Authors: Richard Lewis
“I didn’t either,” Isaac said breathlessly.
Other performers took the stage. On the sidelines Isaac danced with Ismail. The tree shadows lengthened across the field. The crowd at the mosque across the boulevard had grown as well and began to stream down the white marble steps, a tight nucleus of men at the center. Isaac spotted Imam Ali at the front of this nucleus, and his feet stopped dancing. His inner glow turned into alarm as the robed men strode across the boulevard to the stage. But nobody else was perturbed. Many in the tent craned their heads to see the new arrivals.
The MC got up on stage. He cracked a joke and thanked the performers, giving time for the nucleus of men to gather at the bottom of the stage steps. Imam Ali stood on the first step. The MC grandiloquently said, with rising volume and inflection, as though he were announcing a Las Vegas boxing match, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, good Muslims all, the patron of this afternoon’s entertainment, the Nahdlatul Umat Islam!”
Sporadic cheers. Imam Ali took the microphone and stuck his
beaky nose to it. He spoke Arabic words of greeting, his beady eyes sweeping the crowd.
Isaac was a good Javanese-American Christian boy who believed in signs and portents upon the earth and in the heavens, and so when a flock of crows wheeled out of the clotted sky and settled in the branches of the mahogany tree nearest the stage, his blood seemed to thicken. As Imam Ali talked the robed men on the steps moved forward to unfurl banners and set up chairs that had been hidden behind the speakers, leaving only three men behind as bodyguards for a stooped, tuft-bearded, turbaned man with bristling white eyebrows and tombstone cheeks.
Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar.
The crows cawed raucously.
“Iyallah,” Ismail muttered, “it’s him!”
The Tuan Guru turned his head toward the tent. Isaac backed up into the shadows, his eardrums pounding with his thudding heartbeat. The Tuan Guru’s attention slowly, inexorably settled upon Isaac. Despite the stooped back, there was no sense of infirmity in that body or on that face creased with age. His severe gaze burned. Isaac quickly looked down at the ground.
When he glanced up again, the Tuan Guru was climbing the steps as spry as a goat to Imam Ali’s effusive introduction. Throughout the crowd there rose Nahdlatul Umat Islam posters stapled to sticks. Other signs as well, in Indonesian and English: AMERICA THE TERRORIST. ZIONISTS ARE THE CAUSE OF ALL DISASTERS. INDONESIA: MUSLIM STATE, SHARIAH LAW.
Imam Ali continued to speak, warming up the crowd for the
Tuan Guru. He orated with wild flaps of his arms and thrusts of his beaky nose. He spoke of unjust American government policies oppressing Muslims around the world, even here in Indonesia. He ratcheted up his voice and thundered, “We are a Muslim nation, yet here in Wonobo, in the heart of Muslim Java, there is an American Christian hospital run by American Christians trying to convert Javanese Muslims!”
Some people in the crowd shouted their angry agreement at this. Isaac’s skin prickled. The Tuan Guru, seated upon a plush velvet armchair, once again swung his gaze to Isaac. Isaac wanted out, he wanted to become invisible, he wanted Scotty to beam him up.
This is not good. I should not have come here
. The Tuan Guru’s thin lips moved—he was saying something to Isaac—a threat, a curse. Isaac’s soul shriveled. The aide next to the Tuan Guru leaned toward the old man, listening to what he was saying, and then stood and whispered in Imam Ali’s ear.
Isaac was so light-headed with fright that his thoughts came from another dimension.
Oh, boy, here it comes. Imam Ali is going to haul me up there, bring out a sword, and if I don’t say the confession of faith and convert to Islam on the spot, he’s going to whack my head off.
But instead, Imam Ali broke off what he was saying and scowled down at his feet. He took a breath and changed the subject, moving to a denunciation of the Indonesian authorities for timidity and cowardice and corruption. Now the shouts of angry agreement rose from thousands of throats, solidifying into a roar.
Policemen in riot gear, reinforced by Red Beret special commando soldiers, raided the stage and shut down the speaker system. A detail of Red Berets respectfully escorted a calm Tuan Guru and the other men off the stage and back to the Grand Mosque, an orderly retreat in a general scene that grew increasingly chaotic. The angry crowd surged toward the stage. The cops shot rubber bullets at the front ranks, dropping four young men who writhed in agony on the ground. The crowd fell back. Other Red Beret troops fired their automatic rifles into the air. Tear-gas smoke exploded on the east side of the square, drifting downwind. People screamed and fled. Police whistles shrilled, sirens blared, cop cars squealed to a swinging stop, closing off all the roads. On the plaza’s western flank a volley of rocks hurtled toward the policemen on stage.
