Twilight in Djakarta (22 page)

Murhalim looked at Achmad with great astonishment, but then as he slowly grasped the full meaning of his words he got red with anger.

‘This has all been organised. So it’s true what I’ve heard. There’s no use my arguing with you here, Achmad. It’s clear that for you and your friends these people are merely objects to be manipulated, so you can achieve your political ends. You don’t really care whether they get rice, whether the lamp in their hut will be lit or whether there’ll be salt in their cooking-pot or not. Human beings have no value for you, you don’t respect them at all! May the Lord forgive you!’

Achmad laughed loudly.

‘If I were to yell out now, and point to you, and tell them that it was you who caused the shortages of rice and salt and the lack of kerosene, do you know what would happen to you? What they’d do to you?’

Murhalim looked at Achmad. He was seeing a man whom, it seemed, he’d not known at all, as though Achmad had never been a friend of his in the old days. Achmad’s eyes glittered, his face shone with joy and his body seemed coiled as though ready to spring – his whole being reflected absolute faith, readiness to do anything at all to win his battle.

By Allah, Murhalim thought, if he felt it necessary he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to tell the crowd to tear me to pieces!

It was to Murhalim as though he were seeing something black – something very dark, very evil – as though a fiendish spirit were passing before him. And his conviction grew all the stronger that what Achmad represented was evil, contrary to the dignity of man, contrary to the injunctions of the Lord and the precepts of Islam. Murhalim was calm again.

All at once the group of betja drivers shouted together, ‘Break
in! Break in!’ And they started forward. But at the entrance to the warung they collided with women and children who filled the door. Seeing the betja drivers come on for an assault, the owner of the warung locked the door from the inside, and with his wife and children fled through the back, abandoning his warung.

A scuffle then started at the door, everyone wanting to get in first. The sight of the abandoned warung whetted the people’s eagerness to break in and grab anything they could carry off with them. By now they had become possessed.

Something stirred within Murhalim.

No, he said to himself. No! Not here. This isn’t the time.

But this something was urging him again.

‘No,’ Murhalim repeated. ‘It’s not the time, not the place.’

Achmad was looking at Murhalim with a smile.

Their eyes met.

Achmad’s eyes were full of mockery – you wouldn’t dare! People like you, petty bourgeois, how would you dare to act, how would you have the courage to risk your life for something? You’re just a bunch of ‘analysts’ and talkers. Only we, the communists, have the courage, the power to act ….

Something in Murhalim’s body was crying out, ascending shrilly to the tip of his tongue.

‘No,’ Murhalim protested again. ‘It’s not the place, not the time.’

Achmad’s eyes were saying to him, you’re just looking for an alibi, something to hide behind, something to cover up your fear! You don’t dare, you’re weak, you’ve no conviction, no fighting spirit; this is the bourgeois way of thinking, of avoiding responsibility.

Murhalim broke out into a sweat. His face was pale. His lips trembled. The voice inside him cried ever louder, its din filling his ears, deafening, commanding him, forcing him and finally … Murhalim felt as if he were moved by some irresistible
power, something that was rising from his unconscious being. It forced him to run towards the crowd pushing at the warung door. He felt that the people, misled by Achmad and his friends, must he brought back to the true way, the rightful way, the way of Allah.

A strange force seemed to fill his body. Murhalim managed to break through the crowd before the door, and he turned quickly to face the now half-maddened mob. Momentarily the hot smell from the bodies and mouths of the people he faced overpowered him, their eyes seemed to shimmer, their faces seemed to dissolve in a haze, but then he pulled himself together and could see clearly again.

Murhalim held up his hands and shouted,

‘Stop! Brothers, be calm! Be patient!’

The crowd seemed to hesitate, not knowing how to react to the man who’d just come to stand before them. Hope rose in Murhalim’s heart – he’d be able to calm the crowd.

‘Calm down! Calm down! Brothers, I’m just a little man too. I too need rice … remember …’ he shouted again, but suddenly he heard Achmad’s voice yelling from behind the crowd.

‘Hayooh! Attack! Burn! He just wants to confuse you!’

And at the sound of these shouted words the tide of passion welled up again in the half-dazed and frenzied crowd that had hesitated only for a moment when Murhalim had appeared. Those in front raised their arms and Itam jumped forward, swinging a log ….

