Ainât No Night Fair
By Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Chapter 4
We relaxed in the front guestroom. My younger siblings who werenât grown up yet, who still appeared so wild, now began to draw near and we talked a great deal, about Djakarta, about Semarang, and about cars. The conversation wasnât boring, it made me happy and it usually carried on for a long time.
And at one point I asked, âHowâs fatherâs health?â
Suddenly everyone went quiet; not one person was looking directly at me. Suddenly the animated joyful conversation was gone, replaced by an air of seriousness.
And I asked again, âHow is fatherâs health?â
Carefully and slowly my sister answered, âWe received the pills and the blanket you sent for father. I also received the money order and we used it to buy milk and eggs, just as you instructed.â
My wife and I listened silently. She continued, âI also collected the shirt for father from the post office. And I took the blanket, the shirt, and the pills to the hospital. But father said, âJust take them all back to the house.â So I brought them home again.â
I was surprised and asked, âAnd the pills?â
“He has finished one container.”
I was pleased a little.
âAnd the milk and eggs?â I asked again.
âFather didnât like them. âIâm bored with eggs and milk,â he said.â
I was lost for words. I looked at my wife, but in her face, I did not find an answer. I glanced outside the house. I noticed the orange tree which father had long ago planted. It was dry now and almost dead.
âAnd fatherâs health?â I repeated my question.
My younger sister didnât reply. Her eyes reddened with tears.
âWhy donât you answer me?â I asked fearfully.
âYesterday and up to yesterday father just smiled, smiled a lot. But then, thenâŠâ
She was silent. I did not force her to continue what she was saying. I didnât say anything either. Both of us sat for a time with our heads bowed. My youngest sister, who had just begun to speak to me, now wouldnât say a word. The time was only just half-past twelve in the afternoon and the sound of frying could be heard clearly coming from the kitchen.
My younger sister continued, her voice still slow, foreboding and careful. ââŠand then this morning father wasnât smiling anymore. His voice was weak and almost inaudible.â Her voice trailed away.
âAnd what did the doctor say?â I asked.
âThe doctor has never said anything to us. There is just one doctor here. And there arenât enough medicines.â
Then my younger brother, who by chance was home on leave with permission from his commander said, âIâve discussed fatherâs illness with the doctor too. He said, âI already know about your fatherâs illness.ââ
âIs that all he said?â I asked.
âYes. Thatâs all. Then they told me to go home.â
The atmosphere turned serious once more. Everyone sat silently with their own feelings and their own thoughts. Then without realizing it, my younger sister changed the subject of the conversation to a new topic. She mentioned that my third younger sister, the one who was married, was currently in Blora too. Straight away I asked her where she was.
Her hand pointed to the door of one of the bedrooms. All eyes followed the direction she indicated. In my mind, I could see my sisterâs face and I imagined she was thin. I knew it; she had to be sick. But I opened my mouth and said, âTell her to come out.â
My younger sister went over to the door and opened it carefully. Every eye was on her. She disappeared into the room, then she emerged red-eyed and said, half crying, âSheâs still asleep.â
We talked about other things. But the image of my sick younger sister filled my mind. It was because of her I wrote the letter to my father, the unpleasant letter, for allowing her to become sick. But at the time I was still in jail. My father had replied:
Yes, my child, throughout my life of fifty-six years I have realized that peopleâs efforts and means are very limited. For my part, I wouldnât have allowed your sister to become ill if only I had some power over peopleâs fates. She became sick when she was detained by the red militia in an area that was swampy, an area rife with malaria. And maybe you can understand yourself the situation with medicines in a war zone, and especially if you yourself are not a soldier.
That reply melted my anger. The question had been clear in my heart, âDid I sin by writing that angry letter?â The answer had come back by itself, âYes, you have sinned.â And it had been because of that answer I had felt up to this time that I had sinned. Before seeing father again. But that long wandering conversation had removed these terrible memories. I looked at my six younger siblings surrounding me, surrounding my wife and I, starting to be free of the atmosphere of seriousness, while I was still stuck with so many thoughts and memories pressing in.
I noticed my watch. We had been talking for an hour. Then looking at my smallest sister I said slowly, âPlease look in on your big sister. Maybe sheâs awake.â
She got up, went to the door and called out in her childish voice, âSister, sister. Big brotherâs here.â
She vanished into the bedroom.
No-one was paying much attention to her and the conversation broke out again. But when my smallest sister emerged, the conversation halted. She approached me and whispered, âSisterâs crying.â
I took a deep breath.
Slowly I stood up and went over to the bedroom. And there sprawled on the iron bed devoid of mosquito netting, half blanketed by a light cotton sheet, was my little sister, covering her eyes with her arm. I lifted her arm and I beheld two eyes looking up at me, red and moist. I hugged her. She started to cry and I too wept, and among the sobs, I could hear my own voice ask, âWhy are you so thin?â
Her crying subsided and she composed herself, so she was calmer. And I did the same.
âIâve been sick for a long time, brother,â I listened to her broken voice.
âHave you been to the doctor?â I asked, my voice cracking too.
âIâve seen the doctor, but my condition just stays like this,â her voice still breaking.
âMaybe it would be better if you went to a large city. There are a lot of specialists there,â my voice still breaking.
There was just sobbing.
âDo you have any children, sister?â
âYes, brother.â
âWhere are they?â
Our crying had subsided, but my sister now broke out in tears again. She answered without emotion, âHe passed away, brother. Heâs not here anymore.â
She snatched back the arm I was holding and covered her eyes again. I took out my handkerchief and wiped the tears running down her face.
âWhat do you mean not here,â I asked.
âI gave birth at six months. He cried a lot. I could hear him crying. Then God took him back again.â
Once more I started to weep openly and she too sobbed uncontrollably. All I could hear now was the storm heaving in my chest. And all I could see was her thin body, the single cloth sheet, the small mattress covering only half the bed frame, and the iron and the bamboo slats protruding next to the mattress.
âYouâre still young, little sister, you still have the chance to have another child,â I said to comfort her.
âWhereâs your husband?â
âHeâs doing training in Semarang, brother.â
Our crying, which had filled that room, now subsided and eventually died.
I straightened the blanket, kissed my younger sister on her cheek and I said, âGo to sleep.â
She took her arm away from her eyes. She was calm now. Slowly she closed her eyelids. Once more I kissed her on the cheeks, cheeks that had once been so full and which were now so drawn. Then I left the room.
(Continued)
Source: Ain’t No Night Fair (Bukan Pasarmalam) by Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Dinas Penerbitan Balai Pustaka, Jakarta, 1959.
Featured image: After an interval of 11 years, rock band Efek Rumah Kaca play in Pare-Pare, South Sulawesi, December 2018
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