Anjelo
Lewis Siahaan
Translated into English by Sunny Reken
Illustration by Annisa Rizkiana (Nicacomica).
The streets are as busy as ever. Minibuses line the intersection as they wait for passengers to hop on. Street vendors peddle cigarettes and bottled water to the bus drivers and their passengers. Such is the face of Medan—Simpang Barat to be precise, where I watch as Saturday night ticks over into Sunday. The shopping center at the corner of the intersection, not 100 meters east of me, spits out weary laborers, one after another, drained of energy.
The chill in the evening air pierces the skin, especially given the black cutout dress and red high heels I'm wearing, as though I'm beckoning the night breeze to graze my pale skin. I've been standing on the sidewalk, busy touching up my face, looking into the mirror and applying more coats of red lipstick. Every so often I glance out of the corner of my eye at all the passers-by.
Beside me a motorized becak, a betor, is parked on the side of the road. Atop the betor Andre sits pensively. It’s his betor, his lifeline, purchased on credit two years ago with a loan from a private bank.
I've known Andre for three months now. He was introduced to me by a friend, also a becak driver. Since then, almost every night, apart from Sundays, we meet to wait for someone. For someone who’s anyone, really. Anyone who’s willing to stop, to come see me.
In our boredom, as we wait, we exchange stories, usually while we sit in the becak. Andre always has two coins in his hand, which he uses to pinch the hairs on his chin. However this time he seems to be deep in thought, as if there’s something serious on his mind.
"Any stories from home, Abang?"
"My wife wants a divorce, Mei."
I stop looking into the mirror, not believing what I’ve just heard. His son, Leon, top of his class; his wife, a fantastic cook; their home, which they built on the strength of their own hard work; and a stockpile of stories about his family that brought him great pride. Those are the type of stories I've grown accustomed to hearing him tell, never ones like this.
Teary-eyed, Andre is beside himself. The atmosphere turns tense. I feel guilty for asking him to share a story on what isn’t a good night for him. But I didn’t know.
I’m starting to feel sore, so I move onto the passenger seat. Andre draws a deep breath to calm himself. "My secret is out."
He's revealed his secret to me before. Almost every night for the past three months he's kept me company. Likewise, I too have kept him company, except for those nights when the people we'd waited for came.
After all, waiting in the quiet of the night can get boring, maybe that's why he would often share stories, even if they were a secret. So that he wouldn't be consumed by boredom. And tonight, will he share another story? The kind I’m not used to hearing?
Living in the outskirts of Medan is a thorn in my side. It’s unclear who owns the land the house is on—it used to belong to the state-owned agricultural company, PTPN, but there's still dispute over its status. At any given moment we have to be ready for battle in case the police come to evict us.
Once, when I got home from taking Leon to school, I saw that the police were lined up at the village entrance. The residents became very angry at this once I knocked on each and every one of my neighbors’ doors, calling on them to resist the eviction. There were a number of clashes before the police finally withdrew.
Unfortunately, Salim, the kid who stood at the forefront blocking the heavy equipment from coming in, died late that night. He was shot on his way home from the lapo tuak, where he and some others had been hanging out and drinking palm wine. Sheer brutality. That's how they scare us into willingly leaving the land we've lived on for years.
Sure, I'm breaking the law by living on land that isn't mine, but I refuse to be evicted by the country that has abandoned me. Behind the lot where we live, they’re happy to let land go to building toll roads and facilitating the investment of wealthy businessmen, but they close their eyes to the poor who are left behind. Sorry if I'm acting like I’m an expert in economics. While I didn't finish high school, I do have somewhat of a grasp on the concepts. Besides, you yourself know, becak drivers are prolific readers of the paper.
Recently, after about two years as a becak driver, everyday life has become more and more difficult—more so since online ojek ride apps became popular. The becak stands have become more deserted, and I’m earning less and less. But my family's living expenses, and Leon's school fees all depend on this becak. Aside from this becak, we also keep a pig. But how can you earn enough to feed a family from just one pig? Especially for everyday expenses.
