Closure<\/p>\n
Dewi Anggraeni<\/p>\n
Martine and I were in Bali four months after the Bali bombing. We
\nwere struck by the small number of tourists, especially
\ninternational visitors.<\/p>\n
Shops and restaurants in Kuta were practically empty.<\/p>\n
Whenever we were not interviewing people, I gave the same
\nanswer -- I'm from Jakarta -- to those who asked. It was not
\nentirely a lie. It was just not the whole truth.<\/p>\n
Then one day, Martine and I were sitting at a cafe in Seminyak
\nfinishing our lunch, when a young woman at the next table smiled
\nat us. She and her friend had been stealing a look in our
\ndirection, and we had been pretending total oblivion.<\/p>\n
When she finally made eye contact and smiled, I reciprocated.
\nMartine, her usual cautious self, nodded.<\/p>\n
\"On holiday?\" she asked, casually.<\/p>\n
\"Sort of,\" I replied.<\/p>\n
\"From where?\"<\/p>\n
\"Jakarta,\" I said without hesitation.<\/p>\n
The woman raised her eyebrows. \"You feel the heat here more
\nthan in Jakarta?\" Damn, she had been watching me. Yes, I was
\nfeeling the heat. I was drenched in perspiration from the roots
\nof my hair to my toes.<\/p>\n
I said tentatively, \"No, I feel the heat in Jakarta, too...,\"
\nand Martine came to my rescue.<\/p>\n
\"She usually stays indoors, you know, a creature of air-
\nconditioning,\" she said, unsmiling.<\/p>\n
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, \"Is there a photo shop
\nnearby? I need to have my film developed.\"<\/p>\n
The woman's friend answered, \"There's one just two blocks away
\nfrom here. They can do it in one hour.\"<\/p>\n
\"Oh that's just perfect! Let's go.\" I slowly stood up and
\npulled my skirt away from my wet thighs. Martine signaled to the
\nwaiter, who ambled unhurriedly toward our table.<\/p>\n
When they were out of earshot, Martine laughed. \"From Jakarta
\nindeed! Look at you! Constantly looking for a cool place...\"<\/p>\n
\"Precisely,\" I said, becoming more defensive every minute,
\n\"isn't that typical Jakartan behavior?\"<\/p>\n
Martine rolled her eyes and walked on.<\/p>\n
At the photo shop there were four young men squatting outside
\nsmoking, and no one to be seen inside. I followed Martine who
\nwent to the counter, putting her bag on it. One of the men stood
\nup and went around the counter, facing us. Martine pointed to the
\nsign in front of the shop.<\/p>\n
\"You can have our film developed in one hour?\" she asked.<\/p>\n
The man nodded. I took the film out of my handbag and gave it
\nto him.<\/p>\n
He wrote out a receipt with the pick-up time on it. \"From
\nwhere, Bu?\" he asked.<\/p>\n
\"Jakarta,\" replied Martine.<\/p>\n
The man then looked at me. \"Also from Jakarta,\" I said, trying
\nto look cool and composed.<\/p>\n
Picking the film off the counter, before turning away, he
\nsaid, \"You are not from Jakarta, are you, Bu? You are from
\noverseas.\"<\/p>\n
I was taken aback. \"Why d'you say that?\"<\/p>\n
One of his friends, who had been squatting nearby, stood up
\nand took his cigarette out of his mouth. \"He knows, Bu. He's a
\nson of a balian.\"<\/p>\n
\"What is that?\"<\/p>\n
\"Somebody who can see what ordinary people cannot,\" the friend
\nexplained, then replaced the cigarette between his lips.<\/p>\n
I turned to look at the shop again. The balian's son had
\ndisappeared into the back of the shop, behind a black curtain.<\/p>\n
\"A soothsayer?\" I asked.<\/p>\n
\"Yes, like a soothsayer,\" the friend replied, the cigarette
\ndangling in his mouth.<\/p>\n
Walking away, Martine dismissed the balian thing.<\/p>\n
\"Bah, you don't have to be a balian's son to tell you're not a
\nJakartan. I don't know how you think you can get away with that.
\nI'm sure people just pretend they believe you to humor you,\" she
\nsaid with a grin.<\/p>\n
\"But I am a Jakartan!\" I almost yelled. \"I was born and
\nbrought up there.\"<\/p>\n
Martine shrugged. \"If you say so!\"<\/p>\n
We ambled along companionable, looking at shop windows which
\nlined almost the whole street, commenting on various items,
\neavesdropping on conversations whenever people walked past us,
\nand stepping into shops when we found the heat and humidity too
\noverwhelming.<\/p>\n
Yet a hint of tension began to test the emotional link between
\nus.<\/p>\n
We were back at the photo shop before the hour was up. The
\nbalian's son was cutting a roll of pictures into individual
\nprints.<\/p>\n
\"Are they ours?\" asked Martine. The balian's son nodded. He
\nstacked the sheets of prints neatly on top of a brightly colored
\npatterned paper bag.<\/p>\n
Just then a woman of nondescript age, dressed in vaguely
\ntraditional Balinese clothes, appeared from behind the curtain.
