Provocateur

Provocateur

By Maria Magdalena Bhoernomo

A petty quarrel suddenly broke out at Terminal A. According to
witnesses, it started from a squabble between a driver of a
public vehicle and a mysterious passenger who was wearing
sunglasses and a cap and smoking a cigar.

The passenger reportedly refused to pay his fare. The driver
called him names. He did the same in return. Then the mysterious
passenger landed a rapid series of punches on the driver. He fell
headlong. Seeing him lying on the ground, other drivers ganged up
on the mysterious passenger. But he was too agile for his
attackers. He ran away and disappeared into a crowd of onlookers.

Sarju hurried to Terminal A as soon as he was told of the
outbreak of a quarrel there. As a reporter he naturally wanted to
take a picture of the mysterious passenger. The man might be a
provocateur, he thought. He might have been assigned to incite
the anger of the masses.

This anger, in turn, would set the city and then the state on
fire, literally and figuratively. Sarju, therefore, would like to
be the first reporter to take a photograph of the provocateur.
This would indeed be a source of pride to him. A provocateur, so
many people have said, is half human and half devil.

He was greatly disappointed, however, because when he arrived
at Terminal A everything was in a mess. Many used tires were
burning on the road. Several vehicles in the terminal were burned
black. The masses were running helter-skelter, being pursued by
riot police.

"Damn! I am always too late!" he swore. Then he went back
home. He had lost all interest in covering a riot like this,
something considered common in this country. There is no use
making a report on a riot like this and publishing the report as
long as the provocateurs remain mysterious.

"A riot has broken out at Terminal B!" an ojek (motorcycle
taxi) driver shouted when he passed Sarju's house.

"I must immediately go to Terminal C!" Sarju said to himself,
hurrying out of the house. He theorized that the provocateur
might be heading for Terminal C after successfully inciting the
anger of the masses at Terminal B.

He left his car at home. He went to Terminal C by public
transportation. Who knows, I might come face to face with the
provocateur en route on public transportation, he said to
himself. It was often said that provocateurs invariably get about
by public transportation and they always refuse to pay their fare
so as to provoke the driver.

Sarju was happy. There were many public transportation
vehicles going toward Terminal C. When he got to the end of the
alley, he stopped one and boarded it. He sat beside a stout,
solidly built man wearing sunglasses and a cap and smoking a
cigar.

"Where will you get off, Mas?" the man inquired.

"At Terminal C!" Sarju replied.

"You are a reporter, right?"

Sarju nodded.

"You're going to cover a riot, right?"

"Is there a riot at Terminal C?" he asked the man. He suddenly
grew suspicious about this mysterious looking man. Could he be a
provocateur?

"There may be one happening there right now!" the man said,
half whispering.

Sarju was taken aback but tried hard to remain composed. As a
reporter he had been trained to keep his composure despite great
shock.

"If you wish to take a picture of a provocateur, I believe we
are too late," the man said, smiling cynically this time.

"Stop, left," Sarju suddenly shouted. He strongly suspected
that the man next to him was a provocateur. He wanted to alight
as soon as possible and take a picture of the man with his
automatic camera. One push of auto button and the camera would
take 10 pictures. He was sure that the face of the provocateur
would be well recorded in one of the 10 pictures. If the man got
angry with him, he could run into an alley and shout for help.

The vehicle pulled up. Sarju immediately got out and pushed
the button on his camera, by then already aimed in the direction
of the man's face. All done well indeed. The man did not seem to
have any suspicions. He could see, though, his fleeting cynical
smile.

After paying his fare, Sarju went home. He wanted to process
and print the film in his camera as soon as possible. He was sure
he had taken pictures of the mysterious looking man, whom he
believed was a provocateur. He did not intend to published the
pictures; he wanted to keep the pictures to himself. For my
personal documentation, he said to himself.

This man knew that a riot was going on at Terminal C while
they were still on the way to this terminal. Obviously he had
knowledge of a riot even before it occurred.

