Low Voice - Nelden Djakababa

By Wombat | February 22nd, 2006 | 6 Comments »

The talent of writers in Indonesia will never cease to amaze and please me. Here is a story by Nelden Djakababa that you will enjoy.

Low Voice
By Nelden Djakababa

Bowo told me this story about a month after it happened. It was raining so hard and traffic was so terrible that after work, we decided to hang out at a nearby cafe‚ for a while, waiting for the streets to become a bit more bearable before heading home.

He looked tired. We ordered beer. And then out of the blue, he told me his story.

I didn’t feel that we were particularly close. We just worked at the same shipping company in the finance department. Bowo’s cubicle was next to mine. Sometimes we’d chat in the aisle between cubicles before going back to our desks. From time to time, we’d go have lunch together with the other staff members.

Frankly, I was a bit curious as to why he had confided in me.

Perhaps it was because he was tired and the beer had gone to his head a little too fast. Perhaps it was because he had nothing better to do while waiting for rush hour to end. I don’t know.

* * *
On that day, in the early afternoon, Bowo’s cell phone rang. The caller’s number was not stated on the screen. Caller unknown. Who could it be? he wondered.

“Could you do me a favor?” It was a woman’s voice. Low and raspy. She was probably young. Bowo explained to me that at that time he was a bit sleepy after having lunch alone at Plaza Indonesia. He had just made his way out of the toilet. He was about to head to the exit toward the busway stop when his phone rang. He did not recognize her voice.

“I’m sorry, this … ?” Bowo asked.

“That’s not important, really. What I really need to know is: do you have time to talk with me for a while, now?”

“Is this a product promotion of sorts? Wah, sorry, I am not intere-”

“No,” the woman interjected. “I am not a telemarketer, Mas. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you, either. I only want to know: do you have some time to talk with me? Are you busy right now?”

“No, not busy. But…”

“Okay. I apologize, probably I’ve puzzled you. I’d better be frank here. I’ll explain. It’s actually quite simple. At this moment, I really need to talk with someone. But my friends cannot be bothered now, and if I go to a psychologist, I would have to first make an appointment, go there, wait, pay, and so on. Too much of a hassle, when all I need is simply to talk, right now, to someone. Anyone. So, I’ve just dialed a random phone number. It turns out to be your phone number, Mas. That’s it. So, I’ll ask you once again ya: are you willing to listen to me for a while?”

Frankly I was impressed by how much Bowo remembered the details of this exchange, which had happened about a month earlier. I asked him what he did after that.

Bowo told me he was perplexed. He didn’t know how to respond to this raspy-voiced woman.

“If you don’t want to, okay,” said the woman, as if sensing his reluctance. “I’ll just hang up, and then press another random number. Sorry for taking up your time…”

“Okay,” Bowo replied abruptly. He suddenly didn’t want the conversation to end. This woman had pressed a random number, and she got connected to him. Somehow he felt honored, and he didn’t want that honor to end so fast, although he didn’t know yet what that “honor” would entail. He felt … special.

“Okay. I’ll listen to you.”

Bowo didn’t go to the busway stop right away. Instead, he entered a caf‚. He sat down.

“Thank you… It is like this, Mas…” the woman sighed. “I have lost my ability to perceive beauty.”

“What do you mean?”

Bowo said he understood what she was talking about. He ordered an espresso by showing the picture in the menu to the waiter, so he would be awake enough to listen to her.

And that’s how Bowo started to listen to the story of that mysterious woman. Of the many financial staff working in the Sudirman-Thamrin area, he was probably the only one at that moment listening to a story about how a person loses her perception of beauty.

Just as a good confidant should be, Bowo decided to not tell me what that woman said to him in too much detail.

But after I persuaded him a bit, he finally told me the very general plot. From what he told me, my conclusion was that the woman’s story was a classic one. Her boyfriend had dumped her, and she was brokenhearted. What was different, according to that low-voiced woman, was that the pain of her heartbreak was so intensely gnawing, that she could no longer perceive beauty. She used to be happy simply watching the sun rise up her apartment window on the eleventh floor. After her love left her, she could only be annoyed by the sun’s heat intruding her room. Wild grasses used to have a certain shine. Now she could only see the same grasses as ugly hay.

