Guillermo
By Dewi Anggraeni
When the laughter had subsided, the teacher said, "Alright, Sandra, now you describe Guillermo."
Sandra cleared her throat, looked sideways at Guillermo, then grinned mischievously. The young man glared at her, saying, "Now you give me good description, or I kill you!"
Sandra threw her head back, laughing with satisfaction. She was one of his compatriots in this class and they never let an occasion pass without slinging at each other. Now the power had been returned to her. She would shape and reshape Guillermo. Clearing her throat again, she turned her seat to face him, then gestured for him to stand up.
"He's tall, but fat."
"Fat?" Guillermo's eyes flashed. "Where?"
He ran his hands down his stomach and sides. "I am not fat. You are fat!"
"Shut up, Guillermo! I describe you or you describe me?" Sandra put on a stern face. "He's got dark hair. Wavy. dark eyes. Finish, no?"
"What about his complexion?" asked the teacher.
"Ah yes. He's got fair complexion."
"Alright," the teacher beckoned to Guillermo. "Good. Step outside now please, Guillermo."
"Eh? What wrong I have done?" He put on a hurt expression. "First Sandra say I'm fat, after, you say I step out." He stepped out nonetheless, looking back several times.
"Now Sandra, what was he wearing?"
Sandra narrowed her eyes, thinking. "Aah. He was wearing blue jeans, clear blue, er... light blue football shirt, no, what you call it, rugby shirt, and er, aah, blue parka no sleeve."
"Sleeveless," the teacher corrected while writing the description on the board. "What about his shoes?"
"Ah, no remember," Sandra said.
"You don't remember? Try to remember, when he stepped out, did you hear his footsteps?"
"What you mean? Oh, understand! He was wearing sneakers." Sandra beamed a triumphant smile at the class.
"But what color? Try again."
"Okay. White."
The teacher invited Guillermo back in, and the class checked Sandra's description.
"Oh, I forgot to say. He's handsome." Sandra's eyes twinkled mischievously, then she smiled at the teacher.
Guillermo smiled graciously. "Thank you, Sandra."
From the bus stop Guillermo walked toward the supermarket, checking his shopping list. On top of the list he had written in Spanish, "Ring the real estate agent." The public telephone outside the supermarket happened to be empty, so he stepped in. He dialed the number and got a busy signal. He decided to try again later, and then walked out.
Ten days previously, Guillermo had moved out of a rented room into a one bedroom flat in the area. He had asked the agent to change the faulty front door lock, but nothing had been done.
When a woman stepped out of the phone box, Guillermo walked in with his grocery bags. The agent couldn't understand him so he had to wait for the agent to contact an interpreter. He tried not to look outside at the man waiting and looking impatiently at his watch. To kill time he tapped his right foot to an imagined tune. When the interpreter came on, everything was so straightforward. Yes, the agent said, he'd change the lock the following afternoon.
It wasn't easy stepping out with the bags while ignoring the man's abuse.
"Maybe it's a good thing I don't understand colloquial English," he thought.
He suddenly remembered that he'd forgotten to buy batteries for his Walkman, so he went back into the supermarket.
As he was leaving the supermarket, a big woman rushed toward him. She was agitated and speaking rapidly. Overwhelmed, Guillermo blinked incredulously. He didn't understand a word she was saying, and wished she would stop her tirade. It was so embarrassing and distressing. There he was, barely three months in the country, still learning the language, being abused in public for reasons unknown to him. For a moment he wished the woman would disappear if he blinked. Then he tried to think of a reason for her being so upset, and more important, why it had to involve him.
The woman began to tug at his sleeve, her reddening moist face almost leaning against his. Though starting to panic, Guillermo was determined to remain calm.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand you," he said to the woman, hoping she would calm down and speak more slowly. To his horror, the woman became even more agitated.
"My God, she'll have an epileptic fit in a minute," he thought, alarmed. A crowd had gathered to watch while from a distance.
It occurred to Guillermo then, that this might be a mad woman who'd decided to pick on him. Pulling his arm to free his sleeve from the woman's grip, he began to walk away from her, ignoring the stares of bystanders. The woman was now yelling and he could catch the word "police" several times.
On the bus Guillermo still felt uncomfortable.
"Why would she have singled me out? Do I look vulnerable?" he wondered. He wished then that this mother hadn't looked after and protected him so well. He was so unprepared for such a situation. He looked around and wondered if anyone on this bus had seen the incident. But everyone seemed to look away as son as he turned to check them.
The following day, thankfully, life returned to normal.
Guillermo had almost lost the uncomfortable feeling when several days later, coming home from his class he saw a sheet of paper sticking out of his mailbox. Noticing that a similar sheet of paper was sticking out of all letter boxes in the neighborhood, Guillermo pulled it out and looked at it.
The word "REWARD" caught his eye immediately. Associating that word with public notices of criminals he'd seen in American films, he was wondering why there was no picture or photograph beneath it. Instead, as he read on, there was a verbal description. His heart began to beat faster when he read the second paragraph.
"He is of medium build, approximately 175cm tall, about 25 years of age. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and acned face. He was wearing blue jeans, a light blue rugby shirt, a sleeveless blue parka and white sneakers. Anyone who ..."
A feeling of discomfort swelled up in his stomach. He read the first paragraph again. The date. That was the day of the incident outside the supermarket. There was no doubt, that was a description of himself. He read the paragraph again and again, searching for words he could understand.
He took his English-Spanish dictionary out of his bag and looked for the word "ethnic". He didn't understand.
"Why do they say I'm of ethnic origin? Everyone in this world has an ethnic origin, no?" Then, irritated, he thought, "And do they have to pick on my pimples?"
After a very indigestible lunch he went to work. Arriving early to seek out Sandra, who worked at the same factory, Guillermo waited for her outside. Sandra had been in Australia for over a year and understood more English than he did.
Sandra read the notice and listened to his story. She became serious.
"I think you'd better ask Letticia's help," she said in Spanish. Letticia was their Spanish speaking Australian friend.
At dinner time they talked to Letticia. She explained that a woman thought Guillermo had taken her purse, which she had left in the phone box earlier.
"What purse? I didn't see a purse, let alone take it. Besides, what's she on about? She wasn't the woman who used the phone before me."
Guillermo was puzzled and angry at the accusation.
The following day, Guillermo and Letticia contacted the police. An arrangement was made. The big woman, who claimed to have to witnesses, was asked to bring them along. A police officer interviewed them separately. When the police officer returned to Guillermo and Letticia, she told them they could go. Guillermo, who felt unfairly victimized, insisted she tell them what had happened.
"There isn't sufficient evidence to charge you," the officer said, "The first witness, under through interrogation, admitted that she hadn't actually seen you with the purse. She'd only seen you coming out of the phone box."
"And the second witness?" asked Letticia.
"The second witness? Well she was the woman who used the phone after the big woman, just before you friend here. It's her word against his."
"I see," Letticia almost grunted with anger.
Guillermo still goes to the supermarket because it is the only one close to his flat. He often sees the big woman, who demonstratively avoids him when their paths cross. He doesn't feel angry towards her anymore, just uncomfortable.
Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta, Indonesia. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and two children. She was the Australian correspondent for Tempo magazine, and now writes for The Jakarta Post, Forum Keadilan, and other publications in Indonesia and Australia. Combining her skills as a journalist and novelist, her works have been published in both languages, in Australia and Indonesia. She has three books published in Australia: two novels, The Root of All Evil (1987) and Parallel Forces (1988), and the third, a trilogy of novellas, Stories of Indian Pacific (1993). She has also contributed articles and short stories to several anthologies.