Sabbatical

By Bakdi Sumanto

Two years ago, I bumped into Dr. Durinem, the brain surgeon. She had recently been nominated as a potential contestant in the international Deodorant Queen Pageant. We met at the police station while I was accompanying my son, Woody Satya Darma, to take his driving test.

As soon as she saw me climbing out of the jeep, Dr. Durinem waved enthusiastically to me. This in itself was odd. She's usually rather cold towards me. You see, I am fascinated by the occult agates with mysterious powers, supernatural old keris (traditional daggers), and shamans, like the one in the village of Taunan who can enter a grain of rice. These topics really annoy Duri. As a scholar, she only accepts what is logical and factual, whereas my strange tales are always of unique experiences and seem like fables. Every time I recount how my poet friend Linus can summon his friend in Melbourne through an ordinary padlock, Dr. Duri says I'm hopelessly superstitious.

So her enthusiastic greeting surprised me. I thought maybe she wanted to tell me about the Deodorant Queen contest, no doubt a highly interesting story. I asked myself: what could possibly be the criteria for such a contest?

Dr. Duri hurried over to me before I had even got out of the jeep. I felt sort of panicky -- I could sense that all eyes were on us, and this really bothered me. You know, Yogya is a rather small town; close friendships between men and women who are not husband and wife are always noticed and remarked upon. Moreover, I'm a professor and, who knows, one of the people queuing to get forms might be a student of mine.

As Dr. Duri came closer, the smell of her perfume caressed my nostrils. Duri is a beautiful woman but she overdoes it on the lipstick and rouge. I like more subtle make-up. But I don't want to criticize her.

"You still speak French, don't you?" she asked as we shook hands.

"Not really. Why?"

"But you can still read it, right?" she went on, opening her handbag to take out a clipping from the famous French newspaper Le Monde. "Read this. It won't take long. It's three columns, see".

I read it hastily. Then I asked her, "What's so special? All that's reported here is that a drunkard committed suicide by firing a gun into his forehead, but failed".

"That is extraordinary, isn't it, Buzz?" she half shouted at me.

"Extraordinary? Is it usual that some people fail even in committing suicide?" I asked, returning her clipping.

"But how could he fail? Imagine, the bullet went through his forehead, made a hole in it, his blood splashed everywhere, while his brain was totally unharmed? Oh, no, no way, Buzz!" she replied, stressing each word, while her eyes remained fixed on mine.

"But why is that impossible?"

"Look, Buzz, that was real. And remember, Le Monde is a reliable newspaper, equal to The New York Times, De Telegraaf, et cetera. So, its news should be truthful, you see".

I was silent.

"Do you listen to BBC radio? Or do you not?" she asked. I shook my head. "Too bad. According to the BBC, there have been no deaths in the Iraq-Iran war for these last two weeks. Hundreds have been wounded, but not a single person has died. Crazy, isn't it?"

Again I was silent, watching her rather horrifying lips. Perhaps they reminded me of brain surgery -- my imagination sometimes gets the better of me.

"Yesterday my husband hit a cockroach with his sandal," she began again.

"Enough! I have to take care of my son's license first," I cut in. I hurried over to join the crowd. But Duri followed me. "Listen Buzz, the roach was badly injured. But, believe me, it didn't die!"

"Stop, Doctor! This is absurd! Look, I can't keep the office jeep for more than thirty minutes," I snapped. My son Woody was anxious because he only had permission to be absent for one hour.

"Just one more minute, this is really important," she said. "I promise it won't take long."

I turned to her. Her eyes were wistful. She clearly needed someone to talk to, and in a crowded, busy police office, who had time to lend an ear?

"All right...What else?"

"You know, Buzz, a number of my colleagues are saying that for the past two weeks there hasn't been a single death in any hospital -- anywhere in the whole world. Don't you think..."

"Oh, really?" I began to pay attention.

I told my son to pay for the forms himself. I knew he wouldn't like me paying so much attention to this woman, nor the fact that I was sending him off by himself. Maybe he would even feel that she was more important to me than he was. Silently I begged forgiveness. Hopefully he would know I was giving in halfheartedly. There are many things I do only out of custom.

"Yeah. Pretty strange, huh?" said Dr. Durinem.

