia tak lagi merasa takut. Dia meresapi harum yang asing dan jauh, menyukai aroma ini meski sedikit gelisah karena begitu dekat dengan seseorang untuk pertama kali. Ketika lelaki itu menyeka pipinya lembut-lembut dengan jari-jari yang hangat, dia semakin tenang. Dengannya, dia telah melampaui apa yang tak terbayangkan. Kini semua hal sulit bagai simpul-simpul tali terurai, dan dia akan terus berpikir seperti ini.

Ayahnya adalah sisa-sisa kenangan dari sebuah negeri yang tak dikenalnya, selain nama dan garis batas di peta dunia, di utara. Kata “utara” itu seolah menjodohkan dia dan lelaki ini, seseorang yang seperti ayahnya terdampar di tempat yang barangkali tak pernah menghendaki mereka. Dia tak akan bisa melupakan keduanya; cinta ayahnya kepadanya dan cintanya kepada lelaki itu. Keduanya abadi, tiada tergantikan, seperti semua yang disebut “pertama kali”.

Di lantai dia melihat kalung emas lelaki itu tercampak bagai ular mati. Mata rantai persegi, dengan bandul yang juga persegi. Namun, dia membiarkan benda itu di tempatnya, tanpa keinginan memungut lalu meletakkannya di meja. Dia tiba-tiba merasa sedih, karena menemukan sesuatu yang tak memiliki kaitan apa pun dengan dirinya. Seperti baling-baling pesawat terbang di gunung salju: keduanya bukan komposisi yang sesuai, tapi musibah telah mempertemukan benda dan tempat tersebut sebagai hal wajar. Kini dia lebih merasa sebagai gunung salju, sesuatu yang pasif dan cedera.

Cahaya kota di luar hanya tampak bagai garis tipis vertikal yang bersinar, membelah tirai jendela tepat di tengah-tengah. Dia pelan-pelan meraih gaun terusan putihnya yang bermotif bunga-bunga hitam kecil, terbuat dari katun, yang ringan dan sejuk. Dia mengenakan gaun itu cepat-cepat, lalu teringat bahwa malam itu semua orang tengah berjaga di rumah sakit. Rasa gugup mulai datang.

Dari atas ranjang kusut mirip kapal karam dengan tumpukan kain layar basah, lelaki itu menggeliat bangkit seraya berkata dalam bahasa Perancis yang tiada dipahaminya, mungkin bergumam pada diri sendiri, mungkin benar-benar tertuju kepadanya. Menyadari betapa panjang diam yang terjadi, membuat si lelaki tersenyum dan beralih ke bahasa Inggris yang seketika jadi bisikan.

“Kita bisa memesan makan malam sekarang? Saya aslinya memang suka makan. Dokter bilang saya punya masalah dengan kolesterol, tapi itu kan kata dokter.” Lelaki itu kemudian mengerdipkan sebelah matanya.

Sepasang mata coklat gelap itu berkilat seperti marmer, dengan bulu-bulu hitam lentik di seputarnya, mirip sepasang mata ayah tapi dengan kilau riang sekaligus nakal.

Dia menjawab, “tentu saja,” lalu meraih buku menu di meja, dan dia belum mengenakan celana dalam. Dari bawah tumpukan kemeja dan pantalon lelaki itu di sisi tempat tidur, menyembul kain hitam berenda yang seolah dirinya dan sejumlah perempuan lain di belahan timur dan negeri ini, yang diperangkap patriarki; kata yang kurang puitis untuk puisi. Dia seketika jadi peka terhadap tanda-tanda, sebagaimana yang terjadi ketika dia belajar tentang film dan semiotika di minggu pertama di universitas hampir dua puluh tahun lalu. Kereta api, menara, cerutu, pantai, nyala unggun, burung gagak, dan warna-warna adalah tanda-tanda yang terus berbicara kepadanya. Dunia modern menamai pembacaan tanda sebagai ilmu, sedang dunia lama menyebutnya nujum; menafsir apa yang tersembunyi dari yang nyata-nyata hadir di hadapanmu.

Dan dia menyukai tanda-tanda. Seperti permainan. Seperti teka-teki.

Seminggu yang lalu, dia menjenguk ayahnya di rumah sakit. Selimut ayahnya tersingkap. Tungkai yang kurus pucat, sepasang kaki yang kelihatan mengecil bagai batang kayu kering, kaos kaki wol hitam. Dengan suara pelan ayahnya mengeluh tentang Al Fatihah yang tiada lagi diingatnya utuh, sehingga ibu menuntun ayah melafalkan ayat itu berulang-ulang dan terdengar seperti nyanyian sedih dari dua orang letih. Dia terpaku di samping tiang infus, sambil sesekali memandangi tetes-tetes glukosa jatuh.

Dia tidak akan berakhir dengan lelaki itu sebagaimana ayah dan ibunya.

Dia telah menelusuri jazirah kata-kata untuk menggambarkan hubungan kilat yang rumit ini dan yang paling mungkin hanyalah membubuhkan alasan-alasan, seakan membuat apa yang fana jadi berharga: bom curah, ranjau darat, senjata kimia, granat, peluru, roket, kecelakaan mobil, pembunuhan politik, atau racun radioaktif atau arsenik. Pertemuan dan perpisahannya mereka, dia dan lelaki itu, semata-mata untuk tujuan mulia. Begitulah dia menghibur diri.

Lelaki itu telah bersumpah untuk mengelana, semula untuk melupakan kata “utara” yang menguntitnya serupa hantu jahat dari pinggiran Paris yang bergentayangan mengawasi pabrik-pabrik, kata yang membayang-bayangi orang-orang pertama dalam keluarganya yang menjejakkan kaki di situ. Di benak lelaki itu tempat-tempat baru akan membebaskannya dari kata “utara”, tempat-tempat yang kebebasan justru tak ada atau baru diawali, dan membuktikan bahwa kata itu telah berkembang biak di mana-mana laksana sel kanker yang menggerogoti ayah. Kini lelaki itu bermimpi membantu siapa pun yang seperti dirinya.

Dia melihat bayangan memantul di cermin dinding. Dia memegang buku menu, dan di belakangnya seseorang yang baru dikenalnya dua hari lalu memungut-mungut apa yang berserak di lantai.

“Setelah ini saya akan menulis sebentar. Boleh?” tanya si lelaki, sambil mencium bibirnya sekilas.

Dia hanya mengangguk. Dia sungguh-sungguh tak keberatan. Mereka semakin punya banyak kesamaan, pikirnya, sama-sama suka merenung, berpikir, menulis, dan melawan apa yang musykil.

“Kamu pucat sekali.” Lelaki itu mengambil buku menu dari tangannya, lalu bergumam menyebut nama-nama masakan, membuka halaman-halaman. Menunjuk ini, menunjuk itu.

Dia merasa agak demam.

Ayahnya ingin dia mengawini seseorang dari keturunan yang terpuji, kepada siapa dia menjadi patuh dan apa yang dikatakan seseorang tadi menjadi kutuk serta berkah untuknya seumur hidup. Dalam hati dia tersinggung dan protes: mengapa dia harus tunduk pada seseorang yang tak akan pernah sederajat dengan ibu yang melahirkannya, seseorang yang tak merasa sakit ketika dia sakit, pun dia tak pernah makan dan menyusu dari tubuhnya. Dan kepada orang semacam itu dia harus memberikan tubuhnya pertama kali.

Namun, kata ayah, lelaki semacam itu akan berziarah bersamanya ke tempat di mana burung-burung pembawa batu api pernah menaklukkan pasukan gajah, di mana Ibrahim menunjukkan rasa setia yang agung dengan mengorbankan putranya dan ditukar Allah dengan domba, di mana setelah 700 ratus tahun terpisah sepasang kekasih bertemu lagi, di mana perang dan cinta diperingati tiada henti.

Itulah pesan Ayah. Sebab dia harus menjaga darah leluhurnya dari cemar dan hina oleh manusia dan para jin dan iblis yang menyamar.

Dia telah diselimuti doa-doa berumur ribuan tahun, yang mengitari dan melindunginya bagai kabut abadi. Tak seorang pun bisa menyentuhnya. Dimuliakan atau dinista ternyata sama-sama memberi pedih, pikirnya.

Namun, ayahnya lupa bahwa dalam diri putrinya ini mengalir darah suku Akad, nenek moyang mereka yang mengembarai padang-padang tandus dan tak mengenal tempat bermukim.

Lelaki itu adalah jazirah yang membentang dalam pikirannya. Dia akan membiarkannya tetap seperti itu, karena sesuatu yang luas selalu memberi banyak kejutan.

Tapi telepon selulernya bergetar. Sekali. Sebuah pesan pendek dari adik perempuannya. Pesan yang terlambat, karena saluran yang terganggu atau padat, atau alasan lain yang tidak dia pahami: Ayah sudah tidak ada. Sangat tenang perginya, dengan sendi-sendi bercahaya. Semua yang hidup pasti merasakan mati.

Dia terdiam. Dunianya jadi pipih. Lelaki itu jadi lebih kurus dari semestinya. Meja, kursi, ranjang, lemari, pun begitu kurus. Ketika lelaki itu menyeka dahinya lembut, sehingga dia mencium aroma ganjil yang segar. Sedih dan nyaman berbaur. Sepasang mata coklat itu memandanginya bingung. Ketika pandangannya menjadi normal, diraihnya kerudungnya di lantai. Dia tidak akan ke mana-mana, hanya ingin sendiri sebentar.

Banda Aceh, Februari 2008

*) malaikat maut dalam agama Islam

Dipublikasikan pertama kali oleh Koran Tempo pada 24 Februari 2008

A Short Story by Linda Christanty

PAULA came when the lights in the room had already gone out. Her body shone a white light. Soft. Glowing. I put down my cigar box on the table and slowly rose from my lazy chair to greet her. Yet, she turned her back, glided across the floor, then vanished in the middle of the corridor that led to the kitchen. And suddenly the slippery floor under my feet became covered with glue. I was trapped on its surface, like a mouse caught in a baited trap. I witnessed Paula beam rays of light. My hands that had been so ready to embrace her were arrested in the air, dangling awkwardly. She had left the deserted room with out a trace of her scent. She had left me. Her appearance and disappearance was as mysterious as magic from a witch’s wand, rising from nothing and vanishing into nothingness. We had been left to wait for ten seasons.

Before I had gotten used to the way Paula came and left, I would always cry out her name in the hope that she would turn around and meet my eyes. Not once did she heed my call. It was as if her ears had been plugged up with forged steel. Her body skimmed the surface straight ahead, before dissipating into the air. Still, I hoped.

Paula always appeared only when the last remaining illumination to the room came from the rays of my reading lamp, when the gradations of light blended into the darkness and disappeared into the corners of the dark corridor.

I said her name aloud, a tumult of feelings present in my voice; touched, happy, worried, desperate. However, this cracked voice was only answered by its own echo, followed by the deep sounds of my breathing, heavy, weary. After this, the night pushed me into a resolution: I had to sleep and leave my lazy chair that lay in sight of the corridor before my wife came to fetch me to bed. Unfortunately, I am not a disciplined man, even though I know keeping watch all night would trigger my asthma. I preferred to have my wife come for me, even though I had to wait deliberately. She would cajole me in whispers, and then guide me to our room. I never paid attention to her words, but her arrival would signal me to leave my spot. You would see a pair of wrecked human beings walking with tottering steps, resembling zombies. In front of me, out bedroom door was swung wide open. The light from the lamps shone. The fragrance of jasmine drifted into my nostrils (my wife always anointed the four corners of our room with the buds of jasmine that she had plucked from the garden. This had been her habit since the early days of our marriage.) I used to get angry at the sight of this wide open doorway. The mosquitoes would always swarm in, and Elia my wife, would shut the door in haste. I would then spend the night in discomfort, scratching away at the length of my itching body. On top of that, I couldn’t bear slathering my skin with insect-repellent creams. The smell always made me nauseous. I also disliked the smell of insecticides, which made my throat dry and caused me to be short of breath. Elia would curse herself all night, and I would alternate it with “it’s alright. let it be” over and over again, all the while scratching at myself with the clawing motions of a flea-infested ape. Now, I’ve given in. Yes, yes, even mosquitoes need nutrition. Elia is calmer now.

After my body had settled on the mattress, Elia shut off the lights. She slept with her back facing me. I slept with my back towards her. There was a crack between our bodies, a silent path without light or the sounds of the bullfrogs calling. In a little while, I would hear the rhythmic sounds of Elia’s sleeping, while I would be wide awake, my eyes open and stabbing the darkness like daggers. I allowed the mosquitoes to land on my cheek, or bite my fingers and toes. The buzz of those blood-sucking creatures kept me company. I wanted a cigar, but Elia hated the smell of tobacco in the room.