Sarju was about to process the film in his own darkroom when
his cellular phone rang. It was a friend calling to tell him that
a riot was in full swing at Terminal C. "A riot has just broken
out!" his friend said.

Sarju put his cellular phone on the table, smiling.

"My hunch must be right. The man whose face is recorded in
this film is a provocateur!" he said to himself and then spared
no more time to process and print the film.

"Damn! Real devil indeed!" he swore hard and fast as soon as
he saw the pictures. None of the pictures had the face of the man
he believed was a provocateur. The film seemed to have been
burned. He became to increasing believe that a provocateur was
indeed a weird creature -- half human and half devil. Such a
creature could never be photographed. Really mysterious!

It was as clear as day to him now why the law enforcing
apparatuses had always failed to arrest even a single
provocateur. Rumors even had it that every time a provocateur was
about to be caught, the officer on duty would be frightened half
to death and wet his trousers so much so that the only thing he
could do was to go to the nearest rest room, where he would take
off his underwear, soaked wet with his urine, and wring it out.

All of a sudden a riot broke out at Terminal D. Sarju hurried
to Terminal E, again by public transportation. He expected to
come across a mysterious looking man who could be suspected of
being a provocateur. One again he sat next to a firmly built man
wearing a cap and sunglasses and smoking a cigar. This man was
not the one he photographed the day before, though their
appearance was similar.

"Where will you get off, Mas?" the man inquired, smiling
cynically.

"Terminal E!" Sarju answered curtly.

"You are a reporter, right?"

He nodded.

"You're going to cover a riot at Terminal E, am I right?"

"Is a riot going on there now?"

He only smiled, then shouted: "Stop, left."

The driver pulled over to one corner of an intersection.

"If you wish to take a picture of a provocateur of a riot, you
are too late!" he said to Sarju just before alighting.

Sarju became more and more anxious. He also alighted. He would
like to have some words with the man. He also wanted to take a
picture of the man's face. He did not want to fail this time. He
was impelled to take a photograph of the man, who he believed
fitted the description of a provocateur.

Knowing that he was being tailed, the man walked in great
strides and crossed the road. Sarju ran after him

"Wherever you go, I'll be right behind you! Sarju said to
himself. He prepared his camera for automatic photography.

Suddenly the man turned into a narrow alley. Sarju was some 20
meters behind.

"Damn! Real devil! Sarju swore again. When he turned into the
narrow alley, he lost sight of the man. He had simply
disappeared. On both sides of the narrow alley were four-meter
high walls without any gates. This man would not have been able
to jump over such high walls.

Heavy with disappointment, Sarju left the alley and stopped a
public vehicle. He wanted to go home. He felt dizzy. He was about
to get into the vehicle when a lot of people carrying all sorts
of sharp weapons burst out of the alley. The public vehicle sped
away.

The mob shouted: "Get the provocateur!"

Sarju was nervous. The mob, carrying all sorts of weapons,
approached him.

"Get the provocateur!" they kept shouting while brandishing
their weapons in Sarju's direction.

"I am a reporter!" Sarju shouted, showing his press card. But
the people's anger had gotten the better of them. They hit Sarju
black and blue. Some stabbed him in the back. Beaten black and
blue, Sarju fell headlong.

"You're lucky you're still alive!" some reporters said when
visiting him at the hospital.

Sarju felt like swearing but his mouth was painful and he
could not open it. He also felt painful all over and he could not
move. He felt as if he had become paralyzed and dumb.

A team of doctors had done their best to help Sarju, but there
was not much they could do. Sarju would remain paralyzed and dumb
for the rest of his life.

His fellow reporters were greatly saddened by Sarju's plight.
They could only grumble, however.

"Really damn unlucky!"

"Really damn tragic!"

Yes, right. It is sheer damn unlucky and tragic to reporters
if they are paralyzed and silenced!

Kudus, 1999

Note:

Mas = (Javanese) sir or brother (used to address contemporary
males)

Translated by Lie Hua