One Restless Night

By Iyut Fitra

He felt as if he had been sleeping for several nights. He had been alone in the house since his wife died of heart failure. It was a simple house with the flair of an old building. When he was awake, feeling as if he had just extricated himself from a long, deep slumber, he caught sight of a letter inserted through the space underneath the door.

When he woke up from his sleep, he performed his long- ingrained habits, opening the door, drawing the curtains, peeping into his flower garden and then going to the kitchen to boil some water. Then he returned to the sitting room and picked up the letter lying sweetly and intimately on the floor.

His eyes went straight to the writing on the front of the envelope. "To Mr Tongkang". Then he looked at the back of the envelope to find the name of the sender, but there wasn't one. Slowly he tore open the envelope and read the letter. He could read only "Say who the murderers are". He was confused.

"Say who the murderers are" -- he repeated the sentence to himself several times. Suddenly his heart beat slowly and then it beat harder and harder. Which murderer, he asked himself? He began to feel restless, worried, panicky. All kinds of negative feelings conspired to frighten him. He felt really frightened now. He opened his door and looked out. He walked a few steps outside. There was nothing unusual. There was no one out there. Only the usual routine. Then he walked back into the house. This time a strange, alien feeling got the better of him. He had never had this feeling before. He thought long and hard.

Trying to dispel all this restlessness, he made a cup of hot coffee. Then he lit a cigarette and read the brief letter again. Only one sentence, but it was foreboding. Only one sentence, but it was like a verdict determining his life or death. Only one sentence, but it seemed terribly long. It could dominate even the innermost space of his soul.

Really! He didn't have the slightest idea which could help him dispel all this worry. Suddenly he could not think of anything. His reasoning went dull. He could not move. He felt himself entrapped behind a very strong and high iron fence. It was as if he was inside rolls of barbed wire. "Say who the murderers are".

Before he could stop his restlessness, which was triggered by the presence of the unusually short letter, the telephone suddenly rang loudly. The sound of the ringing telephone almost made him jump because it reinforced all his fears. He picked up the receiver and said, "Hallo"?

"Are you Tongkang?"

"Yes, I am. Who is this?"

"Say who the murderer is!"

"But ... whoooo is this," he asked nervously.

"No need. Say who the murderer is!"

"Which murderer?"

"All of them!"

"All of them?"

"Yes, all of them, you fool!"

Then the person on the other end hung up the phone. He became more and more worried and pained. Who was the caller? Was he the one who sent the letter? As if someone possessed by an evil spirit, he walked aimlessly to and fro in the sitting room of his house.

Outside, life continued to go on as usual. The sun crawled up in the east and when the time came it would go down again, changing places with the moon. The wind climbed slowly up the trees planted on the roadsides. Cars went about everywhere. Birds were flying freely in the sky. The smoke coming out of the vehicles and factory chimneys wafted in a zig-zag pattern, as if chasing the clouds.

Workers went home after work. Children went to school and returned home again. At home, mothers cooked in the kitchen and untiringly cleaned the rooms. Once in a while there was the sound of a horn being blown or the shrill sound of a train whistle. At certain times one would hear the call to prayer for Muslims being recited or the sound of church bells echoing in the air. Everything continued as it should.

Tongkang, undeniably, had seen a lot of murders. He witnessed them by accident because he happened to be where these murders were committed. How unlucky he was. He had no way of knowing which devil had always dragged his feet to where the murders were committed. Sometimes he regretted this destiny.

Who was his regret for? He never wanted and never intended to witness a murder, which to him was nothing but a procession of cruelty and inhuman sadism. He himself was overwhelmed by his fear every time he tried to reconstruct the murders in his mind. Therefore, he rarely left the house anymore for fear of witnessing another murder.

When the July 27 riot broke out he was there at the scene of the riot. Actually he was on his way to the house of one of his friends. He was going to borrow some money from this friend to pay his telephone and electricity bills.

