The Rainbow Troops (26 page)

And there on the long bench, approximately 15 steps away from us, sat two poor creatures very close to one another, a mother and her son. They looked anxious, almost as if they were pleading to be saved.

The very thin son sat with high posture, his long hair covering his face. His sideburns, eyebrows, and mustache were thick and wild. His skin was ashen.

His mother was fragile. Her eyes hid an enormous amount of pain. She wore flip-flops that were too big for her feet. Her face showed the unbearable mental stress she felt.

The two of them looked at us every once in a while but mostly kept their heads down. The son clutched his mother's arm. When we came in, he moved closer to her. I excused myself from the painful room; the sight had hit me like a ton of bricks.

Professor Yan helped Eryn to interview the two patients. An hour and a half later, the interview was over.

Eryn signaled to me to say goodbye to the mother and son. I came back into the room and tried to smile even though my heart was broken from imagining their suffering.

The three of us left the room. Eryn and Professor Yan walked ahead of me. I was the last one out and reached back to close the door behind me. At that moment, I was startled by someone calling my name.

"Ikal ..."

Eryn and Professor Yan were surprised as well. We turned to look in unison. There was no one else in the room beside the three of us and those two poor souls. The voice had definitely come from the room we had just left. I hesitated to open the door.

"Ikal," the voice called out once again.

It was clear that one of those two patients was calling me.

I turned the door knob and burst into the room. I approached cautiously, stopping three meters before them. They both stood up. I observed them carefully. The mother's head hung low and the son was crying. His lips trembled as they uttered my name over and over again, as if he had been waiting for me for years. He waved for me to come closer. Still immersed in confusion, I moved forward to look at them more closely. The young man pushed his hair away from his face, and I was flabbergasted. I couldn't believe my eyes. I felt like I wanted to scream. I knew that man—it was Trapani.

THE BUS that took us back to our village passed by the
Sinar Harapan
Shop. The store hadn't changed a bit—it was still a mess. Next to it was a new shop called
Sinar Perkasa
— Ray of Might. The coolie there caught my attention. He was big and tall, with shoulder-length hair tied back like a samurai's and his sleeves rolled up. I wouldn't be surprised if the new store's name had been inspired by the coolie's appearance.

The coolie himself looked very friendly and happy to be doing his work. He carried an enormous amount of purchased goods: a sack of rice on each shoulder, a bicycle tire around his neck, and full plastic shopping bags from both arms. He jokingly challenged his boss to add to the load because he was strong enough to take more. Laughing, the boss threw another sack of rice onto the coolie's shoulder. The coolie had turned into a walking general store and he couldn't quite handle it.

I fought back laughter watching the coolie carrying all of that stuff toward a pickup truck. Stumbling along behind him was the chubby woman who had made the purchase. Another woman yelled anxiously from in front of the store for the coolie not to exert himself too much. The proudfaced coolie kept walking even though each unsteady step dragged a bit more than the one before.

I turned my gaze to
Sinar Harapan
and smiled to myself over nostalgic memories from the shop. They were still beautiful feelings, even as an adult. Apparently, that love of mine ran deeper than the bottom of the old kerosene cans still jammed in the shop. Inside this decrepit bus, under siege by longing, I suddenly felt lucky to be someone who had at least expressed his love. I knew not everyone has that chance, and not everyone has a thrilling first love experience. Even though I had lost my first love, I still considered myself one of the lucky ones.

We can become skeptics, always suspicious because we have been deceived by just one time by just one person. But one sincere love is apparently more than enough to change one's entire perception of love. At least, that was the case for me. Although love frequently treated me unkindly in my adulthood, I still believed in it, all because of a girl with magical-looking nails at
Sinar Harapan
Shop. Where might she be now? I didn't know, and for the time being, I didn't want to know. The picture of love was beautiful as a lotus pond, and I wanted it to stay that way. If I met A Ling again, that image might fade. Maybe now she had varicose veins, cellulite, a potbelly, and bags under her eyes. She had been the Venus of the South China Sea, and I wanted to remember her that way.