THE sun’s rays filtered in through the pockets of air on top of the doors and windows, brightening the dark room. I got up hastily and washed my face with cold water from an aluminium basin. Elia was no longer in the bedroom. Her blankets were neatly folded. She always left for the market early, when the fish and shellfish were at their freshest. Elia didn’t like fish that had already been packed in ice. The flesh would become tasteless. Elia was good at cooking seafood. For a long while now, we haven’t consumed any four-legged animal meat, nor have we drunk alcohol of late. Old people like us have to know restraint. If you want to live a long life, my mother used to warn me, don’t eat like a pig.

I put down my washcloth next to the basin, and walked to the door. I would soon be inspecting our tobacco shop. This was my daily routine: to open and close up shop. Actually, I should have opened the store at 7 am. Now it was already 7:30. I had slept as contentedly as a buffalo after much difficulty shutting my eyes.

I stepped into that corridor. Cold. Right in the middle of this same corridor Paula had disappeared last night. The door opening into the store was in the left wall. I turned the brass doorknob. The air currents in the room felt warm.

The glass jars filled with various assortments of tobacco were lined up on wooden racks. Some are blends. Some are pure tobacco. Their flavours are diverse. In this village, people my age take pleasure in inhaling from cigarettes hand rolled from loose-leaf tobacco in (marning) paper. For me, a factory cigarette just doesn’t have the full flavour. I also sell quality cigars that range from midpriced ones to highly expensive ones. There aren’t as many buyers for those cigars as for the loose tobacco, but still, there remain some. This store has supported my family throughout, including paying for Paula’s college education in Java. I wanted her to be an important businesswoman, not a small shopowner like me. I let her gain all the knowledge there was, as high as the sky. Let the heron soar, said my mother. And yet, the land and water that you drink has a way of determining your path.

Paula chose her own way. But why, why that one? Elia blamed me once. She said, the kungfu stories of Kho Ping Hoo that I used to read to our daughter, with its tales of superhuman warriors, had left their indelible mark on an impressionable child, doomed to mark her until adulthood. Was it so?

I heard the screech of the side door. Footsteps. A little cough. Elia had returned. I didn’t want her to see me stuck here. I was also too feeling lazy to open up the store. I decided to look into Paula’s room. Perhaps, my daughter was already sitting there, reading or writing.

One night, she surprised us. We heard sounds coming from upstairs. Together we climbed the stairs and silently pressed our ears to the door. The sounds of drawers being opened, and papers shuffled, and then shredded. Was it my mother cleaning up the place? As far as I knew, mother always came without making a sound. No, no, it’s not mother, I whispered. Elia agreed. Mother always comes silently, she said.

We steeled ourselves to knock on the door. Three times. Three knocks to start with. Not much later, the tiny frame of my daughter appeared. My wife began to cry. I was floored. Paula said, she had come home without warning on purpose, entering through the unlocked side door (my wife is sometimes careless. No one has ever lost anything in this small village, she insists.) Why did you come home so quietly, without asking to be picked up? Where did you get the fare home from? You already came home once last month. I felt uneasy. Paula looked at me and her mother, back and forth. “I’m being pursued by people”, she said slowly. I replied with a joke, “being chased by your boyfriend?” Paula’s face tensed up. “If there is anyone who shows up asking about me, tell them you don’t know me,” she said tersely. What do you mean, I don’t know you? You’re my daughter, our only child. “I won’t say anything about you either if anything happens,” she said, not caring. My wife was instantly hit by a bad feeling. “What have you done, child?” Elia’s lips were trembling. That night, Paula refused to say a word. She only shook her head or nodded. Early in the morning she left the house, boarding the first ship. My wife cried all day long. I had hoped that my daughter would speak. But, Elia forbade me to push Paula. Do not force her. She is our only daughter. Alright. I didn’t want to be called a dictator either. Emperors usually are. I’m no emperor, I said. Elia protested again. Don’t you bring up those kungfu stories again. Alright, fine. I chose to be silent.

PAULA’s room is upstairs, where it faces the setting sun. From the edge of this window, my adolescent daughter would stare out into the backyard, where there were three graves. The oldest grave is my father’s. Unlike other graves, this one had no body lying there. My father was lost at sea when his ship overturned in the Arafura Sea. My mother then asked someone to dig a grave, where she buried all of father’s favourite things, following Chinese tradition. It is unclear what my father was searching for on that last doomed voyage. My mother said, your father wished to trade. However, one of my cousins broke the secret. Your father had another wife and child on another island, he said. Traders are the same as sailors, marking their arrival on the bodies of women, whispered this cousin.

Father and Mother’s graves are flanked by Yan Yan’s, my dog who died of old age. Little Paula used to leave flowers on top of all three graves. One day, she ran into the house and hugged her mother tightly. What’s the matter child? Paula refused to speak, even though Elia tried to persuade her over and over again. During the night, she developed a high fever. My wife and I panicked. The doctor only prescribed a fever-reducer. This daughter of yours cannot tolerate the change in weather, said the doctor. At that time, we were between monsoons. The next day, Paula’s body temperature returned to normal. After a few days, Paula told us that she had seen a woman wearing a maroon cheongsam appear out of her grandmother’s grave and fly up into the sky. I believed it to he my mother, making herself known to her granddaughter. Several times after, Paula saw a beautiful woman wearing a cheongsam appear. She would place herself in the corridor leading into the kitchen, int eh dining room, or in the backyard. She would glide across the floor, sit in a chair, or perch in the branches of the ylang-ylang tree. Paula became used to my mother’s presence, and began to miss her grandmother all the time. My wife and I often heard Paula conversing with someone. When we would then see her alone, we understood.

Our daughter is talking to her grandmother. The sounds of Paula’s laughter would sometimes reach my ears, even though she wasn’t there. I believed my mother was guarding her grandmother all the way across the sea. The thought calmed my heart.

Paula’s room lay vacant for years. Our houseguests hardly ever spend the night. And if they did, they preferred to unroll a mattress or a straw mat on the floor of the living room. Once a year, when Paula came home for her school holidays, the room would have an inhabitant once again. Paula’s room was painstakingly cleaned every single day by my wife, as if she still lived with us. Clean sheets remain on the bed. Books on the shelves neatly-ordered. Not one of Paula’s dolls have left the toy rack. The scent of liquid floor cleaner always lingered.

I saw that the window was already open. The fresh air flowed indoors. I walked to the window, looked out at the backyard. Three graves. I was planning to add another, but didn’t have the heart to reveal my intention to Elia.

That grave has to be dug so that we will stop waiting for her return. Elia and I are forever waiting for Paula. She meets me in the quiet of the night, but never speaks. She isn’t really there.

In our last phone conversation, Paula said that she would be home three days before Christmas. My wife stitched a simple dress for her. Ever since she was a child, Paula disliked lacy dresses. They only make my body itch Papa, she grumbled. I smiled at the memory of our daughter’s behaviour. Now she was already grown up. Did she have a boyfriend? Once she shocked me with a frightening statement. Don’t expect me to get married Papa. Marriage is only for the rich. Huh? Papa and Mama got married with only the clothes on our back, Paula. She was silent for a moment, and then tapped my sleeve. Listen Papa, she whispered, my friends and I are trying so that everyone can live in prosperity and safety. When then happens, I’ll get married. I laughed. You’re not a magician, child. She burst into laughter.

But my daughter never came home on the third, nor the second, or the day before Christmas, and not even in the years following that. She didn’t keep her promise to her parents.

I called her the first night she was late. She wasn’t at her dormitory. She moved out a long time ago, said the woman who lived across. How long ago? Almost a year. Ooh… I followed her tracks to Java, looking for her on campus. She dropped out a long time ago sir, said a lecturer in a reluctant tone. Where are you my child?

Elia issued an edict. I was not allowed home before our daughter had been found. I pored over the newspaper columns on crime. I listened to the news on television. I visited the morgues of each and every hospital. Our daughter was nowhere. I came back after three months of tracings the steps of our daughter. In the end, Elia believed that Paula had really disappeared. Fortunately, she was devout, accepting the loss of our daughter as god’s will.

Two years later, someone who claimed to be Paula’s close friend called me and reported her missing. We already know! I barked. From that same person, I received some new information. Our daughter had organised people to resist the despotic emperor. I repeated this to my wife. She screamed and clawed at me. You’re the one who incited her to be a fighter! My wife came to in the midst of this confusion. We have to find her, Elia said, with overflowing eyes. Where can we look? Anywhere, as long as it’s still on this earth. Alright.

A journal bearing the name of my daughter indicated that she might be locked up in a fortress.

A fortress. I remember the story of a princess with long hair, locked up in a tower. Little Paula didn’t like that story very much, and always told me to read her another fairytale. I don’t know how it began, but I read her bits and pieces of Kho Ping Hoo’s works. Paula was shaken. Those clear child’s eyes of hers never blinked. She fell in love with the characters, those champion warriors. She imagined herself as a champion with supernatural powers, carrying a blade, elegant, beautiful, hard of heart, rescuing others. Now she was trapped in a tower. The divine and powerful champion trapped in a fortress. She should have been able to escape. Should have.

I went to the place that was mentioned in the journal, accompanied by Elia. We gazed at hills, bamboo reeds, the tangled undergrowth. Where had they locked up my daughter? There was no fortress. Another piece of information I received: the fortress was underground. If I were an earthworm, maybe I would know where it lay. People helped us look for a fortress. They began to dig from noon til night. Yet there was no fortress. Paula had really disappeared.

THAT afternoon I approached dinnertime with an odd feeling. Elia was roasting sharkmeat. I didn’t want to eat sharkmeat. What if our daughter had been eaten by a shark? Some people said, Paula had been dumped into the sea and eaten by sharks. Elia served the roasted sharkmeat at the dining table, but I only touched the plain vegetables. Tears welled up in my eyes. What is it, Elia asked. I sobbed even harder. What’s the matter, she asked in a gentler voice. Our daughter’s in this shark, I whispered, choked with sobs. Immediately she choked, leapt from her chair, and began weeping at the edge of the washtub. Not long after, she returned, lifted the plate of fish from the table, and threw its contents into the dust bin.

Later in the evening, I decided to talk to my wife about Paula. I didn’t want to wait for our daughter every night. I wanted Paula to be at peace. I wanted us to live peacefully, without her. Let her go, let her be with my mother, I said. My wife nodded slowly.

A fresh grave was just dug next to my mother’s. Rest, my child. Even champions need rest. Suddenly the boughs of the ylang-ylang rustled. Flowers fell. I felt my wife’s cold hand in my grasp. Mother has received our child, she whispered, relieved.

This morning we are well-groomed. I have on my best suit of clothes, and shined leather shoes. I look at the aging and shrinking Elia in her black dress. So black, like the crows that cry and swoop in my mind. My tears fall. Elia looks at me. She wishes to say something, but fails. In a little while, we will go to church, and pray. This is the fifth Christmas without Paula.

* The Fourth Grave is the English translation of Makam Keempat, a short story taken from Kuda Terbang Maria Pinto (Kata Kita, 2004). Translated from the Indonesian by Doreen Lee.

Cerita pendek Linda Christanty

IA termasuk orang yang malas mengingat hari dan tanggal perjumpaan dengan seseorang, tapi kali ini tak boleh lupa. Lelaki itu istimewa karena bisa menjelma siapa saja; orang-orang asing maupun orang-orang yang kau kenal.

Suatu kali si lelaki muncul sebagai tokoh juru masak yang menyayat daging lembutnya dengan belati, kemudian meneteskan anggur pada luka-lukanya, seolah menyiapkan sejenis menu utama. Di lain waktu lelaki tersebut menjelma pelukis abstrak yang menghendaki lebam-lebam pada tubuhnya, seolah menyapu cat biru pada kanvas. Ia pun melolong sepanjang malam, melebihi kor tujuh serigala. Lolongannya terdengar sampai ke kamar-kamar lain yang berhawa candu dan asam keringat, menambah gairah pasangan yang tengah bergulat di seprei lembap. Gigi-gigi gemeretuk. Erangan keras. Tubuh terhempas, seperti gerobak sapi menghantam dasar jurang. Kayu-kayu retak, patah, berserpih. Roda-roda mencelat lepas. Ia menghela napas, berat. Liurnya tanpa sadar menetes, bercampur darah segar. Dan tak seorang pun menolongnya. Peristiwa tersebut sudah lumrah, di mana-mana.

Ia terperangkap. Seperti dongeng iblis menggoda manusia dan manusia terperangkap dalam dosa, begitulah penjelasan spiritual tentang peristiwa terperangkapnya. Sebelum sampai pada titik ini, ia adalah orang biasa, dengan riwayat biasa. Penghasilannya sebagai peramal nasib di pasar malam hanya sedikit, lagi pula musiman. Tak berapa lama, seorang teman membuka jalan, mengajaknya jadi penari telanjang. Ia tertarik, karena bayaran yang lebih tinggi dibanding upah pengantar minum tamu di bar.

