Don't Ever Come Back, Juli!

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.