Bowo kept on listening. From time to time he would ask questions to clarify some points. He let her cry several times. Bowo moved his cell phone from his right ear to the left. He knew that he was running late to go back to the office. But he didn’t care. A brokenhearted woman with a low, raspy voice was crying into his ear. He felt very special. He felt needed. He said to me that he didn’t want it to end. We ordered more beer.

However, like many beautiful things in life, the conversation had to end at one point or another. After 42 minutes of Bowo listening to her, in the midst of her weeping, suddenly she said:

“Wah Mas, my cell phone’s battery is almost out.” They could get cut off at any time.

Bowo was shocked. He, who had been quiet and listening more than talking, now wanted to ask her a thousand questions.

“Oh. But I’m sorry, it just occurred to me that we haven’t introduced ourselves properly. My name is Bowo. And …”

“Sorry Mas,” she interrupted. “Better not do that. Like what I’ve said before, it is not important who I am. I am just a brokenhearted woman who needs to talk. That’s all.”

“But that is not fair. I have told you my name. Bowo. Why won’t you tell me yours?” Bowo felt like time was slipping away so quickly between his fingers. He unfastened his tie a little. The woman sighed.

“Once again I apologize, Mas Bowo. Thank you for letting me know your name. But that was your choice. I didn’t ask you to. What I’ve asked for was if possible, you’d listen to me telling my story. Thank you, Mas Bowo, it turns out that you are a good listener. Now I feel much better. Much lighter. And I ho-”

Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot.

They were cut off. Bowo said that at that moment it was like his heart fell to the floor. He gulped down a mouthful of beer.

Come to think of it, I remembered that day. He did get back late to the office, with a dazed look. He had that same look while he was telling me this.

“I might be falling in love with her,” said Bowo. His hand circled his half-filled glass.

“But you’ve never seen her face before,” I said. In my opinion, faces are important to determine whether I’d be able to fall in love with someone or not. But then, that’s me.

“Yeah, that’s the thing.” Bowo sighed. Frankly it wasn’t too clear to me what he meant by “that’s the thing”. But I just let him continue talking.

That night, Bowo couldn’t sleep. That mysterious woman had slapped a series of ripples into the surface of his day that was normally so organized. So predictable.

Bowo suddenly wanted that woman to be with him, in his bed, whispering secret words into his ear with that beautiful voice. It was a sad, but beautiful voice. In reality, Bowo continued to lie alone in his bed. His body formed a big question-mark on the mattress. He tried to say a boring mantra to lure himself to sleep. My name is Bowo. I am an office worker. My parents are in Klaten. I have a sister. Her name is Tini. She has just entered her third year in senior high. That’s all there is to it. My name is Bowo. I am an office worker. My parents are in Klaten. I have a sister. Her name is Tini. She has just entered her third year in senior high. That’s all there is to it. My name is Bowo. I am an office worker. My parents are in Klaten. I have a sister. Her name is Tini. She has just entered her third year in senior high. That’s all.

The following day, Bowo returned to his very predictable job next to my cubicle. He tried to not think too much about the woman anymore. What’s the use? He didn’t know who she really was, anyway. And then two days after that, it happened. Around 10 in the morning, a bomb exploded in front of the Australian Embassy in the Kuningan area. The news said that it was so chaotic down there. Several people got killed, but it was not yet clear who they were, and how many. More people were injured. I remember that we also heard the explosion from our office. And then, we watched the breaking news from the TV at our office’s lobby. Bowo said that at that time, his heart felt like it had jumped into his throat. What about that mysterious woman? Is she okay? What Bowo knew was that she lived in an apartment, on the eleventh floor. But which one? And was she working in the Kuningan area? Might she been wounded? Or killed, even?

