A Thousand Fireflies in Manhattan

A Thousand Fireflies in Manhattan

By Umar Kayam

The couple, an Indonesian man and an American woman, were
lounging on the sofa in the woman's apartment, Marno with a glass
of scotch in his hand, and Jane with a martini. Both were staring
out the window.

"Look Marno," the woman said, "the moon is purple."

"Jane, you don't expect me to believe that, do you?" Marno
asked skeptically.

"Why of course I do, honey. Say it. Say it's purple, okay?"

"If the moon is purple, then what's the color of the sky and
clouds?"

"I don't care about the sky or the clouds. Only the moon, and
it's purple! 'P-u-r-p-l-e!'" she spelled. "Come on, say it,
Marno. It's purple!"

"It's yellow!"

"You're such a shit!"

"I'm taking you to the eye doctor, tomorrow."

Marno stood up and went to the kitchen for more water and ice.
After he returned, he resumed his position on the sofa beside
Jane. He felt a little tipsy.

"Marno, honey."

"Yes?"

"What's Alaska like now?"

"Alaska? How should I know? I've never been there."

"No, I mean, what's the weather like there now?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's not as cold as usual. They have
summer there too, don't they?"

"I guess, but I was never much good at geography. But my
picture of Alaska is this vast plain, covered with snow. Snow,
snow, and more snow. And scattered here and there, Eskimo houses,
like scoops of vanilla ice cream."

"You should have been a poet. What a metaphor: 'Eskimo houses,
like scoops of vanilla ice cream.' I can't say I ever heard one
quite so poetic as that..."

"Tommy, my husband, my ex-husband, oh, you know... Hey, fix me
a drink, will you? Oh no," she shook her head, "you never could
make a proper martini. You can never remember if its gin and
vermouth or gin and bourbon. I guess I better make it myself.
Ooops..."

Jane rose from the sofa with great difficulty and padded very
carefully to the kitchen. A bottle clinked against a glass. As
she made herself another martini, Jane tried to resume the
conversation.

"Tommy, my husband, my ex-husband, you know... Marno,
darling."

"Yes, what about him?"

"I got this feeling he's in Alaska now."

Jane walked slowly back to the sofa. She sat down and snuggled
next to Marno.

"Last week you said he was in Texas, or in Kansas, some place
like that. Or maybe it was Arkansas!"

"I said I got this feeling, is all. I got a feeling he's in
Alaska."

"Oh..."

"Maybe he isn't anywhere..."

Marno stood up again, went to the radio, and turned it on. He
fiddled with the knobs but succeeded in producing only a strange
babble of sounds: vague snatches of music and screeching voices.
Turning the radio off, he went back to the sofa once more.

"Marno, sweetie."

"Yes?."

"In Alaska they have this custom, don't they, where a guy
shares his wife with visitors?"

"I once heard that too. But I don't know if it's really true
or not. Could be just the report of some anthropologist!"

"Well, I hope it's true. Really, darling, I'm serious, I hope
it's true."

"Why?"

"Because, because I don't want Tommy to be cold and lonely in
Alaska. No, I wouldn't want that."

"But you said you didn't know if he's in Alaska. Or even if
it's cold this time of year."

Jane took Marno's face and turned his head toward her. She
looked at him severely.

"But I don't want Tommy to be cold and lonely! Do you, honey,
do you? Would you like that?"

Marno paused as for a moment as he caressed Jane's hands.

"No, of course not."

Marno took out a cigarette, then stood and went to the window.

The sky was clear that night, except around the moon where a
cluster of clouds had gathered and muted its light. Lowering his
gaze he looked at the jungle of skyscrapers that was Manhattan.
Most were dark, as if they were asleep. The pale moonlight made
them look cold and hard. A feeling of emptiness and loneliness
surged within Marno.

"Marno..."

"Yes?"

"I remember, a few years ago, Tommy sent me this precious
Indian doll from Oklahoma City... Did I already tell you that
story?"

