WHEN it, Hitler was dead. Suicide. A few minutes after the beautiful Eva Braun, whom he married in a stuffy room air. Goerge Orwell's story was very, exhausted post-war, in a country full of paradox, does not make her weak spirits to meet, Siti Layla. Women's blue-blooded Malays, the descendants of kings. Goerge like Siti, Siti like Einstein. Especially when atomic bombs overthrow totalitarianism arrogance. Moreover, when Siti starting shot for a number of fragments responses Goerge latest novel, Nineteen Eighty-four (1984), or the previous novel, entitled Animal Farm.
Siti last letter reads, "When the right to measure our fears, George. In my country, fear roaming birds like swallows on the shore hotel cam, on an evening. The real fear has become the native inhabitants. The fear of the older age of our own lives. Yet Europe, your country, it seems, still smiling in the lines novel. I was amazed. Because in my country, land is going to crack, has long left the kings, inhabited by ghosts. But Goerge, would splinter European fascism, will also sail to see us? For now, the look in my eyes, just-style fascism Malays. I'm afraid, George ... "
In a previous letter, Siti writes, "I was surprised when you tell your novel Animal Farm. Read it, I like being in a cage with a door that did not. I was one of the animals that challenge and drive out their master. A fierce rebellion and charming, George. But I was disappointed, why then the animals were even fighting themselves. Not at ease with the world without human intervention. Do you think without the presence of humans, it was not perfect animal? Or they can not be separated, as a descendant of fabric, right? Ah, George, you like jokes. And your hard ideology . But, frankly, I do not like Darwin ... "
The letters that makes large Goerge desire to meet Siti. Siti Though not expect really to see Goerge. There was no promise. For Siti hate promise. Siti only promise to give people the opportunity to find gaps lie. But for Siti Goerge strange concern is the main reason for him to watch more closely, Siti come to the country. An island on the edge of Sumatra. "The island is remote and (especially) foreign," so Siti never mentioned. Strange, because the fear of fascism actually landed on a descendant of the kings of Siti. Although suspected Goerge, Siti is the figure of a woman rebel, like Kartini, or Cut Nyak Dien. Although sometimes hesitate to Goerge historical knowledge about the system of the royal monarchy. Of women rarely arise (and tends to sink) in a large wave of centralized power in men. But, "Ah, this is not the focus of struggle," Goerge thought.
But in a conversation on the phone, often there are thousands of Goerge catching flash of disappointment languishing in every Siti words.
"Speed dating with you, George, help me kill time. I'm afraid. Time here a similar vicious wolves. He can be seen through the eyes of the people. Red light, George ... "
"Ah, Siti. Everywhere the time it is. If only you could look at my eyes now, I'm sure you'll be afraid. "
"I believe, your eyes must be filled with smoke the rest of the war right?"
"Yes, crowded, cramped, filled with yells of revolution. War always leaves a wound, is not it? "
"Yes. Wounds of the past ... "
Siti's voice faltered. Time stopped for a moment.
"Siti ... Siti ... hello ... "
"Ah, sorry Goerge. There is a calling. How? "
"How?"
"E ... I mean what about Winston, a character that your novel?"
"Did not you already read it. What do you think? "
'I like it. But I suddenly felt watched Winston? "
"Ah, you. What nonsense. He is a fiction is not it? "
"Yes. Living fiction, fiction became reality. I felt Winston was watching my movements. Like a double-edged history. He had not really gone. Actually, George, Malays have a lot of character to it. But as extinguished. Lately, it seems some people in this country felt his felt. It is said that they miss him. I think, they just pretend to miss it, George. "
"Sometimes the struggle begins from the pretense, Siti. Stalin or Suharto, I think so too. They're a tough fighter and indomitable, is not it? Just who fooled who feel oppressed and betrayed. The rest they enjoyed. But, by the way, when we could meet? "
"See? Ah, George. Are conversations through letters and phone calls is not enough? "
"It's not. There are unresolved if not met. "
"Renovation? No need to complete it? "
"Siti, I want to pass the brown river you tell me first."
