The Miracle

"What finally happened that night?" asked Yos. He could no longer contain his excitement. "What did you do when the Japanese finally attacked?"

Karno stared at the two men for what had to be a full minute. "Nothing," he finally said.

"Huh? What do you mean, nothing?" Yos demanded.

"Nothing," the old man repeated. "We did not do anything because the attack never came."

"Never came!" exclaimed Yos. His priest let out an audible sigh.

Shepherd in Doubt

It was an ordinary Thursday afternoon. As ordinary as a day before Christmas could be anyway. The small church was buzzing with activities. People came and went with this and that. A few teenagers were cheerfully giving finishing touches to a small construction that passed for what popularly -- and mistakenly -- known as a Christmas cave. That Baby Jesus had not really been born in a cave meant little to them, to anyone. What was Christmas celebration without a Christmas cave? So they joked and laughed at one another while arranging small, hand-made dummies that represented Joseph, Mary, and the three Magi.

A mini choir of ten was rehearsing the songs for the night service. The leader -- a middle-aged lady in Javanese traditional dress -- was showing them how to articulate the songs more by forming perfect Os with their mouths. Here and there kids were putting on the usual Christmas decorations, which were getting more Westernized every year. Young men were bringing extra seats into the church and arranging them neatly. People say that you can skip regular Sunday masses now and then, but you have to come to church at least for Christmases and Easters. Hence the extra seats.

"Romo Bouten, the cave is set. We're saving you the honor to put the star on."

All Pete wanted was a quiet afternoon just like any other. A 70-something-year-old (you stop paying attention to the last digit after a while) retiree and peace loving by nature, he dug a leisurely walk in the park a couple of hours before the sun called it a day.

There was this park bench that Pete particularly liked to sit on. Nowadays he could not recall the reason for this distinct liking, but it seemed as if he had sat there for centuries now -- although decades would've been more like it.

On happier days he would have a long-time buddy with him, chatting away, celebrating the past and making fun of the present generation -- the way 70-something retirees did. On those not-so-happy he would have the same long-time buddy casting gloomy remarks on everything and nothing -- also the way 70-something retirees did.

Today was one of Pete's unlucky days.

"Would you believe kids these days?" was what this buddy had said by way of greeting.

"And howdy to you, too," Pete had replied.

"Yuk, ikutan Pertemuan Blogger Misterius! Tidak seperti pertemuan-pertemuan sejenis yang sudah umum diadakan, kali ini temanya adalah misteri. Yak, benar! Misteri! Peraturan utama pertemuan ini: hanya terbuka bagi mereka yang sebelumnya tidak pernah saling bertatap muka langsung di luar dunia maya, atau pernah bertemu dengan maksimal satu orang saja.

"Dengan kata lain, kalau Anda pernah bertemu muka dengan lebih dari satu orang yang namanya telah terdaftar di situs ini, mohon maaf, Anda tidak eligible lagi.

"Masukkan nama dan alamat situs blog Anda di bawah ini. In the meantime, keep blogging and stay mysterious!"

Duma Sayang,

Jangan tertawai aku karena menulis surat ini. Ya, ya, aku tahu, memang aneh rasanya nanti ketika engkau membacanya. Terserah, aku tidak peduli. Aku hanya ingin berterima kasih atas segala sesuatu yang telah kau berikan selama ini.

Dibacanya sekali lagi paragraf yang telah ditulisnya dan ia pun tersenyum pahit. Mengapa tidak dari dulu kutulis surat ini, demikian pikirnya. Dengan lincah jemarinya pun bermain di atas keyboard. Pengalaman chatting bertahun-tahun telah memberinya kemampuan ini.

Terima kasih telah menjadi suami yang demikian penyabar. Aku tahu, aku bukanlah istri yang ideal. Setidaknya ideal bagimu. Begitu sering aku egois dan tidak memedulikan perasaanmu. Aku selalu ingin bercerita tentang hariku, sementara apa yang terjadi denganmu jarang menarik perhatianku. Aku ingin kita selalu menuruti usulku, sementara mungkin ada beberapa usulmu yang tak mau kudengar yang lebih baik.

Kesadaran itu hadir tiba-tiba dan aku panik.

Kutengok kiri dan kananku. Orang-orang dengan kesibukan masing-masing. Bapak berkemeja batik dan anak gadisnya (atau pacarnya; kita tidak bisa memastikan akhir-akhir ini) yang hangat berdiskusi dengan air muka serius. Ibu bercelana panjang jins yang setiap lima menit mengangkat tangan dan mengagumi (atau mengundang orang-orang untuk mengagumi) cincin di jari manisnya. Dua perempuan cilik yang membaca komik sambil tertawa-tawa.

