After the Snowfall

By Sori Siregar

Jogging in the snow-covered park could not free him from the shackles of restlessness. He halted and sat on the concrete encrusted in a thick layer of snow. A stream of cars moved slowly along Constitution Avenue a hundred meters away. The snow had fallen two hours before but had not been plowed. It still covered the road, forcing people to drive with extra care.

Mamora lay down in the snow. The frigid temperature no longer cruelly bit his skin. He had put on a jacket and hat, mustering the courage to fight the stinging cold.

A black poet, smoking in a cafeteria on the fifth floor of a building overlooking the park, was inspired by the sight to write a poem. He had watched Mamora as he appeared suddenly, jogged in the park, looking extremely white along with the snow before he had stopped, sat and then lay down.

A large white park and a sprawled black thing: what a contrast! Mamora's pants, jacket and hat looked strikingly black against the whiteness of the snowfall.

The poet was thinking about a verse, but at the same time he thought of helping the man lying down. It was not impossible that the man was trying hard to breathe and had fainted, he thought. He hurried over to the cashier to pay for his hamburger and coffee.

He rushed into the elevator and out of the building. He crossed Constitution Avenue, weaving between the cars inching along. He walked over to Mamora.

"Do you need help?"

Mamora was startled and struggled hard to kill his memories. He got up.

"What's up?"

"You need help?" the poet repeated.

"Oh, no."

"I watched you when you jogged and then sat and lay down. I was wondering whether you were short of breath and had become ill."

"No, not at all. I just wanted to take a rest."

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"In this awful weather?"

"It is not so cold, is it?"

The poet shrugged his shoulders.

"It depends. But if you fall ill due to lying down here, you will not be able to get out of bed for days."

Without looking at Mamora, the poet started to leave. Mamora shook his head, then smiled. Hoping that he would have a new friend, he ran after the poet.

"My name is Mamora. I am from Indonesia. I jog here everyday. It is my morning or afternoon activity, depending on the situation."

"You should not have done that in this weather. According to the weather forecast for tomorrow, it will be sunny with higher temperatures. If you still can, you should do it in your room."

"I was worried, so I tried to drive away the stress."

The poet walked on without paying any attention to what Mamora said.

"I have been in this state of restlessness for a week," Mamora rattled on. "I go to the movies, watch TV, read the newspaper and jog as I just did, but worries keep on haunting me."

The poet walked steadily on, as though he had not heard anything Mamora said. He continued with his eyes looking straight ahead, apparently beckoned by an unseen object.

"I wanted to consult someone, but I trust no one. That is why I kept this troubled feeling to myself. But today I cannot bear it anymore.

"I have to tell this to someone, but to whom? That's the question. Suddenly, when I was thinking hard lying on the snow, you appeared. It might be you who is destined to listen to the cause of my worries."

The poet kept his gaze fixed ahead of him.

"Are you a student?" Mamora asked.

"No."

"Civil servant? Or working for a private business?"

"No."

"Businessman?"

"No."

"Police?"

"No."

"Actor? Driver? Manager? Journalist?" Mamora bombarded him with professions.

"No."

"Then what?"

The poet walked at the same speed and did not answer.

"Ah! I know now. You must be a black activist. What a coincidence."

The poet stopped.

"What if I am an activist?" he asked tersely.

Mamora was not offended by the harsh tone because he thought he had made a new friend.

"You'll have to listen to my plan."

What a weird situation. The poet had no interest at all in Mamora's plan. He turned his head and began walking again.

Mamora started talking about Meyer. About how he had been treated unfairly, and murdered in an intolerable, cunning way. Official statements claimed the sharpshooters intended to hit the tires of Meyer's truck, but they missed and struck him instead.

Mamora could not accept that. After all, how could the sharpshooters miss from that distance? They must have killed Meyer on purpose.

They would have been ashamed when they realized Meyer had nothing on him, and had not brought any explosives. The sharpshooters had not been brought to trial and nobody knew where they had buried Meyer's body. That was fraudulent, deceitful.

The poet slowed down and shook the snow off his shoes. He seemed interested in Mamora's story.

"After the death of Meyer, there was no more news about him. The press was completely silent, too, as though his death was unimportant and trivial. But, actually what Meyer did had shocked the Capital.

