The myth

By Sori Siregar

It was 11:30 p.m. The streets in the southern part of the city had grown quiet and were nearly empty of traffic and pedestrians. Idat had just dropped off a passenger in front of one of the houses along the road and, failing to find a foodstall in the vicinity, skipped his plan for a rest and a cup of coffee.

He stepped on the gas pedal and drove away at high speed, convinced that no one was going to hail him for a ride on that quiet road.

At the first crossroad leading to the center of the city, he braked abruptly to avoid a collusion with another car that appeared without warning from the right side at breakneck speed.

"Pig!" Idat screamed at the driver. But his swearing fell on deaf ears, since he sat in the closed confinement of his cab, safe behind shut windows.

He was about to start the engine of his cab again when he heard a tap on the window behind him. He turned his head and looked straight into the unfriendly face of a man who signaled him to open the door.

Idat hesitated a moment. At such hours, on quiet roads like this one, drivers should not be too rash in taking any passengers. Instinct became a determining factor.

The sinister-looking man knocked on the window again, making a more urgent gesture for Idat to open it. Idat pulled up the safety lock and opened the door for him to enter. He opened the conversation with his most routine question.

"Where are you headed, Mister?"

"Anywhere."

Fear swiftly gripped Idat.

"I have to get back to the pool at midnight."

"That means you still have half an hour to go," the man said looking at his watch. "You'll be rid of me before turning in."

The man stepped into the cab and shut the door. Idat drove away immediately. They had driven several miles when the man spoke up again.

"Why did you hesitate in giving me a ride?" he asked.

Idat looked hard for an excuse.

"Because there wasn't much time left to return to the pool."

"Nonsense. You were afraid that you'd be picking up a robber. All drivers judge their passengers from their appearance."

"No, Sir, that isn't the case at all. I have to get back to the pool on time, or I'll be fined."

"Uh-uh," the man muttered disbelievingly.

Opulent houses, exuding overwhelming affluence, lay orderly and serenely in the quiet neighborhood, each one of them guarded by privately employed security men.

Drivers were reluctantly ferrying passengers to and from the southern part of the city, ever since the papers began reporting that cabbies were frequently getting robbed -- even killed -- in isolated sectors of the area.

The victims were usually drivers who worked the night shift.

Mulling over these matters, Idat's heart skipped several beats as he drove the man around.

"You may not know it, but the southern part is definitely the safest part of the city. No stick-ups, robberies or murders will ever happen in this area," said the man.

Idat felt it wise not to make any comments. The underlying fear he initially felt was still with him.

"Have you ever heard of Jabegu?"

Idat pretended not to have heard the question. The man asked him again.

"Have you heard of Jabegu?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

The man started to laugh. "He is the one who looks after this part of the city. Gangland and criminals in the city shudder when they hear his name."

Idat stopped at a red light.

"Drive on," said the man. "This red light has been on since noon."

Idat drove on.

The man then asked: "Do you know what a myth is?"

"No," he replied.

"There is nothing extraordinary about Jabegu, actually. He is no champion, no criminal, he hasn't even been in jail. He was never involved in a fight. He is feared only because he has shrewdly created a myth of repute that has now spread near and far."

The man, his face screwed up in uncountable crinkles of amusement, was laughing his head off now.

Idat felt his fear dissipating. The man had, after all, burst out twice in a laughing fit. He reassured himself that all was well.

"Jabegu is very famous in gangland and among hired killers. He is known as a cold-blooded fellow. It is said that he has only five men working for him, all ready to die for him. Death, to ex-convicts of Nusakambangan, has lost its frightening portent."

Idat cut the man's story short as he pointed a finger to a road on the right.

"There is the pool, Mister. I think I'll turn in now, even though it is a few minutes short of midnight."

"Drive on!" the man barked. "Don't worry, you'll be in the pool before midnight."

Cold, choking fear gripped Idat once more. He drove on while the man in the back picked up the thread of his tale.

"Truth is, Jabegu has nobody, let alone men from Nusakambangan. It's a tale of gigantic proportions that grew from mouth to mouth. The odd thing is that everybody fell for the story: servants, security men, gangs, criminals, even mansion owners from the southern sector of the city."

"Because the name `Jabegu' has developed into a name of undisputable repute, a good part of these mansion owners in the capital's south feel that they have to pay him a security fee. Especially those mansion owners on the road where I hailed your cab," said the man. He began to laugh heartily aloud.

"That's what I meant with the myth just now. These rich people in the south of the capital feel safe because Jabegu is looking after their security. They believe that Jabegu is a big hero and that nobody would dare challenge him. To make my story short, no brawls will ever take place in this part of the city."

As Idat had nothing to say, the man moved his head closer to him and asked, "Are you still listening to my story?"

Idat, not expecting the question, hastened his reply.

"Yes, I am."

"Every month, Jabegu smiles as he receives 'payment' from judges, conglomerates, lawyers and officials living in that part of the city. You've no idea how gullible they are, just because they put their own interests at heart. The security guards in front of their homes are there only to impress guests or other arrivals. The real security work has long been handed over to Jabegu."

Idat glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Five minutes to go before he had to report at the pool.

"Every month, Jabegu himself -- posing as one of his cronies -- collects his fees from the houses on that very road where you picked me up just now. The monthly collection amounts to millions of rupiah, all for payment of a myth that he concocted."

Idat made a U-turn and steered the cab towards the pool. The man took a perfunctory look at his watch.

"Only one minute left. Right. I'll get off now," he said slowly. He opened the door and extended a fifty-thousand rupiah bill to Idat.

"Oh, I don't think I have any small change, Sir." Idat lied, knowing full-well that he had more than one hundred thousand rupiah in his pocket.

"That means that you are in luck then," said the man smiling. He stepped out of the cab and closed the door.

Idat sat momentarily stunned. He had not expected to make that sort of money. Hurriedly, he rolled down his window.

"Thank you, Sir." Idat had to shout, for the distance between him and the man was already widening. The man, who was his passenger only moments ago, pretended not to have heard Idat.

"Thank you, Jabegu," Idat was yelling now. The man turned around and raised his hand. Then, he strode further.

Idat slumped in his chair, staring at the man who then stopped under a lamppost. The man looked back at Idat. For endless moments, their eyes locked onto each other. A taxi cruised by and the man waved it alongside the curb. He held up his hand once more, then disappeared in the car. Idat answered the gesture and closed the window.

He could hardly believe that the incident had happened to him as he arrived at the pool. He did not understand why Jabegu chose him in the first place, to tell his story. If he were to repeat the tale of Jabegu to anyone, he surely would not be taken seriously. Jabegu, the myth, had become an invincible power of reality.

Translated by Claudine Frederik

Sori Siregar was born in Medan, North Sumatra in November, 1939, as Sori Sutan Sirovi Siregar. Since 1960, he has been a frequent contributor to Indonesia's leading journals, including Sastra, Horison, Budaya Jaya and Zaman.