At the Post Office

At the Post Office

By Muhammad Ali

At least 10 to 15 people, men and women, stood in a long
queue, which began at a counter where a piece of wooden board
hung with a notice written on it in white small letters: To cash
Type C Orders. Normally, Type C money orders are under Rp 1,000.

The person standing at the front of the queue, or more aptly
hanging on the wire bars, was a thin, bony man, who looked like
an empty bag on a clothes line. His head, with its badly scared
scalp seemed to be fixed onto the small, thin body. The most
disturbing aspect was his clothes; they were too large and had
not been changed for weeks.

It was not surprising that the woman standing behind him
pressed her handkerchief to her nose and kept her distance from
him. Possibly it was to avoid an unpleasant situation. But the
man seemed unaware with her attitude, he did not even bother to
look around. His attention was on the money order in his hand,
not on the counter in front of him, which was still not open.

Gradually the queue became longer, for those who had just
arrived added themselves to its end. Yet the counter remained
close. Some people started to grumble, some of them started to
moan because the official had not appeared. So the queue grew
longer and blocked the way to other counters.

At last, the official they had been waiting for showed up. A
middle-aged woman, wearing glasses and an official uniform,
complete with stripes on her shoulder showing her official rank.
Some gray hair could even be seen among her well-kept hair. After
sitting at her desk she looked at the long queue for a moment, as
if counting them. Suddenly she frowned, and every eye in the
queue looked back in surprised annoyance.

"Be quick, Sir," she said to the first man as she opened the
counter window. The skinny man hurriedly handed in his money
order. "Got an ID?" she asked him.

Out of the pocket of his trousers he took a card and handed it
over to her. She examined the signature on the ID, then she tried
to compare the photograph with man's face. This seemed to
displease the skinny man. But he knew he could do nothing about
it.

"The two signatures look different. And this photograph, is it
really yourself?" she finally asked.

"Why? It is a photograph of myself two years ago."

"Two years? Why is it so different?"

The man looked at her sharply, all the muscles in his face
becoming tense. But he did not say anything. Then, maybe because
of his odd look, the official said, "Okay, for now, but you'd
better replace it with a new photograph. You know, people become
older sooner or later. Especially as life is getting harder
nowadays. Well, then, how much will you receive?"

"Three hundred rupiah."

Then, while paying him and handing over his ID, she continued,
"Look. They took this photograph only two years ago, and yet I
can hardly recognize you."

The man took his money and ID and quietly left the queue. The
second person followed, then the third; everyone in the queue
moved toward the counter and handed over their respective money
order, and after being served, left. Many people had been served,
but the queue seemed unmoving because people came and left
continuously. Seconds rolled on like a string of beads moving
with the long queue.

An hour passed and the official was still busy at her desk
when suddenly the skinny man appeared again at the counter.
"Excuse me, Missus, for bothering you. Didn't..."

"Miss." the official cut in bitterly.

The man immediately shut his mouth and stared at her. He felt
nauseous. "I beg your pardon, Miss. I am not aware of your
marital status," he said.

"Okay, what's your problem?" she insisted.

"It seems that you've made a mistake, when transferring to me
the money, because."

"Impossible." she interrupted quickly. Her eyes widened.

"I should have received three hundred rupiah, shouldn't I?
That was the amount written on the money order, and I'm sure I'm
not mistaken."

"Let me see. I still remember the number," she said, and then
examined one of the columns open in front of her. Pointing to a
line, she said, "That's it, money order number one four seven,
marked C. Three hundred rupiah. What's wrong with it? You've
received three hundred rupiah, haven't you?"

"No, I have not," he said. "You've given me not three one
hundred rupiah notes, but four. So I received four hundred
rupiah."

She felt something inside of her heart making her want to
scream, but she could not open her mouth for a moment.

"Then I've made a mistake. A great one," she said timidly.
"You know, too much work. Moreover, the notes are real new so
they stick together. So, you want to return the one hundred
rupiah note to me, now?"

"Yes, I'll return it to you, Missus," he said.

"Miss." she quickly cut in again.

"Sorry. I was about to return one hundred rupiah to you. But
on my way from home to here, I got a flat tire on my bike. I got
it fixed and it cost me fifteen rupiah. On top of that, I paid
five rupiah for parking. So twenty rupiah taken from one hundred,
you have eighty rupiah. That's what I want to return to you,
Miss. Eighty rupiah." Then the man handed over the money.