Bowo said that he was tortured by these questions. But what had made him suffer more was the fact that he couldn’t find out about her whereabouts. There was no information that could be used to find her: he didn’t know her cell phone number, her name, let alone her face. All Bowo knew was her story of heartbreak. How could he go to the morgue and examine the corpses one by one? There would be no physical features mark someone as brokenhearted prior to death, would there? Or if he would go around visiting all those injured by the bomb, what could he possibly say to them? Would he have to say: I’m Bowo. Was it you who called me three days ago? Are you at the moment brokenhearted? Have you been losing your ability to perceive beauty since your boyfriend left you?” They would have surely thought he had lost it up there. So Bowo could only hope that she was okay. He hoped anxiously, helplessly, frustrated. The horrible footage showing the charred body parts of the bombing victims aired on TV repeatedly and did not help at all. Flashes of images on TV showing injured people running around made him restless. Could she be one of them? Which one? That one? Or that one, with the bloody forehead? Which one?

He ordered more beer. I was starting to get dizzy. I just asked for water.

Two days after the bomb, Bowo’s cell phone rang. Caller Unknown. Bowo said that at that moment his heart bumped against his ribcage very hard.

“Hello?” Bowo demonstrated how he held his phone against his right ear.

“In a weird way, I can see beauty again.”

Bowo said her voice was very calm. It was as if she was just continuing their conversation from several days before. Bowo’s knees were shaking. He said he really wanted to say so many things to her, like: I have been so worried about you since that bomb. I thought you got killed. Are you okay? Did you get injured? Where were you when it happened? … But all that Bowo managed to utter was this:

“… oh?”

“Yeah, it is so weird, Mas Bowo. You know `kan, that bomb explosion in front of the Australian Embassy?”

“Yes.” Of course. How could he not know about it. “Yah, I was actually very near there when it happened. I had just gotten out a bank nearby, for office business, and wanted to buy some donuts. I was walking towards the donut store. Suddenly I heard an explosion from behind me. That was positively the loudest sound I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Glasses from the buildings around me were shattered. Before I knew it, I was thrown several meters into the air. That was when suddenly all that beauty came rushing back to me. The sun was dancing. The blue sky had this very light hue. I felt the wind on my face. Millions of leaves were shaken off the trees by that explosion. Everything was like in slow motion. And then I landed on an ornamental shrub, the kind that they trim into ball shapes. Leaves continued to fall off the trees beautifully. Thank God, because I landed on the shrubs, I was not injured at all. People around me were falling down, wounded, bloody, limping. They scattered in all directions. Some of them opened their mouth wide like they were shouting. I saw terror piercing deep into their eyes.

“That was when I realized that I couldn’t hear anything. It must have been due to the explosion. But it didn’t make me panic. I was relieved instead. I could see beauty again. Green leaves fell prematurely. Like raindrops they fell, only in the form of light green ovals. This was indeed an extraordinary incident.

People took those who were injured to the MMC hospital. I just walked following my feet. I walked quite far. I found myself walking towards my apartment. I went home. And then, I slept very deeply. My hearing gradually recovered. By the following afternoon, that is, yesterday afternoon, you can say that I could hear okay again. And I can see beauty.”

“My goodness.” That was all that Bowo could say.

“Yeah. Amazing, isn’t it?! It’s not that I’m not saddened by the many casualties, Mas Bowo. This bomb was so terrible. No one deserved to die or get injured in that manner. But in a strange way, this incident has helped me. My heartbreak has become meaningless compared to their suffering.”

The woman paused for a while.

“And you’ve helped me a lot, Mas Bowo. My sincere thanks to you.” Bowo blushed a little.

“But I didn’t do anything, other than listen to you.”

“That has already helped a lot. Thank you, Mas.”

And then she paused again. Bowo couldn’t see her, but he said that he could sense that she was smiling. Bowo smiled too.

And then she hung up.

Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot.

Bowo kept on pressing his cell phone against his ear. He was still smiling.

Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot. Seeing the way he looked at that moment, I decided there and then to drive him home.

– Jakarta, September 2-8 2005

*Mas = A general way of addressing a man in a relatively informal fashion. Origin: Javanese.