A Lie

Teguh Winarsho AS

Leaping over a fence one-and-a-half-meters high, Surip gashed his feet as he trod on broken pieces of glass and crumpled to the ground. With a suppressed groan of pain, Surip had no more fear after racing down the street. The dozens of people chasing him, wielding various knives and daggers, were lagging behind. Flashes of their torches had even gone. Only the faint sound of wooden alarms could be heard fading away.

But Surip was startled when his face was suddenly bathed in a beam of very bright light. Dazzled, he rubbed his eyes. His painful feet prevented him from fleeing. Surip was trembling with fear. The torchlight kept moving slowly to approach him, with no way of identifying the guy behind the light amid total darkness. He forced and dragged himself from the ground to stand up, looking pale as he tried hard to smile.

"Young man, what are you doing here?" The heavy and loud voice came from a man, who continued to focus the light on Surip's face.

Surip turned even more pallid. He closed his eyes several times to withstand the glare. Hardly had he replied when the man with the torch again called out: "I know you're not a good fellow. Maybe you're a thief or robber. But you are hurt. Come on, let me treat the injuries ..."

The man wielding the torch, about sixty years old, guided Surip into his house. At a loss for words, Surip just followed the old man, who then entered his room to get something. While waiting, Surip was surprised to see a broad and luxurious sitting room for the first time. Moments later the man came out with a bottle of oil and iodine solution for Surip. "Smear it over your injured feet. They'll soon heal ..."

Surip was gazing at the gray-haired man, wondering with whom he lived in this big and plush building. He felt strange as the house was very quiet, with a mood of melancholy. No sound of others, tape recorders, TV or radio sets was heard.

"What's your name, if you don't mind?" asked the old man while inhaling tobacco smoke deeply.

Surip raised his head, looking at him, and bowed again. He took some breaths to calm himself. "Sssurip ..." he answered, now avoiding his gaze.

"People around here call me Pak Bandi. I live alone here. My five children are abroad."

Surip nodded slowly, with a feeling of unease.

"You look like having been chased, Surip? What's wrong?" he asked while smoking.

Surip found it hard to reply. He was speechless with embarrassment. He tried to glance up and then looked at his injured feet. "It was the first time. I was forced to do it. But, indeed, I didn't got the chance as the villagers caught me in the act and chased me ..."

"Why didn't you surrender?"

Worn out, Surip shook his head. "They would have beaten me up. They didn't care if I had stolen something or not ..."

Dozens of feet were stamping in the front yard as night fell. Surip was terrified. His face reflected anxiety, nervousness and fear. But the old man rose from his seat, smoked and calmed him down. "You just stay in the room. I'll see them ..."

Surip was stooping to enter the room and hide himself in a corner. The man walked to the door and open it. The mob with torches and weapons, angry and sweaty, was around.

"What do you want?" he asked, with a serene stare at the crowd.

"We're looking for a thief."

"Is he here?"

"One of us saw him entering this yard. He leapt over the back fence."

"Oh ... I don't know anything about it."

"We want to search this yard ... who knows if he's hiding around here."

"Please do ..." was the old man's cool reply.

Some youths promptly examined the enclosed grounds of the house, flashing their torches, while others kept guard. After a few moments, they left empty handed.

"Surip, will you work with me here?"

At the dining table, as they had breakfast, Surip almost choked on the food he ate when he heard the attractive offer, as he was seeking a job.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"This house is too big for me, Surip. I can no longer take care of it, and the back garden, too. My wife died two months ago ..."

Surip knew that the man was doing household chores himself. Earlier that morning he saw the man preparing breakfast. He's to be pitied, thought Surip. But why could this gentleman have so much trust that soon? The question was bugging his mind.

"Last night you promised to be a good citizen and stop stealing. I trust you. How about it, Surip, are you ready to work here?" The old man seemed impatient for Surip's reply.

After his last spoonful of rice, Surip nodded.

Two weeks' work with the man was enough to make Surip feel sick and bored. He felt a restriction that prevented him from going anywhere he liked as he had done previously. The thought of leaving the house struck him. He had calculated it all. His employer promised to pay him two hundred and fifty thousand rupiah monthly, a fairly big salary he'd never received before. But ... Surip smiled for a while, with a sideways glance to imagine a white car in the garage, two motorcycles, two TV sets, a tape recorder, VCD player, gold jewelry and ... His smile was broader.

Surip was aware that the old boss, who might be a retired serviceman, kept a pistol in the drawer of his room table. He once entered the room when the man was taking a bath. For the first time, Surip stroked the firearm he had frequently watched only on TV, smooth and shiny. He believed that the man had repeatedly cleaned it, as he recalled how he had several times found his employer seated, facing the back garden, his hands fidgeting with something. As he approached, the man got confused and tried to cover an object with his clothes. Surip was thus convinced that the man had hidden a pistol.

An evil plan was now in his head. He would kill the old man with a gunshot and then bury him in the garden. Nobody would know it. Who would care? The house was surrounded by high walls. Surip could not sleep well for a few nights, kept awake with fancies of becoming a rich man before long. He was tired of stealing chickens and clothes, being hunted down, with the risk of being lynched when luck wasn't on his side. And the killing was easy: one or two shots in the head would finish the man.

The night was cold. Surip found his boss drowsing before the TV set. He stood straight four meters behind the man, controlled his breaths and heart beats. As he began to sweat, a pistol was in his tight grip. He raised the gun at the chest level. But the old man turned his head as if he had sensed the attempt on his life and paled all at once. The retiree almost fell as he rose from his seat out of bewilderment.

It was beyond Surip's expectation that the man had sensed his act. He originally planned to shoot from behind. But this unfavorable reality made Surip desperate. He was now facing the man trembling with his back against the wall.

"Surip, give the gun to me ..." said the man, withstanding the slight tremor in the knees.

"Sorry, I've got to do this, old man." Surip pointed the pistol right at the man's face.

"Don't, don't do it, Surip. Take all my belongings and go ..."

"No. You must be lying. You'll call the police." With these words Surip pulled the trigger and, click! click! He was frantic to find the gun unloaded, and even more so as the old man slowly took out his gun from behind his clothes with a laugh.

"You're wrong, Surip. That's the toy gun of my grandchild now living abroad. I often clean the toy when I'm longing to see him. This is the true gun." The old man pointed the gun at Surip's forehead ...

-- Translated by Aris Prawira