Malam pertama tampil, pikirannya kalut. Namun, ia tarik napas dalam-dalam dan mulai menari. Ia mengerahkan seluruh khayalan dan pengetahuannya tentang gerakan seorang penari. Melompat. Berputar. Berguling. Meliuk-liuk seperti kobra mengikuti gerak suling sang pawang. Matanya terpejam. Penonton bertepuk riuh. Mereka girang melihat wajah dan tubuh baru. Semoga liukan itu tak membuat si penari salah urat, pikir mereka. Penari baru masih kaku. Siulan di sela sorak-sorai penonton membuatnya tersinggung. Ia memang mudah tersinggung, sudah tabiatnya sejak dulu.

Kini ia menari sambil membayangkan dirinya petinju di atas ring, bukan penari andal. Ia menari dengan amarah, ibarat petinju kalap. Penampilannya mengundang gelak penonton, bukan birahi. Ia merasa malu, merasa gagal. Ia turun dari ring dengan gontai. Di kamar rias, ia menangis sesegukan. Setelah seminggu bingung mencari kerja, ia memperoleh ilham: menjadi seekor kupu-kupu merah jambu.

Seekor kupu-kupu kecil. Si pengisap madu bunga. Ia bukan kupu-kupu gajah yang kurang jenaka dan jauh dari menggemaskan, melainkan kupu-kupu lincah dengan warna tunggal yang cerah. Merah jambu.

Semua kupu-kupu di Seramo bersayap merah jambu dan sayap-sayap itu tak pernah digunakan untuk terbang. Sayap-sayap tipis tersebut hanya sebagai hiasan untuk memikat perhatian. Lantas, apa yang istimewa dari seekor kupu-kupu bila sayap-sayap mereka laksana pakaian seragam bidan atau penjaga toko sandang? Bau! Ya, bau tubuh mereka. Aroma mereka tak pernah sama. Ia sendiri beraroma bunga rumput. Ini menurut para tamu. Ah, kalian pasti sukar membayangkannya. Ia pun sukar membayangkannya. Ini bukan wangi yang bisa dibayangkan, kecuali oleh orang-orang tertentu, yakni mereka yang berasal dari keluarga tukang kebun atau siapa pun yang suka mengamati hal-hal kecil, barangkali. Ia cekikikan sendiri bila mengingat itu. Bunga rumput. Bukankah rumput tak jauh-jauh dari sapi? Seekor sapi yang sedang makan rumput sering kali mengeluarkan kotorannya. Hiiii…

Di Seramo, ia merasa lebih senang. Alasannya sederhana: ia hanya ditonton satu atau dua tamu. Rasa malu tak begitu menggebu dibanding jadi santapan banyak mata sekaligus di atas meja bar atau panggung berlampu redup. Ya, selain itu, ia masih punya sedikit moral. Organ rahasia seekor kupu-kupu hanya bisa dinikmati seorang eh, seekor tamu, maksimal dua, tak pernah tiga. Lebih dari dua tamu bersamanya membuat situasi agak kacau, mirip pengeroyokan ketimbang permainan.

Pemilik Seramo bernama Juan dan dijuluki Si Anak Tuhan. “Karena yatim piatu! Sstttt… ada yang memberi tahu kalau nama asli Juan itu Jumadi, lho,” bisik Ilo, seraya menggetarkan sayap-sayapnya.

Ia geli bercampur iba mendengar kisah ini. Di balik kata-kata Juan yang bersengat, caci maki cabul, dan gurau murahan, ia melihat sorot mata sepi kanak-kanak. Diam-diam ia mencintai Juan. Ia mencintai lelaki itu, dengan siapa ia tidur pertama kali. Namun, cinta cuma senilai muntah pemabuk di Seramo. Ia menyimpan cintanya sendiri. Juan tetap majikan dan ia tetap seekor kupu-kupu kecil.

Juan sering mengenalkannya pada pengunjung baru. Terakhir kali, Juan membawanya ke meja seorang pria bertato ular di pipi kiri. Si Ular, sesuai tatonya, begitulah pria itu dipanggil. Di Seramo tak ada orang yang punya nama asli, semua samaran, mirip kebiasaan sekte pemuja setan, sindikat obat bius, kelompok teror bersenjata, atau gerakan bawah tanah melawan pemerintah. Hmmm… ular, rasa-rasanya pria tersebut memang ular. Ia masih ingat desisnya, karena bukan lenguh yang terdengar saat permainan mereka usai.

Namun, lama-kelamaan ular makin ganas. Ia pernah terpelanting ke luar kamar dengan mulut berdarah. Sayapnya patah sebelah. Ekor ular membelit, lalu melontarkannya sekuat tenaga. Ia tak bisa berbuat apa-apa. Itu hal lumrah di Seramo. Tapi Ozzy, yang mengagumi penyanyi Ozzy Osbourne, menasihatinya, “Kalau ingin selamat, jadilah seperti musuhmu.” Ia merenungkan nasihat tadi. Berhari-hari ia memikirkan kata-kata bijak dari Ozzy di tengah musik hingar dan tembakan lampu warna-warni, sementara ular melata ke arahnya. Rasa-rasanya ia mulai paham.

Tanpa sadar senyumnya mengembang. Ia kini menikung ke arah pemukiman, menyusuri tepi sungai. Tubuhnya letih dan perlu istirahat. Jarang ia bisa pulang sepagi ini.

Rumah itu lumayan menjulang di antara barak-barak kuli. Baju-baju basah dikelantang di tali jemuran yang terentang di teras-teras kamar, mirip hantu terkulai lemas tanpa daya, mirip lukisan sedih dari waktu lampau.

Empat puluh pintu dalam bangunan kumuh dua lantai tersebut telah tertutup. Hanya dua jendela yang bercahaya. Para penghuni memilih tidur dalam gelap untuk mengurangi tagihan listrik. Pemilik pertama rumah itu sudah lama meninggal. Pewarisnya terlalu pelit untuk mengeluarkan biaya perawatan. Tangga-tangga kayu mulai lapuk. Lantai kamar yang terbuat dari tripleks makin melengkung ke bawah. Atap selalu bocor di musim hujan.

Sebentar lagi ia sampai. Tiang lampu di ujung jalan terlihat bengkok, kurus, dan karatan, tapi setia menunggui siapa saja melewati suram cahayanya. Tak seorang pun pernah mengingat jasa baik lampu jalan pada buruh malang, pemabuk teler, atau pelacur sial yang terseok-seok dibius rasa kantuk melewati jalan di tepi sungai limbah yang membelah permukiman dan pabrik-pabrik itu. Pijarnya yang separuh tenaga telah menyelamatkan pekerja-pekerja malam dari mangsa air kotor, hitam, kental, dan bau. Di saat hujan datang, bangkai binatang dan arak-arakan sampah melaju terbawa arus sungai yang deras. Dulu ia sering mengamati sungai. Ia berpikir bahwa orang yang jatuh dan tenggelam pastilah mati lantaran jijik bukan kehabisan napas. Di salah satu kakus umum yang terletak di tepi sungai, ia berjongkok sambil merenungi air keruh mengalir. Di tepi lain sungai berdiri pabrik pembalut wanita. Ketika ia membuang hajat, buruh-buruh sedang memasuki pintu pabrik. Mereka berseragam biru tua. Ia pernah bercita-cita menjadi buruh. Namun, ia tak suka berpakaian seragam seperti itu. Ia ingin yang lebih bergaya, dengan warna-warna cerah.

Sebuah bangku panjang kayu, dengan empat kaki tertanam di tanah, berhadapan langsung dengan pintu masuk rumah. Di atasnya terbaring seseorang yang ia kenal. Kaki-kaki orang tersebut terjulur melewati tepi bangku. Ia berkelumbus mantel butut. Dalam keadaan normal ia tak bakal begadang di tempat terbuka. Perbuatan itu sama saja dengan memicu penyakit asmanya kambuh dan menimbulkan bunyi ‘ngik’ yang khas tiap bernapas. Barangkali, ia bertengkar lagi dengan istrinya, yang gemar mengulang kata ‘tai’, ’setan’, dan ‘haram jadah’ melebihi jumlah jam dalam sehari.

Kasan sudah lama pensiun sebagai penjaga gudang pabrik susu. Ia kini bukan siapa-siapa lagi. Jabatan utamanya di rumah, sebagai kepala rumah tangga, perlahan sudah dikebiri. Ia kini cuma benalu. Sang istri mengukur harkat suaminya dari jumlah uang yang dibawa pulang. Makin sedikit andil pihak laki-laki dalam uang belanja, makin rendah mutu pelayanan wanita. Bila andil tadi mencapai titik nol persen, maka rumah bukan lagi tempat yang nyaman untuk pulang, kecuali tubuh dan nyalimu sekeras baja. Alangkah celakanya pasangan yang menemukan ketidakcocokan mereka setelah sama-sama tua. Betapa panjang waktu yang tersia-sia.

“Hei, baru pulang?” tegur Kasan, dengan suara orang tercekik.

“Ya, Pak. Malam, Pak,” balasnya, buru-buru.

“Ini sudah pagi,” sahut lelaki itu, terkekeh, diiringi batuk.

“Kalau begitu, selamat pagi, Pak Kasan.”

“Sendirian?”

“Ya, sendirian. Abis sama siapa lagi. Nggak ada yang mau.”

“Kasihan,” balas Kasan, usil.

Ia tertawa dan berlalu.

Sepuluh langkah lagi, ia akan sampai di tangga kayu menuju kamarnya. Bilah-bilah kayu yang telah dilumuri lumut, terasa lunak saat dipijak. Tikus-tikus gemuk berlari panik mendengar suara langkah manusia. Di mana pawang tikus-tikus itu berada? Ia melayangkan pandang ke sebuah jendela di lantai dua.

“Mustofa!” pekiknya, nyaring. Seperti tersadar akan sesuatu, ia buru-buru menutup mulutnya. Bisa-bisa ia dihajar seisi rumah.

Mustofa pasti sudah lelap. Lelaki itu lebih tua sedikit dari Pak Kasan. Ia rutin memberi tikus-tikus makan keratan roti atau sayur layu. Tikus-tikus mengunjunginya pada jam makan siang dan makan malam. Dulu Mustofa bekerja sebagai pencampur warna di pabrik kain. Berkali-kali ia menemukan tikus mati dalam bak pewarna. Tikus merah. Tikus Hijau. Tikus Biru. Tikus cokelat. Tikus Ungu. Tikus-tikus membuatnya iba. Ia jadi malas bekerja.

Mustofa dipensiunkan tanpa pesangon, lalu menyambung hidupnya dengan berjualan sayur di lantai dua. Tapi, siapa yang sudi membeli sayur layu? Mustofa juga sudah tak kuat lagi berjalan untuk mencari sayur-mayur segar di pasar setiap hari. Pembeli setianya cuma satu-dua tua jompo yang mengisi perut sekadar melawan lapar; orang-orang yang sudah mati selera. Jelas Mustofa tak bisa untung dari usaha dagangnya. Namun, ia selalu punya makanan untuk menjamu tikus-tikus.

Binatang pengerat dan pembawa segala penyakit tadi patuh kepadanya. Bila Mustofa menyuruh mereka enyah, maka berduyun-duyunlah makhluk hitam bau itu menggelundung pergi. Begitu pula sebaliknya, bila Mustofa menghendaki mereka datang, bergemuruhlah lantai rumah itu oleh derap kaki tikus-tikus yang berlari kencang. Ada yang curiga tikus-tikuslah yang sebenarnya menghidupi Mustofa dengan cara membagi hasil curian mereka di tiap lantai pada orang yang memperhatikan nasib bangsa mereka. Mustofa hanya orang tua kesepian sebatang kara. Tikus-tikus menjadi handai tolannya. Hubungan dekat mereka membuat reaksi kimia di sel-sel tubuh Mustofa merujuk pada fisik tikus. Wajah lelaki itu jadi lebih lancip, dengan mulut yang juga makin lancip, dan kumisnya yang tipis jarang mirip misai tikus. Dengan kata lain, tikus-tikus makin mirip Mustofa, pikirnya, geli.

Ia serta-merta melantakkan pintu kamar dan melihat seekor tikus memanjat meja. Tikus yang mulai mengendus-endus buah jeruk di atas meja itu dihalaunya dengan gagang sapu. Tikus bandel malah menggerak-gerakkan misai, mengolok-olok. “Tikus setan,” gerutunya, dalam hati.

Kalau malas ke Seramo, ia nekat mengunjungi Mustofa. Ia membiarkan bokongnya dielus-elus oleh si tua bangka, lalu memperoleh sedikit sayuran dan buah-buahan sebagai imbalan. Ia bergidik sendiri membayangkan jari-jari kurus keriput Mustofa yang terasa dingin di kulitnya. Hiiii…

Rasa perih di punggungnya tiba-tiba berubah ngilu. Apakah ia terkena bisa ular? Ia berjalan ke cermin persegi panjang di dinding. Cermin tanpa bingkai. Murah. Dibelinya di pinggir jalan, di muka pabrik pembalut. Ia meringis, menahan sakit.

