Our Moon

By Mas Ruscitadewi

Hurriedly he put into three neat piles the books that were scattered on the floor: those rarely touched, those rarely read, and those already read but never understood.

No, the piles were not exactly neat. They were neat enough to show that he had not abandoned the books in a mixture of anger, annoyance, sorrow, hate, fear and great restlessness. Neither did he want the piles to indicate his high spirits, excitement, pride and great conviction.

No, the piles now stood there expressionless, moodless and natural. Just like his own feelings: he was neither worried of losing anything, nor had he any fear of being left behind. And he did not feel disappointment over his failure.

"Ah," he took a deep, long sigh, and there in the dull mirror he could still see his smiling lips and wet eyes. He had put away the clothes which had been strewn across the room, the shoes that were simply tossed on the floor and other bits and pieces that he usually left scattered here and there.

Well, he had finished packing. There was a minor flutter in his chest, tickling his heart, and a small chill sending a shiver through his body.

"Enough," he said firmly, not knowing exactly for whom he had said this word. Was it for the invariably white walls, for the termite-eaten ceiling or for his own heart's encouragement?

What he knew was that he would always say and would continue to say this word every time he was going to begin a journey.

"I must leave now," he said again, his lips still quivering when the words were uttered. These same lips would continue to quiver, uttering the same words, the next day, the day after next, the next week, the next year, the next century, any time in the future.

"This is the umpteenth stop on my journey, my umpteenth point of transit, the umpteenth spot for parts of my happiness, and this is also the umpteenth location for the journey of my age."

Something was trying to push out of the opening of his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, going down a long staircase, one step after another. He was rather unwilling to go down this staircase only to have to climb up again, with difficulty, another long one. He felt weary so after a while he stopped, engulfed in his own doubt.

"No!" he screamed, awaking from his limbo and weariness.

"To stop means to lose bit by bit to the wind, and this will mean defeat. I don't want to be defeated, though I don't expect to win." He smiled cynically, very cynically indeed, before he took some quick steps.

"Excuse me," he said again after he got to the end of the staircase.

The small bag hanging from his neck swung back and forth but he did not hear any of the goodbyes he expected for each of his journeys. He took several sighs of relief, briefly looked up to see the lone moon, patted the black dog kissing his calves and then proceeded with a feeling of triumph.

He dragged his feet because the soil was wet after the rain, and also because the twigs and the thick clumps of leaves. The narrow road made the night even darker than usual. He neither walked faster nor stopped his feet.

"Good evening," he heard a voice say, but did not know if there was someone else at such a lonely and dark place. Or, perhaps, it was just his conscience with a longing to be greeted.

"Good morning for tomorrow," he said, falteringly, trying to be equally polite.

"Ha, ha, ha," the man laughed, very loudly, shaking his body and patting his shoulders.

He knew who was standing in front of him. He knew how the lips moved, he knew how the shoulders were lifted and he could see clearly the figure of the person before him.

"Ha ... ha ... ha ... you are a table tennis ball tossed into a nice position for a smash."

They both laughed to dispel the nocturnal loneliness and drive away the awkwardness.

"Where to?" This question was heard at long last. He was quiet, not knowing what to say in reply.

"Everywhere? To meet unclear challenges of the heart? Well, you are still silly and stupid, dammit!"

Then the man spat before him, obviously offending and infuriating him, so much so that his eyes turned red, his lips quivered and his fists clenched.

"Good," the man said.

"You deserve to feel offended," the man said again, shaking hands with him.

"Our journey is just like the throw of a dice. We are gambling with our luck and neither of us have any way of knowing which numbers on the dice will appear before us, and for the umpteenth time I've chosen the wrong number."

The man's head drooped, two pristine teardrops fell from the hollow of the eyes. He couldn't get angry, though he could no longer bear looking at the figure before him.

"What's that for?" the man asked, trying to smile. The man also knew that the question was also intended for himself. He could only smile, shaking his head and then falling silent for some time.

"I don't know that you walk to reach a certain place you wish to go and then walk again to another particular place. Meanwhile, I only walk and walk before I get somewhere to get some rest, proceed with my walk and will also arrive somewhere, too. It is only by chance that we meet at this place," he said dispiritedly, and then sat down beside the man, staring at an increasingly lonely night, feeling the increasingly cold weather.

All of a sudden, the man beside him jumped up.

"See that moon. It's very beautiful. We've got to get there, under the moon, so that we can clearly see its soft light and engrave it in our heart. I challenge you." The man looked overjoyed and so did he, as he now had a clear direction for his journey.

"All right, let's start now," he said enthusiastically.

The man walked north, he walked south. The man turned to the west, then to the east. The man turned round to the right, and did the same to the left. Each was looking for the moon.

He walked over paved street, sandy roads and coral paths. He went up hills and down valleys. He befriended rats, dogs, wolves, bats, butterflies, birds and robots. He got under his moon.

He waited long for the man, his friend and challenger, while gazing at the full moon. Perhaps the man had also got somewhere under the moon, or was wailing over his fate, or had forgotten his challenge, or was dying. What he knew was only that his friend and his challenger was seen in his eyes, laughing a long laugh.

"Our moon is not the same," he said, wiping away two teardrops and closing the album where their bright cheerfulness resided.

Denpasar, 1985

(For Ita and my challengers)

Translated by Ismiarti