‘Stop! I’m your friend! I want to help you!’ Murhalim cried to Itam.

He turned away, covered his face with his hands to shield it from Itam’s blow, but Itam swiftly changed its direction and the log in his hands landed heavily on Murhalim’s head. Murhalim collapsed. The crowd closed in. They beat him and trampled on him. Blood streamed from his head, his nose, his
ears and mouth ….

At that moment a police truck arrived. Policemen jumped off and ran to the warung. The seething crowd ignored the police’s order to disperse. Only the tail end of the line, which was not involved in the brawl at the door, retreated. A few policemen reached the warung entrance, and when their order to disband was not obeyed they fired a few shots into the air.

At the sound of the shots most of the crowd scattered quickly, running, but what seemed like a hard core of impassioned people didn’t budge. Itam leaped towards a policeman and like one possessed, yelled,

‘Hayoh! Attack! Attack!’

He landed very close to the policeman, and when the latter raised his pistol to shoot into the air Itam jumped at him. While they grappled together the barrel of the pistol was lowered accidentally; the finger, ready for the shot into the air, pulled the trigger and the bullet pierced Itam’s temple. Itam crumpled to the ground. His body jerked for a moment and then his head sank down, bathed in a pool of blood that spread on the ground.

The next moment the warung was deserted. All the people had fled and only some neighbours looked on from a distance.

It had all happened very quickly. Achmad was long gone.

Murhalim and Itam lay on the ground close to each other. They both lay there in the scorching heat of the sun, a ball of red fire in the sky. Murhalim’s hand was stretched out on the ground, almost reaching Itam’s hair. Its fingers were slightly curved as though wanting to touch Itam. Thus the two who had wanted to fight for the little man now lay together. They had met and had been united in death. The one who’d been trampled on had fought, and the one who had fought had been trampled on. Murhalim’s hand stretched out towards Itam as though inviting him to join in a common struggle.

On the same day, January 26
^th
, Yasrin left on a G.I.A. plane for Singapore, to go on from there to Peking. He had received an invitation to attend the Festival of Asian Artists in Peking and from there he was to go on to Moscow, Prague and Warsaw. As the plane reached its ceiling and turned towards the sea, Yasrin looked down, remembered his old friends for a moment and thought – Lucky I broke so soon with Pranoto and my other friends!

He was very pleased and mentally began to compose a poem depicting the heroic struggle of the Chinese people. Later he’d send it as a souvenir of his trip to the magazine he was editing.

It was past one o’clock when Suryono and Fatma crossed the Puntjak Pass on their way to Bandung. They’d had a rest in the Puntjak restaurant, with food and drinks. But when their car reached the beginning of the descent, with a sign showing a skull and the warning: ‘Low Gear!’ Suryono suddenly became
panic-stricken
. He remembered the dream he’d had of driving in a car whose brakes suddenly gave way; he remembered his father – what he was doing to him now, stealing his wife – and all at once he couldn’t face the future, imagining what would happen when his father found out, everybody found out, all his friends found out …. Abruptly he stepped hard on the brakes, pulled up the handbrake and clutched his head with both hands.

Fatma was jerked forwards, her face almost hitting the windscreen. Turning to Suryono, she said angrily,

‘Aduh, my face almost hit the glass. Why did you stop so suddenly?’

Seeing Suryono putting his head down on the wheel and holding it between his hands Fatma asked,

‘Are you ill?’

Suryono didn’t answer but only moaned, and then he suddenly burst out crying like a little child. He didn’t want to be held by
Fatma, and slapped her hand when she tried to massage his head. Fatma let him be for about ten minutes. When Suryono had calmed down somewhat, she asked softly,

‘Are you ill, Yon?’

Suryono merely shook his head, looking straight ahead of him. His head, neck and back then stiffened into a rigid upright line, and he said,

‘We’re going back to Djakarta.’

‘To Djakarta? But we want to go to Malang,’ said Fatma. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘We’re going back to Djakarta,’ said Suryono, ‘and I can’t drive any more, I’m dizzy; you’ll have to drive.’

Something in Suryono’s behaviour convinced Fatma that there was no use arguing, so she got out of the car. Suryono moved over, Fatma took his place at the wheel and at the foot of the descent she turned the car round in the direction of Djakarta. Fatma drove fast, faster than usual.