Diam-diam ia sebetulnya merasa istimewa, karena bisa menjelma siapa saja; orang-orang asing atau orang-orang yang kau kenal. Ia peniru yang sempurna, bahkan lebih meyakinkan dari yang ditiru, tampak hidup, lebih sejati. Kalau ingin selamat, jadilah seperti musuhmu.

Suatu kali ia muncul sebagai juru masak yang menyayat daging lembutmu dengan belati, kemudian meneteskan anggur pada luka-lukamu, seolah menyiapkan sejenis menu utama. Di lain waktu ia menjelma seorang pelukis abstrak yang memukul sekujur tubuhmu seolah untuk memperoleh sapuan-sapuan cat biru pada kanvas. Semalam ia membiarkan seorang lelaki melolong nyaring dan memohon ampun. Lelaki ular itu. Ia merasa puas.

Kuku-kuku tajam mencakar punggungnya, tapi ia tak peduli. Ia tambah beringas. Ular mencoba mematuk tonjolan di antara pahanya, tapi ia dengan sigap menghindar seraya membenturkan kepala ular ke dinding. Liurnya tanpa sadar menetes begitu melihat darah segar mengucur deras. Ia langsung menggigit hidung si lelaki, mengunyah cupingnya yang lunak. Dengan taring-taringnya yang runcing, ia mulai merobek perut ular. Ia bukan lagi seekor kupu-kupu, melainkan serigala lapar. Ditariknya usus si pria. Dikunyahnya dengan rakus. Rintihan pria itu membuatnya makin bernafsu. Ia benar-benar lapar. Gigi-giginya merah. Pipi-pipinya terciprat darah. Merah. Merah. Merah kental. Ia kemudian membersihkan muka dengan tisu basah, mengenakan pakaian dan sepatu, berjingkat ke pintu. Bau amis menguar dalam kamar. Musik masih berdentam di luar. Ditutupnya pintu kamar, pelan-pelan. Ditinggalkannya Seramo yang masih penuh tawa dan denting gelas pada pukul dua pagi.

Ia menatap wajah dalam cermin, wajahnya yang letih. Telunjuknya bergerak menelusuri gigi-giginya. Mungkin darah kering melekat di sela-sela gusi. Mungkin sebentar lagi polisi datang. Tapi ia cuma menyelamatkan diri. Hari ini, bulan ini, tahun ini, tepat dua tahun ia mengenal ular. Ia hanya seekor kupu-kupu kecil. Merah jambu.

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali di Media Indonesia, 12 Desember 2004.

Oleh Linda Christanty

1

JUNI 1997. Dia duduk tersandar di dinding. Hawa dingin seolah menyembur dari celah batu-batu kelabu. Punggungnya ngilu. Dihirupnya pelan udara hujan. Namun, peluh terus mengembang di pori-pori.

Semalam dia berjalan mengitari sungai, terjerembab di rumpun-rumpun gelagah, dan menemukan jalan setapak ke arah perbukitan ini tanpa sengaja. Jalan berlumpur. Sol sepatu karetnya menebal. Kaki-kakinya terasa pegal melawan tanah likat.

Makam-makam tua, nisan-nisan retak dan miring, dan kesunyian menyambutnya di lereng bukit. Dia kemudian tertidur di bawah atap sebuah makam. Rasa letih bergegas membiusnya dalam lelap. Hujan tak datang malam itu, tetapi gerimis turun.

Ketika matahari belum muncul penuh, dia telah terjaga. Serpih-serpih mawar layu di atas salah satu makam membuat dia tercenung. Dia pun bangkit, lalu berjalan ke sisi makam itu dan mengeja nama yang terpahat pada marmer biru. Aisa… mirip nama ibunya. Tiba-tiba dia merasa sangat sunyi dan desir angin yang menajam memaksanya meninggalkan pemakaman.

Dia terus mendaki. Tubuhnya perlahan-lahan hilang di balik lebat pepohonan.

Kini dia berlindung di balik rumah yang belum rampung dibangun, terpencil di tengah kebun. Pemilik kebun belum datang. Mudah-mudahan dia tinggal jauh dari sini, pikirnya, berharap.

Matahari telah meninggi. Langit yang putih dan pucuk nyiur terlihat dari bidang jendela.

Mereka pasti menunggunya. Bagaimana bila mereka menjulurkan kepala lewat jendela yang belum berdaun itu dan menemukan dia? Bagaimana bila dia ditangkap dan dibawa ke suatu tempat rahasia?

Dia bisa merasakan getar nafas mereka yang memburunya. Dia mulai merancang jawaban-jawaban. Namun setiap jawaban laksana kunci pembuka bagi pertanyaan lain. Dia mengubah jawaban-jawabannya. Barangkali, dia juga tak akan menjawab sepatah kata pun. Barangkali, dia akan membisu selamanya. Arca-arca candi, patung-patung santa, monumen di taman… membisu selamanya dan tetap dikenang.

Di antara rasa khawatir dan pasrah, dia mulai teringat banyak hal. Kata orang, bayangan masa silam justru datang saat maut mendekat. Bayangan itu membangkitkan kesedihan, karena menunjukkan sejumlah kesalahan kita yang tak bisa diperbaiki dan melukai orang-orang yang dikasihi. Waktu yang lewat tak bisa pulang. Orang yang tersesat masih bisa pulang. Waktu selalu pergi.

Dia tertegun. Bayangan-bayangan mendekat.

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali di Jurnal Prosa No. 4, 2004.

Oleh Linda Christanty

2

DIA dilahirkan saat Juan Carlos dan Sophia mengunjungi ibu kota pada 1980, kunjungan diplomatik pertama. Ketika itu angin laut meniup tipis-tipis aroma garam ke kamar bersalin dan langsung terhirup paru-paru seorang bidan tua serta sepasang suami istri muda yang menanti buah hati mereka.

Dia, masih berlumur darah dan lendir, langsung diletakkan dalam timbangan serta diukur dengan meteran, persis bayi lumba-lumba untuk proyek percobaan para ilmuwan. “Tiga kilo koma dua gram, lima puluh senti,” ujar bidan, yang menunaikan tugas mulia itu. Ayahnya menyeringai senang dan ibunya berusaha tersenyum dalam rasa nyeri serta haru. Puji Tuhan… Mereka berciuman.

Berkat kedatangan tamu negara, kelahirannya seolah sederajat dengan guntingan pita, cinderamata, dan tari-tarian untuk menyambut raja dan ratu sebuah wilayah yang dulu bernama Andalusia Lama. Namun, ia tak dilahirkan di ibu kota. Tangis seraknya mengusik senja tenang di sebuah rumah sakit yang bertengger seperti elang tua di tebing pantai, di pulau yang jarang disinggung berita surat kabar.

Satu-satunya kolom hebat tentang pulau kelahirannya berisi pernyataan serang pejabat pemerintah (meski orang-orang seperti mereka tak pernah bicara tanpa pamrih). Dia menyebut-nyebut Tuhan yang Mahabaik telah menganugerahi negeri mereka kekayaan alam berlimpah dan salah satunya tersimpan di pulau itu.

Seribu tahun lalu kapal-kapal perompak menguasai perairan sekitar pulau. Beberapa kapal kandas terbawa ombak sampai ke pantai pedalaman. Para lelaki menjejak daratan, lalu meminang perempuan-perempuan setempat dengan bahasa isyarat. Permintaan mereka disambut dua reaksi; penerimaan dan penolakan. Namun, tiada diceritakan bagaimana penjelajah selat dan laut itu menghadapi penolakan. Wujud penerimaan lebih mudah dilihat: perkampungan. Bahasa lelaki dan perempuan berbaur dan menjelma bahasa baru, yang kini jadi bahasa sehari-hari di pulau tersebut. Dia keturunan ke-tujuh para pendatang yang memutuskan bermukim. Tetapi, suatu hari, setelah ditempuhnya banyak musim dan perkara, dia sadar bahwa julukan ‘pendatang’ terus melekat pada dirinya dimana pun berpijak dan kemana pun pergi. Dia membawa kutukannya sendiri, bagai menanggung tanda lahir yang kekal di tubuh.

Pulau kelahirannya, sebagaimana pulau-pulau lain, seolah muncul dari bawah lautan begitu saja, seperti puncak gunung es mencuat tiba-tiba. Pulau karunia ini dikelilingi laut, begitu mungil dan menyendiri dalam peta, hanya sebesar tetes air dalam skala 1 berbanding 100.000 sentimeter persegi.

Di perut pulau kelahirannya terpendam bijih timah dan di hutan yang lebat tumbuh sejenis tanaman langka dengan umbi yang bisa membesarkan payudara wanita. Di sungai-sungai yang tersebar seperti bercak penyakit kulit di tubuh sial itu tinggal buaya-buaya yang mengintai mangsa, sedang beribu jenis ikan hilir-mudik di dasar lautnya yang dingin. Hiu sering bertandang pada musim tertentu. Paus terdampar berkali-kali di pantai landai untuk menyongsong mati. Pulau itu adalah tempat segala yang liar dan busuk menjadi indah, seperti keindahan dosa di mata para pezinah.

Dia dilahirkan ketika matahari hampir terbenam ke laut dan laut akan menelan bola api raksasa itu bagai pesulap sirkus menelan lidah api. Ketika si pesulap membuka rongga mulutnya ke arah penonton, tak ada lidah yang melepuh atau gusi terbakar. Ketika laut menelan matahari, laut tak terbakar. Semua kejadian berjalan wajar dan tiada mengubah kejadian awal. Matahari ditelan laut. Lidah api dilahap pesulap. Dampak keduanya tak mencederai siapapun. Peristiwa-peristiwa itu berpijak pada hukum berbeda, tapi berakhir sama: tidak ada yang musnah atau punah. Laut maupun pesulap sama-sama sehat sentosa.

Matahari terbenam hanya siklus biasa. Namun, saat masih kanak-kanak dia sempat terpana. Mengapa? Sebab dia masih bodoh. Sel-sel otaknya belum rumit sempurna. Lekuk-lekuknya belum sebanyak orang dewasa. Nalarnya masih sejengkal. Bukankah ilmu pengetahuan dimaksudkan untuk mengurangi rasa takjub manusia pada banyak gejala alam? Agar manusia merasa bahwa merekalah sesungguhnya khalifah, penghuni paling berkuasa di bumi.

Juan Carlos dan Sophia tiba. Sang cucu telah lahir. Kakeknya mencatat peristiwa ini dalam buku agenda merah. Ibu pernah menunjukkan buku itu padanya. Di mana buku itu sekarang?

Kakek suka warna merah. Merah, warna yang berani, kata kakek berkali-kali. Merah, kata dan warna yang lekat beku di benaknya, seperti gula gosong panas yang mendingin dan mengerak di kuali. Orang-orang komunis yang kemudian dibantai disebut-sebut orang-orang ‘merah’. Kakek adalah anggota pertama partai komunis di desanya. Kakek sempat ditahan, lalu dibebaskan. Keberuntungan ini dibayar dengan banyak kepedihan. Menurut ibu, kakek kemudian tak lagi bicara tentang politik dan penurunan harga-harga, melainkan tentang berternak ayam dan menanam ketela. Dua belas tahun kakek disekap di sebuah pulau bersama ribuan tahanan. Tak seorang anggota keluarga pun mendengar cerita kakek tentang hidupnya di kamp itu. Namun, suatu hari, saat dia dewasa, seorang menuturkan pengalaman kakeknya secara tak terduga, di tempat yang tiada disangka-sangka.

Dia sering menatap sepasang mata kakek yang menerawang bila kebetulan duduk berdampingan di pinggir pantai ketika mereka mengaso sambil menghirup udara laut. Dia menemani kakek mencari besi-besi tua dari bangkai kapal atau alat-alat berat yang berserak di pantai. Kakek terampil membuat rangka kompor gas atau kereta penarik barang dengan menyambung serta mengelas besi-besi itu, siku-menyiku.

Apa yang dibayangkan kakek? Mata kakek murung. Secara spontan, ia akan berdiri dan memeluk kakek tanpa berkata-kata dan kakek menyambutnya dengan mencium sekilas lengan kecilnya dengan mata yang tetap mengawasi laut. Ada apa di laut? Telinga kiri kakek tuli, sehingga dia mengucapkan pertanyaan tersebut dekat telinga kanan. Di sanalah hidup ini bermula, kata kakek, mengelus kepala mungilnya.

Ketika dia berusia lima tahun, kakek wafat dan dikuburkan di hutan dekat pantai. Pada pemakaman kakek yang hanya dihadiri keluarga serta seorang guru mengaji, di bawah matahari yang lebih garang di daerah pesisir ini, ia mengenakan gaun merah. Ibu memintanya menukar gaun merahnya dengan gaun biru atau putih, karena dia belum memiliki gaun hitam berkabung. Dia tegas-tegas menolak. Ibu mengalah.