"Eighty rupiah?" she cried. "Why only eighty rupiah? I don't
understand why you relate that flat tire with this? Oh, don't
tease me, please. I don't care whether the tire exploded like an
H-bomb. I don't care whether you parked your bike and they
charged you five rupiah, or you threw your bike into the drain. I
don't even know whether you own a bike. I don't care about all of
these things, you see. I know for sure that you admitted before
me and all these people, that you've received one hundred rupiah
more than you should. That's what I have to receive from you. Not
a single rupiah less. You know that it was not my money. It's the
government's."

Her words were fired like bullets from a machine gun, hissing,
to make his ear red. His eyeballs seemed to roll quickly and jump
out of his eyes.

"But, you must also understand," he said in a shattering
voice, "it is not my business to come here. It's for your sake."

"I've clearly told you, I don't care about it. Don't waste my
time. Come on, be quick, return the money."

The commotion was frustrating the long, orderly queue. Now
everyone grumbled in front of the counter. They had witnessed the
terrible row between the skinny man and the lady behind the
counter. They generally agreed that it was an interesting and
unique event to watch, although it made them waste their time.
Some were indifferent, others just made their own conclusions.

"She really is a blabbermouth," some of them said, almost
whisperingly.

"She sure is," said a tall man. "That old woman is really
willing to be addressed as 'Miss'. Is she really still a virgin?
Well, that's not so important. It's clear that she cannot
appreciate honesty."

"Yeah, that old hag should be content to receive half of the
amount, since it was her mistake in counting it. At his age, one
would not return, without difficulty, to the counter, just to
give back the money that's already in hand." a man said behind
him.

"That man must be stupid, or crazy," someone else said. "Why
should he return, gasping for air, only to hand over the money
that could be his? Why shouldn't he spend it? One hundred rupiah
is something, especially during this difficult time. That silly
bloke does not know his place, let him learn about it."

A sturdy man, who looked like the ruin of a temple, having
just been served at the counter, could stand it no longer and
tried to interfere. He asked the skinny old man, "What's your
motive for traveling this far to return the money?"

The man thought for a little while, trying to find the
appropriate words to respond to the sudden question. He said, "I
think I do not deserve the money, and I must return it to the
owner."

With that reply the sturdy man did not say anything for a
while. He felt he was in a mosque listening to a sermon, or that
he had found a very impressive line from a book that he seldom
read. Therefore he said, happily, "I feel impressed by your
honesty. Not many people are as honest as you are. We are
admirers of your honesty. So we ought to appreciate you."

"You are worthy to be presented with knightly dress," another
man said. "We should go, in procession, to the Mayor's office.
I'm not exaggerating, if we celebrate this lavishly."

The skinny man was stunned. He hoped it was only a joke,
because he could not imagine himself in such clothing, parading
in a big group to the Mayor's office, and, besides, did he really
deserve such a parade? He asked in his heart.

"Now, keep the eighty rupiah in your pocket." the tall man
said, calmly. "I'll take one hundred rupiah to pay for that," he
said to the woman at the counter and handed over a one hundred
rupiah bank note. "Here's your money, Missus."

"Miss."

"Sorry, sweet Miss," he said. Then, to the skinny man, he said
"Now, you see, it's all settled. Let's go together."

They left the crowd, but everyone's eyes followed those two to
the door. What a pair. One was tall, young and neatly dressed,
while the other, exactly the opposite. When they came to the bike
shelter the old man said respectfully to his new acquaintance, "I
appreciate your generosity."

The young man suddenly burst out laughing, which made the old
man hesitant. "You know, you must not thank me," he said. "That
was not my money. As it happened to you, that woman gave me one
hundred rupiah extra, too."

The old man suddenly trembled with anger. "I'm a poor man with
a big family. I don't know if tomorrow I can buy rice or not," he
groaned. "But your joke is not funny. I cannot take it. I must
return the money to her. Oh, poor woman."

With that he turned around and ran through the post office
door and disappeared. The tall man stood, surprised. His question
was actually very simple. Yet, in his mind, remains unanswered:
Was there really such an honest man?

Translated by Sunaryono Basuki Ks

Muhammad Ali was born in Surabaya, April 1927, and started
writing during the Japanese occupation: poems, short stories and
plays. Among his books are Siksa dan Bayangan (Torture and
Shadow) 1954 and Ibu Kita Raminten (Raminten, Our Mother) 1982.
He also wrote a lot of movie and book reviews. This short story
was first printed in Horison magazine in May 1968. The English
translation appeared in Our Heritage: 16 Modern Indonesian
Stories.