Don't Ever Come Back, Juli!

By Martin Aleida

We lived in the most sordid part of Jakarta, where the water for cooking, drinking and washing had to be carried from the reservoirs of water selling stations. In this area, however deep you dug you would only find salt water. Even the ground we trod on was salty. Only the pohon api-api (avicennia) plants and a certain kind of grass could grow in the salty water. This was the area called Ancol, a desert in the capital. Unfortunate fate brought us here.

After our marriage, my husband and I left my mother, who lived in a small village in Central Java. The name of the village is of no importance in this story. How I met my husband, a man from another island, how bitter it was to bury the feeling of longing when in love, things which could only be written on the pages of a letter because we were separated hundreds of kilometers from each other, how simple our marriage ceremony was, those are things which do not need to be recounted here. I only wish to express one side of my life as a wife who was pregnant.

Sanur, as my husband was called, was a young man from Sumatra who had lived a long time in Jakarta and had somehow managed to meet a very good friend. Just imagine. We did not have any money or valuables to sell to hire even the cheapest room. My husband's friend, a bachelor from Madura who had been away from his birthplace for many years, gave us a place to stay without expecting anything in return. He put up a plaited bamboo partition in the middle of the house and thus divided his house into two parts: One for himself, the other for us.

"I can only give this to you. It's not to make you indebted to me. It is genuine help among the living, an obligation of life," he said.

His words had until now -- when I was eight months pregnant -- resounded in my heart and ears, like eternal echoes keeping us awake.

He also gave us a wooden bed and an old mattress.

"Although living in a house as ugly as this, a married couple should sleep on a soft mattress. Use this one. I still have another one," said the Madurese, my husband's friend, my new friend, casting us a smile.

I did not hear what my husband said to his friend because I was moved by the man's sincerity. My heart missed a few beats, my eyes were filled with warm tears of joy and I was too numb to say words of thanks.

"We will use your gift as well as possible. We consider it as a gift from a relative." That was how my husband expressed his thanks. I could only bow my head and look at the hardened and cracked clay floor.

Sanur bought a barrel to store fresh water. Because of our bitter life, we had not been able to equip the room with suitable furniture. Sanur made a table from an old door. It was only as high as the span of a hand. There were no chairs. Sitting with legs crossed on a mat we usually ate and wrote at this table.

Sanur's daily routine consisted of assisting a friend selling gasoline along the roadside. He earned not more than one liter of rice and Rp 20 for a side dish. Actually, he was a talented businessman. During the last Lebaran and New Year, he earned Rp 5,000 selling firecrackers with a capital of only Rp 700. After that, he stopped helping his friend and became an independent hawker. He sold plastic trays on the sidewalk of Pasar Baru.

Life as a hawker at Pasar Baru, he said, was like guerrilla warfare. At any time, any hour, you must be ready to run from the police. When the chase was on, he and his fellow hawkers would hide in the alleyways throughout the area. When the coast was clear, they would return to their usual place on the sidewalk and start selling once again. If the police caught them red-handed, their merchandise would be confiscated and they could be beaten up.

When the rains came, Sanur got a brilliant idea. He bought used plastic bags which he cut into sheets and sewed together. He then attached bamboo to the plastic, thereby producing a very neat cover for pedicabs. It was useful, cheap and sold well.

Since then, no, actually since he sold firecrackers during Lebaran and the New Year, I had felt very lonely at home. He left at dawn and returned at 9 p.m. at the earliest. Ancol would already be shrouded in darkness. I had no friend to talk to. Our Madurese friend tended his fishpond the whole day, sometimes until late at night. He also went to the city on business. Even when he was home, he would never start up a conversation. In the evening, when he did not hear Sanur's voice, he would ask from his room: "Is Nur already home?" Just that. Those were his only words. He kept very much to himself and did not like to chat.

"Not yet, Mas," I would reply.

Damn. He would then immediately leave his room for the cottage at the fishpond about 100 meters from the house. He had built the cottage a few weeks after we had come. He said that fish thieves always operated at night. Therefore, he built the small cottage as a guardhouse, so he said.

I was alone, surrounded by the silence of the night. It was like that every night. He would return to his room after Sanur had already come home.

