Twilight in Djakarta (5 page)

‘You’re joking!’ said Ies accusingly.

‘No, he’s not joking,’ spoke Achmad with a light smile. ‘It’s quite true what he said about that non-belief. But he forgot to clarify the cause of this lack of faith in the world today. It is the evil outcome of capitalism and imperialism which still—’

‘And therefore we should all become communists,’ broke in Murhalim.

Achmad glanced at Murhalim with great resentment.

‘It’s hard to exchange ideas in an intelligent manner with people who are as prejudiced as brother Murhalim here.’ He pretended to be plaintive.

‘I want to intervene before the discussion strays off elsewhere,’ said Suryono, a smile playing on his lips. ‘If this discussion should be continued without a change of direction we are sure to get absolutely nowhere, because, friends, you’re all taking the wrong view of the problem. Achmad, who adheres to historic materialism, is wrong, our friend who wanted to put forward Islam is also wrong. The root of the matter is man himself. That which is called crisis of leadership, cultural crisis, economic crisis, moral crisis, crisis in literature, is nothing but man’s crisis. That’s why an Indonesian must first of all realise that he exists, and that his fate is in his own hands. That his life is not determined by society or his family, or by the economic system, but that he has enough inner strength to determine himself.’

‘Ah, existentialist! Pessimistic bourgeois ideas!’ sneered Achmad promptly.

Suryono laughed and looked at him.

‘I admit frankly that what I’ve just said is lifted straight out of Sartre,’ he said. ‘But, of course, only people who are half informed on existentialism always assert that it is a pessimistic philosophy.
Yet, it is quite the contrary. Existentialism is the most optimistic of philosophies because it says that man, and not outside influences, can determine his own self. Sartre said it in
L’existentialisme est un humanisme
– have you read it, brother Achmad?’ he asked, taunting, which made Achmad look at him furiously, and Suryono, smiling, continued,

‘In fact, Sartre himself opposed Marxism, because Marxism conceals the truth that man is fully responsible for his attitudes and choices. Sartre’s argument is that the individual is fully responsible for what he is and what he does. That’s why there is no other philosophy that is more optimistic than this existentialism, optimistic in the recognition of the individual’s capacity to determine himself, and to act as an individual, which is the only hope for humanity, as only by acting can man survive.’

Pranoto coughed lightly, looked round, saw that Achmad was tearing to jump into the debate again and quickly said,

‘Ah, we hadn’t realised, it’s almost seven o’clock already. I’m really sorry to have to adjourn our meeting at a time when the discussion was becoming so very interesting, especially since Suryono, who kept quiet at the beginning, has now jumped into the arena with both feet. Although we have not arrived at any conclusion, I believe that many valuable ideas have been expressed, whether one agrees with every one of them or not. That such ideas are present, as well as the readiness of us all to discuss them and to listen, shows that we have high enough expectations from this exchange of ideas that it will enable each of us to clarify for himself the essence of the ideas touched upon here. I think that the most fortunate man among us is brother Achmad because to him everything is already clear. For him, the road to our people’s development and human happiness is communism, while the others are still questioning and still searching for the way which seems best according to their views and convictions.’

‘I cannot discern the good fortune in Achmad’s situation. His
thoughts are no longer free,’ interjected Murhalim. They laughed, and Achmad joined in laughing with them. Pranoto stood up and said,

‘Before we adjourn – remember that the meeting next week is on Wednesday.’

Outside Suryono said to Ies,

‘I will see you home, Ies.’

‘It’s not necessary,’ said Ies. ‘I have a bicycle.’

‘Leave it here, I have Father’s Dodge. Father just bought himself a new Cadillac! Tomorrow’s time enough to pick up the bicycle, or get your younger brother to fetch it.’

Ies looked very hesitant.

‘You’re angry with me,’ Suryono said. ‘You suspect that I was being sarcastic and was making fun of them with this existentialism?’

Ies regarded him for a moment and then said,

‘All right, you see me home.’

They rode in the car of Suryono’s father, a new Dodge. ‘Aduh, it’s embarrassing to be seen in such a luxurious car,’ sighed Ies. ‘They will suspect me of riding with a black marketeer or a corrupter.’

‘Ah, why these allusions?’ Suryono asked. ‘If Father is wallowing in money made in business, why throw it in my face?’

