Names
Y. Wibowo
The air was damp and fetid with the smell of urine, and Karyo felt uneasy.
He was not sure how long he would be behind bars: Five or 10 years, perhaps more. After 57 days in the cell, the resolution of the case remained unclear.
It was unfair, yes: All he had done was deliver letters from one worker's union to another. He started it three years earlier, when workers set up the unions with the aim of securing their rights.
Karyo didn't need to spend late nights following meetings of the organization he served. He only had to send letters or stacks of documents when decisions were made, "to communicate them to the other unions", as his leader once said.
Karyo had only been told about the people he was supposed to see but the contacts kept changing.
"Karyo, it's a rather dangerous task under present conditions, so you've got to be careful and every letter must reach the addressee," he had been told.
Illegal union dissolved was one of the headlines when he was arrested. Unfortunately, his name was mentioned as the organization leader who had been apprehended. He was an alleged danger to the state, a charge which left him dumbfounded.
"I never caused trouble like Parjan and Wagino, who were known as the instigators among factory workers. Yes, I dared to sleep with Warti, no more! That was her fault. She would come to me after work at the textile plant to walk her home," he thought to himself.
"I'm bored and stressed, mas," she had told him then.
The factory job was so tiring, with no holidays or leave allowed except for illness or pregnancy, which required a doctor's note. She would face a pay cut if she was absent without permission.
Then she would say, "I'm fed up and stressed, I want something new for a change."
Warti had persuaded him to go for walks with her. The affair began when he took her out for a stroll on the beach, and then took a room at a small hotel nearby.
That room was only a memory now, for now he sat in a two-by- three-meter cell. And he was alone, only sometimes overhearing the talk from nearby cells.
"He's a political detainee," he heard one say once.
"Yes, he's from a radical organization," added another.
* * *
Disman wandered around the crowded market, searching for that somebody who had been close to him at the factory. His visit to the capital followed the information he had heard from ex-workers now in Sumatra, transmigrant farmers like himself. Some of his friends had warned him not to go.
"Frankly I don't have the heart to tell you this: she's now become a sex worker in the city," one of them told him.
If that was true and he still insisted on abandoning his wife and two children for her, it would be an unthinkable decision. His family had given him a living, freedom from the whispered words about his past and a new identity. His marriage had saved him indeed.
"Jatinegara, Jatinegara," the harsh voice of a bus conductor distracted him from his daydreams. He quickly jumped onto the bus, welcomed by the conductor's broad grin.
But it was not the friendly conductor that attracted him. He mind was preoccupied by a crumpled street map with the address he had to find. He had brought the sheet with him in the scorching city of hot-tempered people. Then some passengers' screams caused confusion, with two long-haired youths brandishing knives and a young woman screeching hysterically.
Yes, a frenzied, sweltering city of hot-tempered people.
* * *
Bruno relaxed in the dimly lit side of a park in the early evening. The noon fracas on the bus had strengthened his resolve to survive in the capital.
"Under the name Bruno, I won't be a becak driver or scavenger," he thought.
He had experienced hardship and unfair treatment, like a mangy dog with water thrown on him.
The roadside near the park teemed with gaudily dressed girls and transvestites, who incessantly teased passers-by. He had spent three months exploring the neighborhood around the terminal, entering the warrens of alleys to find the house he wanted.
But the woman he sought was not there.
He reclined against the wall under a flyover, which was filled with graffiti murals. Bruno then joined the crowd of people on the road. Emerging from their ranks, he took out a wallet, counting some banknotes before leaving for an entertainment center, where the pulsating rhythm of house music blared to greet him.
* * *
It was the meeting he had been waiting for six years. They had agreed to meet at an Italian style restaurant in a corner of the city.
He savored a helping of spaghetti while waiting for her. Out of greed and nervousness, he ordered another dish before five minutes had passed. But he was used to it. In the past three years having coffee or meals five or seven times a day when busy. There were lobbying sessions with officials or gatherings with his colleagues in his job as a manager for a four-star hotel business.
He looked at his watch; 16 minutes had passed from their designated meeting time. Had it not been that she was the one he'd kept in his heart, he would have left.
Then she was before him: The woman's lips quivered as she met his gaze, and he couldn't stand waiting for her words.
"I know that tuan Darmawan is actually mas Karyo, a Jatinegara guard turned boss of several hotels and amusement centers, going by different names and now meeting with success," she said quietly but firmly, not offering him a greeting or sitting down.
"Now you've got what you wanted and let me congratulate you, but please don't ever wish to make me yours, mas. The man and child over there are part of my life now, they're my family. Well, I wish you all the best and send my regards to our friends in Sumatra. Finally, mas, go back to your wife and children."
Warti quickly turned and left, carrying the child in her arms. But she had set down a stash of mail on the table. He looked at the envelopes, some of which were yellowed by time. All of the letters carried the same note: "To the union chief in Sumatra."
Translated by Aris Prawira
Notes: Mas : Javanese term of address for a young man Becak: pedicab, common in many cities but now only found on Jakarta's outskirts