Signal

By Aryanti

The plane was still delayed, departure postponed for another half-hour. In the crowded waiting room passengers became more anxious. This was understandable. All were waiting to be home as soon as possible. Patience had been tried to the utmost. Well, we all knew that this season nearly all planes suffered delay. But what I experienced now was really the limit.

First, the plane was late. Then there were technical difficulties. All the passengers had to change to another plane, even to another airline. When I entered the new plane I found the seat assigned to me already occupied. Naturally the passenger did not want to move. It took quite a while before I got another seat. And then, when I reached my destination, my suitcase did not show up in the luggage band, which meant another problem to take care of. In the end, of course, everything turned all right. But I was angry, tired and nervous. Now, on my way home, I am still suffering. Oh well, I took a deep breath forcing myself to be calm.

It was then that my eyes caught a large picture and the headline on a disaster on the front page of a newspaper somebody was reading. A plane crashed yesterday. The passengers and crew were all killed. That was easy to imagine. I turned my head, unable to bear the picture of the plane's scattered pieces.

If one thinks about it, of course it is much better to be delayed in America than to be involved in a fatal crash.

Finally we were allowed to board the plane. The stewardess in front had a friendly smile. To someone's angry question she merely shrugged her shoulders, minimizing the problem, and answered sweetly, "A technical disturbance, Sir, which of course had to be taken care of."

Leaning back in the soft seat I felt utterly exhausted. Nevertheless sleep was impossible. All kinds of thoughts disturbed me, and I could not put that picture of the fatal plane's broken parts away from my mind. But I must have fallen asleep after all.

All of a sudden I woke up, startled by some harsh noise. The whole plane was darkened. On the screen in front of us a film was being shown. I blinked. Was it possible? A film about a plane in fatal accident. What an extraordinary choice by the management. No psychological sense, at all.

With a pounding heart I witnessed the crew's panic, the passengers' unbearable terror. Then the plane dived, flames spouting out of its tail. In the end the plane crashed, it was impossible to save it. At the same time I heard a woman's voice, hoarse like that of an old person. The voice was saying clearly, "That was Imam who left. Don't let Imam leave!"

I was startled, surprised: Indonesian language? How could it be? Was this then an Indonesian film? It was a foreign carrier.

However, the screen showed an old woman embracing a girl, clad in Indonesian bridal attire. I should have known that girl, but very quickly the scene vanished. Only the old woman's voice echoed, "Don't let Imam leave."

I wiped my eyes. A stewardess came near me, smiling, "You slept very nicely, Ma'am. Would you like something to drink, now?"

Without thinking, I said, "Orange juice."

I looked around me, amazed. I must have dreamt all of it. Indeed I must have slept profoundly. There was no evidence whatsoever of a film, and a terribly frightening one at that. The passengers looked undisturbed, some were talking. Meanwhile dinner was being served.

Shaking my head, I mused. Was it just a dream caused by the headline in the newspaper and the picture of the plane that crashed, killing the crew and all the passengers? I might easily see it as such, if only I knew who was meant by "Imam". But in our family and among our closest friends there was nobody by that name. In vain I was warned then -- if, in fact, it was a signal from the occult world -- for I could not possibly warn the person involved.

I sat still, pondering over the film I had just dreamed. At last I moved in my seat, impatiently. Imagine worrying about a mere dream. People would accuse me of superstition. Oh well, many things could happen if one was as tired as I was.

I arrived home safely, lacking nothing. My suitcase came out first. My husband and children appeared happy to have me home again. In the feeling of personal happiness I forgot all about my dream, or the strange sign I received on the plane. Only once I was reminded of it. But long afterwards.

A colleague in the office was due to go abroad. His name was Iman. I kept quiet, because Iman was not the same as Imam. Besides, I did not want to become the laughing stock in the whole office. Even so, I felt nervous all the time he was away. But he returned home well and sound, even lighthearted, full of silly stories. Then and there I told him of my dream. I acted jokingly, too. But he did not share my mirth. His reaction was in fact quite serious, "My name is not Imam, but Iman! Mind you, that makes all the difference."

He advised me to remain alert, looking out for somebody called Imam among my nearest acquaintances.

"If it wasn't someone close to you, it is unlikely that you would be chosen to receive the warning, is it?" my colleague continued. "So, please remain alert. Otherwise you may regret it for the rest of your life."