"Ha .. ha ... actually, it's not chocolate river. Because brown water, so I call it a river of chocolate. "
"O ...."
"The name actually Siak."
"Siak River. You do not fully tell us about. "
"No don’t!. I am ashamed. "
"Why shy? I like the rivers. One of my favorite river is the Yarra River in Melbourne Australia. "
"Oh ... the river clean of hazardous waste is not it?"
"Yes. Have you been there? "
"Not yet. Just read. "
"Yes. The river is also a recreation center and rowing. There are also built pedestrian area for residents to walk and ride my bike. I think this is the window Kangaroo land. "
"Ha ... ha ... ha ..."
"What are you laughing?"
"Goerge, this is what makes me ashamed. You'll never find the same in my country. Siak River, if you compare it with the Yarra, far from the fire. Come Goerge, should be your intention to visit my country, okay? "
"No, I want to see you."
"Better not, George."
"What are you afraid of my presence, Siti?"
"I'm afraid you're experiencing the same fear. Like me. Fear of losing. "
"Lost?"
"Yes. Here have been lost as everyone belongs. The people have lost their river habitat. Away factories. They swallow the waste. On behalf of their industry was defeated. Sea sand loss. Earth's forests and oil loss. The people living in the clouds of smog, in the floodwaters, and a prolonged oil shortage. Poet, George, loss of language. And in a minute, everyone will lose this island. Abrasion, George. Similar cake eaten ants, the island is gradually decreasing. I lost history. People lose themselves, and ask, who am I? They are confused. Then they were hostile each other. Universal humanism here, now corrupted by race. Euphoria, George. A new resurrection unbalanced ... How? Would still want to see me, George? "
Phone on the other side, quiet.
"Hello .. Goerge. Hello ... "
"E ... sorry Siti."
"You must have been thinking about two-dozen times to see it?"
"Oh no. I'm daydreaming. My imagination had suddenly sailed into your island. There are a number of stories have been strung in the head. I was even more interested to see you. "
"Whatever, George. I certainly did not prohibit and did not tell. And this is not a promise, okay. "
"Where can I see you? Your address? "
"Not difficult. Just browse the Siak River. Reached the tip of the bay. Then go to the nearest Airport. Meet me on Friday, at the coffee shop Pak Ngah, behind the old temple, next to the narrow alley where vendors sell agate ... and one thing, this is not a promise ... "
"Tut ... tut ... tut."
Phone on the other side, disconnected. Lonely.
***
IT WAS, Datuk Raja sea aka Laksemana Encik Ibrahim, has long gone. Not long after he regretted the decision to allow the Dutch to stay in Bengkalis. Goerge Orwell's story was very, tired on the way, to full loss of the country, not make him regret and stopped in the middle of the street to meet Siti Layla, female blue-blooded Malays, the descendants of kings. Goerge like Siti, Siti likes novels. Especially when Siti asked about the number of bizarre sentences were printed in capital letters in his novel in 1984 titled, "FREEDOM is SLAVERY, GOD is POWER, WAR is PEACE, THE POWER OF FOLLY is ..." and then Siti asked, "Is this what you mean by a country full of paradoxes , George? "
Now, the foot has Goerge standing stiffly on the edge of port Bandar Sri Laksemana. Goerge took a deep breath. There's sweat drying on the back of his shirt, a similar imprint burning blind map. Her blond hair rumpled, like mangrove roots are linked to each other. In his heart, George whispered, "This long journey to make me forget the way home, Siti." From a distance, a faint he read a large text, across the gate Bandar, "WELCOME TO THE LOSS OF STATE FULLY." Goerge strange smile.
Dusk is starting become heavy, taking Goerge move. The sound of birds circling Walet tall buildings, like the strange music and pointed, ringing in the walls of Bandar. Loss of whatsoever kind that makes this country issued a whimper? Is this a call Siti sang it Lancang Kuning. A ship that sailed into the night? Again Goerge strange smile.