“A riot, a riot,” Ismail shouted. He grabbed Isaac’s hand. Isaac, more bewildered than frightened, didn’t resist and ran with Ismail behind the stage to the throng of rock throwers, mostly young men with a few of the robed men among them, exhorting and inciting. Ismail plucked a stone from one of the garden beds and was getting ready to chuck it when a troop of helmeted policemen waded into the stone throwers, cursing and flailing with rattan whips and batons. Photographers and video cameramen ducked and wove throughout the commotion, viewfinders to their eyes. A police officer crunched his baton on Ismail’s head, and Ismail crumpled to his knees.
A pair of hands grabbed Isaac from behind and yanked him away from the one-sided fighting. Isaac yelped in fear and struggled. A
familiar voice said in BBC English, “Calm down, it’s me.”
Isaac whirled around. Mr. Suherman stood before him, dressed in the same crisply ironed slacks and sport shirt that he often wore when teaching. “Come with me behind the police lines,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”
“But Ismail,” Isaac said, “I have to get Ismail.”
Mr. Suherman clutched Isaac’s wrist and dragged him between two army personnel carriers and around a caged transport van into the recessed sidewalk arches of the town’s movie theater. Isaac stood beside a poster of Tom Cruise with a knife slash on his cheek.
“Let’s wait here until things quiet down and we can get you home,” Mr. Suherman said.
A square-faced police lieutenant whose name tag read
NUGROHO
stood by the open rear of the van, barking instructions into a walkie-talkie. He was stuffed into a crisp brown khaki uniform. He spotted Isaac on the sidewalk and strode over. “What you bulé boy doing here?” he snapped in English.
Isaac’s mind went blank.
“It’s okay, he’s with me,” Mr. Suherman said in Indonesian.
“And who are you?”
“I’m his language teacher.”
“You stay right there,” the officer ordered.
“That’s what we’re doing,” Mr. Suherman said.
Cops marched a group of handcuffed rioters to the waiting van, most of them the excitable stone throwers. A photographer followed, sidling and crouching for shots. Among the detainees was a dazed Ismail, the back of his head oozing blood. The
policemen shoved the men into the van, and one put a hand on Ismail to do the same. Without thinking, Isaac darted out onto the street and tapped the arm of the burly lieutenant, who spun around with a snarl of surprise.
“That’s Ismail,” Isaac said, pointing. “Ismail Trisno. I know him. He’s my friend. Why are you taking him? He didn’t do anything. He’s just a boy.” The Javanese words rushed together.
“Back, back!” the lieutenant shouted, pointing a rigid finger over Isaac’s shoulder, his breath garlicky.
Isaac flinched but held his ground. “He’s just a boy.”
The lieutenant gritted his teeth and said, “He was throwing rocks, the little bastard.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“We’ll let the judges decide that.” The lieutenant’s knotted face relaxed some. “He’ll be all right, my Javanese-speaking white boy. He’ll probably be held a few hours to scare him. Now step back, please.”
Isaac did so, shouting, “Hey, Ismail!”
Ismail, already seated in the van, turned around and stared through the wire with glazed eyes.
“I’ll tell your parents what happened,” Isaac yelled. “You’ll be okay.”
Ismail licked his lips but gave no other reaction. He must have taken a pretty good wallop.
Mr. Suherman said to Isaac in his adult voice, “This is why your State Department advises Americans in Indonesia to stay clear of crowds.”
The photographer, young and keen, wearing a safari vest with lots of pockets and a baseball cap on backward, approached them, a notepad held in his hand. “What’s your name?” he asked Isaac.
Mr. Suherman stepped forward. “Don’t involve him.”
“Now, brother—”
“Get away,” Mr. Suherman said harshly. Isaac stared at Mr. Suherman. He’d never heard the teacher be this rude. He’d never seen Mr. Suherman look like this, either, his expression hard and unyielding. Almost scary. The photographer retreated.
In fifteen minutes the town square had cleared, and workers were dismantling the stage. Clumps of people ambled away on the sidewalks, talking and laughing excitedly. Traffic began to flow. Mr. Suherman hailed a number five bemo, which plied the hospital route.
“But I’ve got to go tell Ismail’s parents,” Isaac protested. “They don’t have a phone.”
“I’m taking you straight home,” Mr. Suherman said.
“But I promised Ismail.”
“I’ll tell them.” He pushed Isaac into the bemo, following close behind.