That said, just so you know, my family are devout Lutherans. Our Sundays aren’t for work. If feeding pigs were considered work, we certainly wouldn't do it on a Sunday. If you think that going up against the police would be a wicked act for churchgoers, you should know that Lutheranism sprang from the womb of resistance against deviant Christianity.
I know that Andre often makes things up so his stories are more interesting. But it doesn't matter to me so long as it passes the time. After all, it’s up to you whether or not you want to believe. Our stories are merely a means to chase away the dullness each evening brings as they turn into cold mornings that chill you to the bone.
I've heard part of this story before, albeit with a slightly different plot. But this time his tone is entirely different. For some reason he’s very emotional, so much so that he keeps faltering, making his story strange to hear.
How did she find out his secret, I think to myself. I don't dare ask. I feel awkward talking to him in his current state.
He takes an even deeper breath, and slowly exhales. It seems he knows I want to hear the rest of the story. He gets off the motorcycle, walks around the side of the becak and joins me in the passenger seat. His hands are folded, with his elbows resting on his thighs—a sign that he’s going to continue his story.
Bad rumors and other matters always tend to circulate at school. I haven't believed in the institution of schools ever since I was forced to drop out. Actually, I didn't even want to send my son to school, especially given how expensive school fees have gotten. But my wife persuaded me. "It would make poor Leon feel different from his friends if he didn't go," my wife said. Alright then. So I tried my best.
And so, at school my son became an easy target. "Your dad's an anjelo... Your dad's an anjelo..." That's how they bullied him. I heard it myself when I picked him up from school. I don't know how they found out. But that's how school kids are. Now I realize that I was wrong, I regret giving into my wife.
Yes, I’ve decided to become an anjelo. A job for a sinner, I know. People would definitely judge me for this. The same goes for my wife. My family are devout Lutheran churchgoers. Though perhaps I’m not anymore. But what choice do I have? I'm getting on in age, and life keeps getting harder and harder. This becak is my only hope when it comes to earning money. I also tried going to the mansion where our local representative lives to ask for support for us becak drivers. But that Iwan Fals song rings true: have patience and wait. This was the answer we got. Until now—till all our problems have been forgotten, unresolved.
So I decided to become an anjelo. I didn’t end up telling my wife where the money actually came from. I told her that since ojeks didn't operate at night, more people caught becaks, and we could hike up the fees the later it got. So I did lie to my wife. Let me be a sinner, so long as my wife and child can eat.
Three months felt like nothing. But eventually, a buried carcass started to stink, and my secret did too. Last night my wife went berserk. The money I brought home for the past three months made her feel dirty. She also thought that I was cheating on her with another woman all this time. She found out from my son who told her what his friends had been saying to him at school. After she threw a fit, she packed her clothes and left, taking Leon with her. I did nothing to stop her. All I could think was: how will my wife and son be able to eat now?
What a shame. All the struggle he’d put in for his family had gone to waste. It was just last night that he'd told me about his harmonious domestic life, and tonight I'm hearing about its demise.
"So where are your wife and son now?"
"In Binjai with her family."
"So what now, Abang?"
"I'm still confused, Mei."
I feel sorry for what Andre is going through. Once again we fall silent. The watch on my left wrist shows 2:30. Simpang Barat is now at its quietest. On the betor, Andre and I sit wordlessly, side by side. He wears a very grim expression and doesn’t say another word, I don’t know what to say to him either. The silence is broken by the blaring of a horn. I approach the old sedan and speak briefly to the person inside—an old man.
After I finish talking I head back to Andre, telling him to pick me up in an hour and a half at the hotel I normally use. Just before getting into the old man's car, I look at Andre. His face is still gloomy. Absent is his usual gleeful expression at knowing that he’ll be bringing home some money. Forgive me for not having a solution for you. I, Mei, have also ended up this way because I'm just like you, Andre, I whisper to myself.
*) Anjelo is a term for motorized becak drivers who take sex workers as passengers. It’s short for "antar jemput lonte" or a “pick-up and drop-off service for hookers.”
© Lewis Siahaan
English translation © Sunny Reken
ANJELO
Lewis Siahaan
Ilustrasi oleh Annisa Rizkiana (Nicacomica).