"I believe you did, a few times already."
"Oh..."

Jane took four or five slow sips from her martini. She didn't
know how many drinks she had had that evening. At this point, no
one was keeping count.

"Hey, did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"That they sold the Empire State Building."

"Yeah, I read about it in the Times."

"Can you imagine owning the tallest building in the world?"

"No, can you?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Well...?"

"Well, I dunno. I thought I could come up with something dirty
to say, but now, I just can't think."

The flickering lights of the skyscrapers outside the window
reminded Marno of the thousands of fireflies that swarmed around
the rice fields in his grandfather's village. He whispered, as if
to himself, "Oh, if only..."

"If only what, honey?"

"If only there was the sound of crickets chirping or the
croaking of frogs out there."

"Then what?"

"Then nothing. It would just make me a little happier is all."
"You sentimental country boy..."

"Stop it!" The harshness of his voice startled him. "I'm
sorry, Jane. That was the scotch talking."

"No, you're right. I hurt you. I'm sorry."

Marno shrugged his shoulders. What could he say in answer to
an apology of an apology? A plane thundered loudly over Jane's
apartment building.

"Damned jets!" Jane swore as she staggered toward the kitchen
once more.

In the living room, Marno listened to the sudden rush of water
from the tap. He then turned to see Jane, her face wet, returning
to the room with a glass of ice water in her hand.

"I feel a little sick."

Jane lowered herself onto the sofa. Lying down, she shut her
eyes. She began to move her legs back and forth and began to
sing: "Deep blue sea, baby, deep blue sea, deep blue sea, baby,
deep blue sea..."

"Did you ever want to, you know in weather like this, to take
all your clothes off and let your body sink slowly down to the
bottom of the sea. Not die or anything but still be able to look
at your body from up above in a boat?"

"What? Sorry, I didn't catch that. What was it?"

"Forget it. I'm just babbling. 'Deep blue sea, baby, deep blue
sea, deep blue sea, baby, deep blue sea...' Marno..."

"Yes?"

"We've never taken a walk through Central Park Zoo, have we?"

"No, but we have been to the Park."

"Well, Tommy and I did. During our
one-year-eight-month-eleven-day marriage he took me to the zoo
lots of times. God, I remember we had a fight once in front of
the monkey cage. Tommy said the chimpanzee is the animal closest
to a human but I said, no, it's the gorilla.

"And he said, no, that couldn't be, because there were all
these scholars who had done lots of research that proved... Well,
anyway, I tell you, I wasn't going to let him tell me I was wrong
because that gorilla there, right in front of us, looked just
like the elevator operator at Tommy's office. Did I tell you this
before?"

"I think so. A few times."

"You've heard all my stories already. I must be boring you. Am
I boring you?"

Marno didn't answer. He suddenly felt as if his wife were
there, standing beside him there, in this apartment, on that
night, in Manhattan. And he asked himself how one is supposed to
explain the sudden and unexpected recollection of something, or
someone, separated by thousands of miles.

"Come on, be honest. Tell me I'm boring you. You hear all my
stories, every one of them, every time we meet. It must be boring
for you. B-o-r-i-n-g!"

"But I haven't heard all your stories. Maybe a few of them
I've heard a few times..."

"Not a few, darling. Most all of them."

"Alright, so I've heard most of them."

"So, I'm boring."

Marno was silent, not willing the conversation to continue. He
inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke through
his nose and mouth.

"But I got to talk to someone. If I stop talking, what am I
supposed to do. It seems like it's just us here, the only two
people left in Manhattan. And if two people are stranded on some
island together, they only got each other until a boat comes in,
don't they? And what if they don't, or if they won't... And what
if one of us here on this island stops..."

Jane stretched out on the sofa and pulled a pillow to her
chest. She closed her eyes and tightened the muscles in her
chest. Suddenly she jumped to her feet but, after a moment, sat
down again.