‘Forgive me, I’m wrong,’ said Ies, and, sincerely regretful, she patted Suryono’s neck lightly and playfully wiggled the edge of his ear, gently.

No little startled, Suryono glanced at Ies, a thrill passing through him, but he quickly suppressed it. He was afraid to disturb the mood in the car. Never before had he felt so close to Ies.

‘I swear I wasn’t mocking with this existentialism, Ies,’ he said. ‘I really, really believe that man has the strength to determine what and who he is.’

‘Ah, I’m already tired of pondering these involved problems,’
said Ies. ‘I just want to rest.’ And she leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Let’s not go home directly,’ said Ies. ‘Let’s first take a little ride.’

Suryono smiled happily and pressed Ies’s hand with warmth.

In front of the restaurant rows of new motor-cars were parked at the kerb. That evening the restaurant was crowded. A dark-red Cadillac arrived, seeking a place to park, but the places at the kerb were filled, and finally it stopped with its two left wheels raised on the pavement.

Raden Kaslan was at the wheel, and at his side sat his wife, Fatma. From the dark-red Cadillac, up to Fatma’s finery, her elaborate gilt slippers, her coiffure fresh from the hairdresser’s salon, emanated an air of luxury and wealth. Also from the smile which Fatma directed at Raden Kaslan.

Thus, on that clear evening, Raden Kaslan and Fatma, exuding wealth and luxury, left their beautiful car which glistened in the light of the setting sun, half-raised on the pavement, the other half tilting a little over the roadway.

They seated themselves in the garden in front of the restaurant, at a table somewhat isolated from the others, and having settled they exchanged views on matters that were rather expensive and rather luxurious.

From the loud-speaker behind the restaurant’s bar came gay music; at the tables people ate, drank, chatted and laughed.

Raden Kaslan ordered the meal without first consulting the prices listed on the menu opposite the names of the dishes and drinks, and then they returned to the rather expensive and luxurious ideas, to which Fatma responded with a luxuriant smile.

It was extremely pleasant, that atmosphere of the clear evening, the deep blue sky overhead and the fresh breeze.

An old delman carriage, empty, drawn by an old emaciated horse, and its driver, Pak Idjo, dozing in his seat, came by,
passing in front of the restaurant. For years the horse had been accustomed to pulling the delman through the big city, and even if the driver fell asleep, which often happened on hot days – and Pak Idjo hadn’t had any passengers since morning, until he dozed off hungry – the horse continued drawing the delman by himself, stopped by himself when hailed by a passenger, awakening the driver by the shock of the sudden stop. Or when a traffic policeman barred the traffic’s progress, the old horse stopped too, its muzzle pressed against the side of a car or a truck.

In this way the horse which pulled the delman cart trotted on along the street also on that gay evening. Near the restaurant, from behind the fence of the house across the street, a big dog chasing a cat suddenly jumped out, barking loudly. The horse, badly startled, tried to dodge the dog and the cat at its feet, slipped and fell; the left pole of the delman with its blackened copper capping hit the side of the red Cadillac at the roadside, damaging its chromium and paint, and the protruding iron brace of the cart roof struck the car’s side window, shattering the glass.

Pak Idjo, jolted from his nap, staggered out, helped the old horse to its feet and just stood there, dazed, stroking the horse’s knees and head.

The noise of the collision also alarmed the guests who sat eating, drinking and laughing in the restaurant. Raden Kaslan jumped up and hurried to the street; the moment he saw the damaged chromium and paint on his car, and the shattered glass of the door, he flew into a rage.

‘Hai, you idiot, where’re your eyes? Look, you’ve mangled my car, do you admit it or not? You’ll pay for all this damage!’ Raden Kaslan shouted, beside himself.

Pak Idjo, white in the face, his whole body shaking and his voice quivering, was like a man seized by an attack of malaria. He was sick already, anyway. His ragged and dirty clothes hung on a thin body, and his inflamed, watering eyes were sunk in the
hollows of his cheeks.

He tried to say something, but his voice, quavering with agitation and despair, was lost on his trembling lips, and his hand kept stroking the head of his horse.

Raden Kaslan eyed him furiously, exchanged glances with Fatma, so expensive and luxurious, then he looked again at his damaged car, and his wrath flared even higher.