I took from my bag
If Only They Could Talk
, the book given to me by A Ling as a token of our first love. Sitting there in the bus, I soon realized that my entire adult life had been inspired by that book, which was now tattered because I brought it everywhere with me. Herriot's example, the village of Edensor he described and the book's connection with my emotional experience with A Ling had inspired me to seize my future with optimism.

One week after I had thrown my
Badminton and Making Friends
manuscript into the Ciliwung River, I read an announcement for a scholarship to pursue a master's degree from the European union.

I went home right away. I reached for a piece of paper, took a pen, sat my butt on a chair, placed the paper on the table before me, and began writing steps for a plan. This was my Plan C: I wanted to continue my education! I studied like crazy for the entrance exam at the university where Eryn studied. After being accepted, I began to live my life like a battle. I worked day and night sorting letters and doing any other odd jobs I could find in order to pay for school. I hadn't yet finished my undergraduate degree, yet my mind was set on the graduate school scholarship from the European union. Focus! Focus! That was my mantra.

I finished my undergraduate courses quickly and, without wasting any time at all, I grabbed the application for the European union scholarship.

I didn't spend even a minute on anything other than studying for the scholarship test. I read as many books as I could.

I read while I sorted letters, while I ate, while I lay on my bed listening to
wayang
stories on the radio. I read books on the
angkot
, the public transportation minivan. I read them in
becak
s, little pedicabs. I read them while I was in the toilet, while I did laundry, while I walked, while I was being yelled at by customers, while my boss threw masked insults my way, and during the flag ceremony. If humans could read while sleeping, I definitely would have done that too. There were times I read while playing soccer; I even read while I was reading. The walls in my boarding house room were covered in calculus formulas, GMAT test pages, and the rules of tenses.

One Saturday night, I went to Anyar market in Bogor. At a
kaki lima
—mobile vendor—I met someone from Minang selling posters. A kind face with round glasses caught my eye. I knew that at this phase in my life, I needed inspiration. I bought the poster. That night, John Lennon smiled on the wall of my room. At the bottom of the poster, I wrote the magical saying of his that always reminded me to be more effective:
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans!

I soon became a faithful visitor of LIPI (The Indonesian Institute of Sciences) Library in Bogor. I now requested the
subuh
sorting shift I had once hated so I could go home earlier to study. When my work load was heavy, I made little summaries of my readings on small pieces of paper—a donkey bridge method Lintang once taught me. I read the small pieces of paper while I waited for the delivery men to unload the sacks of letters from the truck.

At home I studied late into the night. It turned out that my insomnia supported me. I was the most productive insomniac ever. Whenever I tired of studying, I opened
If Only They Could talk
. Herriot and I became best friends.

I have to get that scholarship. There is no other option. I have to get it!
Those were the words that rang in my heart every time I stood in front of the mirror. That scholarship was a ticket out of a life I couldn't be proud of.

The nervewracking test went on for months. It began with a preliminary elimination round in a football stadium filled with test takers. Seven months later, I was in a phase called the final round, which consisted of an interview at a great institution in Jakarta. The final interview was conducted by a former minister with a handsome face, and he truly loved smoking. "A disgusting habit," I remembered Morgan Freeman saying in a movie.

I arrived at the institution and, for the first time in my life, I wore a tie. That thing truly did not want to be my friend.

A woman asked me to come into a room. The smoker was already settled inside with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

He asked me to sit down in front of him and he examined me carefully. He must have thought this village boy would surely embarrass Indonesia overseas. He then read my letter of motivation—the letter written by each applicant stating why they felt they deserved to receive the scholarship.

The former minister took a deep drag of his cigarette, and afterwards, like magic, no smoke came back out, as if he had swallowed the smoke and let it sit in his chest for a moment. His eyes seemed to relax, blinking slowly a few times as he enjoyed the poison of nicotine. Then, with a horribly satisfied smile, he blew the smoke back out and it wafted in front of my face.

My eyes stung and I battled coughing and nausea, but what could I do? The man in front of me held the much-needed ticket to my future. While the urge to vomit grew stronger, I held my position and answered his smile with a fake one like that of an airline stewardess.