Jalanan masih saja ramai. Angkutan kota berbaris ngetem di sepanjang bahu jalan sudut simpang. Pedagang kaki lima menjajakan rokok dan air minum kemasan kepada supir angkot dan penumpang. Begitulah wajah kota Medan, tepatnya di sekitaran Simpang Barat yang sedang aku saksikan saat hari berganti menjadi Minggu. Pusat perbelanjaan di sudut simpang yang jaraknya sekitar 100 meter di arah timurku, memuntahkan satu per satu para buruh yang tampak terkuras energinya.
Udara malam yang dingin menusuk kulit, terlebih dengan pakaian cutout dress hitam polos dan high heels merah yang kupakai, seolah mempersilakan embusan angin menyentuh kulitku yang putih dengan leluasa. Aku sedari tadi berdiri di trotoar jalan, sibuk mempercantik diri, berkaca dan mempertebal lipstik warna merah, sembari sesekali melirik ke arah orang-orang yang berlalu-lalang.
Di sampingku, sebuah becak motor terparkir di bahu jalan. Di atas betor Andre duduk termenung. Betor itu miliknya, gantungan hidupnya, dibeli kredit dua tahun yang lalu dengan pinjaman salah satu bank swasta.
Aku mengenal Andre sejak tiga bulan lalu, dikenalkan oleh temanku yang juga seorang tukang becak. Selama itu, hampir tiap malam, kecuali Minggu, kami selalu bertemu untuk menunggu seseorang. Menunggu seseorang yang tak peduli siapa, untuk mau mampir, mampir menemuiku.
Ketika bosan menunggu, kami bertukar cerita, biasanya sambil duduk di atas becak. Andre selalu memegang dua keping uang logam pecahan seribu, dengan uang logam itu ia menjepit rambut-rambut pendek yang ada di dagunya. Namun, saat ini ia tampak merenung, seperti ada hal serius yang sedang ia pikirkan.
“Apa cerita orang rumah, Bang?”
“Aku mau diceraikan istriku, Mei.”
Seketika, aku langsung berhenti berkaca. Aku tak percaya dengan yang baru saja kudengar. Anaknya bernama Leon, juara kelas, istrinya pandai memasak, rumah yang mereka bangun dengan hasil keringat sendiri dan segudang cerita membanggakan tentang keluarga. Cerita-cerita itulah yang biasa aku dengar dari mulutnya, tak pernah yang seperti ini.
Andre gelisah, matanya berkaca-kaca. Suasana pun menjadi begitu kaku. Aku merasa bersalah mengajaknya bercerita pada malam yang tak baik baginya ini. Tapi aku tak tahu.
Aku yang mulai merasa pegal naik ke bak penumpang. Andre menarik napas untuk menenangkan diri. “Rahasiaku sudah ketahuan.”
Ia pernah bercerita tentang rahasianya kepadaku. Hampir tiap malam selama tiga bulan ia menemaniku, begitu juga aku menemaninya, kecuali pada malam saat orang yang kami tunggu datang.
Lagipula, menunggu di sepinya malam sangat membosankan, mungkin itu sebabnya ia jadi sering bercerita, biarpun itu rahasia. Supaya tak dilahap kebosanan. Dan malam ini, apakah ia akan bercerita lagi? Tentang cerita yang tak biasa kudengar?
Hidup di pinggiran kota Medan, tempatku tinggal, memang cukup menyakitkan. Tanah tempat rumah berdiri tak jelas kepemilikannya—eks PTPN, masih sengketa statusnya, sewaktu-waktu harus siap bertarung manakala satpol PP datang untuk menggusur.
Pernah sekali, saat pulang dari mengantar Leon sekolah, aku lihat satpol PP sudah berbaris di simpang jalan masuk kampung kami. Dengan sigap aku mengetuk satu per satu pintu rumah tetangga mengajak mereka menolak penggusuran. Warga saat itu menjadi sangat marah karena kusulut emosi mereka, beberapa kali bentrok terjadi, sampai akhirnya satpol PP menarik diri.