When Mr. Suherman and Isaac got out at the hospital entrance, Mr. Suherman paid the driver with coins in his pocket. He knelt on the sidewalk so that he was eye level with Isaac. He sighed and then smiled. “You’re like a little raja, aren’t you, wandering around Wonobo as though you ruled it.” The smile faded. “But let me tell you something. These days it isn’t as safe as it has been. You shouldn’t be going out on your own anymore. Will you promise me that?”
Isaac scowled.
Mr. Suherman cocked his eyebrows. “If you don’t promise me, I’m going in with you to see your parents. You don’t want that, do you?”
Isaac shook his head.
“So promise me you won’t go out on your own anymore.”
“I promise.”
“Good lad. In you go, then. Don’t forget your Esperanto lesson.”
Before the Williams family left for the Sunday-evening service, the phone rang. Isaac, sitting at the kitchen counter reading the Sunday edition of the
Jakarta Post
, picked up the extension beside him. “Hi, Williams household.”
“This is Sheldon Summerton. Is Dr. Graham Williams in?”
Sheldon Summerton was the senior foreign service officer at the American consulate in Surabaya. The previous year, before Rachel left for the States and boarding school, the Williamses had attended the Fourth of July party at a Surabaya mansion, complete with hamburgers and hot dogs on a big green lawn by a big blue swimming pool. Sheldon Summerton had outrageously teased Rachel, attention that made her blush with delighted embarrassment and Mary Williams’s face darken with displeasure. A short while later Isaac, carrying a tray of drinks, had tripped and stumbled into the consular officer, soaking him with various sorts of liquor and beer. It had been an accident, honest, but Sheldon Summerton was the sort of man who found accidents caused by babies, dogs, and boys both suspicious and intolerable.
Isaac said in his most unctuous voice, “An urgent skin problem,
sir? Necrotizing fasciitis of the genitals?” He did not give Sheldon a chance to reply, but punched the numbers that transferred the call to his parents’ bedroom.
A short while later, as the family left the house for church, Graham Williams asked, “Isaac, in your past wanderings around town have you heard anything about a Muslim organization called the—what was it—Nadul Umat Islam?”
Isaac pretended to think for a few steps while frantically trying to get his heart to beating again. “No,” he said, “not really.”
“They held a rally in the town square this afternoon that turned violent.”
“Really? Gee.”
“Some anti-American rhetoric. Screeching for heads—”
“Graham,” Mary said.
Isaac asked, “But everything’s okay now?” His worry wasn’t so much for Wonobo’s peace as it was for his own. Did his father know he’d been at the square?
“It seems to be.” Graham smiled and rubbed Isaac’s head. “In fact, it is. Let’s forget about it, and enjoy the service.”
The Maranatha Church of Wonobo was an A-frame structure of gleaming teak and glowing stained-glass windows, located a quarter mile east of the hospital gates, down a quiet lane lined with old, unproductive rubber trees. On the northern side of the lane driveways led to middle-class brick-and-tile houses. On the lane’s other side a curbless verge dropped off into a ten-foot wide concrete irrigation ditch as dry as the Sahara and filling up with garbage. Churchgoers parked underneath the rubber trees and
crossed the ditch on a concrete footpath. The church itself was surrounded by a waist-high brick wall meant to keep out chickens and dogs. Prayer and angels protected this house of the Lord from more dangerous creatures.
Isaac, sitting in the back pew, sang the hymns while his mind busily reviewed the crazy events on the town square. He felt again the unsettling stare of the Tuan Guru. He glanced uneasily out the windows into the night surrounding the church, but all was calm and quiet. Not even a crow on the low wall. Was Ismail okay? Was he back with his family? Isaac wasn’t sure the police lieutenant could be trusted. Everyone knew that once the police had you, you could disappear. Isaac had made a promise to tell Ismail’s parents what had happened, and he intended to keep it. Mr. Suherman had said he’d tell them, but he didn’t know where they lived, did he?
Reverend Biggs preached his sermon. Isaac was so drowsy, he couldn’t follow. His gaze fixated on the large copper cross hanging over the pulpit, and he had a fantasy of the cross falling and bonking the reverend into silence. Ashamed of such a thought, he switched his attention to the back of Mr. Patter’s fine black head, which bobbed up and down with regular and emphatic agreement to the reverend’s sermon, a motion that hypnotized Isaac into chin-nodding sleep. A crow flew into his dream. He jerked awake again to the sound of snickering from the opposite pew. Slobert and some of the junior highers were giggling at him. Slobert had a shirttail hanging out and he’d misbuttoned his shirt. How come nobody ever picked on him?