Crisis

By A. Untung Sudiharto

Sometimes I feel confused when I think of my friend Heri. People are racking their brains trying to find ways to earn money, but Heri is different. It seems he throws away the job he has, even though becoming a reporter was his ideal from high school. I could no longer keep track of how many times he moved from one newspaper to another.

This month he started to work in a new newspaper in our town. Even though he did not know how much his salary would be, he had already spent all his money for daily necessities. He would soon have to pay his rent. His wife, Tanti, was pregnant and would soon deliver. Now I saw why he looked so sad recently and was unusually quiet.

It was 10 p.m. when he came to my house. "Let's go out," he said. What he meant was to go to a small, dimly lit food stall on the street corner. We usually sat there until late at night. People called it a cowboy stall.

My friend Budi was also at my house. First I was confused. But Budi, who had been there since afternoon, knew how I felt. Then we went to the stall.

Budi took a plate of rice. I took two portions. I had not eaten for almost a day. But Heri did not touch any of the food. Without hesitation, I offered to take whatever he wanted. I had a lot of money because a publisher had just bought my novel for Rp 3 million. Heri kept silent and bowed his face. Budi asked the vendor to make him ginger tea and I ordered a glass of milk. Heri was still silent.

"What are you going to drink?" I asked.

"Up to you," he said. I ordered his favorite drink.

Heri's spirit rose when the seller served him coffee. Though hot, he gulped it down. Then I knew more clearly what had made him annoyed. "I'm bored ... Working hard without a good salary!" he began to say.

"A career hard," I answered, not really caring.

"But my necessities are increasing!"

I did not know why he was suddenly panicked thinking of his daily necessities when he never worked seriously. His wife often said his profession actually could provide what they needed. He often interviewed big shots like officials or artists.

He could have asked for what are called "envelopes". Envelopes that certain reporters ask for indirectly when interviewing people. Envelopes, stuffed with money, which serve to shut one's mouth or stop pens so that issues need not reach the editor's desk. Unfortunately, Heri would not accept any of what he called "the damn envelopes". Once he even deleted an interview recording just because the subject inserted an envelope into his pocket.

"I think your wife is right," Budi said suddenly. "You never ask for an envelope, do you? That's why you're not at fault if you receive them."

Heri explained quickly. He said he could easily take envelopes, but they would shackle him. He wanted to be popular with as much money as a professional reporter, not an "envelope" hack. Accepting envelopes, he said, meant virtually betraying the profession because one begins to think only of envelopes. Envelopes and more envelopes.

"I want to work in a fair way!" he said while reaching for the glass.

"Work in a fair way? What the hell are you dreaming of?" For a pedicab driver like Budi, the way Heri talked was irrational, although it was logical for me. Doesn't everyone have his own idealism?

"I am not dreaming. I really want to work in a fair way, like what I have been doing."

"But that is wrong with it? Look around. How many reporters don't accept envelopes? Do they work in a fair way? I think not."

"Who are they?"

"Natsir, for example. He directly asks for envelopes from every person he interviews. Then Ngadimin. Just for envelopes, he manipulates every news item he sends to his newspaper."

"I am not used to that way of work."

"What kind of reporter are you? Just do what others do, and you will get used to it."

Unsatisfied, once again Budi mentioned friends in the same profession as Heri but who lived prosperously, with money in every pocket. Natsir had been a reporter for just nine months, but he could buy his girlfriend, Tuti, a new motorcycle. Ngadimin was much better. A reporter for less than six months, he built a luxurious house in his village. "Thanks to envelopes," Budi concluded.

I mediated the silly talk. "Maybe you are right. But don't you know, Heri is not a reporter of that kind? Of course, he cannot do what you say."

"So, what kind of reporter is he? Not willing to accept envelopes. He says it's tantamount to 'betraying the profession.' And...," I stopped Budi and addressed Heri.

"I think it's just better to do your job. There were many important events around us recently. Yesterday's demonstration, for instance."

"I know, that's my field, but I have to select events carefully. I don't just report any kind of news. Those things happen all the time. It's nothing."

I was bewildered. Heri always heard and did what I said. But now it was different.

It was late. The vendor blared he was going to clear his wares to go home. It was midnight by my watch.

After I paid, we got up, then followed a small street as the air turned cold.

It was a long time until we spoke. After Budi turned to his street, Heri opened his mouth. In hesitation, he said, "Ton, do you have money? I need Rp 30,000."

"No," I said with emphasis. Usually I lent him my money every time he needed it. He returned it in full, though not on time. I knew he really needed the money. But my annoyance made me refuse.

"What about Rp 20,000?" he insisted.

"No."

"Fifteen thousand?"

"No."

"Ten?"

"I said no, you know? No means no!"

"Impossible. You don't have Rp 10,000?"

I explained my decision. "I have much money, but I don't have any idea to spend any of it. I am going to buy a computer. I want to change my 'rattan' computer with a new one!"

Again, we walked in silence until we said goodbye when Heri reached his house.

All my plans came to nothing the next day. I had just got up at 10 a.m., late as usual, when suddenly Heri's wife, Tanti, appeared. I was sure she was going to ask what her husband did the night before. But then I felt guilty for resisting Heri's request.

"Can you take me to the hospital? I need to go there now," she said.

I hurried, thinking that it was the time for her to have the baby. We stopped a taxi.

Tanti told me the truth on the way to the hospital. "My husband is hospitalized. His friend told me that he had an accident. He has seemed restless for the past several days. He left in a hurry this morning."

Getting out from the taxi, we walked through the hospital corridors before we finally found a man in a ward. A bandage was wrapped around his head. His face was bruised. His lips were split. If Tanti had not been with me, I would not have known who he was.

Through an open part of the blanket, I saw a handcuff hooked between the bed frame and the weak hand sticking out. Near the window, two reporters and a policeman were talking seriously. I approached them. I was speechless after I asked the policeman and he answered, "A group of people beat Heri up. He was caught picking pockets on a city bus".