Tapi nahas, Salim, pemuda yang berdiri paling depan menghadang masuknya alat berat, meninggal pada tengah malam pasca kejadian penggusuran karena ditembak orang tak dikenal dalam perjalanan pulang dari lapo tuak. Kejam. Begitulah cara mereka menakut-nakuti. Agar kami mau meninggalkan lahan yang sudah belasan tahun kami tinggali.
Aku memang melanggar hukum karena menggunakan tanah yang bukan milikku, tapi aku juga tak terima diusir oleh negara yang menelantarkanku. Di belakang tempat tinggal kami, mereka senang hati mengikhlaskan tanah untuk membangun tol dan memperlancar investasi pengusaha kaya, tapi mereka tutup mata terhadap masyarakat miskin yang telantar. Maaf kalau aku sok fasih bicara ekonomi, biar tak tamat SMEA, tapi sedikit ilmunya aku mengerti. Lagipula kau tahu sendiri, kebanyakan tukang becak sering membaca koran.
Belakangan, setelah sudah kurang lebih dua tahun menjadi tukang becak, kehidupan sehari-hari semakin sulit saja, terlebih semenjak adanya ojek online. Pangkalan becak semakin sepi, pendapatan pun semakin tipis. Padahal dari becak ini, aku harus memenuhi biaya hidup keluarga dan sekolah Leon. Memang, selain menarik becak, kami juga beternak babi. Tapi mana bisa makan kalau hanya dari babi yang cuma seekor. Apalagi untuk sehari-hari.
Asal kau tahu, biar begini, keluargaku adalah pengikut Lutheran yang taat. Minggu tak kami gunakan untuk bekerja. Bahkan kalau memberi makan babi dianggap bekerja, pasti sudah tak akan kami lakukan lagi. Kalau melawan satpol PP kau anggap sebagai keburukan seorang anggota jemaat, kau harus tahu, Lutheran lahir dari rahim perlawanan terhadap penyelewengan agama Kristen.
Aku tahu kalau Andre sering mengarang cerita biar terdengar menarik untuk didengar. Tapi bagiku tak masalah selagi kebosanan malam dapat terlewati. Toh masalah percaya tak percaya kembali kepada masing-masing, karena cerita kami hanya sebatas mengusir kebosanan pada setiap malam menuju pagi yang semakin dingin seperti hendak menggigit tulang.
Ceritanya ini sebagian sudah pernah kudengar dengan alur yang sedikit berbeda. Tapi kali ini nadanya begitu berbeda, entah kenapa ia begitu emosional, sampai terkadang ceritanya terputus-putus dan terasa aneh didengar.
Bagaimana rahasianya itu bisa ketahuan? tanyaku dalam hati. Aku tak berani menanyakan, aku jadi merasa canggung berbicara kepadanya dengan kondisi seperti ini.
Dia menarik lebih dalam lagi nafasnya, dan dengan pelan ia embuskan dari mulut. Tampaknya ia tahu aku mau mendengar lanjutan ceritanya. Ia turun dari motor, berjalan ke sisi sebelah becak lalu duduk di bangku penumpang becak, tepat di sebelahku. Kedua tangannya dilipat dengan kedua siku bertumpu pada paha, menunjukkan ia akan kembali bercerita.
Cerita dan hal-hal buruk selalu beredar di sekolah. Aku sudah tak percaya dengan institusi sekolah sejak aku terpaksa putus sekolah dulu. Sebenarnya, anakku pun tak ingin kusekolahkan, apalagi biaya sekolah semakin mahal. Tapi istriku membujuk. “Kasihan si Leon merasa beda dari kawan-kawannya nanti,” begitu kata istriku. Ya sudahlah kalau begitu, aku akan berusaha.
Nyatanya, di sekolah anakku habis jadi bulan-bulanan. “Anak anjelo… Anak anjelo…” Begitu cibir mereka, kudengar sendiri saat aku menjemput Leon pulang sekolah. Tak tahu dari mana mereka dapat cerita. Tapi begitulah pergaulan anak sekolah. Sekarang baru aku sadari, aku salah dan menyesal mengikuti mau istriku.
