Salazar

By Seno Gumira Ajidarma

I'm here, Salazar, waiting for you in an old cafe near a cheap hotel in a dark alley in Barcelona. I've been waiting for two weeks, but you haven't shown up, even though you said you'd come by train and see me here. You know, don't you, it would have been too complicated for me to meet you there. I'm not an activist, nor a political figure who could find a chance to get into that country -- your country now -- without too much trouble. I'm just an ordinary person, a high school graduate who seldom reads, doesn't understand politics, and only knows how to struggle from day to day to exist, to survive. I'm nearly dying waiting for you, Salazar, every day just watching people kissing each other in the city parks -- and I have nothing to do here except to see you, Salazar, my brother. You are still my brother, aren't you?.

How long is it since we last saw each other? Your face is always in my mind. We are our parents' only two sons, Salazar, you and I, but I don't know if your are still the old Salazar. Are you still the same? You certainly could rap about independence until your veins strained and your mouth frothed -- something I could never do -- but I know you could also do other things. I know you could talk about the wind and the beach in a golden dusk which could only happen at our beach, the beach of our town, where you can see the silhouettes of fishermen casting their nets when dusk falls. And when the sun sets behind the church while the last golden rays -- almost always gold, a gold that always changes by the second, from yellowish gold to reddish gold and finally purplish gold, changes that never seem to happen at other beaches -- are washed into the hills along the beach. Can you still recall how beautiful they are, Salazar?

Salazar, I'm still waiting for you here, Salazar, in a place that's foreign to me, trapped between old buildings that make me sad. Actually, there's a reddish dusk here too, a dusk which as far as I'm concerned always comes late. Its light makes the wings on the statues of angels look as if they are moving. I know this could prompt you to tell yet another story, probably a fairy tale from a strange, distant country, like the ones you always dreamed up when we were children. But it still wouldn't be the same, Salazar. Nothing will never be the same without you -- a man who sang what he was feeling, a youth who spoke his mind, a human being who spoke clearly and honestly about his attitude towards life.

It was all those things that landed you here in this distant land. You seem so far away now, Salazar, even if people do say the world has changed and shrunk and that there's no distance between day and night, but none of that makes me feel close to you. Are you happy in your country now, Salazar? I can't imagine what it must feel like. I want you to tell me about it, it's so long since we saw each other. We're brothers, why must we be so far apart and become strangers to each other? I wonder, can you live without all the things we love but that you've left behind, Salazar?

I've been waiting for you for two weeks, just waiting for you, Salazar, until I know by heart the peal of the bells that ring full of authority, as though echoing again the first time they rang, when anchors were raised, sails unfurled, and ships set out for an era that was full of adventure, an era that wrote its history in the name of civilization, but which in the end only separated us. I'm only a high school graduate who doesn't read much, Salazar. Until now I can't understand why history had to separate us and tear our dreams apart, wipe out so many hopes and turn our memories bloody.

I'm hoping you will appear at the end of the alley, so I always sit outside. Then I can run quickly and embrace you and ask how things are with you, and whether you're too tired to talk freely out in the open, where the winds aren't too strong and cold, and the sunshine is warm, so we can at least try to imagine our birthplace, which, although hot, has cool breezes, although arid, has pleasant scenery, and although dusty, is our birthplace, our land, our home. Do you feel at home where you are now, Salazar? As I sip my coffee which is never as good as the coffee back home, I'm expecting you to wave at the end of the alley, with a cheerful face promising happy news, just as I always imagine you from time long since past. I can no longer tell how long it's been, I can't remember any more, Salazar, because every memory of our separation is sadness, suffering, unpleasantness and bitterness. Salazar, Salazar, my brother, if we do meet, I hope we don't grieve again over those sad stories, stories which, if collected, would cause bloody tears. What's the use of remembering it all again, Salazar? Maybe we can't forget, but why not let the sadness speak for itself in the silent world within our own hearts? It's all too painful, Salazar, too painful for a human being. Father shot by soldiers, mother killed by guerrillas, at whom should we feel angry, Salazar? Should we resent history?

I cannot, don't want to remember how many years you have spent in that country, which is now your country. Although people's names there are nearly the same as ours, and we speak their language, isn't it very different, Salazar? To this day I still keep asking how much was what you call independence worth to you, to the extend that you were willing to replace reality with exile? Here I see a world without dust, without sweat, clean houses and fat cows, but is this that enough? It's not our world, Salazar, I have always known that, just as I know how fond we were of the mountain goats that we always spoiled, how familiar we were with the heat and dust that made the late afternoon breeze so pleasant as it swayed the fields of long grass where our ancestors spurred on their horses, resplendent in clothing of most beautiful woven cloth and metal accessories that jingled through the songs in the traditional dances that were always lively and joyful.

Maybe if you appear at the end of the alley, Salazar, you will throw down your backpack and run to embrace me. Maybe -- and I know you'll ask about our homeland, and what should I tell you? You know, don't you, that I'm not very good at telling stories, I can't even write letters. I can't describe how the hills are still there, still hiding something, and in fact many mysterious things still happen in that silent place of nature. Of course, I've been waiting for you for two weeks, Salazar, but frankly I still don't know what I can tell you.

I know, you must not have waited for me only to listen to awful news about our homeland -- but the stories are about children who swim all day in the wreckage of rusty landing craft. They are not about the men with vacant expressions in their eyes who squat in front of every house, nursing their fighting cocks. My news is not about the guerrillas who surrender and come down the mountain but then become idle, every night washing their brains with alcohol in discotheques full of fair-skinned prostitutes who God knows come from where.

If you appear at the end of the alley, Salazar, carrying a backpack like a tourist, and wave your hand at me cheerfully, I will try not to worry you with bad news. I don't want to add to your list of information with routine stories of abduction by night, the torturing of prisoners, electrocution of women, the cutting off ears, and the hiding of human corpses in boxes which are taken by helicopter and dumped in the middle of the sea. If we do end up meeting, Salazar, maybe I'll just try to convince you that we can make what's left of our lives better if we want to.

I'm still waiting for you here, Salazar, in an old cafe, near a cheap hotel in a dark alley in Barcelona. Waiting for you from Lisbon.

Translated by Mahdi Husin

The short story is a translation of Saksi Mata by Seno Gumira Ajidarma, Yayasan Bentang Budaya, Yogyakarta, 1994, P. 107-113.