\nIt occurred to me that she looked like she had just finished her
\nshift at a restaurant nearby.<\/p>\n
For a moment we locked gaze, then she smiled. Without saying a
\nword, she turned around and disappeared into the back of the
\nshop.<\/p>\n
We returned to the hotel for an afternoon rest.<\/p>\n
As soon as we closed the door behind us, I rushed to the
\nfridge to get a cool drink for both of us.<\/p>\n
\"Do you want a melon juice or a melon juice?\" I asked, trying
\nto dissolve the tension.<\/p>\n
Martine sat on the bed and took the stack of prints out of its
\npaper bag.<\/p>\n
\"I'll have a melon juice, then,\" she said absently.<\/p>\n
I opened a can and handed it to her, then took another one for
\nmyself, watching her face. She was intently looking at a photo,
\nslightly frowning. I quietly sat next to her.<\/p>\n
She looked up and examined my face, as if she had just
\nrealized what I looked like.<\/p>\n
\"What?\" I asked.<\/p>\n
\"Who is this?\" she enquired, tilting the photo for me to see.<\/p>\n
A Caucasian man, probably about thirty, wearing a garish
\nshort-sleeve shirt and a pair of light-colored board shorts, was
\nstanding amid the ruins next to the site where Sari Club had
\nbeen. I blinked, and blinked again. He was still there, staring
\nat me.<\/p>\n
\"I don't know. In fact, I don't remember him being there. Do
\nyou?\" I finally said.<\/p>\n
Martine had another look. \"Didn't you take the photo?\"<\/p>\n
I thought for a while, then shook my head. \"Come to think of
\nit, I don't remember taking a photo of that place with this roll
\nof film. Did you?\"<\/p>\n
Martine was already pulling the negative out of the paper bag,
\nand walking toward the window. She checked the film, strip by
\nstrip. I had lost my thirst. I watched her, not knowing what to
\nexpect.<\/p>\n
Martine turned around, holding aloft a strip of film. \"Here!
\nThe last exposure. The twenty-fifth.\"<\/p>\n
\"It's a twenty-four exposure film,\" I whispered to myself.<\/p>\n
\"Yeah, but they sometimes fit in more. It's not so unusual.
\nThe thing is, I don't remember us going there again yesterday,
\njust before dark. It was before dark, see?\" Martine looked at the
\nphoto again, before handing it to me.<\/p>\n
We looked at each other, then at the photo. I was eager to
\ndilute the tension, so I said, \"Maybe we should just forget about
\nit. Whoever he is, he probably walked in just as you or I clicked
\nthe camera.\"<\/p>\n
Martine slowly gathered the film and the prints and put them
\nback into the paper bag. We did not look at the rest of the
\nphotos together like we had with the previous batches, where we
\nhad passed emotional or irreverent comments followed by short or
\nlength discussions. I quietly put them together with the other
\nbags of photos on the table.<\/p>\n
We were leaving Bali the following evening. During the day we
\nwent to Ubud, both forgetting to bring our cameras. We talked a
\nlot about our observation during our stay, and made copious notes
\nfilling each other's gaps. Martine and I always managed to write
\ndifferent stories even after seeing the same things and
\nwitnessing the same events together.<\/p>\n
Throughout that day we did not once mention the man in the
\nphoto, yet each knew that he had sneaked into our consciousness
\nlike an unwelcome relative arriving unannounced then staying
\nforever.<\/p>\n
At the airport we parted because Martine was going back to
\nJakarta and I to Melbourne. It was then she said, \"I have the
\nfeeling we're going to hear more from our man. If you do, please
\nkeep me posted.\"<\/p>\n
The tension snapped. I felt tears welling in my eyes. \"Yes, I
\nhave that feeling too. And if it's you who hears from him, keep
\nme posted, too.\"<\/p>\n
As I walked away from the domestic terminal, I felt slightly
\ncreepy, as if someone was following me.<\/p>\n
Several months have now passed. Some of my stories have
\nappeared in newspapers in Australia. This morning I received a
\ncall from a woman who said she had read my feature stories on
\nBali, and would like to meet and talk to me. We agreed to meet in
\ntown.<\/p>\n
I arrive early so I choose a seat toward the back of the cafe,
\nfacing the door, and order a black coffee. Perusing a newspaper
\nsomeone left on the seat next to me, I still look up frequently
\nto check the entrance.<\/p>\n
Three women walk through the door, yet I know the one I am
\nmeeting, though we haven't told each other what we each look
\nlike. And she too, shows no hesitation and comes straight to my
\ntable. I stand up and we go through the motion of introducing
\neach other.<\/p>\n
She takes the seat facing me and puts her hands on the table,
\npalms down, showing healing scars on the back of her hands. \"I
\nescaped with minor burns on my hands and arms. But my husband...
\nHe was never found. Not identifiable, anyway.\"<\/p>\n
I slowly slip my hand into my handbag and pull out an
\nenvelope. Her eyes fill up with so much hope that I begin to
\ntremble. I would hate to disappoint her. The envelop falls from
\nmy hand onto the table, and she picks it up.<\/p>\n
She tries three times to open it, but the flap seems to stick,
\nso I help her. She pulls the photo out and closes her eyes before
\nopening them and fixing her gaze at what she is holding.<\/p>\n
The general noise in the cafe seems to stop, and time tapers
\noff into a narrow and long tunnel. I can't breathe. I wait.<\/p>\n
A gasp from her propels me abruptly to the end of the tunnel.
\nI burst into uncontrollable sobs. She grabs me on both hands and
\nwe cry together, in complete disregard of the other patrons, who
\ntry to avert their eyes in incomprehension and confused
\nembarrassment.<\/p>\n
As we part outside, I turn around the last time to see her
\nwalking unsteadily toward a tram stop. I punch Martine's number
\non my cellphone. When her voice comes on I tell her, tears
\nrunning down my cheeks, that I finally have closure.<\/p>\n
\"And I hope she will soon, too,\" I say.<\/p>", "url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/closure-1447899208", "image": "" }, "sponsor": "Okusi Associates", "sponsor_url": "https:\/\/okusiassociates.com" }