Barricade

The revisions of the morning at Semesta seemed to make something possibly of the new piece, some sharp probing and venturing achieved in the end was it? Seemed so. It needed typing; post and be done. There was a small, loyal readership to keep on the drip, a Portuguese and Russian of late and also Irishman. The Belander, Dutchman had fallen off some while ago and the Ukrainian only occasionally visiting now. The traffic from the U.S. was more difficult to differentiate.
         Oddly, the entry to the PC room at the losmen was part screened, the roller-door only half-raised. At the front desk the thin legs of Wahyu it had to be.
         Light thumb on the discoloured rib of the shutter failed to budge and immediately brought a caution from Wahyu.
         — No sir
         Cannot, he may have added; but not please.
         A tone of command, albeit in the lower register, was unusual for Wahyu. In fact, had there been heard anything like it in six months in Jogja from anyone?... No it had not. Even at home with his wife suchlike for Wayhu would have been out of the ordinary.
         — You can come in sir. Under.
         Wahyu kept his seat before the screen.
         The height of the opening was no more than a metre. Inside none of the lights were on and behind Wahyu a youngster the sole occupant at the row of computers.
         For a paying guest, an older man and a senior writer too, Wahyu needed to make way. 

         Day-time duty manager at the losmen, thirty, married with a young son. Three years before Wahyu had won a scriptwriting contest and collected the handsome prize of Rp5 million—around five hundred dollars. In Indonesia certainly a princely sum.           

         Games mostly on the front PC that was attached to the printer for Wahyu, whiling away the time. Some form of billiards that was usually won; another a game of numbers housed in colourful balloons. Sometimes there was searching contest openings and money-making ventures. On this occasion another kind engagement was keeping the man.
         — Just a minute sir.
         Briefest flicker at the pointing finger was enough.
         — Yes sir. Old man… neighbor. Meningal….
         Someone had passed away a little up the gang, an old man. Funeral was today, possibly not quite done.
         The little get-together of the men the night before that had included landlord Adhi had been a kind of wake. One chap perched on a motorbike as usual, three or four others opposite against the wall on stools. Adhi had never sat in the gang on any of the previous visits to Jogja. Family man Adhi, busy and a bit reclusive. In June Silence Is God had been mistakenly read on one of his tees. A devout good Muslim—Golden in fact.
         One or two of the others in the gang were the regulars who sat along the narrow passage chatting nights. None of them took their teh outdoors; they just sat and chatted quietly. Earnest, extended conversation was never much in evidence among the Malays. Up closer to the station at the first narrow junction there could always be found a little knot of more ragged, slightly disheveled men who in the Western analogue would have had beers between their feet. The turn there to the upper end led to the red light quarter.
         The wake had demanded Adhi’s attendance, a neighbourly duty that needed to be performed. Returning late at night and finding Adhi’s face upturned with the others had been a surprise. Earlier in the evening when Adhi was needed for some scanning of documents his wife had indicated he was at some neighbours. The wife had even more limited English than her husband; Wahyu was much more accomplished.
         — Just a Muslim practice, Wahyu explained; and was caught by surprise at the bold challenge from a foreigner and kaffir.

         The objection did not seem to impress Wahyu, but it was difficult to tell. Judging reactions in a foreign culture was always tricky, even four years later.
         An ambitious, curious-minded young man Wahyu, interested to have his perspective enlarged. Money troubles were the present focus.
         Ten minutes later Adhi’s sister, who had been staying in the house with her children while her husband was away working in Qatar, came along the passage to close and lock the entry door to the computer room in order to seal us off better still. The casket might have been on the move.

                                                                                                             Yogyakarta, Indonesia 2015