"I'll bet there's more," I encouraged her.

"Plenty. You heard about the recent plane crash? The passengers were only wounded. None died!"

"Really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Wow, that's incredible!"

"You know what?" she asked and I just shook my head. Duri looked at me and pulled me towards a tree. "According to Doctor Akar Poteng, an expert on paranormal psychology, the God of Death is currently on leave of absence. So, all deaths have been post poned. And..."

"What?"

"The God of Death is on Sabbatical".

"Come on, that's for those who believe in wayang (puppet theater) and its God of Death, Yamadipati. What about the Catholics? Do they also believe that?"

"I don't know. But what's important is that for just a little more than twenty days, death has been postponed".

"Insane! Crazy!"

I was flabbergasted. What about my friend, Mas Bejo, who was planning to commit suicide because his girlfriend had suddenly left him? Maybe he should kill himself now, while Death was on leave. Then he wouldn't have to die. Should I tell him, if possible, right now? So that he could survive? At most he'd just be badly wounded, and if he were so ill, sprawled out in the hospital, I could persuade his girlfriend to come back to him. After all, Mas Bejo had already agreed that he would finish his studies before he proposed to her.

"All right, Doctor. I have to take my son back to school. I'll stop by the hospital later this afternoon. OK?"

"Why not?" she replied.

We said goodbye, and Death's sabbatical was forgotten for the moment. I had to help my son fill out forms, get a passport photo and find his birth certificate. Time seemed suddenly very valuable. If only the God of Time were on leave, I thought, I wouldn't feel so hurried.

On the way to the school I related the story of Death's sabbatical to Woody. He smiled sourly. He is clever in science, and he always requires proof before he believes anything. When we got there I told him not to wait for a ride after school, and gave him money for the bus.

In my mind I pictured the face of Mas Bejo. I had to see him and persuade him to commit suicide immediately, by whatever method.

But when I arrived at his house in Cilangap, Mas Bejo wasn't home. Fortunately, I still had some envelopes in my diary. I stuck a note in an envelope, sealed it tightly and asked his mother that the letter be given only to Mas Bejo.

When I got back to the office, I found my colleagues gathered round Pak Rejo, who was in the middle of explaining Death's absence.

"When is Death coming back to work?" I interrupted quickly.

"Probably this afternoon, at about 14.00 Western Indonesian Time," was the calm reply.

"14.00? You mean two o'clock this afternoon?"

"Yes, why?"

"Oh, nothing. But," and I turned to Mas Sabar, "could I borrow the jeep again?"

"I'm sorry, my friend. I have to go see Madame Sopsip. We want to make an appointment to discuss the possibility of working together".

My bad luck.

"Pak Djoko," I began, "could I borrow your scooter?"

"Actually, I have to get over to the Engineering Faculty. Sorry!"

Oh, hell. I glanced over at Pak Adabi, thinking I might be able to borrow his Honda GL for fifteen minutes. But then I remembered I had never driven one. What if I wrecked the motorbike? Ah, if only the God of Destruction were on sabbatical, I wouldn't be so worried.

In my confusion, I suddenly remembered the bicycle that usually stood in the back room. Without another thought I ran to the bike, jumped on and hurried to Mas Bejo's house. I had to take the letter back before he opened it.

As the road sloped down, I rode freely. Surely I would reach Mas Bejo's with time to spare. But for some reason the bike seemed heavy. Peddling, my legs felt heavy too. It felt as though someone were riding on the back. With my left hand I groped behind me, and something grasped my hand. Then I heard laughter.

"Are you going to Mas Bejo's house?" asked the voice behind me.

"Yes...Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm sure you already know!"

It became clear -- Death was riding with me. In my mind I came up with a plan to coax Death into extending his leave of absence -- maybe forever. Tragedy would come to an end. And existence would become comedy. Wars and other conflicts would become boring and people would live to be thousands of years old. And what would this mean?

No one would ever be able to falsify history. Those who had experienced it would live forever, even if the notes weren't complete.

Translated by the author

Bakdi Sumanto is a lecturer at the Faculty of Letters, Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta. Born in Surakarta in 1942, he began translating world literary works into Indonesian when he was a student. His short story Sabbatical appeared in Our Heritage, 16 Indonesian Stories.