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