As Darkness Falls: Part 1 of 2

As Darkness Falls: Part 1 of 2

Laine Berman

Darkness falls quickly in Indonesia. Crisp cerulean skies turn
grey, then green. The green lingers for a bit, turns the color of
aged bronze, then the blackness drops in, enveloping everything.
The sky was just turning green on Thursday june 10th when the
phone rang. It was Agus.

"Laine, Gus here. How are things?"

"Good, what's up? Have you delivered the computer to the
studio yet?"

"No. I tried to earlier but something was going on."

"Oh yeah? what?"

"I'm not sure. But I have a bad feeling."

"What do you mean Gus?"

"Well, there are lots of people there."

"People like who?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know them? Are they police?"

"Don't know."

"Is Anton in trouble?"

"Don't know, but I have a bad feeling."

"OK, I'll go right over."

"No! Don't! You'll get caught up in it, Agus, tell me what you
saw."

"I can't."

"Goodbye."

When disasters strike in Java, people don't want to tell you.
Over and over I tried calling Anton and Adi on their cell phones
but no answer. I imagined the worst and grabbed my scooter keys
and ran out the door.

The ride to Anton's studio was long, dark, and in the best of
conditions, scary. I am thoroughly convinced that everyone in
this country but me has cat's eyes and can see clearly in the
dark. I can't see a thing so I take the back streets with less
traffic. I race down Jalan Kaliurang and cut left to the road
that runs parallel to Ring Road. At Condong Catur terminal I turn
right and cross over south to Gejayan. Past what is left of the
Mataram Canal, I turn round and then make a left on to the new
road where my husband's tattoo studio is located.

My heart hasn't stopped racing since the phone call. I am
panting and sweating as if I just ran 5 miles despite the cool
night. The gates in front of the studio were locked but all the
lights were on. I ran round the back entrance and into the shop
veranda. The door was open. Inside the place was a wreck.

Everything open, thrown about, on the floor. All Anton's
tattoo paraphernalia were out as if he were just taking a break
from a job not yet finished. His books were all over the floor. I
ran upstairs and found the same thing. Everything open, thrown
about, no one around. Try calling again, I thought. Hallelujah,
it's ringing. Anton answered.

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way home with the fuzz."

"You don't have the key. Wait out front. I'm on my way."

The ride out was bad enough. Back was just terrifying. I knew
it was a drug charge. That at least was clear. But what, how
much, how bad? I never ride fast, especially at night. Yet I must
admit, seeing the speedometer reach 80 along the ring road, I
felt a thrill that momentarily eclipsed my anxiety. Thoughts swam
through my head. Yet again, I am right. I warned him how many
times to stop his pathetic drug dealings. But no. He said over
and over to me, the police know me. I will never be arrested.

To his friends who would come and leave their putauw and shabu
supplies with him to look after, I always responded sinisterly,
Oh yea, leave it all with Anton. He is invulnerable to arrest.
He's too big a celebrity to get in trouble.

To Anton, I gave up pleading. Anton, WHY? You make no money
out of this. You rarely use the stuff yourself. WHY???? The more
I tried to reason with him, the more he would reject me. If I
tried to forbid him, he just stayed away from home and spent more
and more time in the studio and hanging out in clubs where he
would supply his friends. Ok, have it your way.

But NEVER bring that stuff home. And take this as a warning.
WHEN you are arrested, do not count on me to wait for you. Do NOT
count on me to pay your fines. Do NOT count on me to visit you in
prison and bring you what you need. I even had a plan, that I
told him: WHEN you are arrested, I will call your dad to handle
it. DON'T count on me. I don't want to know. Here it all was --
unfolding in front of me on the cold ride home. Now what?

I turned the corner into the street and raced over the drunk
bumps, flying home. PLEASE don't let the police knock the door in
before I arrive. What would I do if I had to stay in that huge
house all alone with no front door??? As I approached the house,
I saw a dark van parked in front of the gate and some 10 people
milling about. There was Anton. He looked OK. Shaken, a bit of a
swollen lip, but intact. No bullet wounds. I stopped in front of
the gate and reached into my purse for the keys.

"You should warn me if you come home with so many friends.
Who's in charge here?"

I casually tossed Anton the keys thinking twice about my
pistol key-ring. Nah they won't think it's a real gun. Anton
caught the keys and unlocked the gates.

Please come in I said on formal Javanese. We reached the front
door and the questioning began -- I wanted to know what the
charges were, they wanted to know what I knew. I figured all is
best if I keep calm and make things friendly. That's easy. People
here never met a foreigner before who speaks Javanese so it is
always easy to leave a very positive impression on people.

As they came into the light of the house, I examined all their
faces. Nothing familiar. They didn't really look like cops. They
looked like normal people with a slightly rough edge to them.
Yea, they'd easily pass for drug buyers. Clever. We stood in the
living room and I asked what happened. The leader, Joko explained
Anton was nicked on a drug possession charge.

"Possessing exactly what?"

"Ganja (marijuana), putauw (low grade heroin) and shabu-shabu
(crystal methampethamine)."

"You're joking."

"No. We caught him in a sting selling it to one of my men."

"Excuse me. You haven't beaten him enough. May I take over and
smash him?"

Nooooooo. That isn't necessary.

"Excuse me. Yes it is. They came closer to me as if to protect
Anton, in case I was to make good on my words. My arms were far
too weak to lift."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes and wondered for a second
if crying would help or hinder. Either way, nothing came out. The
pressure alone ached, but no release. Now what?

The police asked my permission to search the house. Monggo
(please do), I said in polite Javanese. But I had to observe them
to assure nothing went missing. I gave them a tour of the house
and pointed out everything that was Anton's.

We all gathered in the back room to sit and chat like old
friends. Did anyone want some tea? No, that wasn't necessary.

They asked me over and over what I knew. I told them the
truth. Sure I knew he had ganja. How many times had I asked him
to rethink his activities. No, I had no idea he had now because
just last week I begged him to rethink yet again why he was so
fixed on dealing ganja. I knew he made no money. So what, yet
again, I asked, was the point? I also knew he and his friends
gathered at the studio and smoked very openly on the front
veranda as if no law in the land could touch them. That was
precisely why I never came to the studio any more.

Yogyakarta, June 14 2004