Village Head

By Zaki Jubidi

The news that the village head was ill spread far and wide. No one knew who first spread the news but people of all ages knew that the village head was ill. Anywhere people congregated they would talk about this news. In the market, housewives not only bargained but also hotly debated the village head's illness. Youngsters did likewise when they met up in their usual haunts. Before a village administration meeting began, participants would talk about the same thing in whispers, but would stop the conversation as soon as the village head turned up.

These people, however, did not talk about why the village head had become ill or what illness he was suffering from or how long he had been ill. They were all curious about whether or not the village was really ill. At first this was a question, but as days turned into weeks this question became a statement. All the villagers believed that the village head was ill, but they would also deny that the village was ill. Really strange.

Samijo was the name given him when he was born. Samijo was the only person in Jowinong village who could go to university to study. He was obviously the only university graduate in the village. When his peers were still flying kites, small Samijo was already in junior secondary school. He went to a school in a district town. At the time many people derided his family. Some considered them haughty, while others even dared to call Samijo's parents a couple of ignoramuses who pretended to be smart. To most villagers it would be enough for their children to be literate. They would not think it necessary to send their children to a junior secondary school. What for? The children would end up as farmers anyway.

When he was 20, Samijo went to Surabaya to continue his schooling. Sutaji, one of his most brilliant peers, already had two children. Sutaji was clever and was always ranked first in the elementary school. Samijo was greatly indebted to Sutaji when he was at the elementary school because Samijo was in fact a stupid pupil. Indeed, he was very stupid, and when he was a fourth grader he still could not count correctly from one to 10. Once his teacher asked him the name of the president and he said Kartolo instead of Soeharto. He gave this answer in a convincing way because the name was very familiar to him. He often heard the name mentioned from listening to his father's transistor radio.

Samijo, contrary to most people's perceptions, did not have a happy childhood. When he was in elementary school he experienced a horrible tragedy. Mr. Brata, his mathematics teacher, was very kind to him. Many people thought that he was close to Samijo because Samijo's family was well-off. However, that was not the case. Once Mr. Brata met Samijo in the bathroom and sodomized him several times. Although he was very much devastated by this sodomy, Samijo kept the incidents to himself.

Samijo also did not experience happy times at senior secondary school. At puberty, a time of nice memories for many teenagers, Samijo was always unlucky in his love for girls. Despite putting up a charming appearance, his love had been rejected many times. Instead of being attractive to girls, he usually ended up looking like a factory worker. Sometimes he did have a girlfriend, but the girl would always leave him after emptying his pockets. Yet destiny had its own way and Samijo became a village head with a pretty wife.

Just as before, Samijo always found time to take a walk around the village until the sun was no longer seen. Smiling broadly, he would greet everybody he met.

"Afternoon, Mr. Karjo."

"Afternoon, Mr. Village Head."

"Taking a walk, Mr. Village Head?"

"Yes, also to monitor the situation in the village."

Short exchanges like the above were always heard when Samijo took an afternoon walk. Clearly, the villagers simply offered their greetings out of politeness.

Samijo had a moustache but it did not make him look stern. Perhaps he intentionally kept his thick moustache only to show that he had power as a village head. Unfortunately, his eyes and his nose seemed to rebel against this appearance to fight for honesty. His big round eyes, just like doors, reflected emptiness toward nothingness. His nose was like an elongated rose-apple -- it got bigger at the bottom.

Every time the villagers met him, his appearance cast doubts about his supposed illness. They believed he was ill but refuted this when they saw him in person. They were so overwhelmed by this uncertainty that they did not even care about the approaching election of a new village head. They were pretty sure that the present village head -- whose illness they had turned into a myth -- would be reelected.

"Poor man. He's still young but is already a sick person," they said about him.

"Is it true that he is ill?" others would query.

"He has never looked ill."

"But he is ill."

It was evening. The village was quite and kerosene lanterns were already lit, emitting a yellowish white light. The mountain wind blew, and one could not help feeling cold despite being wrapped in several pieces of cloth.

The house of the village head was also quiet. Traditional Javanese music was softly heard. On the veranda, the village head was sitting in his rocking chair, puffing a cigarette. His face was expressionless. He did not appear to be weighed down with anything, but neither did he look relaxed. Obviously he was not thinking about the upcoming election of a new village head. His face was quite expressionless. You could read nothing in it. In the sitting room there were only empty chairs, and hanging on the wall were portrait paintings of his parents Raden Cokro and Raden Roro Sekar Arum. They commanded respect in the pictures and were full of charisma. In the living room Samijo's wife was sitting quietly, staring at a battery-powered black-and-white television.

It was getting late in the evening. Samijo's wife became more restless and stopped paying attention to the television. Her face was miserable and her large bosom heaved irregularly. It was as if she was expecting something that she had been waiting for for a very long time. She left the room without turning off the television. Samijo saw his wife approaching. She took Samijo's hands hurriedly and dragged him into the bedroom. Then both of them were lost in the night with all their great passion and desires.

The crow of a cock signaled the morning's approach. The village became busy again. People were drowned in their hustle and bustle to give meaning to their lives. The men went to the rice fields, the women cooked in the kitchen and children went to school.

Samijo's wife opened the window, hoping that the sun would share with her some of its warmth in the room. Her shoulder- length hair was wet, black, shiny. Samijo turned in his bed when a patch of light fell on his legs. Birds chirped peacefully in turn, providing a rhythm to the morning. Samijo got out from his creaking bed. He moved very slowly. He left the room, taking his towel and placing it on his right shoulder. He entered his bedroom whistling.

"Mr. Village Head, you had better be ready with more money for the election to be held next month."

"Well, what for?"

"To get you reelected."

Samijo got up from his chair. He walked round their room, his hands on his chin. He knitted his eyebrows, trying to think about how he should face the upcoming election. Keeping the same expression on his face, he asked Joko, one of his subordinates, "Is it true that I have to spend a lot of money to be reelected?"

"You did not need to before, but now you can't expect to be reelected unless you have a lot of money," Joko said, lighting a cigarette.

"Why?"

"In Mojojer village there is a newcomer. He has moved from Surabaya. Just like you, he is an economist. It seems that the villagers have a lot of sympathy for him," said Joko grimly.

"But I am fed up with being a village head," Samijo answered lazily.

Joko looked confused. He could not let Samijo just allow another person to replace him. Well, to tell you the truth, he often benefited from Samijo's position. He was afraid that things would change when someone else replaced Samijo as village head. Just from the village administration treasury he could collect Rp 500,000 a month. And he could collect more from other sources.

"No way, Sir. You must remain in your position. You must be reelected," he said a little insistently.

"I feel lazy," Samijo said briefly.

"Do you still love me?" Joko said, trying out a new strategy.

"Well, Joko, I still love you. You are the only man in the world that I love. I do not want to lose you."

"If you remain our village head we can meet anytime, right?" he said, smiling mischievously.

After thinking hard for some time, Samijo finally said, "Hmmm, all right. Rather than losing you, Joko," he said with determination. Then he approached Joko, kissed his hands and embraced him intimately. The two of them were soon oblivious of their surroundings. They were enjoying their homosexual lovemaking.

Samijo stopped whistling in the bathroom. He stopped pouring water. The bathroom door opened. Samijo walked out with wet hair. His lips were curved in a broad smile. In the name of love, Samijo was ready to fight for his reelection.

Surabaya, November 1998

Glossary:

Raden: a Javanese aristocrat title

Translated by Lie Hua