Bus ini tidak ke mana-mana.

Tidakkah orang-orang ini sadar? Akukah satu-satunya?

Aku menjulurkan leher dan memandang rambut gondrong sang pengemudi. Apa yang ada di pikirannya? Duit setoran hari ini? Rumah kontrakan yang harus segera dibayar? Sepatu merah untuk anaknya?

Di belakang pengemudi rambut gondrong, dua orang pemuda bertopi saling bertukar cerita. Film Indonesia terbaru di bioskop? BlackBerry? Betapa indahnya betis mbak-mbak di samping mereka?

"An international chase... a quest... codes within codes... questions within questions... oxymorons within oxymorons. The Pak Tino Code is a page-scroller... and if you read it alone, you'll be all by yourself!"
-- Do It Three Times Daily

Following are the first few thrilling pages from this latest blogbuster.

All made-up descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals in this novel are accurate. Except when they're not.

PROLOGUE
Sanggar Seni Lumayan, Tangerang
10:46 PM

Renowned insurance agent Jaques Genaquère staggered through the vaulted archway of the art sanggar. He lunged for the nearest drawing he could see. It was a dog with one leg up in the air. Grabbing the gilded frame, the forty-six-year-old man stopped to admire the dog's perfectly proportional anatomy. Amazing. Kids these days hardly draw like this anymore, he thought. Then he caught the signature. A famous sketch artist from some thirty years ago. Genaquère shrugged and left the drawing alone.

He took the next one. Twin mountains with a road coming out from their midst, rice fields on the right and left. Signature? Dodol Surodol from SD Pelita V Petang. Satisfied, Genaquère heaved the so-not-masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and he collapsed backward in a heap beneath the A4-sized paper.

The morning had just broken when I pulled up to the hilltop park. No one was in sight, which had been the reason behind our coming so early. Mixing before us were the colors of scarlet, crimson, azure, gold, and silver. Nowhere else could such colors be both contrasting and natural at the same time.

Not that we could care less that morning. Immediately I turned to the girl in the passenger seat. She wore the same blank expression I had come to get accustomed to. The expression one wears when one is past the initial stage of crying grievance and anguish. I willed her to cry instead. Her sobs pained me. Her silence tortured me.

"Ros." I felt I had to begin eventually. "How many times must I apologize? Yes, what I did was stupid and unforgivable. But we have to deal with it in the end. This situation is not beyond salvation. We can still make it right."

Silence.

Tiara had a date with a professional killer. To say that it was unthinkable would be an understatement. Never for once in her previous 32 years had she ever dreamed about having anything to do with a murderer. Yet, here she was, on her way to meet one. A very good one, she hoped.

It had all started when she had made up her mind a year ago: she had to kill her husband. At 38, Denny was a successful businessman, both by virtue of family inheritance and his own entrepreneurship savvy. As with most men, such power gave him the sense of invincibility. Noone told him what to do. Noone was above him.

So, naturally, he cheated on his wife. He never admitted this verbally, nor did he try to hide it. For years now Tiara had had to endure endless late homecomings and out-of-town meetings. She would have stopped caring years ago if not for Denny's abusive traits at home. She had had more bruises than she could even remember. Thankfully -- if such word could be applied here -- she did not have a fulltime job and hence the obligation to hide or explain them to people at work.

Rudy emerged from the subway train station and immediately his eyes wandered, trying to locate one particular woman. It was almost seven and the dusk had almost completely settled. The place by the river was, as always at this after-office hour, crowded with people still in their working attires. A favorite place for rendezvous this place was, with the stretch of pubs and restaurants and located at the heart of the city.

Being average looking at best, Rudy had been thrilled when this lady had agreed to meet him in person. He replayed last night's conversation in the chat room.

lilcharm: this guy really pissed me off. he kept calling even after i changed my no, musta gotten from my friend.

Just another Saturday afternoon in Orchard. And it looked a good one for a glass of Starbucks' frappuccino.

A girl approached me with some kind of writing pad in hand and a smile. Which -- in Orchard -- was never good.

"Hi. Can I have a minute of your time?" Told you it was never good. Of course you can't.

"Sure," heard myself say in spite of me. The girl brightened.

"Great. You see, sir, we are from..." Oh, shoot! I forgot to top up my EZ Link card.