Who does he think he is? she thought. As though he were the only one with any feelings.

Suryono sagged backwards, dropped his head and closed his eyes. Accusing voices beset him:

You can’t go on. You don’t know what to do. You’re a failure, a confused young man. You’ve lost your grip. You’ve been wrong, you’re guilty, dead-ends wherever you turn. And through his mind frightening visions kept flashing of his father returning and discovering his affair with Fatma; his friends finding out about his affair with Fatma; the police coming to arrest him; Dahlia denouncing him to the police; Dahlia’s husband coming in a rage …. Suryono groaned. Fatma turned to look at him. She saw him now with new eyes, saw now the whole weakness of his character showing in the lines of his mouth, the weakness of his chin …. But Fatma didn’t feel pity. She simply thought that she’d been stupid to give herself to such a weak and worthless man.

Fatma stepped on the accelerator to give vent to her frustrated feelings, swerved too far to the right on a curve and so failed to avoid an oncoming lorry. It hit the front of Suryono’s car towards the right. Turning over once, the car was hurled into a ditch by the roadside, hitting a large rock. Fatma was only shaken. She’d bruised her shoulder. She was dazed and felt stiff and ill. But apart from the shock she was unharmed. But Suryono, who had been hurled with his head against the door, had fainted and lay white-faced.

In a few minutes a small crowd had gathered. Fatma and Suryono were helped out of the car. Suryono was laid on the ground and Fatma sat near him.

Then the police arrived. Suryono was put into an ambulance. Fatma accompanied him. In the hospital at Bogor Suryono was examined by a doctor who said he’d suffered a brain concussion. The doctor advised against transporting Suryono to Djakarta, and suggested leaving him in the Bogor hospital. Fatma left all the arrangements to the young and very friendly police inspector who’d come to take care of the accident – he telephoned to Djakarta for a breakdown truck to haul away their car and she herself drove off to Djakarta in a taxi, after agreeing with the doctor that she’d come back the next day to see Suryono.

In the evening the Bogor hospital telephoned Fatma in Djakarta to tell her that Suryono had passed away. While shocked by the news, Fatma felt that for Suryono himself it was perhaps the best way out.

In the evening of January 26
^th
the discussion club met at Pranoto’s house for the first time in the new year. Before the meeting started they excitedly discussed Murhalim’s death. Many said they couldn’t understand why Murhalim had helped lead the crowd. But Pranoto told them that he’d heard from a police commissary he knew that Murhalim had not been shot
by the police but was killed by a mob which ran amok and beat him to death. The first police reports stating that there had been two victims of the shooting when the police tried to control a looting gang had been given out hurriedly, and now the police were unravelling the true course of events. Several persons had been arrested. According to their confessions it appeared that Murhalim had been trying to restrain the mob when the disaster occurred.

Pranoto also told them of Murhalim’s experiences during his trip to Sumatra and his conclusion that the central government should be giving them more support since the strength of the Indonesian nation actually depended on the fortunes of the regions outside Java. Murhalim said that these regions were now constantly neglected and perhaps even worse – it was almost as though the Centre was sucking out the wealth created by the labour of the regions and spending it on luxuries in the capital.

‘What is the actual problem now? Speaking plainly, it’s to give the masses something to hold on to. Something that would make them work joyfully, make them work hard, make them strain their minds and muscles to build up the country. Nationalistic slogans used to have a magical effect in creating unity in the nation and giving fire to the revolutionary struggle. Too many of our leaders keep on throwing these nationalistic slogans around, while in fact nationalism by itself doesn’t provide any content to the goals of independence to which we used to aspire. Moreover, this nationalism still worshipped by many of our leaders is mixed up with all sorts of irrational, emotional attitudes and ideas – mixed up with myths and hero-worship. The tasks of leadership are further impeded by such ambitions as the building of a grandiose national monument, the search for still more myths of all varieties, the ever-growing distrust of foreign nations, the drummed-up fears of subversive activities allegedly conducted here by foreigners as agents of the capitalists and imperialists, who
are kept in the limelight to make the people feel they are constantly threatened from all sides. All this is symptomatic of the emptiness of the nationalistic slogans and their lack of creative power.