Suddenly, people were running helter-skelter around him. These people wore various attributes and uniforms. They were chasing one another and throwing stones at one another. Security officers were everywhere, weapons, beatings, explosions and fires. And he, only by chance, saw the murder.

He felt like screaming, but he was afraid he would become the next target. So he stealthily left the scene. His heart bled and his soul was broken into pieces. He was really a mess.

He went through the same thing when a riot broke out at Kedung Ombo. He saw blood spurting from fallen bodies. In Semanggi, Banyuwangi, Kupang and Ujungpandang. He had witnessed many more murders, and every time he was overwhelmed by his great fear, the kind of feeling that, for him, was very difficult to dispel. All these murders were committed in various riots which had rocked the country.

He witnessed with his own eyes how bullets cruelly and savagely went through human chests and heads. He felt as if his own head was broken into pieces. He saw and heard explosions echo in the still night, followed by the long wail of a soul departing from the body. It was as if he was listening to a sorrowful song that his mother used to sing when, as a boy, his sleep was restless.

He remembered all this. He was the actual witness to all these events. However, every time he saw these scenes of savagery, he would hurriedly leave because he could not afford to imagine them again later. It was indeed savagery beyond human understanding.

Always he would stealthily run away as fast as he could, panting, back to his house. Then he would hide himself beneath a thick blanket, hoping that in this way he could get rid of his worry, fear, panic and all the other bad feelings.

He had seen many other cases of murder in this country. And he would always keep his mouth shut. He would never share with other people these horrible experiences. He was afraid he would be in trouble himself if he told others what he had witnessed.

And now someone demanded that he reveal all this. All this! But to whom? The letter did not bear the sender's name. And someone had called him but left no name. So, to whom did he have to reveal all this?

He really felt like crying. He was overwhelmed by his own panic and worry. He had, unintentionally, created all these feelings for himself. Oh!

Say who the murderers are!

"Say who the murderers are?"

Every day the same letter arrived. Every day the telephone rang with the same message. He still couldn't find a way out. Again he regretted allowing himself to witness all these murders. Now he was in a tight spot and was helpless.

"OK," he suddenly mumbled to himself. "I will tell everybody who the murderer is!"

But minutes later he gave up this idea. Well, wouldn't he himself be killed after he told people the whole story? This question brought him to another dead end in his mind. Wouldn't he be accused of hiding information needed for justice in this country after he told his story? Or, perhaps, he would be accused of giving false testimony and he would be considered guilty of fanning the situation.

Again he was deeply confused. He was cornered. He felt as if he was sitting in a very narrow space at the very end of the room. He felt like groaning and writhing in his pain. He felt like screaming for help. He did not know who he would ask for help, though.

"Noooooooo," he shouted, very loudly. "I must be honest to this country. I must reveal what I know even though I have to risk my own life. What is the significance of a scrap of life compared with justice in this country? What is the significance of my confused life compared with the peace of my fellow countrymen? I must tell the whole thing! I must say it! I must! I must!" He shouted and shouted, louder and louder, so the echo made by his voice returned to him and dealt a blow to his confused head.

Say who the murderers are!

"Yes. I'll say it. All. All. Really! I want people to know what has been hidden all these years. Something that other people, besides me, may have known but didn't have the courage to be honest about. For the sake of this country. For the sake of my fellow countrymen. Listen to this testimony!"

It was late at night and bitingly cold. His restlessness was wrapped up in cloudy weather. He hurried to his bedroom. He rummaged through the contents of his cupboard. Then he took out a black diary. He recorded everything there. Every murder. All the dates. All the names.

He read it all. Then he laughed, loudly. "Haa... haa... haaa...! You will all be surrounded! I'll reveal everything. Haa... haaa... haaaa....! He bent over double with laughter. He was no longer confused. He was no longer worried. He left the house, walking firmly.

However, before he took more than five steps, an explosion was heard, loud and clear. A pistol had been fired.

Payakumbuh, end of 1998 The writer is also a poet and works in the theater.

Translated by Lie Hua