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 there? Seemed so. It needed typing; post and be done. There was a small, loyal readership to keep on the drip, a Portuguese & Russian of late, and also Irishman. The Belander, Dutchman had fallen off some while ago and the Ukrainian only occasionally visiting now. Traffic from the U.S. was harder to differentiate.
Oddly, the entry to the PC room at the losmen was screened, roller-door only half-raised. At the front desk the thin legs of Wahyu it had to be.
Light thumb on the discolored rib of the shutter failed to budge it and immediately a caution from Wahyu.
— No, sir.
Cannot, he may have added. But not, please.
An abrupt tone of command, albeit in the lower register, was unusual. In fact, had there been heard anything of the like the six months in Jogja from anyone? No, it had not. Even at home with his wife suchlike for Wayhu would have been rare.
— You can come in, sir. Under.
Wahyu kept his seat before the screen.
The height of the opening meant crouching with bent knees, cawling almost. Inside it was dark and behind Wahyu a youngster was the sole occupant at the row of computers.
For a paying guest, an older man and a senior writer, 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, collecting the handsome prize of Rp5m—around five hundred dollars. In Indonesia certainly a princely sum.
Games mostly on the PC that was attached to the printer for Wahyu, whiling away the time. Some form of billiards usually; another was a game of numbers in colorful balloons. Sometimes Wahyu searched contests and commercial ventures.
— Just a minute, sir.
Briefest flicker at the pointing finger was enough for Wahyu.
— Yes, sir. Old man…Neighbor. Meningal…
Someone had passed away a little up the gang, an old man. Funeral was that day, possibly not yet done.
The get-together of the men the night before that had included landlord Adhie had been a kind of wake. One chap perched on a motorbike as usual, three or four others opposite against the wall on stools.
Adhie had never sat in the gang on any of the previous visits to Jogja. Family man Adhie, busy and shy. In June Silence Is God had been mistakenly read on one of his tees. A devout, good Muslim—it was in fact Golden.
One or two of the others in the gang were regulars who sat nights along the narrow alley. None of them took their teh outdoors; they just sat and chatted quietly. Earnest, extended conversation was never much in evidence among the Malays. 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 context would have had beers between their feet. The turn there to the upper end led to the red light quarter.
The wake had demanded Adhie’s attendance, a neighborly duty. Returning late at night and finding Adhie’s face upturned with the others had been a surprise. Earlier in the evening when Adhie was needed for some scanning of documents his wife had indicated he was out at neighbors. The wife had even more limited English than her husband. Wahyu was much more accomplished.
— Just a Muslim practice, Wahyu explained.
The young man was caught by surprise at the challenge from a foreigner, and kaffir to boot.
The objection did not seem to impress Wahyu. 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 Adhie’s sister, who had been staying in the house with her children while her husband was away in Qatar, came along the corridor. She stopped at the outer entry door to the computer room, which she closed and turned the lock. In the gang the casket must have been on the move.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia 2015
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