It's Friday night. Goerge completely forgot to ask about the hours. What time did he have to meet in a coffee shop Siti Pak Ngah it. As the evening becoming stone. Cold sea winds, sometimes making Goerge want to make love. WARMTH is not it COOL? Ah, Siti Layla, where ee. I have reached the country. ..
Goerge asleep. After weary took him to a modest inn. Having decided to let the night pass, and wait for the late afternoon. "I'll meet you, tomorrow morning, Siti," returned Goerge strange smile.
***
FRIDAY, 07.30.
George along the crowded sidewalk vendors agate, behind the old temple. Right next to a narrow alley, a coffee shop was open. At the door of a signpost reads, "COFFEE STORE PAK middle." No doubt, this is sought.
Goerge entered. Cigarette smoke filled the room. Goerge just stood there, looking all round tables that have been filled with people. They sound like thousands of bees wing wing tantrums. Goerge but saw no woman there were Malays. That there are actually women-white women. Goerge began to wonder. Goerge walked slowly. Look closely at their faces who were busy boast. Goerge surprised. Goerge like never knew their faces. Suddenly, a voice from the other direction called his name.
"Goerge! Hey, George Orwell has arrived. "
Instantly the room silent. All eyes Goerge who stood bewildered. Soon, they were all smiling. Goerge welcome.
A man came "Hey, George. How are you. I hear you're almost finished a new novel? "
Goerge increased surprised, "Is it true ... you Albert Camus?"
"Yes, George, I have not changed, right? The rebels, the absurd that, George. I think today is the day most enjoyable. Not much chance for us to be together like this, George. Look, they all are our friends, George. That is, who was sitting in the corner sucking his cigar. You must know, Jean-Paul Sartre, the French existentialism swordsman. Then it was, who's younger than you, Marquez. Gabriel García Márquez. Pity he Goerge, for a hundred years he experienced the silence. That, in the corner there, (in a whisper) that he was looking for lice under a bushy beard, hic ... hic ... first Nobel Literature Prize Sully Prudhomme. Goerge patient, (whispering) he's really no better than you. Well, that is, George, he's younger than you, a writer who often hungry, you know him? He Knut Hamsun. So-so novel. And we may be encouraged, George, when he get a Novels Literature. An Award for the struggle against the difficulties of his life ... "
Goerge more confused. Why did they all come together here? Then where Siti?
"Why did Goerge. Relax. Sitting here Goerge. Here are our brother's so funny, like to laugh and make sure the book, Milan Kundera. I think he is still communist, George. Look, her hand was still rough. Understandably, the former workers. But this bad, he's a professor. And this, you must know, friend of Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore. He was our parents, George. Goerge Unfortunately, we can not meet with our parents the other, a famous poet Malays, Raja Ali Haji. Heard the news, he was busy building the country's words, George. State Gurindam. "
Goerge shook their hands. Fortunate to be able to meet great authors of the world. This rare opportunity. But save confusion Goerge very. He then sat next to Albert Camus. With a little whisper Goerge asked, "Why are you, and they all here?"
"To see someone. I'm sure, you too. "
"A woman?"
"Yes. A woman named Siti Layla. "
"Yes, Lord. You, and they ...? "
"Yes. Communicate with each other. By mail or telephone. "
Goerge as if in disbelief. But that was in front of his eyes, is real.
"Then, where Siti?"
"Nothing."
"No?"
"Yes. He left a letter on secerbis Pak Ngah. For us all. "
Goerge rose from his seat. Taking a letter to Mr. Ngah, and read:
"My friends are good.
I hate promise. Promise me just give people the opportunity to find gaps lie. And I'm not lying. Because I never promised.
Who am I? I was not there. I only fragments of the past who is visiting your imagination space. I was a narrow alley, which could only be passed by a pajalan feet. I was a beautiful time, melenggangkan anxiety, fear, and lose-lose.
Welcome to the land filled with loss.
Best regard, Siti Layla ."***
Pekanbaru, September 2004
Riau Pos Note: This is a short story
I Laman Cipta Winners Literary Arts Council of Riau
No comments:
Post a Comment