I was surprised as to why our friend behaved like that toward me. Did he not understand that I needed a friend while waiting for Sanur every night? Did he think that my husband was jealous so he was afraid to keep me company? I don't know. Would he get mad if I asked him about it? I never expressed such thoughts to Sanur. I knew afterwards that he had failed in love -- he was broken-hearted because the girl he desired had left him. Since then he had never trusted women. He was now about 37.

I once said to Sanur, "Tell Mas Har not to leave his room at night. I am afraid to be left alone here. Especially now in the rainy season. The wind blows so hard. I'm afraid."

Sanur rejected my suggestion and said: "We should not ask too much from him. He has already given so much. And he certainly knows that you need a friend before I come home."

But in reality, our friend never kept me company in the evening. He went to the cottage and returned only after Sanur had come home.

When night fell and Sanur had not yet come home, the only friend I had was Juli, a white bitch. Our friend named her after the month she was born the preceding year.

I would bring her into the room and let her lay under the bed while I rubbed her head with its silk-like coat. She often wagged her tail and would utter small sounds in gratitude.

"Juli, stay here until Sanur comes. Keep me company," I would say, trying to make conversation with the dog. But she would only continue to wag her tail furiously.

At such moments, I felt Juli was the only one to help chase my loneliness away. If I went to the riverside to relieve myself, she would come along. Juli would know first when Sanur came home. She would bark in a high pitch when sensing his arrival.

I could not do anything to make Sanur come home any earlier. It seemed to be his responsibility to meet our daily needs, especially since we needed to prepare ourselves to welcome our first baby. I never blamed him for being late.

"It's a sign of my loyalty," Sanur said to me when I once asked him why he came home late.

"I want to work as hard as I can. I want to give my child the best. I want you and our child to be healthy. Health can only be built with adequate food. Because we are poor, we can only get adequate food by working very hard, both afternoons and evenings."

Since then, I never troubled him with such questions again. I did not want to stand in the way of his good intentions.

Without any apparent reason, Juli became fierce and unfriendly after a while. She would bark at every passerby and would chase after them. I would call her repeatedly, but she wouldn't stop. Instead, she would continue her pursuit with a passion. Juli would only retreat when the person being chased would bend down as if taking some object from the ground. We learned after a while that it was pointless to try to call her back.

One day, she bit a passerby. The victim, who had to be hospitalized, complained to the neighborhood chief who then called our friend. Mas Har paid the hospital bill. The neighborhood chief, on the insistence of many people, suggested that we dispose of Juli.

I told Sanur about it, but he did not say anything.

The next week, Juli chased a young man who had just moved into the area. He was carrying rice in a bag, which he dropped after Juli startled him. The rice spilled all over the ground.

"Juli!" I cried out unintentionally. As usual, the bitch did not stop. Instead, she chased the man frantically. The man ran as fast as he could and finally jumped into the fishpond. He was drenched.

Half an hour later, the young man came back with a dozen friends. They were carrying wooden sticks and thorny clubs.

"Where is the dog?" they asked in a rough tone.

"I don't know," I said coldly. One of them then saw Juli walking along the side of the fishpond.

"There it is!" he shouted. They all rushed to kill Juli. She saw the danger and ran for refuge in Mas Har's cottage.

"Yes, Juli," I said to myself. "You're right. Run away quick. They want to kill you."

"Run Juli!" I wasn't conscious of shouting her name. Shaking, I placed my clenched fists to my chest. I couldn't breathe. My heartbeat quickened. I tried to remain calm but could not. I turned pale. I was about to face a great loss. If I lost Juli, I would lose the loyal friend of my evenings. Gone would be the consolation for my loneliness. Only deathly silence would be my companion every evening before Sanur came home.

Having passed the small bamboo bridge, Juli reached the cottage yard. One of the hot-headed chasers, without any permission, entered the yard to pursue Juli. The dog rushed around the cottage with great agility. Now all her enemies approached the yard. From inside the cottage Mas Har's voice could be heard: "Don't kill her here. Do it outside. Everybody out!"

The hunters retreated. They waited outside with their sticks and thorny clubs. One of them continued the chase, driving out the dog.

Suddenly, Juli stopped in her tracks. She barked shrilly from the bridge. The men waiting outside trembled with fear, withdrew one step and prepared to strike. I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear to see my friend beaten to death.

"Juli," I said shakily.