"Hmm, I am interested in your letter of motivation. Your reasons and the way you delivered them in English are very impressive," he said.

I smiled again, this time like an insurance salesman.

He doesn't know yet, Malay men are very good with words,
I said in my heart.

Then, the former minister opened my research proposal, which contained my field of concentration, research materials and the thesis topic I would pursue if I received the scholarship.

"Ahh, this is also quite interesting!"

He wanted to continue speaking, but his beloved cigarette seemed more important. He went back to filling his lungs with smoke. I dare say that if his chest were X-rayed, it would definitely be black inside. This man was famous for his intelligence, not only in this country but also worldwide. His contributions to this country were no small feat, so how could he be so dumb about smoking?

"Hmm, hmm ... this is a topic that deserves further study, full of challenges. Who guided you in writing this?" He smiled wide as smoke billowed out of his mouth.

I knew it was a rhetorical question that required no answer. I just smiled.
The Muhammadiyah School, Bu Mus, Pak Harfan, Lintang and Laskar Pelangi
, I answered in my heart.

"I've been waiting a long time to see a research proposal like this. Finally it came, and from a postal worker! Where have you been all this time, young man?"

Also a rhetorical question, I smiled
,
and thought,
Edensor.

My proposal was to do further research on a model of transfer pricing
.
I designed the model especially for solving the pricing problems of telecommunication services, and it could also be used as a reference for solving interconnection disputes between telecommunications operators. I developed the model using multivariate equations, the principles of which Lintang taught me all those years ago.

Not long after that, I began studying at a university in Europe. My new situation made me see my life from a different perspective. More than that, I felt relieved because I had repaid my moral debt to the Muhammadiyah School, Bu Mus, Pak Harfan, Lintang, and Laskar Pelangi.

THE DECREPIT bus rolled past the market. The
Sinar Harapan
Shop faded from sight. I soon got off the bus across the street from my mother's house.

From a neighbor's house, I heard the song
Rayuan Pulau Kelapa—Allure of Coconut Island
. It was Radio Republik Indonesia's trademark song, which meant it was time for the noon news report. It was a hot and quiet day. But the quiet was broken by a long honk from a semi with a ten-ton load capacity. It had double axles and eighteen one-meter-wide wheels.

A small man bounced up and down in the driver's seat. He was too small for the oversize truck he was driving to transport glass sand.

"So you've finally come home, Ikal. It's a busy day! Come down to the barracks," he shouted.

I released the four bags slung over my shoulders, but only got the chance to wave my hand. I was left waving to dust as he drove away.

The next day, I visited the barracks at the invitation of the small driver. The barracks stretched along the shore, and there was no door—like a cattle stall. This was where and there was no door—like a cattle stall. This was where hour shifts, always chasing a deadline to fill the barges. The barges were loaded with thousands of tons of Belitong's riches. Their destination was unknown.

I entered the barracks and looked around. In the middle, there was a large hearth where they could warm themselves against the cold winds of the sea. In the corner, there were piles of kerosene cans, cigarette packs, jacks, various keys, oil pumps, drums, and a jug of drinking water. Everything was disheveled. Black pots, tin plates, boxes of mosquito repellent, coffee, and empty packs of instant noodles were scattered about the dirt floor, where a prayer rug lay listlessly as well. A calendar featuring bikini-clad women hung crookedly on the wall. Even though it was already May, no one was interested in changing the page from March—apparently they all agreed that the March model was the most attractive.

The driver who said hello the day before was one of the dozens of truck drivers staying at these barracks. He sat facing me on a sofa near the hearth. He was dirty, poor, unmarried and undernourished—he was Lintang.

I said nothing. It was clear he was exhausted from fighting fate. His arms were stiff from hard labor, but the rest of his body looked thin and frail. Despite his dry, greasy, oil-eaten skin, the sparkle of intelligence in his eyes and his sweet, humorous smile still decorated his face. His hair had become redder and more tousled. Lintang and the entire building conjured up pity, pity because of the wasted intelligence.