"The president was evacuated to a safer place. You can imagine what the impact would have been huge if Meyer had actually brought the explosives and destroyed the monument of national pride.

"It was a great and important event. TV stations proved that by airing uninterrupted live coverage for 10 hours. But when Meyer died, everybody went to sleep and shut their mouths."

The poet came to a halt.

"What are you talking about?"

Mamora stared wide-eyed.

"Don't kid around," he shouted.

The poet was stunned by the outburst. He was also alarmed by Mamora's bulging eyes.

"Honestly, I couldn't quite catch what you said," the poet said as he tried to convince Mamora.

Believing the man had made a fool of him, Mamora braced for a fight.

"I am a tourist who arrived here yesterday from Nigeria. I am a poet. I didn't make a fool of you."

Mamora took a deep breath. He shook his head and then tapped the poet's shoulder.

"I trust you," Mamora said. "I know now why you came here, yes, I understand now. The local people would have paid no attention to what I did. If I had lain there stark naked, nobody would have cared. All they think about is money, money, money."

They shook hands. Then Mamora told him the long story about Meyer and the standoff the other day at the monument. He also mentioned The Washington Post, Time and Newsweek.

The poet nodded.

"What impressed me was the message of Meyer's act. He was antinuclear, and he wanted the nuclear arms race to be stopped. He was not a politician. He was alone. He might have looked like a bum or an ordinary person.

"He walked unarmed, up and around his truck while police armed with automatic weapons encircled the monument tens of meters away. And he died from a spray of bullets from those weapons.

The Nigerian poet stepped forward deliberately as he turned to face Mamora.

"Then what disturbed you?"

"Meyer's message, which had not reached its destination. That is why I want to send it again."

"By repeating Meyer's actions?" the Nigerian asked in disbelief.

"No. By blowing up the monument without warning. Better still when tourists are packed in there."

"You are crazy," the poet shouted.

Mamora turned and looked directly into the Nigerian poet's eyes.

"Your plan is crazy, atrocious and uncivilized. Don't add another heinous act to those committed before."

There was a long silence. Then, unexpectedly, Mamora gave the Nigerian poet a tight hug and patted him on the back. After letting go, Mamora looked relieved.

"That was the thing that disturbed me in the whole week. I felt the act was a crazy one. But the desire to do it had never stopped hounding me. Then I made up my mind that if anyone said my plan was crazy, I would not go through with it.

"It turned out that you were the one destined to say that. Thank you, my brother."

"That easy?"

"Yes, the problem was either yes or no."

Looking at the infuriated poet, Mamora laughed.

"What luck to meet with a poet like you. If it had been a radical antinuclear activist who had come to see me here, wow. I would be in trouble. He would have supported my plan, and that would have meant death.

"Next month my training will be over and I'll have to go home. Actually, since yesterday I was thinking that if the case was only to send Meyer's message, what I needed was to go to the sentry box of the White House and submit a letter. Although it would not be a monumental act or draw much attention, it would still be much safer."

The poet, not really convinced of what he had heard, only nodded.

"Pacifist groups here and in Europe demonstrated for their safety. Why should I die here, when I can actually fight for the right of the living. If a nuclear war breaks out, my country might be the last to be targeted."

The Nigerian poet laughed out loud.

"This will be the inspiration for a long poem," he said. "When looking down from that window on the fifth floor, I was motivated to write a poem in a particular atmosphere. A black object falling down into the ocean of whiteness.

"From that atmosphere I would move to another situation -- horrifying loneliness. But after listening to your story, I have changed my plan. I am going to write a poem of protest. I am angry but with a cool head. Yes, if the nuclear weapons explode here, my country is also far away."

Both of them laughed. They crossed the car-crammed Constitution Avenue, shook hands and exchanged parting words.

"You are dull," Mamora said in Indonesian.

"You are stupid," the poet said in Nigerian.

N.B. Inspired by a real incident in Washington, D.C. years ago.

Sori Siregar was born in Medan, North Sumatra, on Nov. 12, 1938. A participant in the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa in 1970-71, he worked as an international broadcaster for the Indonesian section of BBC radio for a two- year stint beginning in 1972. He has contributed extensively to magazines and journals, and is the author of six novels. A new collection of his short stories, Myth, will be published this year.