Setelah kakek tak ada, dia suka menangis sedih diam-diam. Sebulan, dua bulan, tiga bulan… dia mulai jarang menangis. Namun, lima belas tahun kemudian, dia masih bisa merasakan sebuah kehampaan ganjil bila teringat kakek. Gelora ombak, perahu yang melaju, pekik camar laut… seperti terperangkap dalam lukisan dua dimensi, tanpa bunyi.

Ketika berusia 13 tahun, dia iseng-iseng membuka sebuah majalah lama. Benda itu meringkuk dalam keranjang rotan di gudang, berkumpul dalam satu wadah dengan majalah-majalah budaya yang penuh debat golongan kiri dan liberal, bersikutan dengan majalaha cabul dari luar negeri. Dia menemukan Juan Carlos di situ, raja Spanyol, raja dari negeri yang pernah dilanda perang saudara paling berdarah. Nyawa setengah juta orang tumpas, tapi gerakan pemberontakan terus menghantui ketenangan penguasa. Spanyol, matador, flamenco, gerilyawan Basque, garcia Lorca… Kelak dia akan menyukai Lorca, penyair yang mati dalam perang saudara…

Dia lahir ketika di ibu kota tengah berlangsung perhelatan agung menyambut pasangan Spanyol itu. Dia melihat wajah pemimpin negaranya, seorang jenderal, terekam di halaman majalah. Lelaki itu sedang tersenyum ke arah para tamu dalam pose yang elegan. Senyum, sisiran kumis, tutur kata, model busana, semua telah diatur. Semua terencana. Ketika dia dewasa, sang jenderal ternyata masih berkuasa. L’etat c’est moi. Hubungannya dengan sang jenderal menentukan hidupnya di kemudian hari.

Dia masih ingat saat pelajaran sejarah di sekolah dasar. Ibu gurunya memuji-muji jenderal itu, yang telah menggagalkan sebuah kudeta berbahaya. Bayangkan, katanya, andai pemberontak itu berkuasa kita tak akan pergi ke mesjid atau gereja dan kehilangan kata ‘tuhan’ dalam kamus bahasa. Setelah menyudahi kata terakhir, ibu guru tiba-tiba memandang sinis ke arahnya. Dia tercekat. Meski kanak-kanak, dia sudah bisa merasakan tindak penghinaan orang dewasa yang pertama kali. Hatinya pedih. Sepulang sekolah, dia langsung menghambur ke pelukan Ibu dan bercerita. Ibu membujuknya. Sudahlah, ibu gurumu sudah menjadi tuhan, menentukan salah benar seenak mulutnya, kata Ibu. Kakekmu dulu sukarela ikut perang gerilya, kemudian berkomplot menentang Jepang. Dia mati terhormat, bukan sebagai bandit. Ibu gurumu sekarang bisa omong macam-macam. Kalau negara ini masih dijajah, di mungkin jadi sundal di rumah bordil atau pelacur di tangsi. Ibu bicara kasar sekali. Ah, ya, memang, kita bukan priyayi, tidak usah banyak permisalan atau basa-basi. Oh…

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali di Jurnal Prosa No. 4, 2004.

Oleh Linda Christanty

3

SELAIN ibu yang pemberani, dia memiliki ayah yang datang dan pergi. Ayahnya bekerja sebagai buruh kapal keruk, membuka tambang-tambang baru di bagian pulau yang belum terjamah manusia. Pada malam-malam tertentu Ayah absen mendongeng untuknya. Ayah pergi ke suatu tempat yang masih dihuni segala jin dan hantu, kata Bibi salma, adik Ibu. Dia tak percaya hantu-hantu. Kata Ibu, hantu-hantu adalah khayalan pengecut. Mereka ada, bila kita memikirkannya.

Kata-kata Bibi ternyata menghantui. Dia lantas membayangkan tempat yang seram dan gelap: sebuah hutan. Pohon-pohon hitam besar menjulang, berdaun hitam, dengan akar-akar hitam berbulu yang menjalar dan terendam di air. Sebatang sungai raksasa membelah hutan itu dan sebuah kapal merayap di permukaannya. Di bawah sungai bersembunyi buaya-buaya pemangsa yang bisa berubah warna, macam bunglon: hitam bila di dekat pohon atau kecoklatan saat melaju di sungai. Namun, hari yang gawat itu sampai juga. Khayalan hitamnya terbukti.

Ayah tak pulang berminggu-minggu. Suatu hari orang menemukan kepalanya tersangkut di akar bakau. Tubuhnya telah dimakan buaya. Ibu berkabung tiga bulan, lalu menikah lagi dengan pedagang babi.

Dia pun tinggal di rumah lelaki itu bersama Ibu. Dia jijik pada babi-babi, terutama pada mulut mereka, hhmmm… laksana anus yang bengkak dan menjulur. Ibu tak pernah menyurunya memberi makan babi. Ibu tahu, dia mustahil dipaksa akrab dengan babi. Kamu belajar saja yang rajin, kata Ibu. Dia gemar membaca. Kamu seperti kakekmu, bisik Ibu, terharu.

Ayah tirinya senang membelikannya buku-buku bacaan. Tolong ceritakan padaku apa isinya, katanya, tiap menghadiahkan buku baru. Ayah tirinya buta huruf, tetapi mahir berhitung. Kali ini dia mendongeng untuk ayah tirinya. Dulu dia mendengar dongeng-dongeng dari ayahnya. Ada waktu memberi dan ada waktu menerima.

Namun, suatu malam, keadaan itu berubah. Dia diminta bungkam, tak bercerita. Dengus panas membakar daun telinganya yang lembut. Dia dipaksa menanggalkan piyama. Jari-jari gemuk merah muda-sewarna kulit babi-mencengkeram bahunya yang lunak. Kedua tangan itu terasa kasar berparut di kulitnya. Dia menggigil dan ingin menjerit, tapi mulutnya dibekap kuat-kuat. Dia menendang-nendang histeris. Tubuh tambun itu jatuh terguling di lantai. Berdebam. Terdengar suara Ibu dari balik pintu, memanggil-manggil namanya. Dia memekik… Ibu… Perempuan itu melantakkan pintu, datang seperti badai tropis. Keesokan harinya mereka meninggalkan lelaki itu dan babi-babinya. Setelah kejadian tersebut, Ibu menambah perbendaharaan nasihat. Peternak babi serakus babi.

Kapan terakhir dia bertemu Ibu?

Setelah berpisah dengan pedagang babi, Ibu menikah lagi dengan pemilik apotik. Ibu bukan orang yang suka larut dalam kesedihan. Hidup cuma sekali dan aku tak suka sepi, katanya. Lagipula obat bisa menyehatkan. Babi menularkan cacing pita ke usus. Dengan makan obat cacing, aku bisa sehat, kata Ibu, riang. Ibu masih saja bergurau.

Ketika kanak-kanak, dia sering melihat Ibu menari di kebun belakang. Gerakan-gerakannya tidak selazimnya orang menari. Gerakan Ibu seolah mendorong-dorong ke arah langit, kemudian mendesak-desak bumi. Tarian pemberontakan, kata Ibu, karyanya sendiri. Wah… Memberontak pada siapa, tanya kakek ketika itu. Ya, pada apa saja yang sok mengatur dan mengekang. Kakek tergelak.

Kini dia paham bahwa sifat Ibu menurun juga padanya. Sayang sekali, mungkin lantaran sudah lelah, ibu menyerah di penghujung hidupnya. Ibu diam saja ketika suaminya menikah lagi. Ibu diam saja ketika dicaci-maki istri muda suaminya. Ibu diam saja saat suaminya meninggal dan istri muda menguasai seluruh harta warisan. Ibu memilih diam. Mengapa? Ada saatnya diam dan ada saatnya bergerak. Ibu meninggal dalam kesendirian.

Tetangga sebelah-menyebelah mencium bau busuk, lalu melihat lalat-lalat hijau berkerumun di beranda rumah ibu. Mereka mendobrak pintu dan menemukan tubuh Ibu telah menghitam serta dirayapi belatung.

Dia tidak melihat Ibu dimakamkan. Sebelum Ibu menikah dengan tukang obat (dia lebih suka menyebutnya demikian), dia dititipkan pada Bibi Salma. Ibu ingin putrinya selamat. Ayah-ayah tiri kurang baik bagi anak-anak perempuan tiri. Ibu selalu berteguh pada kesimpulan pribadi, meski sering juga keliru.

Bibi Salma tak akan menikah. Dia sudah patah arang pada lelaki. Bibi selalu jatu cinta pada pria-pria beristri. Bibi memiliki aura penggoda, kata Ibu. Konon, Nenek meninggal akibat menanggung malu. Istri-istri yang marah sering mendatangi Nenek dan memohon agar Bibi dipindahkan ke desa lain atau dikurung dalam rumah. Bibi berkilah. Pria-pria itu yang mengejar-ngejarku, katanya, dan aku suka-suka saja. Bibi sering dibanjiri hadiah; pakaian, perhiasan, hewan-hewan peliharaan, seperti ayam dan bebek. Bila Bibimu mau, dia sudah bisa membuka toko dengan modal pemberian itu, kisah Ibu, geli.

Bibi tak pernah menyerahkan hatinya pada siapapun, kecuali pada seseorang yang tak pernah dia sebutkan namanya. Suami orang juga, bisik Ibu. Nenek semakin malu lantaran orang-orang desa mulai mengaitkan keadaan Kakek dengan kenakalan Bibi. Pantas saja anak gadisnya bejat, ayahnya pengkhianat, kata mereka. Bibi bertabiat aneh, makin dilarang makin menggila. Nenek memintanya menikah. Bibi menolak mentah-mentah.

Ibu memanfaatkan tekad Bibi untuk hidup sendiri. Suatu hari Ibu mengantarnya pindah ke ruma Bibi. Sejak itu dia dan Ibu makin jarang bertemu. Setelah Ibu meninggal, dia dan Bibi meninggalkan pulau kelahiran mereka menuju ibu kota. Bibi menjadi satu-satunya keluarga dekat yang tersisa. Dia ingin membalas budi perempuan itu. Dia ingin memperoleh banyak uang. Namun, perasaan ganjil meliputinya sewaktu mendengar Bibi berulang-ulang menyebut nama kota yang bakal mereka tuju. Dia teringat lagi pada sang jenderal.

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali di Jurnal Prosa No. 4, 2004.

Oleh Linda Christanty

4

UDARA makin dingin. Nyeri dadanya kambuh. Dia teringat malam-malam di atas ranjang beton di barak yang lembab. Dia pernah melihat meja penjual ikan di pasar yang mirip ranjang itu, tapi berukuran lebih kecil. Ikan-ikan segar bertumpuk-tumpuk di situ. Kembung, sarden, bawal, tenggiri. Ikan-ikan membusuk dan jadi bangkai. Dia tak ingin mati dan membusuk di sini.

Dadanya mulai sesak. Paru-paru basah atau tubercolosa? Belum pernah dimintanya dokter memeriksa.

Gerimis masih turun. Dia ingin meningggalkan kawasan ini dengan menghindari jalan raya. Pemogokan telah memasuki hari kesebelas. Empat temannya ditahan.

Rencana pertemuan itu pun sudah terbongkar. Semalam dilihatnya kerumunan orang dekat tikungan menuju tempat pertemuan; rumah orang tua salah satu teman. Sejumlah orang digiring ke jalan. Jantungnya berdenyar. Dia tak begitu mengenal kawasan tersebut, tetapi nalurinya selalu memimpin. Segera dibelokkannya langkah ke arah sungai. Bias lampu jalan memberi sedikit terang. Kerlip lampu menara pabrik di kejauhan bagai sinyal tanda bahaya yang dikirimkan berulang-ulang untuk memandu mereka menangkapnya. Dia berbegas menyusuri tepi sungai, menjauh dari pemukiman.

Kini perutnya berkeriyuk. Rasa dingin menambah rasa lapar. Tak ada yang bisa dimakan. Dilihatnya seekor laba-laba di langit-langit. Berapa banyak serangga yang terjebak dalam jaring-jaring itu? Dia mencoba berdiri.

Jangkauan pandangnya meluas. Sebuah pondok kebun berdiri di muka rumah ini. Barangkali. Ada orang di sana, pikirnya.

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali di Jurnal Prosa No. 4, 2004.

Cerita pendek Linda Christanty

IA ingat satu hari cerah di pantai.

Ketam merayap di pasir, kemudian masuk ke lubang, dan ia buru-buru memungut sepotong ranting dekat kakinya untuk mencungkil binatang itu agar terlontar keluar. Tapi sia-sia. Dasar lubang terlalu dalam, sedangkan ranting itu kurang panjang untuk menyentuhnya. Ia mencari ranting lain yang berserak, mengambil salah satu yang lebih panjang dari yang tadi, lalu kembali mendekati lubang ketam.

