Names
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