Special Fugitive

By Manggar Maula Mahabana

So, I'm a fugitive now. Refusing to be questioned as a suspect in a corruption case involving billions of dollars, I have chosen to disappear. I'd rather be a fugitive than a convict. The prospect of being beaten by my fellow inmates was just one reason I opted to run.

In my hiding place, I'm sure no one on the police force will have the courage to arrest me. Not even the generals.

I am indeed a special fugitive.

One day I was dining in a restaurant when a policeman turned up. I quickly called the waiter over and ordered a special dish for the officer. He must have been starving because he finished his food in a matter of minutes. Then, as he was relaxing with a full belly, I went over to him and said I would pay for his dinner.

"Thank you, sir," he said. Then, with complete honesty, he said he had been sent to arrest me.

"But don't worry, sir! I won't arrest you. I know you are a fugitive, but not an ordinary one. You are a special fugitive in this country," he said emphatically.

Since that encounter I have increasingly believed that I am, in the real sense of the words, a special fugitive. No policeman will arrest me. I even believe that if a policeman happened to arrest me, he would let me go because surely he would not want to deal with the reporters.

Rumors have been making the rounds that if a policeman can arrest me, he will gain instant celebrity. He will become a media darling, featured in the papers and on TV as a model officer. Journalists will pester him for interviews, and I'm sure that policemen here hate to take the trouble of giving interviews to reporters, who are now enjoying the euphoric heights of press freedom!

Thinking about this often makes me chuckle. To tell you the truth, as a fugitive I always stay away from reporters, not the police. Other rumors have it that newspapers and magazines are keen to sit down with me for an in-depth interview. They want to publish the interview on the front page to boost their print run.

Newspaper readers are getting bored reading reports about how I became a fugitive. What they want to read are reports about what I have been doing as a fugitive.

I heard that if a reporter can secure an interview with me, he has the chance of being promoted to chief editor. Then he may get an offer from big investors to head an international-scale newspaper.

To tell you the truth, I'm frightened of reporters. I'm always cautious about people carrying cameras or notebooks. A funny thing happened one day. I was driving around in a small, out-of- the-way village -- as a fugitive, I prefer to go driving rather than lying around a hotel room or in a friend's house -- and a young man caught my eye and smiled broadly, obviously extremely pleased about something. Carrying a camera and wearing a cap, the young man was standing in front of a house. Always alert, I sped up the moment I caught sight of him.

Unfortunately, the young man seemed to be very much attached to me. He jumped on his motorbike and revved up the engine to catch up with me. The young man maneuvered along the rocky village road quite skillfully, finally catching up with me.

"Sir! Please pull over! I want to take your picture!" he shouted.

I shivered with fear and tried to speed up and lose him. Damn this road, I swore to myself. I knew there was danger lurking.

"Don't be afraid, Sir! I'm not a reporter!" he shouted over the sound of his motorbike. "I'm just a freelance photographer!"

Hearing this last sentence, I sighed with relief. I had no more reason to fear him. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to laugh out loud at my own foolish fear. How could I mistake a photographer for a reporter! I must be really paranoid. I pulled over and the young man approached my car.

"Sorry, Sir. Can I take your picture?" he asked politely.

"What for?" I asked him.

"Just for my collection, Sir. I have admired you for a long time. I know you're innocent. I've heard that you're afraid of reporters. You must have thought I was a reporter, right?" he kept talking, while his hands worked on his camera.

I blushed and I let him take five pictures of me. I was positive these photographs were for his personal collection. He would find it hard to find a buyer for pictures of me, because just about every publication already has a picture of me driving my car. The media wants an interview with me, a special fugitive, not my picture.

I had a similar incident driving around another village. I was cruising through the village after lunch when I caught sight of a young man on a motorbike riding toward me. He had a notebook in his shirt pocket and was also wearing a cap. When he passed my car, our eyes met briefly and he smiled. I sped up but the young man was in hot pursuit.

Just like the other guy, he navigated the rocky road with skill, and in the middle of an abandoned rice field he caught up with me. I pulled over.

"Sir! Please, this will just take a sec. I'm not a reporter. I just want to shake your hand, Sir!"

I stepped out of my car. Well, I said to myself, if he turns out to be a reporter trying to interview me, I won't hesitate to deal him a blow. He's smaller than me and shouldn't be too much of a problem, I thought. One shot to the chest and he'll go down in a heap.

"Believe me, Sir. I work for a money lender and I just carry this notebook to keep track of loans and payments," he said with a blush.

I tried hard not to laugh. Wrong again, I told myself. How I fear reporters!

The young man put out his hand and I clasped it tightly. "Sorry, I thought you were a reporter."

Yet another funny incident occurred while I was driving around some small town. I violated a traffic sign that was hidden among some trees planted as part of the local administration's regreening program. A policeman came chasing after me and told me to pull over. For a brief moment, I thought he had been sent to arrest me.

"Sorry, Sir, but could I see your driver's license?" he asked politely. I took it from my wallet and handed it to the officer.

He examined the license carefully and suddenly grew pale. He began to tremble. "I'm sorry, Sir. I thought you were someone else," he whimpered.

I chuckled in my heart.

"Please, continue on your way, Sir. Forgive me for this inconvenience," he said with a tremor in his voice.

Still chuckling in my heart, I pulled onto the street. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw the low-ranking officer standing there with a wet spot on his pants.

Despite these amusing incidents, I am often overwhelmed by great sorrow. I miss my wife and my children. They must be suffering because of my absence. They must be worried about me constantly. They must miss me very much.

What really hurts me is that every time I long for the warmth of my wife's body, I have to take a prostitute into my hotel bed. And every time I long to kiss my children, I can only hug and kiss a doll.

I'm also sad because I can't see my dad. I'm his youngest son and the apple of his eye. He is one of the wealthiest men in the world and has bequeathed to all of us -- his children -- billions of dollars tucked away in several banks in Europe. He is quite old now and has lots of health problems. Once he had to be rushed to the hospital. All my brothers and sisters were there with him and the media carried reports about my father being hospitalized, and I could only read about it. I felt like I was in a different universe, unable to be with my beloved father when he was seriously ill.

So, I'm still a fugitive, tortured by the thought that when my dad dies, I will be a fugitive; the rebellious, ungrateful son of the world's richest former dictator.

Translated by Lie Hua