Sambil berjongkok, diulurnya ranting ke dalam lubang, dan… gagal lagi. Lubang itu terlalu sempit. Ranting terjepit oleh dinding-dindingnya. Ketam bagai berlindung di sebuah bungker. Ia harus mencari ranting yang lebih kurus dan panjang, agar rasa kecewa ini pupus. Sekali lagi, ia berlari ke tumpukan ranting dan memilih yang kira-kira sesuai dengan kebutuhan. Hatinya sedikit bersorak melihat ranting dalam genggaman. Kurus seperti lidi dan lebih panjang ketimbang yang tadi. Meski tak yakin bisa mengeluarkan ketam tersebut dari celah pasir, ia akan membuat makhluk itu menyesal seumur hidup bersembunyi di situ. Ia akan mengganggu ketenteraman ketam dengan ganas.

Kini ditusuk-tusuknya lubang ketam dengan ranting. Ia merasa ujung ranting berkali-kali membentur sesuatu yang keras, mungkin dasar lubang, mungkin cangkang ketam. Keringatnya mulai menetes. Namun, ia pantang berhenti. Ketika otot-otot lengannya mulai pegal, sepit ketam raksasa mendadak muncul dari lubang itu dan menarik tubuhnya ke dalam lubang yang membesar tiba-tiba (atau ia yang mengecil?). Tubuhnya meluncur cepat dalam gelap. Perutnya mual. Sebelum tahu apa yang harus dilakukan dalam situasi yang buruk ini, ia sudah terhempas ke tanah. Tulang punggungnya ngilu. Kegelapan berangsur temaram dan perlahan matanya mulai menangkap sosok makhluk yang tengah mengawasinya. Seekor ketam raksasa. Saat cahaya sepenuhnya menerangi tempat itu, ia melihat sepit-sepit ketam runcing berbulu siap menyerang dan meremukkan tubuhnya. Ia menjerit histeris. Ketam bergeming. Lama-kelamaan pemandangan menggelap dalam lengking putus asa (atau ia menjerit sambil memejamkan mata?) yang panjang dan ketika tenggorokannya tak lagi sanggup mengeluarkan suara, ia melihat noktah cahaya berpendar. Biru muda. Perlahan-lahan noktah itu mengembang, lalu membentuk bidang. Benda-benda bermunculan seperti katak berlompatan di tengah dangau. Ia melihat seekor elang mengepak di langit biru. Kaok, kaok, kaok…. Tangannya masih menggenggam ranting. Tak ada ketam raksasa. Celana dalamnya basah.

Di tengah laut, ombak sedang bergulung dan berbuih. Ketika berpaling, tanpa sengaja ia melihat seekor anjing menyusuri pantai, mengendus-endus pasir basah, ditemani tuannya—lelaki paruh baya bercelana pendek khaki dan bertopi hitam. Bulu anjing dan warna topi kain si lelaki senada. Anjing kampung, ramping, gesit. Entah melihat apa, tiba-tiba anjing menyeruduk ombak.

Ia berdiri, terkesima. Mungkin anjing melihat makhluk ajaib muncul di tengah laut, semacam Neptunus dengan trisula, harapnya. Jantungnya berdegup keras dan cepat. Eh, ternyata si anjing cuma menggigit sebelah sandal jepit biru dan membawa harta karun tersebut ke hadapan sang tuan. Tapi anjing malah dimarahi. Sandal ditarik kasar dari moncongnya, dilempar jauh-jauh ke laut. Belum puas memberi pelajaran pada binatang itu, lelaki tersebut menghantam moncong anjing dengan tinjunya. Anjing mendengking kesakitan, kemudian tertunduk sedih dan berjalan di sisi sang tuan dengan patuh.

Dan ia teringat sesuatu, lantas berlari kencang ke arah yang berlawanan dengan pasangan campuran itu.

Dari kejauhan dilihatnya orang-orang duduk di tikar, tua-muda, besar-kecil. Tawa mereka terbawa angin sampai ke telinga. Ia mulai gusar. Itulah keluarganya. Ibu, ayah tirinya, kakak perempuan tirinya, dan nenek tirinya. Mereka sedang makan. Semoga Ibu tak lupa menyisihkan sedikit lauk dan nasi untuknya. Tadi pagi Ibu masak kepiting serai. Ia suka rasa dan aroma serai. Tapi sewaktu ia sampai di dekat mereka, ayah tirinya berkata, “Ya, kamu terlambat dan cuma kebagian dua sepit kepiting.” Rasanya ia ingin menangis. Ia sudah membayangkan makan telur kepiting yang jingga padat dan gurih itu, tetapi sekarang harapannya kandas. Seperti ada sekepal nasi tersangkut di tenggorokan. Ibu memang selalu menyuruhnya menelan segumpal nasi bila duri ikan menancap di kerongkongan. Tapi ini sekepal. Terlalu banyak. Membuat napasnya sesak.

“Wajahmu pucat, Nak,” tegur Ibu.

Perlukah ia bercerita tentang raja ketam pada Ibu? Bibirnya bergetar. Ia malah menggambar duri ikan di pasir. Puluhan duri.

Ibu mengambil piring untuknya, tapi ia menggeleng dan memilih makan keripik pisang. Ia duduk memunggungi mereka, memandang ke arah laut, mengunyah keripik. Krauk, krauk, krauk, krauk…. Tak seorang pun peduli.

Sebuah kapal merayap. Langit berwarna lazuardi. Camar-camar terbang, menukik, menyambar ikan. Dibayangkannya pergi ke tempat yang jauh, yang ia sendiri pun belum tahu di mana. Mungkin, ke Pulau Galang. Minggu lalu ia melihat rombongan terakhir pengungsi Vietnam meninggalkan pantai ini menuju Pulau Galang. Mereka berdesakan dalam perahu kayu. Ibu menyumbang makanan dan pakaian bekas. Banyak orang memberi air minum dan biskuit pada pengungsi. Orang-orang dalam perahu dan penghuni pulau berbicara dalam bahasa masing-masing, mirip kucing dan ayam. Pantai jadi hiruk-pikuk. “Aku tak paham apa kata mereka. Yang jelas mereka pasti lapar, haus, dan perlu obat,” kata Ibu. Tiba-tiba ia khawatir perahu-perahu kayu gagal menahan badai. Tapi menurut Ibu, dalam keadaan darurat orang tak boleh jadi peragu.

BERTAHUN-tahun setelah itu ia duduk di restoran terapung, menunggu kepiting dimasak. Air laut cokelat kelabu mengayun serpih kayu serta plastik yang mengambang. Tiba-tiba ia gusar. Semoga kali ini tak lagi disuguhi daging kepiting yang berserabut dan lengket di cangkangnya akibat terlalu lama dipendam dalam timbunan balok es, atau daging yang terlalu lunak karena membusuk. Berkali-kali ia disuguhi kepiting yang kurang segar. Tapi pedas dan pekat saus tak bisa mengelabui pencecapannya yang tajam.

Kepiting saus tiram. Ia menunggunya. Sebenarnya, saus itu malah merusak rasa kepiting. Direbus dengan serai malah lebih bagus. Ia ingin pelayan memasak kepiting dengan bumbu-bumbu yang ia suka, tapi ia tak enak hati sebab di restoran sudah ada kepala koki yang berwenang meracik bumbu-bumbu andalan. Lagi pula dalam daftar menu hanya ada dua pilihan: kepiting saus tiram dan kepiting saus padang. Ia memilih yang pertama, karena kurang suka masakan yang terlalu pedas.

Dapur rumahnya lebih luas dari restoran ini. Lantai dapur terbuat dari adukan semen kasar. Meja bulat bertaplak putih di tengah ruang bagai sekuntum bunga mekar muncul dari rawa gelap. Melalui pintu geser yang besarnya menyita penuh salah satu dinding, siapa pun yang bersantap di meja makan itu leluasa memandang halaman belakang.

Pohon-pohon pisang dengan jantungnya yang terbuka, memamerkan bakal buah bertandan-tandan. Lihat itu, sebatang pohon tua yang digelantungi sulur-sulur anggrek berkelopak putih tumbuh seenaknya di tengah halaman, begitu pongah. Seekor kucing tetangga kadang-kadang memanjat tembok pembatas, melompat ke tanah, berlari ke dapur, dan mengeong minta makan. Kucing jantan, bulu tiga; cokelat, hitam, putih. Hebat ia selamat. Biasanya begitu lahir kucing bulu tiga langsung dimakan ayahnya. Mungkin dianggap pembawa sial di kalangan kucing atau mengancam pesona kucing-kucing lain yang berbulu dua warna, termasuk sang ayah.

Ia tak tega melihat kucing lapar. Diam-diam dijatuhkannya secuil daging ikan ke lantai, lalu disambar si kucing. Ibu tak suka ia memberi makan kucing. Lantai jadi kotor. Kucing pun akan datang dan datang lagi. “Padahal dia punya tuan yang bisa memberinya makan,” kata Ibu, kesal, merasa rugi. Sering kali ia memberi makan kucing bukan karena kasihan, tapi semata-mata untuk melawan perintah Ibu.

Keluarganya jarang makan di dapur, kecuali Nenek. Perempuan renta itu minum kopi bercangkir-cangkir dan mengisap honcoe. Ibu juga rajin menyiapkan penganan untuk mertuanya, seperti onde-onde dan talam asin. Tetapi Nenek tak pernah menghabiskan seluruh kue. Ia sering dipanggil untuk menghabiskan. “Orin tidak suka kue-kue ini. Kau makanlah,” ujar Nenek, menyebut nama kakak tirinya. Orin bisu dan tuli sejak lahir. Kadangkala, ia berusaha mengajak Orin bicara. Tapi jawaban Orin yang mirip pekik orang panik membuatnya lelah menyimak. Ia hanya membalas dengan tertawa atau mengangguk, kemudian percakapan mereka selesai tanpa jelas ujung pangkal.

Pelayan membawa nampan berisi sepinggan kepiting, nasi yang mengepulkan asap dan wangi beras, dan segelas teh pahit kental. Dua ekor kepiting berlinang saus. Cokelat kemerahan. Ia teringat seseorang yang selalu panik melihatnya makan kepiting. Sepit-sepit itu bisa melukai bibirmu. Hati-hati gusimu berdarah. Pakai saja tang itu, jangan gigi. Bagaimana kamu bisa membedakan kepiting laki dan perempuan? Bagaimana kamu tahu kepiting yang itu bertelur dan yang ini tidak?

Ia senang sekali mengetahui sesuatu yang kecil, terabaikan dan tanpa itu, semua hal menjadi sangat umum.

Suatu malam Ibu dan ayah tirinya bertengkar di ruang tamu. Mereka saling caci. Suara mereka begitu keras, sehingga terdengar sampai ke kamar tidurnya. Pada lima menit pertama, ia mendengar barang-barang dibanting ke lantai atau dilempar ke dinding. Pada lima menit kedua, ia mendengar jerit ayah.

Bunuh! Bunuh! Ia memohon dalam hati. Ia melonjak-lonjak riang di atas kasur. Namun, saat ayah tirinya meninggal, ia malah kecewa. Selama ini ia menyangka Ibu dan ayahnya bertengkar, karena Ibu membelanya. Mungkin Ibu sebal menyaksikan suami serta anak tirinya menghabiskan kepiting kesukaan putrinya. Dugaan tersebut membuatnya senang. Tapi dalam sidang pengadilan terbukti bahwa Ibu telah berselingkuh dengan guru sekolah Orin. Pantas saja pria itu sering mampir ke rumah. Ibu juga memaksanya bermain di kamar Orin dengan alasan Ibu harus berbicara empat mata dengan pria itu mengenai perkembangan terapi Orin. Suatu malam ia mendengar tawa pria dari kamar Ibu. Ia mengira ayah sudah kembali dari tugas luar kota. Anehnya, di pagi hari ayah tak ikut sarapan bersama. Ia yakin mendengar suara ayah semalam, namun Ibu menyebutnya pengkhayal.

Ia memang senang berkhayal. Belum lama ini ia hampir menikah dengan seekor kucing. Kalian tahu bukan betapa manisnya kucing, meski cakar-cakarnya tajam? Belahan jiwa bisa ditemukan di mana saja, bahkan ketika kalian tidak sedang mencarinya. Sebulan lalu ia menonton film kartun di televisi, film yang sangat mengesankan. Seorang pangeran disulap menjadi seekor kucing oleh kakek sihir yang mengincar putri raja. Bagian akhir film itu menampilkan sebuah kalimat di layar televisi. BARANGSIAPA RELA MENCIUM KUCING YANG MUNCUL DI MONITOR TELEVISI ANDA, MAKA ANDA TELAH MENYELAMATKAN SEORANG PANGERAN. Serta-merta dengan dada dipenuhi keharuan, ia mencium layar televisi. Sebentar kemudian muncul kalimat berikutnya: SEGERA HUBUNGI NOMOR TELEPON DI BAWAH INI DAN ANDA BERPELUANG MENDAPATKAN PANGERAN. Ia tergopoh-gopoh menelepon stasiun televisi tersebut. Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut… Telepon sibuk. Seperti sudah diduganya, ada puluhan ribu perempuan yang menelepon pangeran dan hanya seorang yang berhasil memperoleh kesempatan makan malam bersamanya. Mungkin pria itu bukan pangeran. Mungkin juru masak restoran atau buruh pabrik baja. Tapi siapa yang peduli?