I lost all energy. I heard her yelp. Then I opened my eyes as she slipped past her besiegers and ran away. The would-be killers were left behind uttering insults. Juli was on the border of Mas Har's fishpond. She kept running as fast as a deer. Her smooth and long tail waved back and forth like that of a white horse. She crossed an empty plot and vanished.

I entered the room. My whole body went limp. I lay down.

"Are you hurt?" I silently asked Juli in her hideout.

"Thank God, you're alive. If you were killed, who would be my friend? But is it possible for you to come home? Oh, no, Juli, no. They would kill you."

I felt the baby in my womb turning to the side. I moved to a more comfortable position. My eyes were fixed on the window. Darkness fell. I buried my face in the pillow. Loneliness crept into my heart and I realized I was sobbing in the lonely silence of the night. That was the first night I was alone waiting for my husband, without Juli, without anybody.

When Sanur came home, I told him all that had happened during the afternoon. "Juli is a loyal dog. She will return home to her master. You just wait."

He was right. Toward dawn (we deliberately kept awake), we suddenly heard irregular breathing. First I thought it was Mas Har.

"Maybe it's Juli," I said.

We got up and opened the door. Yes, it was Juli. Breathing with difficulty, she was wagging her tail and kissed our feet. Her stomach looked flat. Feeling worried and joyful, I took her into the room and gave her the remainder of our food.

For half a month, Juli did not leave the room. We laid a gunnysack under the bed. There she slept and passed the days, particularly with me.

When we thought the anger of the people who had wanted to kill her had abated, we freed Juli. We also considered that we would always have to feed her if we kept her inside. Outside, she again became ferocious, barking and chasing passersby.

After two days, the neighborhood chief and one of the young men who wanted to kill Juli came to see Mas Har. The chief asked that the dog be given to the young men to be disposed of. Mas Har did not object.

Mas Har came to see me and said that he was compelled to hand over Juli to those people. Apparently, from my cool reaction, he knew that I disapproved.

"Let's give the dog to them. We'll get a better dog to take her place."

Scores of people watched as Juli was called by Mas Har. She approached quietly and, wagging her velvet-like tail, kissed her master's feet. He had no trouble placing her in the sack. Filled with disgust and hatred, I looked at the people who wanted to dispose of the dog. I entered the room, slamming the door forcibly behind me in protest.

After five seconds, I came out again and saw a young man roughly dragging the bag away. My heart was not filled with sadness, but rage. My blood surged and I felt hot in the face. My eyes were wide open.

"Juli! Juli!" I was screaming fiercely. The dog was howling in the sack. She was struggling with all her might to get free. Consciously, I called out my friend's name again. I was not resigned to let her be taken away. I didn't want her to be killed in front of my eyes.

"Juli! Juli!" The dog was struggling savagely. The young man holding the sack panicked, unable to hold down the dog he so wanted to kill. Suddenly, he dropped the sack and Juli jumped out. Like a tigress, she attacked the man's calf. He tried to run but like lightning she got a hold of the other calf. The young man fell headlong. Like the devil, the dog seized the nape of the young man's neck and ripped into it. Her fangs tore the man's artery and blood came spewing out. A frightening cry split the air. Then, silence. All eyes were fixed on the man's body laying on the ground. Blood continued to flow, inundating the salty ground.

For a few moments, nobody dared to come near the victim.

I looked at Mas Har. His face was pale, bloodless. His arms were limp and trembling. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Some people approached the body. Mas Har looked at me. Clearly, there was fear in his face.

"Do not be afraid, Mas," I said trying to encourage him. "Juli killed him after they had seized her from us. We are not guilty."

He bowed his head. Stock-still for some moments. I shifted my gaze to the woods in the direction the dog had disappeared.

"Don't come back! Don't ever come back, Juli! They will kill you here. I will not be able to bear the sight of you lying lifeless in front of my eyes. You had better look for a life far from here and die peacefully there. Don't ever come back, Juli!"

As soon as the words were released from my heart, my heart sunk, leaving a sense of extreme, painful loss.

Translated by SH

Glossary:

Lebaran: or Idul Fitri: Moslem celebration following the fasting month of Ramadhan.

Mas: term of respect to an adult male.

This story was taken from the writer's new collection of short stories, Malam Kelabu, Ilyana dan Aku. It is printed here courtesy of the publisher, the Damar Warga Foundation.