I remained silent. My chest felt tight. The barracks were built on land that protruded into the sea. I heard
Boom
!
Boom
! Looking out the window to my right, I saw a tugboat sliding slowly past, pulling a barge. The booming of the tugboat's engine caused the beams of the barracks to shake. Black smoke billowed. The tugboat broke the calm of the sea, leaving waves and shiny water in its wake, the floating oil making the water look like multi-colored glass.

I kept watching the chugging tugboat, but at the moment I felt as though it weren't moving, and instead the barracks and I were moving. Lintang, who had been inspecting me from the beginning, read my mind.

"Einstein's relativity of simultaneity," he said, initiating the conversation. He smiled bitterly. His longing for school must have pained him.

I also smiled. I understood that, strictly speaking, Lintang hadn't experienced precisely what I had. Two people looking at the same object from different perspectives invariably have their own separate perceptions. That was why Lintang had said simultaneity. This perspective was also useful for looking at our lives now.

A moment later, I heard the booms again.
Boom
!
Boom
! It was actually a second tugboat heading in the opposite direction of the first one. The first tugboat's stern hadn't yet completely disappeared from sight. I looked left and right, comparing the lengths of the passing tugboats.

Lintang observed my behavior. I knew he was reading my mind again. This skill of his never ceased to amaze me.

"Paradox," I said.

Lintang smiled.

"Relative," he replied.

I had said paradox because the size of the tugboat as I—the nonmoving subject—predicted it would be different than that predicted by those actually in the tugboat.

"No, not paradox, relative," he explained again. "The size of a moving object as seen by still and moving subjects is not the same. This is a proven hypothesis, that time and distance are not absolute, but relative. Einstein defied Newton with this notion, and that's the first axiom of the theory of relativity that launched Einstein's fame."

Ugh, Lintang! Ever since we were little, I never had the slightest chance to stop admiring this figure before me. My ex-deskmate, who was now an occupant of a coolie shack, was still very sharp. Even though his humorous eyes had become like dulled sanded marbles, his intuition was still as sharp as a hawk's eyes spying on chicks.

As I became lost in thought over this, I stared at him deeply and felt overwhelmingly sad. My thoughts flew away as I imagined him wearing long white pants and a snug polyester knit vest over a longsleeved sea blue shirt, as he took the stage to present a paper at an honorable scientific forum. The paper was probably about breakthroughs in the field of marine biology or nuclear physics.

Perhaps he was more deserving of coming from and going to foreign countries, being awarded a prestigious scholarship, than those who claim they are intellectuals but are no more than phony scientists who haven't made any contributions to society other than their final projects and their marks. And those were just for themselves—they were just busy making their own fortunes. I wanted to read Lintang's name under an article in a scientific journal. I wanted to tell everyone that Lintang, the one and only genetics specialist in Indonesia, someone who had mastered Pascal's triangle back in elementary school, and someone who understood differentials and integrals at a very young age, had been a student at the Muhammadiyah School in Belitong, my deskmate.

But today, Lintang was only a thin man sitting on his heels waiting for his shift of hard labor to begin. Working day and night, bitterly surrendering his noble aspiration to become a mathematician to the sand glass bosses for a petty weekly wage. I remembered all those years ago when he closed his eyes for no more than seven seconds to answer that difficult math problem. When he yelled "Joan of Arc!" When he reigned as king of the Academic Challenge, making our selfconfidence soar. Now he was sitting in the corner of the barracks, looking unsure of his own future.

I looked sadly around the barracks. Lintang's parents' wedding picture was hanging on the wall. I still remembered that photograph. Lintang had brought it with him to the Academic Challenge. The photograph with a paper wall background, featuring a meadow, a sedan surrounded by a happylooking family, and odd trees with red leaves that were supposed to look like it was taken somewhere in Europe. until this day, I often fantasized about Lintang becoming the first Malay mathematician. But that fantasy evaporated because here, in these doorless barracks, was where my Isaac Newton had ended up.

"Don't be sad, Ikal. At least I fulfilled my promise to my father, that I wouldn't become a fisherman."

Those words further shattered my broken heart, and now I was angry. I was disappointed that so many intelligent children were forced to leave school for economic reasons. I cursed all of the stupid people who arrogantly acted smart. I hated those children of the rich who threw away their educations.