Dipindahkannya pecahan-pecahan sepit kepiting ke piring kosong. Perutnya terasa penuh. Tiupan angin laut membuatnya mengantuk dan ingin lekas pulang.

* Dipublikasikan pertama kali oleh Media Indonesia, 24 April 2005.

A Short Story by Linda Christanty 

AS dusk drew closer, Yosef Legiman saw Maria Pinto cross the sky on a flying horse. Suddenly the wind hissed and shifted the sky. The very air seemed to take on the shape of a strange magical spell, droning the speech of withches; fragrant, stubborn, tranquilizing all that moved. Yosef stood stunned, gazing upwards, hugging  the long barrel of his automatic weapon, and remembered his commander’s order, “Allow her to pass, do not shoot.” 

The soft gown of Maria Pinto cut the rancid war with  a white fluttering that blinded his eyes. Yosef was like someone trapped in an old love. A mix  of fear and desire; he could not move. 

The hissing wind became all the more merciless when a chariot soared in the air, following the path of the flying horse. Two guardsgiants with dark skin and unkempt hair—participating in the routine mission, guarded their masters. Yosef allowed the procession in the sky to pass by. His knees were tired. He sat on the ground, hugging his weapon. 

The wind became calm. The grasses fertile jungle, stretched lanky became bony on the barren land and far away the stone mountain fulfilling the viewer with fond remembrance of the girl. 

Yosef first heard the story of  Maria from his friend of his who had been sent to this island before him, “If we are having a hard time winning, its because the rebels have a protector. A woman on top of it all. Huh! Infuriating.” 

Maria Pinto was  formerly just a normal girl in college studying literature at a well-known university in Jakarta. She stayed through her third semester before returning to the land of citrus fruit and coffee. The inhabitants of the land had met death or disappeared, killed themselves, turned crazy, or entered the forest, becoming one with the wild pigs and deer. 

Misfortune was overrunning the land of her ancestors and Maria was called home by the leader of her clan to  fulfill her destiny. Because she was chosen by the inscrutable whisperings of the ancestors, the clan’s shamans appointed Maria commander, giving her an ancient wand and a flying horse. From that time on, Maria Pinto was the commander of dangerous, indistinct force that moved as fog, striking enemies in every zone, reducing the bombast of people who relied on reality; those that tried to do away with legends and dreams. 

“When the fog came, rolling along the battlefield, members of our force one by one suddenly fell with gunshot wounds. When a foggy day came again, rolling over us, I fired into it without stopping. When the fog lifted I saw 7 men scattered dead on the ground. The area is riddled with magic,” said Yosef’s friend, smiling bitterly. 

NOW Yosef was confined in a train moving quickly through the night unable to close his eyes. The feeling of drowsiness disappeared, replaced by anger. The train seemed to sail through the dark. Dots of light from the villages, like lines of fireflies appeared at the window. But the remaining darkness thickened. Next to him sat a young woman absorbed in a Stephen King novel—or at least that was the name written on the book’s spine—sometimes smiling or exclaiming in astonishment at the story. 

“But, I never shot Maria Pinto and her flying horse, will never, she is divine, its useless anyway,” said Yosef slowly, nearly muttering. 

The young woman seemed disturbed for a moment then occupied herself with the pages of her book. From the beginning, she was uninterested in listening to the babbling of this emotional soldier. How strange to witness a rifleman such as this believing things so far from the concrete and tangible. But she was startled when she looked at the soldier’s face. Perhaps, she thought, this is the face of a man whose life and death is determined by war. 

The man’s face was similar her older sibling’s cloth doll that had been loved too much, although the clothes were rumpled and torn it would never go to the trash bin; a face full of stitches. The drooping eyes were decorated near the eyebrow with the crude stitching of a beginner, the repairs creeping like embroidered vines. 

“This morning my Mother cried again. This is the last trip home before resuming my duties. My Mother was traumatized. Poor thing. But this has already been chosen,” said Yosef staring straight ahead. 

Six months ago my little brother was tortured to death by the rebels. The body of my brother returned without a heart, intestines, and genitals, locked tight inside a coffin a mahogany. Now Yosef was the only son left in his family. 

“The coffin was draped with  a big flag, a very big flag!” There was a note of pride mixed with tumultuous emotion. 

The young woman shivered. How lonely a hollow corpse! 

“We are a family of farmers, poor. Nice for you, you can go to college, have money to travel. For us, just eating is difficult. Becoming a soldier made our family respected. People in village looked up to us.” This time he looked at the face of the woman next to him, who had returned to her book. 

He felt relieved sharing this story that sounded weak and cowardly with this young woman. He felt content sitting by her side, as often depicted in cheap romances, next to a stranger that one met on his journey. Was this a sign that he was ready to welcome death, to confess his sins and become a more sensitive person? Ah, death’s whispering is never perfect. 

The train traveled further to the interior, rushing past the sea, salt fields, the jungle, forest, fields and villages. Dots of light bobbed up and down on the window’s surface. Suddenly another certainty turned around painfully in the inner reaches of his heart. 

“I really love my girlfriend. But this afternoon came such a blow. Her family doesn’t support our union. Her older siblings threatened to ruin me if we marry. One of her uncles threatened me with arrest. Maybe my salary is too low and life like this worried them. Perhaps…” said Yosef, softly. 

He took a brownie from his box of food, and chewed it. The train’s whistle sounded. People slept soundly in cotton blankets of dark blue. Light snores occasionally crept from nearby chairs, resembling the jests of a grandfather to a beloved grandchild.  

“Yes, maybe my duty has to be postponed. Especially in the midst of a problem like this, I’m slipshod and lazy. People in the midst of turmoil shouldn’t go to war, they’ll be killed like fools.” 

Suddenly, the wind blew up. He was close friends with the wind, having been absorbed by its sharp hissing or its caress, reading the signs it sent. 

“Feel the wind,” he whispered, touching the shoulder of the young woman. 

“That’s not wind, but fresh air from the AC,” said the young woman. 

“If we are in the wrong place, our enemies will sniff our bodies’ scent. Our location would be easily known.” He began to worry. 

He was always watchful. Only once had he not been, and that one time shamed him. 

One night Yosef was separated from his troop after exchanging fire with the rebels. He walked alone, edging along the river under twinkling stars looking for the nearest village. 

Approaching midnight, he crept up behind a grass shack, moving with his rifle muzzle pointing at every corner. There was no village, only this grass shack, isolated in the forest.  Yosef  tried to steal snatches of any conversation that the shack’s inhabitants might be having. Silence and patience collided. The chirping sound of crickets wings reverberated, cutting the quiet. 

Yosef screwed his courage up and pushed the shack’s door with the muzzle of his gun, all the while being ready to take cover if danger emerged. The shack was pitch dark. He lit his lighter. The sight before him made his heart stop. 

A girl lay on the floor cuddling a wooden horse with wings, a children’s toy. His throat went dry. He drew closer, the muzzle of his gun pointing at the face of the sleeping girl. Drops of cold sweat began to form in all the pores of his weak body. 

The light made Maria Pinto stir, she observed him silently and gently. The commander and the soldier were alone, facing each other. Maria Pinto stretched, gestured in the air, and thousands of fireflies gathered, lighting the shack, dancing and celebrating. 

Maria Pinto opened her white fairy gown. Her naked body resembled a saint’s body carved from wax, little by little becoming radiantly transparent. He could clearly see her heart, intestines, lungs, and skull. Her small, lovely head grew bigger and bigger, and the pupils of her eyes enlarged and her skin wrinkled. Flashing through his mind was a movie about alien creatures that he had once watched in the barracks. 

The next morning, as the dew was still fresh on the grass and weeds, he was leaning against the security post. His fellow soldiers ran toward him, full of consternation. Yosef stood up and looked around, examining the earth around him, without speaking. His friends were both confused and afraid, suspecting that he had lost his mind: Yosef had been gone for days. 

He was still walking and bending, closely examining the ground. There were no boot prints on the soft ground, he thought with disappointment. Was it possible that the commander, Maria Pinto, had brought him here with her wooden flying horse after seeing the idiot soldier passed out in front of her? Why hadn’t Maria Pinto killed him? When was he so stupid that he didn’t aim for the crown of the girl’s head? 

He began laughing, louder and louder. A wooden horse, a wooden horse, a wooden horse, a wooden horse…. Yosef kept saying as though chanting a mantra. His thin belly shook with laughter, twisted with uncontrollable laughter. The doctor said he was suffering from clinical depression, and insisted the troop commander send him away to a quiet zone for rest and recuperation. However, it was impossible to know which area in the war zone was truly calm. So he was sent home. His recovered quickly, but he was transferred to another division. 

“This is my secret, only between us,” said Yosef, ending his story. 

The young woman gave a deep sigh. A  triangle love story, complicated and tragic, she thought sadly. The soldier is caught between his girlfriend and the ghost commander. Both a sad ending. 

The train ended its journey. The air became fresher. The people busied themselves straightening their hair, blouses, and wrinkled shirts; and began talking to each other. Two male stewards collected the passenger’s blankets in a black plastic bag, slowly dragging it behind them.  

“Do you want to spend some time with me tonight?” Yosef said looking straight at the girl. 

“I want to finish my book.” 

“I want to walk around and clear my mind.” 

“I hope you’ll have a good time.” 

They parted, becoming strangers once again. 

ONE afternoon during the dry season Yosef Legiman climbed the stairs of a skyscraper in the heart of the city, carrying his rifle bag. For almost one month he had been conducting surveillance on this person. He hid on one floor of the building, watching the area around him with an infrared telescope, allowing the breeze to caress his body. He felt the direction and the gust of the wind as it touched his skin, and took up a good position to take his aim. To misread the wind could be fatal to him. The enemy can track him from the scent of his body or the pungent smell of his bloody wounds that traveled on the particles of wind. But life and death are merely stanzas in a poem, located close together, structure and content linked together in one poem. Yosef was ready to face them both. 

The light blue sky was quiet. Yosef put his silencer on his gun. The sun shone softly. He continued to observe his prey. 

The curtain of a window on the building’s seventh floor was wide open, parallel to his location. A person could be seen pacing back and forth, talking with two friends. His eyes narrowed. He imagined himself to be a hawk. Hs prey was standing with its back against the window. Slowly he pulled the trigger of his rifle, aiming within the crosshairs, striking. 

The window in the building across from him shattered. A person fell.  

Yosef had carried out his duty. He opened his cellular phone to report to his commander. 

When he saw the young woman’s picture for the first time, he was stunned: a leader of terrorists. He remembered the girl that he met on the train a month ago. Definitely her, thought Yosef. This world can be cruel to soldiers. He had now killed that girl, wiping out the soul of someone that kept some of his secrets. 

The wind suddenly rushed through the window, prickling cold to his bones. Yosef body’s shivered, filled with pain. He was just about to leave the windowsill when he saw Maria Pinto crossing the sky on her flying horse. Why does that woman follow him everywhere? Maria Pinto smiled, extending her soft, white hand. As if under a spell, Yosef grasped the waiting hand of Maria Pinto. 

He felt himself flying between the clouds, sailing, looking at the world that faded below him. 

 

* Maria Pinto’s Flying Horse is the English translation of Kuda Terbang Maria Pinto, a short story (and also a title of a book) that won Khatulistiwa Literary Award in 2004. The most prestigious literary award in Indonesia. Translated from the Indonesian by Bun Teo. 

A Short Story by Linda Christanty 

OUR house faced the beach. Yet the beach wasn’t visible through the open windows. It wasn’t even visible when I stood in the sandy yard and it was as if the soles of my bare feet were being attacked by fine-hot needles in the intense heat of the day. The beach was just the roar of the sea and the whistling of ships, even when I perched on the highest branch of the kersen tree that towered conceitedly in the corner of the yard. 

A cliff spread with creeping thorn plants hid the beach down below. And the trunk of a fruitless jackfruit tree at the edge of the cliff, with old withered twigs,  looked like a strange creature standing melancholy watch over it.  

Toward nightfall, when only the twilight rays of the set sun were left, casting all things of the universe into silhouette, that jackfruit tree really did resemble a lone, alien creature pondering on the brink. Black. Mute. All alone in the world.   

My confused gaze ran smack into the line where the sky and cliff met.  Not a straight line, like one made with a ruler and pencil on drawing paper, but a rather wavy line with peaks and valleys of various heights and depths. Bushes, trees, wood stumps, outcroppings of land … sullied the view. Even the sky I saw was always changing colors. Blue, gray, black or blinding white.  Like colors tinging my brain.  The wild spiraling shoots that crept over and covered the slope always looked bright green in the rainy season, but crisp brown in the dry season. More like a net of rusty wires than plants once alive, once fresh.     