Aku memang putuskan untuk jadi anjelo, pekerjaan pendosa. Orang-orang pasti akan menghakimiku karena hal ini. Begitu juga dengan istriku. Keluargaku jemaat Lutheran yang taat. Mungkin aku sudah tidak. Tapi apa pilihan? Aku sudah cukup tua, hidup sudah semakin sulit. Becak inilah harapanku dapat uang. Aku juga sudah pernah berusaha, mendatangi rumah wakil rakyat yang megah itu, meminta keberpihakan mereka kepada kami tukang becak. Tapi benar lagu Iwan Fals, sabar sabar dan tunggu, itu jawaban yang kami terima, hingga sekarang, hingga semua masalah terlupakan, tanpa terselesaikan.
Maka itu aku putuskan menjadi anjelo. Ya sudah, soal dari mana uang yang didapat kututupi dari istri. Kubilang saja ojek online tak beroperasi malam hari, jadi lebih banyak sewa malam, dan ongkosnya bisa lebih dimahalkan kalau sudah malam. Aku memang bohong kepada istriku. Biarlah aku jadi pendosa, yang penting anak dan istriku makan.
Tiga bulan terasa begitu singkat. Bangkai yang ditanam baunya akan tercium juga, begitulah yang terjadi. Semalam istriku mengamuk. Ia merasa najis dengan yang kuberi selama tiga bulan terakhir ini. Dia juga berpikir selama ini aku berselingkuh dengan perempuan lain. Dia tahu dari anakku yang bercerita kepadanya soal perlakuan teman-temannya di sekolah. Selepas ia mengamuk, seketika ia mengemasi pakaiannya, lalu pergi membawa Leon bersamanya. Aku hanya diam. Yang kupikirkan hanya: bagaimana setelah ini anak-istriku bisa makan?
Begitu sial nasibnya. Perjuangan keras untuk keluarga pupus seketika. Padahal baru semalam ia bercerita tentang kehidupan rumah tangga yang harmonis, malam ini aku mendengar kehancurannya.
“Jadi di mana sekarang istri dan anak Abang?”
“Di Binjai sama keluarganya.”
“Jadi gimanalah itu, Bang?”
“Aku pun masih bingung, Mei.”
Aku turut prihatin dengan yang dialami Andre. Suasana kembali hening. Arloji di tangan kiriku menunjukkan jam 2.30. Kondisi Simpang Barat saat itu sudah di titik tersepinya. Di atas betor aku dan Andre duduk diam bersampingan. Wajahnya sangat muram. Dia tak berkata-kata lagi, aku pun tak tahu harus berkata apa kepadanya. Keheningan pecah saat terdengar suara klakson mobil sedan tua yang berhenti di depan betor. Aku menghampiri mobil itu dan mengobrol sebentar dengan orang di dalamnya, seorang lelaki tua.
Setelah selesai bicara, aku kembali menghampiri Andre, menyuruhnya untuk menjemputku satu setengah jam lagi di hotel yang biasa kugunakan. Sesaat sebelum naik mobil si lelaki tua, aku pandangi Andre, wajahnya masih saja muram, tak seperti biasa, sumringah karena tahu setelah ini akan membawa uang saat pulang. Maafkan aku yang tak punya solusi untukmu. Aku ini, Mei, jadi begini pun juga karena sama sepertimu, Andre, bisikku dalam hati.
*) sebutan untuk pekerjaan kurir pekerja seks menggunakan becak motor, singkatan dari antar jemput lonte.
© Lewis Siahaan
LEWIS SIAHAAN was born in Medan in 1995. He is a writer and alumni of UNIMED History department. During college he was active in the BARSDem Student Study Group. He currently lives in Deli Serdang, and can be reached via Instagram @lewiism_ or Facebook Lewis Siahaan.
NI MADE SUNNY REKEN was born in Australia, raised in Indonesia, underwent schooling in Australia, and takes any and every opportunity she can to return to Indonesia. Sunny embraces her multicultural heritage and loves the way translating has helped her maintain that connection. Still very new to the field, she hopes to contribute to making Indonesian literature more accessible to the rest of the world.
ANNISA RIZKIANA was born in 1992. She’s a visual artist and writer, and also likes to make comics under the name Nicacomica.