"Come here, Marno," she called to him, "Sit down beside me."

"Why? I've been sitting all night."

"Come and sit down."

"I like it by the window. There are thousands of fireflies out
there."

"Fireflies?"

"Yes."

"What do fireflies look like. I've never seen one."

"Like little green lamps, about the size of pencil points."

"That small?"

"Yes. But imagine a thousand fireflies in a tree at the side
of the road? The tree suddenly becomes a Christmas tree. Yes,
that's it, a Christmas tree."

Marno took another cigarette from the pack and stared out the
window, his eyes directed towards some point in the distance.

"When you were little, Marno... Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"When you were little, did you ever have a special toy? A
little toy friend?"

"A toy? I don't remember anymore. But when I was a little
older I remember playing with my grandfather's water buffalo."

"That's not a toy. That's an animal."

"Aren't animals for playing with too?"

"Not always. My playmate, the one I loved the most, was Uncle
Tom."

"Who was he?"

"He was an old, kind of worn out, black, doll. But even so, I
could never get to sleep unless my Uncle Tom was beside me."

"I guess that's normal. My girl's like that too. She has a toy
dog named Fifi."

"And it wasn't until I was in high school, after I had met
Tommy, that I finally gave up that doll of mine. Now I wish I had
my Uncle Tom back again."

Jane hugged the sofa pillow and wiped her cheek on it.
Suddenly she threw the pillow down and looked over at Marno,
still standing, leaning, beside the window.

"Marno, honey."

"Yes?"

"I never told you that story before, did I?"

"No."

"Funny, huh? How I could forget telling you that one?"

Marno smiled. "I don't know."

"You know, you've been here all evening, and that was the
first time you smiled. Why?"

Marno smiled again. "I don't know. Really, I don't."
Jane smiled in return. "Oh, honey, you got to thank me," she
suddenly announced. "I kept the promise I made."

"Which one was that?"

"The pajamas, I bought you the pajamas. You're a medium-to-
large, aren't you? Just wait..."

Jane jumped up and scampered into the bedroom, looking for all
the world like a deer who had finally mustered enough courage to
burst from its hiding-place. A few minutes later, she reappeared,
face glowing, with a package in her hands.

"I hope you like them." She pulled out the pair of pajamas and
held them to Marno's chest. "You do like them, don't you?"

"They're nice."

"You can wear them tonight. It's late. You could change into
them now."

Marno looked hesitantly at the pajamas in his hand.

"Jane..."

"Yes, honey."

"I don't know if I can sleep here tonight."

"Oh? Do you have a lot of work?"

"Not so much, really. It's just that, I don't know..."

"Don't you feel alright?"

"It's not that. I, I just don't know..."

"I think I know, honey. I won't ask again."

"Thanks, Jane."

"Should I put them back in the box?"

"If you want to. But I think I'll leave them here."

"Oh..."

Jane rewrapped the pajamas, placed them in their box, then
took the box into the bedroom. She walked out again, slowly.

"I think I'd better be going, Jane."

"You'll call me in the next couple days, won't you?"

"Sure."

"Could I ask, when?"

"I don't know. But soon, I guess."

"You know my number, right? El Dorado..."

"I know it."

Slowly and gently Marno pressed his lips against Jane's
forehead as though she were made of porcelain. Then he left.

The sound of his footsteps, for a short while in the hallway,
now faded in the stairwell.

In her bedroom, after taking a few sleeping tablets, Jane lay
down, her cheek caressing the damp pillow.

Translated by John H. McGlynn

One of the leading lights of Indonesian literature, Umar
Kayam, died on Saturday. We are printing this short story, taken
from the short-story and poem collection Manhattan Sonnet (Lontar
Foundation, Jakarta, 2001), in honor of this great literary
figure. It is reprinted here through the kind permission of John
H. McGlynn and the Lontar Foundation.