Sometimes Grandfather invited me to go to the beach. We were forced to take a winding path. The incline of the slope was almost 90 degrees. Impossible to descend. As soon as my feet touched sand, I immediately turned back around to face the cliff. Really high. The jackfruit tree looked blurred. 

WHEN I was still in elementary school, I spent some of my time up in the kersen tree. Not just to imagine the hidden beach, but for other purposes.  

After coming home from school and having lunch, I climbed up with a cloth bag of story books strapped over my shoulder, then sat on a sturdy branch to read and pore over the tall tales of the storytellers and be swayed by their words. Tin Tin comics, Nancy Drew detective serials, Tales of Five Continents…  

A breeze blew and refreshed my skin, then began stroking my eyelids. Eventually the letters crowded into each other or multiplied themselves.  

I started feeling sleepy, but didn’t dare fall asleep. Not because of the fat green caterpillars that suddenly crawled up, inching over my body now and then, spreading an itchy feeling into my pores, but more out of a fear of falling. Although the strong winds more often came only in certain months, certain seasons, that fear of being blown away and dashed down by the wind made me go down right away when drowsiness began to take over.  

The strong wind was really amazing. Grains of sand got lifted up, took flight and gilded the air. The terrace floor got sandy. The glass of the windows got dusty. The walls of our house got increasingly dull. Mak Sol, a niece of my grandfather who lived with us, would be busy sweeping the terrace and wiping the glass in the doors and windows for weeks, more often than on normal days. Yu Ani – who’d been helping with the cooking and clothes washing at our house for close to a year – would hurry about carrying a pail and mopping the floor. 

Once in a while I gazed at the strong wind from the window of the pavilion, the place where Grandfather lived. The pavilion had large windows. Their white-painted frames were made of meranti timber. The wide pane of glass in Grandfather’s room offered me an unimpeded view of the wind as it violently attacked and bent the kersen branches and twigs. Leaves fell. Caterpillars were flung off and scattered in the sand like hit and run victims. Strange thing was, caterpillar season always happened at the same time as the coming of the strong winds. “The West Wind’s arrived,” said Grandfather, as he put the petty cash book away in his desk drawer, which could hold all of the receipts of bought goods, television and radio subscription bills, important papers and old cough medicine bottles filled with all sorts of roots (and one special bottle stored a collection of grandfather’s fallen teeth!). Grandfather then deftly sorted the banknotes from the coins or the reverse. The banknotes were placed inside a brown envelope labelled MONTHLY EXPENSES, while the coins were fed into the mouth of a glazed porcelain elephant that was rearing upward, its two front legs lifting high – a piggy bank that was a gift from a nephew of grandfather’s who worked for a shipping company. After that, the envelope of money was stored in a safe. The elephant bank was shifted back to the corner of the desk. Secretly I’d poke and pry at the elephant bank and try to get some of the coins inside to fall out. It rarely worked. But once there were enough of them to buy five packets of ham lam, a candy made from a sort of fruit whose seeds are shaped like almonds and twice an almond’s size. The sequence of kanji characters stamped on the wrapping paper I couldn’t decipher at all. The ‘ham lam’ written in Roman letters beneath the string of kanji characters I took to be the name of the fruit candy.  

I suppose Grandfather knew about my deeds, the stealing of the coins. One day he bought me a clay chicken bank and said, “Save up your coins here. Later you can break it when it’s full.” I suddenly felt sad and ashamed. I shifted my gaze from the window pane to look at my grandfather, sitting with his back turned to me. 

Actually, it was Grandfather who was the head of our family, not Father. Each day he inspected the trivia of household necessities, from matters of kitchen salt to visits to our neighbor who’d stolen water from the water pipe behind the house. It was Grandfather too who went to the police station to release our driver who had been accused of running into someone. Father wanted to give a bribe to the police instead, so the matter could be settled quickly. “Don’t! If we’re right, we have to stick up for it, even if we have to die for it,” he said,  scolding his weak-hearted son-in-law.  

Grandfather slowly raised his coffee cup, then gulped down its contents. Robusta coffee, thick. I’d once tasted grandfather’s coffee, as much as one can swallow at  a gulp. Bitter. I vomited it into the sink. Strong black. A color that’s scary, but always there. I saw Grandfather’s fingers were shaking.  

“This strong wind brings illness. If you just play inside the house, it’ll be safer,” he said, as he placed the cup on a saucer. A moment later he rose from the chair, placed his reading glasses on the buffet, and walked through the door frame.  

AS MY GAZE returned to collide with the pane of glass, I saw a clump of black cloud moving in slow procession across the sky. The wind was still surging mad. Bits of soil were raised into the air, then scattered back to earth. The sea below the cliff was stirring. My schoolmate, Kang Haw, had been lost in that sea because of helping to push a fishing boat into the open sea. His corpse floated up after two weeks. Swollen. Blue. Full of holes from bites. I saw people carrying his body in the litter after lifting it out of the sea, even though Grandfather had forbidden me. Just as the mourning party came around the street corner, I hurried up the kersen tree and steadily watched them carrying Kang Haw. The blowing of the wind suddenly gathered force. My pores rose up in goose bumps.   

At night, when I woke up to go to the bathroom, the roar of the wind sounded louder, like the reverberating growl of a giant. I ran down the long narrow corridor that connected the bathroom in the house out back with my room, which was located in the main house. My room was closer to the bathroom at the end of the corridor than to the family bathroom in the main house.  

The cement floor was as cold as ice. I often forgot to put on my flanel slippers. The soles of my feet felt as if they were frozen. Bang Husni, Grandfather’s adopted grandson, was already standing up straight, in front of his room, which was next to the bathroom. The soft tapping of feet and rhythm of light steps had pulled him out  of deep sleep. The stillness of the house made sounds more sharply audible. “Like the ring of an alarm clock,” he said, with a grin. He drew near. His fingers gripped my arm, “Don’t run too fast, you’ll fall.”  Bang Husni often lent me comic books. He rented the books from a book kiosk in the market. “You’re allowed to read these books on one condition,” he said one day. His eyes weirdly brightened. 

The wind kept on blowing through the holes in the window screen along the length of the corridor. The night deepened. The wind hissed, cold, sharp. My body shivered. The kersen leaves rustled. He shut the corridor light. 

GRANDFATHER once wanted to chop down the kersen tree. When it’s caterpillar season it makes people disgusted. “Look at that… caterpillars everywhere,” he grumbled, pointing his index finger at the window.  

I disagreed. I wanted to build a cute house at the top of the tree. I wished to have my own house. The caterpillars weren’t so plentiful all the time, were they? Couldn’t the tree be sprayed with caterpillar poison? “Would be better if we planted a rambutan or a rose apple tree – more useful,” Grandfather cajoled, evading a quarrel.  

Father and Mother were all for grandfather’s plan, but good fortune still took the part of the tree. Gradually everyone forgot the original plan. Only when the strong winds came and made the caterpillars fall off did conversation about felling the tree reappear. The execution of the plan was cancelled time and time again, vanishing in the midst of  a tumult of more important day to day matters. I, of course, was grateful. 

I began browsing the leftover boards behind the house. I  watched closely how grandfather sawed, planed and nailed. The wooden treehouse would call for thoughtful preparation. It would even have to withstand whirlwind attacks. I would build it myself. I told none about it. I began flipping through Grandfather’s books on carpentry skills. Every time I looked at the tree, my desire to live in it became stronger and more deep rooted. I envisioned spending the night there. From its sweet little window, I’d watch the stars glitter. Oh yeah, I’d have the binoculars Father had given me. Bathroom? I could do it inside an old paint can. Done.  

Occasionally I gave up hope. Was I capable of building a house? My thoughts suddenly became scrambled. My head ached. But, as long as the dream house wasn’t built yet, I could still take shelter in the kersen tree, have a moment of fun, and keep looking for ways to realize it later on. I could also lie in wait, spying, and find out about the many events taking place in our house from behind the dense green kersen leaves.  

ON SUNDAYS, an old man always stopped by our house, carrying ocean fish in two rattan baskets flanking either side of his bicycle. I closed my story books and deliberately monitored his movements from the treetop. He peered at Grandfather’s pavilion. He didn’t see me. His thin calves propped up the bike and the load it bore.  

Grandfather didn’t go to the market on Sundays, but waited for the vegetable cart or the fish bicycle to pass by the front of the house.  

The fish vendor rang the bell of his bicycle twice, then paused, and then pressed on the bell twice again, as grandfather had still not yet appeared. Before long grandfather opened the door of the pavillion, stepped into the yard smiling, and shouted to the man, “What news, Suk? Are there good fish? Any shrimp? Shellfish? Rayfish? Mullet? Selar?” 

The Chinaman, who had burnt brown skin and creases in his face like scrapes of a knife in tree bark, greeted grandfather with a wide smile. “There are, Sir. All of it has just come in. These here kembung fish are still fresh. There’s a little rayfish left,” he’d say, with a cheerful note.  

Grandfather picked through the fish in the baskets. The fish vendor pulled out a portable scale. Grandfather placed the fish in the weighing bowls. The fish vendor started to move the weights, watching the weight marks on the arm of the scale. After that grandfather pulled some banknotes out of his thick cotton pants. The fish vendor nodded, displayed a toothless smile, then peddled his bicycle away from our house. Ring-ring… he sounded the bell twice as a parting salute.  

Grandfather walked, carrying the plastic bag of fish toward the pavillion, then momentarily looked up into the kersen tree. “Take care not to fall!” he shouted at me. I answered by waving my hand and sticking out my tongue. Grandfather laughed.  

However, Grandfather didn’t always buy fish on Sundays. The fish vendor didn’t always let Grandfather buy his fish, even though he still stopped by our house as usual, sounded the bicycle bell, and waited for Grandfather. When Grandfather appeared, the vendor called out, “There aren’t any good fish today Sir. The fishermen haven’t come home from sea yet.” Grandfather responded to his shout, “Yes, yes … wait a moment!” I knew what Grandfather was going to do. He asked Yu Ani to measure out two liters of our rice  and pour it into a plastic bag to give to the fish vendor. Always, on the days when there were no fresh fish, Grandfather brought the man a parcel. For many years I witnessed Sunday mornings like that.  

One Sunday the fish vendor didn’t show up. Neither was his bicycle bell to be heard the following Sunday. Sundays passed without fish. For many months Grandfather replaced the fish menu with beef or chicken. Conversations about the vanished fish vendor came up from time to time, at the dining table or in the kitchen. “Is the man sick?” muttered Grandfather. Yu Ani, on the contrary, suspected that the fish vendor had met with a more severe calamity. “Maybe he’s died. He was so old, Sir. Where were his children, Sir? Leaving such an old man to work,” she said, worried. But slowly the event was forgotten as other events arrived.  

IN THE MIDDLE of the night and always in the middle of the night, I woke up again and ran to the bathroom. Bang Husni was already waiting in front of the door to his room. “There’s a new comic, little sister,” he said, half whispering. Actually I was reluctant to look at those comics. I was rushing to push the handle of the bathroom door.  

He caught up with me and pulled on my hand, “Mahabharata and Superman.”   I tugged away from his grasp.  

“I’m not keen to read comics,” I answered, peeved.  

“C’mon,” he coaxed. I was reluctant to comply with the rules.  

“Only for a moment, after that you can read all the comics.” His voice sounded sweet.  

He guided me into his room, placed my body on the mattress like a doll. His hands muzzled my mouth.  

Next day it was hard to pee. I didn’t feel like leaving for school. Grandfather offered to take me there. Father and Mother had already left for work. My two younger siblings had gone by pickup car.  

My body was hot, feverish. “Don’t cut down the kersen tree,” I pleaded with Grandfather. Grandfather felt my forehead. “We’ll see,” he answered, patting my shoulder. I cried. 

Did Grandfather know?  

“Put this potty in your room, so there’s no need to put off urinating, and then get a urinary infection,” he said, when he came home from the market. Grandfather put the chamber pot under the bed.  

Suddenly Bang Husni left our house, unnoticed.  

“Unable to repay kindness. Sent to school, fed and bought clothing … instead, he runs away,” Mak Sol grumbled at length.  

Bang Husni was soon to take final exams for senior high school and Grandfather wanted him to graduate. His departure put Grandfather into a depressed mood for several days. Where was he now? How was he?  

MY WOODEN HOUSE never did get to perch in the kersen tree, but I kept on spending some of my time sitting and reading books on one one of its branches.  Now and then I looked out toward the coast. Only the roar of the sea and the whistling of ships marked its existence. About 500 meters away, a cliff spread with creeping thorn plants hid the beach down below, and the trunk of a a fruitless jackfruit tree at the edge of the cliff, with withered twigs,  looked like a strange creature standing melancholy watch over the sea from afar. The sea was capable of swallowing anything at all.