But for months and months no planes crashes were reported, and I never came across someone called Imam.

A neighbor invited us to her house. We knew the father quite well but not so well that we visited one another often. Yet one of their children went to the same school as ours. Moreover, our children used to play at each other's place. The invitation was for a small celebration, as their eldest son, Titut, had just graduated. Titut was among the young people who came to our place to see our eldest daughter, Netta.

No one else from the neighborhood was at our host's house. They seemed to have invited just the two of us as their next door neighbors. The other guests were young people. Only one other couple of our age was with us in the sitting room in front. The young people gathered in the large family room in the back.

Mr. and Mrs. Suradi, our hosts, seemed to love family photos very much. Everywhere, on cupboards, on tables, and hanging on the walls, we saw a variety of photographs of their large family.

After the usual formalities and the exchange of news about the families and children, then she moved closer to me. She was smiling when she said, "You know, don't you Jeng, that our son Titut is very close to Netta, your daughter?"

She glanced meaningfully at me. I was rather shocked. Never had I thought of anything existing behind the friendship between Netta and Mrs. Suradi's son. Well, so many boys were coming to see her. Besides, Netta was never open with us, her parents. However, I bent my head, smiling.

Mrs. Suradi went on, "Of course, according to our custom, we should have come formally to you both in such a case, but I'm taking this opportunity." she looked at me in full consent. "Titut has gotten an offer to do further studies abroad. He may leave immediately. The sooner the better, they said. The offer was given by the office where he works. His future looks bright, Jeng."

Mrs. Suradi smiled proudly. Then she went on, "His wish is to be permitted to marry Netta. And his wife is allowed to follow him soon." Suddenly, and in an instant, I recognized the face of the old woman, whose large photo was hanging in the corner. It was as if her face came closer to me, looking full of meaning from the distance. Titut and Netta. Oh my God! The bride who was embraced by the old woman on the screen, in the plane, whose face I felt I knew, how could I not have recognized the face of my own daughter, Netta. So, my Netta was that bride.

My throat felt dry and my head was swimming, when I asked apparently without connection, "What's Titut's real name?"

Mrs. Suradi naturally looked surprised. But she answered, "My mother-in-law gave him his name," she looked at the large photograph in the corner. "His name is Imam Sutiono. He is called Titut which comes form Sutiono. So, not Tutit, but Titut."

I said with a hoarse voice that not only caused surprised glances, but certainly also the conviction that I had lost my mind, "Don't let Imam leave. Don't."

Luckily I got hold of myself quickly. So I explained everything that had happened in the plane several months ago, on my way home from the United States, and also of what my colleague in the office had said. Pointing at the large photograph of the old woman in the corner, I said, "I have never known Mrs. Suradi's mother. But it is she, whom I saw on that mysterious screen." I added, "forgive me for seeming so terribly confused, but I'm really frightened."

For a moment or two nobody spoke. Then the third man in the sitting room, who turned out to be Mr. Suradi's elder brother, said, "Let's not deny Madam's experience here as mere superstition without reason."

Looking at me he went on, "You know Jeng, our mother died a few months ago. But all her life we experienced how she could feel impending danger, Mother would tell us her feelings. I'm, sure it was indeed Mother, who showed herself to you. Especially as Titut was her favorite grandchild, as Titut is very much like his grandfather, our late father, her husband."

Netta, our daughter, married Titut in the month we found propitious. Titut, or Imam, did not leave. He got his permission to get more experience here, at home.

Do I need to add that the plane he was to travel on hit bad weather and crashed near the coast?

Translated by Haryati Subadio

Aryanti is the pen name of Professor Haryati Subadio, a former minister for social affairs. She holds a Ph.D from the Municipal University of Amsterdam, Holland. Before her appointment as minister, she served as the dean of the Faculty of Letters, the University of Indonesia, and as the director general of culture for the Ministry of Education and Culture.

Aryanti has published several novels, including Selembut Bunga (As Soft as a Flower); Hidup Perlu Akar (Life Needs Roots); Dunia Tak Berhenti Berputar (The World Does Not Stop Turning) as well as a collection of short stories entitled Kaca Rias Antik (The Antique Looking Glass). Signal appears in New York After Midnight: 11 Indonesian Short Stories edited by Satyagraha Hoerip.

Note: Jeng is from diajeng, a way of addressing a respectable but younger Javanese lady, with both amiable and feudalistic connotations.