CHAPTER 5: Don't Say That
Ninda came to Mbak Rara's food stall the following afternoon with two cups of coffee, three copies of old reports, and every intention of not saying the word guardian.
She lasted four minutes.
Mbak Rara was frying bananas when Ninda placed a copy of the photo of Mrs. Sari's house on the table. Hot oil sizzled. The smell of flour, ripe bananas, and coffee that had been brewed too long mingled beneath the green tarp.
“I met Mr. Hendra,” Ninda said.
“My condolences.”
“He knows about this alley.”
“A lot of people know about this alley.”
“He also said he’d seen something.”
Mbak Rara flipped a banana with her tongs.
“Police officers love seeing all kinds of things these days. Yesterday, someone saw his ex-wife with another man. The next day, there was a missing motorcycle report.”
“Mbak.”
“I’m frying. Bananas don’t like to be rushed.”
Ninda held back a heavy sigh. She picked up one of the photos and pointed to the dark shadow in the corner.
“Last night, I saw someone beneath the banyan tree.”
The tongs in Mbak Rara’s hand stopped.
“Someone?”
“I don’t know. Tall. A man’s voice. His eyes—”
“What about his eyes?”
The question came out too quickly. Ninda caught it.
“They were clearly visible in the dark.”
Mbak Rara raised her face. For a moment, all the humor vanished from her eyes.
“You shouldn’t have gone back that night.”
“I know. Mr. Hendra already told me.”
“Mr. Hendra’s still alive? Then his advice can be ignored.”
Ninda almost smiled, but the sound of footsteps coming from the alley made her turn.
The man came from the end of the street, walking at an unhurried pace. Tall, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he had just been caught in the wind. He carried a small paper bag in one hand.
No one looked at him for very long.
A vegetable seller shifted to make way. The schoolchildren sitting on the stall’s bench lowered their voices. Mbak Rara drew a short breath, then returned to her fried bananas.
The man stopped in front of the table.
“Rara.”
His voice was deep, but not exactly the same as the voice beneath the banyan tree. This voice was closer, more human. Even so, there was a strange weight to every syllable, as though he was used to speaking in a place wider than this little food stall.
Mbak Rara held out her hand. “Late. The coffee’s already cold.”
“I didn’t come for coffee.”
“Even worse.”
The man set the paper bag on the table.
Ninda watched his hands. Long fingers. Clean nails. A pale scar ran across the back of his right hand and extended to his wrist.
He didn’t look at Ninda, but she felt as if he had been examining her since the moment she sat down.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“A journalist,” Mbak Rara answered.
“I can answer for myself,” Ninda said.
That was the first time the man looked at her.
His eyes were dark brown. Almost black. Yet around the edges was a golden hue that didn’t fit the afternoon light.
Ninda opened her notebook.
“Ninda Pratiwi. I’m investigating seven people who went missing in this area.”
“I know.”
The answer came too quickly.
“From whom?”
The man picked up the cold coffee, smelled the surface, then set it back down without drinking.
“Everyone knows when someone starts asking too loudly.”
“Your name?”
“Wira.”
Just one name. Ninda waited for a last name.
Wira didn’t give her one.
“Wira who?”
“Wira.”
“That’s a first name.”
“It’s enough.”
Ninda wrote down his name, then added a question mark.
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A long time.”
“How many years is a long time?”
Wira stared at the tip of Ninda’s pen.
“Do you always ask questions like that?”
“When people give incomplete answers.”
“Your answers aren’t always complete either.”
The sentence made Ninda stop writing.
She didn’t know Wira, but he spoke as if he had been watching her for longer than five minutes.
“Do you know Laras Wulandari?”
Wira didn’t answer.
“Ratri Kusuma? Dimas Ardiansyah? Sulastri? Joko Pranoto? Maya Lestari? Yusuf Hadi?”
Mbak Rara set down the tongs.
“Ninda—”
“I’m just asking.”
Wira lifted his face. Beneath his calm was something that made Ninda’s throat go dry.
“Don’t ask about them here.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re calling.”
Ninda slowly closed her notebook.
“I’m not calling anyone. I’m looking for missing people.”
“Not everything that goes missing wants to be found.”
“Is that their decision, or yours?”
The air in the stall changed.
Nothing visibly stopped moving. The oil still sizzled. Motorcycles still passed along the main road. Yet the sounds felt farther away, as if they were coming from behind a wall.
Wira stood.
Ninda straightened too.
“I saw you last night,” she said. “Under the tree.”
Wira didn’t blink.
“No.”
“I saw a pair of eyes. I heard a voice.”
“A lot of things can be seen beneath a tree at night.”
“Including you?”
Wira picked up the paper bag from the table.
Ninda braced both palms against her notebook. “People call you the alley guardian. Is that what you are?”
“Don’t.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but for the first time, it sounded like an order.
Ninda felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“Why?”
Wira took one step closer. He didn’t touch Ninda. He didn’t need to. The space between them seemed to turn into something solid.
“The name they whisper there isn’t my name.”
“Then what’s your true name?”
Wira looked at her with an expression that was difficult to read. Not anger. Not fear. Something older than either.
“Don’t say that,” he said.
Ninda waited.
Wira lowered his voice.
“Especially not three times.”
Then he left before Ninda could ask which name he meant.
Mbak Rara set a plate of fried bananas in front of Ninda.
“Eat.”
Ninda was still watching Wira’s back as he grew farther away.
At the end of the alley, the banyan leaves moved even though there was no wind.
She wrote a new line in her notebook.
Wira: knows about the seven names. Denies being the alley guardian. Afraid of a name.
Beneath it, without realizing it, she added one question.
What name must not be said?