‘I’ll call the police, I’ll sue you, you’ll make good all this damage. Look at this!’ – and he jumped to point to the chromium on the car door – ‘and this’ – and he pointed at the scars along the side where the paint was scraped off – ‘and this’ – and he kicked a piece of the broken glass. ‘You shall reimburse me for all this, at least one thousand, two thousand rupiah,’ he roared, castigating Pak Idjo, who almost fainted at the mention of one or two thousand rupiah, but suddenly found his voice and said, weeping,

‘I admit my guilt, tuan, you may kill me, but I cannot repay, I am a poor man, it’s best just to put me to death!’ And his hand kept on stroking the head of his old horse.

The horse licked Pak Idjo’s hand as if begging forgiveness for his misdeed.

At Pak Idjo’s words, Raden Kaslan, even angrier than before, turned away without another word and walked back to the restaurant where he telephoned the traffic police.

On the street many people stood watching; Pak Idjo still stroked the head of his horse and when Raden Kaslan returned, saying,

‘Don’t you run away, I’ve called the police!’ he, together with his horse, died a thousand deaths and faced all the fires of hell, until the police arrived on their exploding and roaring motor cycles, like the detonations of guns which kill.

And at that instant in the old man’s mind flashed back his village and the sounds of shooting guns, of invading bandits who forced them to flee and seek shelter in the big city.

Meanwhile, the other guests had returned to their tables, eating,
drinking and laughing again. A collision was an ordinary matter, and once the police had been called the police would take care of it.

Raden Kaslan met the policemen, identified himself and, pointing to the trembling old delman driver, said,

‘It’s entirely his fault. My car was parked at the kerb, even half-way on the pavement, and still he ran into it.’

The traffic police inspector was a young man who had dealt with collisions hundreds of times, a routine matter for him, quite an easy case, in fact. Quite clear who was at fault.

‘I demand damages,’ repeated Raden Kaslan.

At these words Pak Idjo suddenly cried out weeping,

‘Just kill me, tuan,’ he said, bowing with folded hands to the police inspector. ‘I’m a poor man, I have no money at all.’

‘You admit your guilt, bapak?’
1
asked the inspector.

‘I admit, tuan, just kill me, tuan. I cannot pay for the damage. I am a poor man.’

‘Why did you run into my car which was parked at the side of the street?’ fumed Raden Kaslan.

‘I dozed off, tuan,’ replied the old driver, trembling.

‘Ha, dozed off! What sort of a driver are you! Dozed off!’

Pak Idjo’s reply was truly infuriating.

‘If you want to sleep, sleep at home, not in the delman, endangering other people. Why did you fall asleep?’ Raden Kaslan snarled.

‘Because I am sick, tuan,’ replied Pak Idjo, his voice quavering even more.

‘Ha,’ Raden Kaslan sneered, ‘fell asleep, sick; if you’re sick you should not work! Stay home! Take medicine! Otherwise you’ll cause accidents! What if you run into a little child and kill him, how’d that be?’

Pak Idjo, trembling more violently, said,

‘But I am hungry, tuan, and my wife and my children are
hungry, tuan. And yesterday we had nothing to eat, tuan.’

For a moment Raden Kaslan was still, but then he shouted,

‘You lie, what is your sickness?’

Then Pak Idjo, still weeping and shaking, unbuttoned his jacket and bared his back. ‘Here, tuan, look!’ and with his hand he motioned towards two boils the size of a fist, red and swollen, and then he lifted one side of his sarong and showed a big boil on his thigh. The whole thigh was red and swollen – it made one shudder.

It seemed as if the old man had come to the end of his strength after he had done this, every part of his body shook, his teeth chattered and tears streamed from his eyes.

The inspector looked at him, then looked at Raden Kaslan and then at Fatma, the luxurious one.

Raden Kaslan turned to the police inspector, raised a hand and spoke like someone at the end of his wits.

‘How do we stand in this case, Inspector? Who will reimburse me for the damage? Who is responsible?’

‘Who is responsible?’ he asked again.

Pak Idjo continued to shiver and shake, continued to stroke the head of his old, emaciated horse and as they waited for the answer to come forth to the question, ‘Who is responsible?’ it seemed as if the shadows of the driver and of the horse were growing longer and longer on the pavement under the setting sun, and they, the old driver and the horse, died and lived hundreds of times.